Delphi Complete Works of Elizabeth Gaskell

by Elizabeth Gaskell

  ‘Father, father!’ he cried, ‘come back! come back! You never know how I loved you! how I could love you still--if--Oh God!’

  And the thought of his little child rose before him. ‘Yes, father,’ he cried afresh, ‘you never knew how he fell--how he died! Oh, if I had but had patience to tell you! If you would but have borne with me and listened! And now it is over! Oh, father! father!’

  Whether she had heard this wild wailing voice, or whether it was only that she missed her husband and wanted him for some little every-day question, or, as was perhaps more likely, she had discovered Owen’s escape, and come to inform her husband of it, I do not know--but on the rock, right above his head, as it seemed, Owen heard his stepmother calling her husband.

  He was silent, and softly pushed the boat right under the rock till the sides grated against the stones; and the overhanging branches concealed him and it from all on a level with the water. Wet as he was, he lay down by his dead father, the better to conceal himself; and, somehow, the action recalled those early days of childhood--the first in the Squire’s widowhood--when Owen had shared his father’s bed, and used to waken him in the morning in order to hear one of the old Welsh legends. How long he lay thus--body chilled, and brain hard-working through the heavy pressure of a reality as terrible as a nightmare--he never knew; but at length he roused himself up to think of Nest.

  Drawing out a great sail, he covered up the body of his father with it where he lay in the bottom of the boat. Then with his numbed hands he took the oars, and pulled out into the more open sea towards Criccaeth. He skirted along the coast till he found a shadowed cleft in the dark rocks; to that point he rowed, and anchored his boat close inland. Then he mounted, staggering, half longing to fall into the dark waters and be at rest--half instinctively finding out the surest foot-rests on that precipitous face of rock, till he was high up, safe landed on the turfy summit. He ran off, as if pursued, towards Penmorfa; he ran with maddened energy. Suddenly he paused, turned, ran again with the same speed, and threw himself prone on the summit, looking down into his boat with straining eyes to see if there had been any movement of life--any displacement of a fold of sail-cloth. It was all quiet deep down below, but as he gazed the shifting light gave the appearance of a slight movement. Owen ran to a lower part of the rock, stripped, plunged into the water, and swam to the boat. When there, all was still--awfully still! For a minute or two, he dared not lift up the cloth. Then, reflecting that the same terror might beset him again--of leaving his father unaided while yet a spark of life lingered--he removed the shrouding cover. The eyes looked into his with a dead stare! He closed the lids and bound up the jaw. Again he looked. This time, he raised himself out of the water and kissed the brow.

  ‘It was my doom, father! It would have been better if I had died at my birth!’

  Daylight was fading away. Precious daylight! He swam back, dressed, and set off afresh for Penmorfa. When he opened the door of Ty Glas, Ellis Pritchard looked at him reproachfully from his seat in the darkly-shadowed chimney-corner.

  ‘You’re come at last,’ said he. ‘One of our kind’ (i.e. station) ‘would not have left his wife to mourn by herself over her dead child; nor would one of our kind have let his father kill his own true son. I’ve a good mind to take her from you for ever.

  ‘I did not tell him,’ cried Nest, looking piteously at her husband; ‘he made me tell him part, and guessed the rest.’

  She was nursing her babe on her knee as if it was alive. Owen stood before Ellis Pritchard.

  ‘Be silent,’ said he quietly. ‘Neither words nor deeds but what are decreed can come to pass. I was set to do my work, this hundred years and more. The time waited for me, and the man waited for me. I have done what was foretold of me for generations!’

  Ellis Pritchard knew the old tale of the prophecy, and believed in it in a dull, dead kind of way, but somehow never thought it would come to pass in his time. Now, however, he understood it all in a moment, though he mistook Owen’s nature so much as to believe that the deed was intentionally done, out of revenge for the death of his boy; and viewing it in this light, Ellis thought it little more than a just punishment for the cause of all the wild despairing sorrow he had seen his only child suffer during the hours of this long afternoon. But he knew the law would not so regard it. Even the lax Welsh law of those days could not fail to examine into the death of a man of Squire Griffiths’ standing. So the acute Ellis thought how he could conceal the culprit for a time.

