‘You must not go on moping yourself, Libbie Marsh. What I wanted special for to see you this afternoon, was to tell you, you must come to my wedding tomorrow. Nanny Dawson has fallen sick, and there’s none as I should like to have bridesmaid in her place as well as you.’
‘Tomorrow! Oh, I cannot!----indeed I cannot!’
‘Why not?’
Libbie did not answer, and Anne Dixon grew impatient.
‘Surely, in the name o’ goodness, you’re never going to baulk yourself of a day’s pleasure for the sake of yon little cripple that’s dead and gone!’
‘No,----it’s not baulking myself of----don’t be angry, Anne Dixon, with him, please; but I don’t think it would be a pleasure to me,----I don’t feel as if I could enjoy it; thank you all the same. But I did love that little lad very dearly----I did,’ sobbing a little, ‘and I can’t forget him and make merry so soon.’
‘Well----I never!’ exclaimed Anne, almost angrily.
‘Indeed, Anne, I feel your kindness, and you and Bob have my best wishes,----that’s what you have; but even if I went, I should be thinking all day of him, and of his poor, poor mother, and they say it’s bad to think very much on them that’s dead, at a wedding.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Anne, ‘I’ll take the risk of the ill-luck. After all, what is marrying? Just a spree, Bob says. He often says he does not think I shall make him a good wife, for I know nought about house matters, wi’ working in a factory; but he says he’d rather be uneasy wi’ me than easy wi’ anybody else. There’s love for you! And I tell him I’d rather have him tipsy than anyone else sober.’
‘Oh! Anne Dixon, hush! you don’t know yet what it is to have a drunken husband. I have seen something of it: father used to get fuddled, and, in the long run, it killed mother, let alone---- oh! Anne, God above only knows what the wife of a drunken man has to bear. Don’t tell,’ said she, lowering her voice, ‘but father killed our little baby in one of his bouts; mother never looked up again, nor father either, for that matter, only his was in a different way. Mother will have gotten to little Jemmie now, and they’ll be so happy together,----and perhaps Franky too. Oh!’ said she, recovering herself from her train of thought, never say aught lightly of the wife’s lot whose husband is given to drink!’
‘Dear, what a preachment. I tell you what, Libbie, you’re as born an old maid as ever I saw. You’ll never be married to either drunken or sober.’
Libbie’s face went rather red, but without losing its meek expression.
‘I know that as well as you can tell me; and more reason, therefore, as God has seen fit to keep me out of woman’s natural work, I should try and find work for myself. I mean,’ seeing Anne Dixon’s puzzled look, ‘that as I know I’m never likely to have a home of my own, or a husband that would look to me to make all straight, or children to watch over or care for, all which I take to be woman’s natural work, I must not lose time in fretting and fidgetting after marriage, but just look about me for somewhat else to do. I can see many a one misses it in this. They will hanker after what is ne’er likely to be theirs, instead of facing it out, and settling down to be old maids; and, as old maids, just looking round for the odd jobs God leaves in the world for such as old maids to do. There’s plenty of such work, and there’s the blessing of God on them as does it.’ Libbie was almost out of breath at this outpouring of what had long been her inner thoughts.
‘That’s all very true, I make no doubt, for them as is to be old maids; but as I’m not, please God tomorrow comes, you might have spared your breath to cool your porridge. What I want to know is, whether you’ll be bridesmaid tomorrow or not. Come, now do; it will do you good, after all your working, and watching, and slaying yourself for that poor Franky Hall.’
‘It was one of my odd jobs,’ said Libbie, smiling, though her eyes were brimming over with tears; ‘but, dear Anne,’ said she, recovering herself, ‘I could not do it tomorrow, indeed I could not.’
‘And I can’t wait,’ said Anne Dixon, almost sulkily, ‘Bob and I put it off from today, because of the funeral, and Bob had set his heart on its being on Michaelmas Day; and mother says the goose won’t keep beyond tomorrow. Do come: father finds eatables, and Bob finds drink, and we shall be so jolly! and after we’ve been to church, we’re to walk round the town in pairs, white satin ribbon in our bonnets, and refreshments at any public-house we like, Bob says. And after dinner there’s to be a dance. Don’t be a fool; you can do no good by staying. Margaret Hall will have to go out washing, I’ll be bound.’