  ‘Come,’ said he; ‘don’t look so scared! It was your doom, not your fault;’ and he laid a hand on Owen’s shoulder.

  ‘You’re wet’ said he suddenly. ‘Where have you been? Nest, your husband is dripping, drookit wet. That’s what makes him look so blue and wan.’

  Nest softly laid her baby in its cradle; she was half stupefied with crying, and had not understood to what Owen alluded, when he spoke of his doom being fulfilled, if indeed she had heard the words.

  Her touch thawed Owen’s miserable heart.

  ‘Oh, Nest!’ said he, clasping her in his arms; ‘do you love me still--can you love me, my own darling?’

  ‘Why not?’ asked she, her eyes filling with tears. ‘I only love you more than ever, for you were my poor baby’s father!’

  ‘But Nest--Oh, tell her Ellis! you know.’

  ‘No need, no need!’ said Ellis. ‘She’s had enough to think on. Bustle, my girl, and get out my Sunday clothes.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Nest, putting her hand up to her head. ‘What is to tell? and why are you so wet? God help me for a poor crazed thing; for I cannot guess at the meaning of your words and your strange looks! I only know my baby is dead!’ and she burst into tears.

  ‘Come, Nest! go and fetch him a change, quick!’ and, as she meekly obeyed, too languid to strive further to understand, Ellis said rapidly to Owen, in a low, hurried voice:

  ‘Are you meaning that the Squire is dead? Speak low, lest she hear? Well, well, no need to talk about how he died. It was sudden, I see; and we must all of us die; and he’ll have to be buried. It’s well the night is near. And I should not wonder now if you’d like to travel for a bit; it would do Nest a power of good; and then--there’s many a one goes out of his own house and never comes back again; and--I trust he’s not lying in his own house--and there’s a stir for a bit, and a search, and a wonder--and, by-and-by, the heir just steps in, as quiet as can be. And that’s what you’ll do, and bring Nest to Bodowen after all. Nay, child, better stockings nor those; find the blue woollens I bought at Llanrwst fair. Only don’t lose heart. It’s done now and can’t be helped. It was the piece of work set you to do from the days of the Tudors, they say. And he deserved it. Look in yon cradle. So tell us where he is, and I’ll take heart of grace and see what can be done for him.’

  But Owen sat wet and haggard, looking into the peat fire as if for visions of the past, and never heeding a word Ellis said. Nor did he move when Nest brought the armful of dry clothes.

  ‘Come, rouse up, man!’ said Ellis, growing impatient.

  But he neither spoke nor moved.

  ‘What is the matter, father?’ asked Nest, bewildered.

  Ellis kept on watching Owen for a minute or two, till on his daughter’s repetition of the question, he said:

  ‘Ask him yourself, Nest.’

  ‘Oh, husband, what is it?’ said she, kneeling down and bringing her face to a level with his.

  ‘Don’t you know?’ said he heavily. ‘You won’t love me when you do know. And yet it was not my doing: it was my doom.’

  ‘What does he mean, father?’ asked Nest, looking up; but she caught a gesture from Ellis urging her to go on questioning her husband.

  ‘I will love you, husband, whatever has happened. Only let me know the worst.’

  A pause, during which Nest and Ellis hung breathless.

  ‘My father is dead, Nest.’

  Nest caught her breath with a sharp gasp.

  ‘God forgiv
e him!’ said she, thinking on her babe.

  ‘God forgive me!’ said Owen.

  ‘You did not’--Nest stopped.

  ‘Yes, I did. Now you know it. It was my doom. How could I help it? The devil helped me--he placed the stone so that my father fell. I jumped into the water to save him. I did, indeed, Nest. I was nearly drowned myself. But he was dead--dead--killed by the fall!’

  ‘Then he is safe at the bottom of the sea?’ said Ellis, with hungry eagerness.

  ‘No, he is not; he lies in my boat,’ said Owen, shivering a little, more at the thought of his last glimpse at his father’s face than from cold.

  ‘Oh, husband, change your wet clothes!’ pleaded Nest, to whom the death of the old man was simply a horror with which she had nothing to do, while her husband’s discomfort was a present trouble.