‘Yes, she must go to Mrs Wilkinson’s, and, for that matter, I must go working too. Mrs Williams has been after me to make her girl’s winter things ready; only I could not leave Franky, he clung so to me.’
‘Then you won’t be bridesmaid! is that your last word?’
‘It is; you must not be angry with me, Anne Dixon,’ said Libbie, deprecatingly.
But Anne was gone without a reply.
With a heavy heart Libbie mounted the little staircase, for she felt how ungracious her refusal of Anne’s kindness must appear, to one who understood so little the feelings which rendered her acceptance of it a moral impossibility.
On opening the door she saw Margaret Hall, with the Bible open on the table before her. For she had puzzled out the place where Libbie was reading, and, with her finger under the line, was spelling out the words of consolation, piecing the syllables together aloud, with the earnest anxiety of comprehension with which a child first learns to read. So Libbie took the stool by her side, before she was aware that anyone had entered the room.
‘What did she want you for?’ asked Margaret. ‘But I can guess; she wanted you to be at th’ wedding that is to come off this week, they say. Ay, they’ll marry, and laugh, and dance, all as one as if my boy was alive,’ said she, bitterly. ‘Well, he was neither kith nor kin of yours, so I maun try and be thankful for what you’ve done for him, and not wonder at your forgetting him afore he’s well settled in his grave.’
‘I never can forget him, and I’m not going to the wedding,’ said Libbie, quietly, for she understood the mother’s jealousy of her dead child’s claims.
‘I must go work at Mrs Williams’ tomorrow,’ she said, in explanation, for she was unwilling to boast of her tender, fond regret, which had been her principal motive for declining Anne’s invitation.
‘And I mun go washing, just as if nothing had happened,’ sighed forth Mrs Hall, ‘and I mun come home at night, and find his place empty, and all still where I used to be sure of hearing his voice ere ever I got up the stair: no one will ever call me mother again.’ She fell crying pitifully, and Libbie could not speak for her own emotion for some time. But during this silence she put the keystone in the arch of thoughts she had been building up for many days; and when Margaret was again calm in her sorrow, Libbie said. ‘Mrs Hall, I should like----would you like me to come for to live here altogether?’
Margaret Hall looked up with a sudden light in her countenance, which encouraged Libbie to go on.
‘I could sleep with you, and pay half, you know; and we should be together in the evenings; and her as was home first would watch for the other, and’ (dropping her voice) ‘we could talk of him at nights, you know.’
She was going on, but Mrs Hall interrupted her.
‘Oh, Libbie Marsh! and can you really think of coming to live wi’ me. I should like it above----but no! it must not be; you’ve no notion on what a creature I am, at times; more like a mad one when I’m in a rage, and I cannot keep it down. I seem to get out of bed wrong side in the morning, and I must have my passion out with the first person I meet. Why, Libbie,’ said she, with a doleful look of agony on her face, ‘I even used to fly out on him, poor sick lad as he was, and you may judge how little you can keep it down frae that. No, you must not come. I must live alone now,’ sinking her voice into the low tones of despair.
But Libbie’s resolution was brave and strong. ‘I’m not afraid,’ said she smiling. ‘I know you
better than you know yourself, Mrs Hail. I’ve seen you try of late to keep it down, when you’ve been boiling over, and I think you’ll go on a-doing so. And at any rate, when you’ve had your fit out, you’re very kind, and I can forget if you’ve been a bit put out. But I’ll try not to put you out. Do let me come: I think he would like us to keep together. I’ll do my very best to make you comfortable.’
‘It’s me! it’s me as will be making your life miserable with my temper; or else, God knows, how my heart clings to you. You and me is folk alone in the world, for we both loved one who is dead, and who had none else to love him. If you will live with me, Libbie, I’ll try as I never did afore to be gentle and quiet-tempered, Oh! will you try me, Libbie Marsh?’ So out of the little grave there sprang a hope and a resolution, which made life an object to each of the two.
When Elizabeth Marsh returned home the next evening from her day’s labours, Anne (Dixon no longer) crossed over, all in her bridal finery, to endeavour to induce her to join the dance going on in her father’s house.
‘Dear Anne, this is good of you, a-thinking of me tonight,’ said Libbie, kissing her, ‘and though I cannot come,----I’ve promised Mrs Hall to be with her,----I shall think on you, and I trust you’ll be happy. I have got a little needle-case I have looked out for you; stay, here it is,----I wish it were more----only -- ‘
‘Only, I know what. You’ve been a-spending all your money in nice things for poor Franky. Thou’rt a real good un, Libbie, and I’ll keep your needle-book to my dying day, that I will.’ Seeing Anne in such a friendly mood, emboldened Libbie to tell her of her change of place; of her intention of lodging henceforward with Margaret Hall.
‘Thou never will! Why father and mother are as fond of thee as can be; they’ll lower thy rent if that’s what it is----and thou knowst they never grudge thee bit or drop. And Margaret Hall, of all folk, to lodge wi’! She’s such a Tartar! Sooner than not have a quarrel, she’d fight right hand against left. Thou’lt have no peace of thy life. What on earth can make you think of such a thing, Libbie Marsh?’
‘She’ll be so lonely without me,’ pleaded Libbie. ‘I’m sure I could make her happier, even if she did scold me a bit now and then, than she’d be a living alone, and I’m not afraid of her; and I mean to do my best not to vex her: and it will ease her heart, maybe, to talk to me at times about Franky. I shall often see your father and mother, and I shall always thank them for their kindness to me. But they have you and little Mary, and poor Mrs Hall has no one.’
Anne could only repeat, ‘Well, I never!’ and hurry off to tell the news at home.
But Libbie was right. Margaret Hall is a different woman to the scold of the neighbourhood she once was; touched and softened by the two purifying angels, Sorrow and Love. And it is beautiful to see her affection, her reverence, for Libbie Marsh. Her dead mother could hardly have cared for her more tenderly than does the hardhearted washerwoman, not long ago so fierce and unwomanly. Libbie, herself, has such peace shining on her countenance, as almost makes it beautiful, as she tenders the services of a daughter to Franky’s mother, no longer the desolate lonely orphan, a stranger on the earth.
Do you ever read the moral, concluding sentence of a story? I never do, but I once (in the year 1811, I think) heard of a deaf old lady, living by herself, who did; and as she may have left some descendants with the same amiable peculiarity, I will put in, for their benefit, what I believe to be the secret of Libbie’s peace of mind, the real reason why she no longer feels oppressed at her own loneliness in the world, -
She has a purpose in life; and that purpose is a holy one.
(1847)
THE MANCHESTER MARRIAGE
Mr and Mrs Openshaw came from Manchester to settle in London. He had been, what is called in Lancashire, a salesman for a large manufacturing firm, who were extending their business, and opening a warehouse in the city; where Mr Openshaw was now to superintend their affairs. He rather enjoyed the change; having a kind of curiosity about London, which he had never yet been able to gratify in his brief visits to the metropolis. At the same time, he had an odd, shrewd, contempt for the inhabitants; whom he always pictured to himself as fine, lazy people; caring nothing but for fashion and aristocracy, and lounging away their days in Bond Street, and such places; ruining good English, and ready in their turn to despise him as a provincial. The hours that the men of business kept in the city scandalized him too, accustomed as he was to the early dinners of Manchester folk and the consequently far longer evenings. Still, he was pleased to go to London; though he would not for the world have confessed it, even to himself, and always spoke of the step to his friends as one demanded of him by the interests of his employers, and sweetened to him by a considerable increase of salary. This, indeed, was so liberal that he might have been justified in taking a much larger house than the one he did, had he not thought himself bound to set an example to Londoners of how little a Manchester man of business cared for show. Inside, however, he furnished it with an unusual degree of comfort, and, in the winter-time, he insisted on keeping up as large fires as the grates would allow, in every room where the temperature was in the least chilly. Moreover, his northern sense of hospitality was such, that, if he were at home, he could hardly suffer a visitor to leave the house without forcing meat and drink upon him. Every servant in the house was well warmed, well fed, and kindly treated; for their master scorned all petty saving in aught that conduced to comfort; while he amused himself by following out all his accustomed habits and individual ways, in defiance of what any of his new neighbours might think.