  While she helped him to take off the wet garments which he would never have had energy enough to remove of himself, Ellis was busy preparing food, and mixing a great tumbler of spirits and hot water. He stood over the unfortunate young man and compelled him to eat and drink, and made Nest, too, taste some mouthfuls--all the while planning in his own mind how best to conceal what had been done, and who had done it; not altogether without a certain feeling of vulgar triumph in the reflection that Nest, as she stood there, carelessly dressed, dishevelled in her grief, was in reality the mistress of Bodowen, than which Ellis Pritchard had never seen a grander house, though he believed such might exist.

  By dint of a few dexterous questions he found out all he wanted to know from Owen, as he ate and drank. In fact, it was almost a relief to Owen to dilute the horror by talking about it. Before the meal was done, if meal it could be called, Ellis knew all he cared to know.

  ‘Now, Nest, on with your cloak and haps. Pack up what needs to go with you, for both you and your husband must be half-way to Liverpool by tomorrow’s morn, I’ll take you past Rhyl Sands in my fishing boat, with yours in tow; and, once over the dangerous part, I’ll return with my cargo of fish, and then learn how much stir there is at Bodowen. Once safe hidden in Liverpool, no one will know where you are, and you may stay quiet till your time comes for returning.’

  ‘I will never come home again,’ said Owen doggedly. ‘The place is accursed!’

  ‘Hoot! be guided by me, man. Why, it was but an accident, after all! And we’ll land at the Holy Island, at the Point of Llyn; there is an old cousin of mine, the parson, there--for the Pritchards have known better days, Squire--and we’ll bury him there. It was but an accident, man. Hold up your head! You and Nest will come home yet and fill Bodowen with children, and I’ll live to see it.’

  ‘Never!’ said Owen. ‘I am the last male of my race, and the son has murdered his father!’

  Nest came in laden and cloaked. Ellis was for hurrying them off. The fire was extinguished, the door was locked.

  ‘Here, Nest, my darling, let me take your bundle while I guide you down the steps.’ But her husband bent his head, and spoke never a word. Nest gave her father the bundle (already loaded with such things as he himself had seen fit to take), but clasped another softly and tightly.

  ‘No one shall help me with this,’ said she, in a low voice.

  Her father did not understand her; her husband did, and placed his strong helping arm round her waist, and blessed her.

  ‘We will all go together, Nest,’ said he. ‘But where?’ and he looked up at the storm-tossed clouds coming up from windward.

  ‘It is a dirty night,’ said Ellis, turning his head round to speak to his companions at last. ‘But never fear, we’ll weather it.’ And he made for the place where his vessel was moored. Then he stopped and thought a moment.

  ‘Stay here!’ said he, addressing his companions. ‘I may meet folk, and I shall, maybe, have to hear and to speak. You wait here till I come back for you.’ So they sat down close together in a corner of the path.

  ‘Let me look at him, Nest!’ said Owen.

  She took her little dead son out from under her shawl; they looked at his waxen face long and tenderly; kissed it, and covered it up reverently and softly.

  ‘Nest,’ said Owen, at last, ‘I feel as though my father’s spirit had been near us, and as if it had bent over our poor little one. A strange, chilly air met me as I stooped over him. I could fancy the spirit of our pure, blameless child guiding my father’s safe over the paths of the sky to the gates of heaven, and escaping those accursed dogs of hell that were darting up from the north in pursuit of souls not five minutes since.

  ‘Don’t talk so, Owen,’ said Nest, curling up to him in the darkness of the copse. ‘Who knows what may be listening?’

  The pair were silent, in a kind of nameless terror, till they heard Ellis Pritchard’s loud whisper. ‘Where are ye? Come along, soft and steady. There were folk about even now, and the Squire is missed, and madam in a fright.’

  They went swiftly down to the little harbour, and embarked on board Ellis’s boat. The sea heaved and rocked even there; the torn clouds went hurrying overhead in a wild tumultuous manner.

  They put out into the bay; still in silence, except when some word of command was spoken by Ellis, who took the management of the vessel. They made for the rocky shore, where Owen’s boat had been moored. It was not there. It had broken loose and disappeared.

  Owen sat down and covered his face. This last event, so simple and natural in itself, struck on his excited and superstitious mind in an extraordinary manner. He had hoped for a certain reconciliation, so to say, by laying his father and his child both in one grave. But now it appeared to him as if there was to be no forgiveness; as if his father revolted even in death against any such peaceful union. Ellis took a practical view of the case. If the Squire’s body was found drifting about in a boat known to belong to his son, it would create terrible suspicion as to the manner of his death. At one time in the evening, Ellis had thought of persuading Owen to let him bury the Squire in a sailor’s grave; or, in other words, to sew him up in a spare sail, and weighing it well, sink it for ever. He had not broached the subject, from a certain fear of Owen’s passionate repugnance to the plan; otherwise, if he had consented, they might have returned to Penmorfa, and passively awaited the course of events, secure of Owen’s succession to Bodowen, sooner or later; or, if Owen was too much overwhelmed by what had happened, Ellis would have advised him to go away for a short time, and return when the buzz and the talk was over.

  Now it was different. It was absolutely necessary that they should leave the country for a time. Through those stormy waters they must plough their way that very night. Ellis had no fear--would have had no fear, at any rate, with Owen as he had been a week, a day ago; but with Owen wild, despairing, helpless, fate-pursued, what could he do?

  They sailed into the tossing darkness, and were never more seen of men.

  The house of Bodowen has sunk into damp, dark ruins; and a Saxon stranger holds the lands of the Griffiths.

  (Harper’s New Monthly Magazine, xvi, 1858)

  FRENCH LIFE

  I

  Paris, February, 1862.

  We went to-day along the Boulevard Sévastopol, Rive Gauche, to pay a call. I knew the district well about six years ago, when it was a network of narrow tortuous streets; the houses high, irregular, picturesque, historical, dirty, and unhealthy. I used to have much difficulty in winding my way to certain points in the Quartier Latin from the Faubourg St. Germain, where I was staying. Now, the Hôtel Cluny is enclosed in a neat garden, the railings of which run alongside of the Boulevard Sévastopol; a little further, on the same side to the left, the Sorbonne Church is well exposed to view; and the broad artery of the new Boulevard runs up to the Luxembourg gardens, making a clear passage for air and light through the densely populated quartier. It is a great gain in all material points; a great loss to memory and to that kind of imagination which loves to repeople places. The street in which our friend lived was old and narrow; the trottoir was barely wide enough for one uncrinolined person to walk
on; and it was impossible to help being splashed by the passing carriages, which indeed threw dirt upon the walls of the houses till there was a sort of dado of mud all along the street. In the grander streets of former days this narrowness did not signify; the houses were of the kind called entre cour et jardin (of which there are specimens in Piccadilly), with the porter’s lodge, the offices, and stables abutting on the street; the grand court intervening between the noise and bustle and the high dwelling-house of the family, which out-topped the low buildings in front. But in the humbler street to which we were bound there were few houses entre cour et jardin; and I could not help wondering how people bore to live in the perpetual noise, and heavy closeness of atmosphere.

  The friend we were going to see, Madame A--, had lived in this street for many years. Her rooms were lofty and tolerably large. The gloomy outlook of the long narrow windows was concealed by the closed muslin curtains, which were of an irreproachable whiteness. I knew the rooms of old. We had to pass through the satle-à-manger to the salon; and from thence we, being intimate friends, went on into her bedroom. The satle-à-manger had an inlaid floor, very slippery, and without a carpet; the requisite chairs and tables were the only furniture. The pile of clean dinner-plates was placed on the top of a china stove; a fire would be lighted in it, half-an-hour before dinner, which would warm the plates as well as the room. The salon was graced with the handsome furniture of thirty or forty years ago; but it was a room to be looked at rather than used. Indeed, the family only sit in it on Sunday evenings, when they receive. The floor was parqueté in this room, but here and there it was covered with small brilliantly-coloured Persian carpets: before the sofa, underneath the central table, and before the fire. There were the regular pieces of furniture which were de rigueur in a French household of respectability when Madame A-- was married: the gilt vases of artificial flowers, each under a glass shade; the clock, with a figure of a naked hero, supposed to represent Achilles, leaning on his shield (the face of the clock); and the “guéridon” (round, marble-topped table), which was so long the one indispensable article in a French drawing-room.