His wife was a pretty, gentle woman, of suitable age and character. He was forty-two, she thirty-five. He was loud and decided; she soft and yielding. They had two children; or rather, I should say, she had two; for the elder, a girl of eleven, was Mrs Openshaw’s child by Frank Wilson, her first husband. The younger was a little boy, Edwin, who could just prattle, and to whom his father delighted to speak in the broadest and most unintelligible Lancashire dialect, in order to keep up what he called the true Saxon accent.
Mrs Openshaw’s Christian-name was Alice, and her first husband had been her own cousin. She was the orphan niece of a sea-captain in Liverpool; a quiet, grave little creature, of great personal attraction when she was fifteen or sixteen, with regular features and a blooming complexion. But she was very shy, and believed herself to be very stupid and awkward; and was frequently scolded by her aunt, her own uncle’s second wife. So when her cousin, Frank Wilson, came home from a long absence at sea, and first was kind and protective to her; secondly, attentive, and thirdly, desperately in love with her, she hardly knew how to be grateful enough to him. It is true, she would have preferred his remaining in the first or second stages of behaviour; for his violent love puzzled and frightened her. Her uncle neither helped nor hindered the love affair; though it was going on under his own eyes. Frank’s stepmother had such a variable temper, that there was no knowing whether what she liked one day she would like the next, or not. At length she went to such extremes of crossness, that Alice was only too glad to shut her eyes and rush blindly at the chance of escape from domestic tyranny offered her by a marriage with her cousin; and, liking him better than any one in the world, except her uncle (who was at this time at sea), she went off one morning and was married to him; her only bridesmaid being the housemaid at her aunt’s. The consequence was, that Frank and his wife went into lodgings, and Mrs Wilson refused to see them, and turned away Norah, the warm-hearted housemaid, whom they accordingly took into their service. When Captain Wilson returned from his voyage, he was very cordial with the young couple, and spent many an evening at their lodgings, smoking his pipe, and sipping his grog; but he told them that, for quietness’ sake, he could not ask them to his own house; for his wife was bitter against them. They were not, however, very unhappy about this.
The seed of future unhappiness lay rather in Frank’s vehement, passionate disposition; which led him to resent his wife’s shyness and w
ant of demonstrativeness as failures in conjugal duty. He was already tormenting himself, and her too, in a slighter degree, by apprehensions and imaginations of what might befall her during his approaching absence at sea. At last, he went to his father and urged him to insist upon Alice’s being once more received under his roof; the more especially as there was now a prospect of her confinement while her husband was away on his voyage. Captain Wilson was, as he himself expressed it, ‘breaking up,’ and unwilling to undergo the excitement of a scene; yet he felt that what his son said was true. So he went to his wife. And before Frank set sail, he had the comfort of seeing his wife installed in her old little garret in his father’s house. To have placed her in the one best spare room, was a step beyond Mrs Wilson’s powers of submission or generosity. The worst part about it, however, was that the faithful Norah had to be dismissed. Her place as housemaid had been filled up; and, even if it had not, she had forfeited Mrs Wilson’s good opinion for ever. She comforted her young master and mistress by pleasant prophecies of the time when they would have a household of their own; of which, whatever service she might be in meanwhile, she should be sure to form a part. Almost the last action Frank did, before setting sail, was going with Alice to see Norah once more at her mother’s house; and then he went away.
Delphi Complete Works of Elizabeth Gaskell Page 477