Delphi Complete Works of Elizabeth Gaskell

by Elizabeth Gaskell

  ‘You had better call the Fraulein to look at him,’ said I. ‘I feel sure he ought to have a doctor; I should say he was going to have a fit.’

  ‘The Fraulein and the master are gone to the pastor’s for coffee, and Lottchen is in the higher vineyard, taking the men their bread and beer. Could you find the kitchen girl, or old Karl? he will be in the stables, I think. I must lose no time. Almost without waiting for my reply, she had passed through the room, and in the empty house I could hear her firm, careful footsteps going up the stair; Lina’s pattering beside her; and the one voice wailing, the other speaking low comfort.

  I was tired enough, but this good family had treated me too much like one of their own for me not to do what I could in such a case as this. I made my way out into the street, for the first time since I had come to the house on that memorable evening six weeks ago. I bribed the first person I met to guide me to the doctor’s, and sent him straight down to the Halbmond, not staying to listen to the thorough scolding he fell to giving me; then on to the parsonage, to tell the master and the Fraulein of the state of things at home.

  I was sorry to be the bearer of bad news into such a festive chamber as the pastor’s. There they sat, resting after heat and fatigue, each in their best gala dress, the table spread with Dicker-milch, potato-salad, cakes of various shapes and kinds--all the dainty cates dear to the German palate. The pastor was talking to Herr Muller, who stood near the pretty young Fraulein Anna, in her fresh white chemisette, with her round white arms, and her youthful coquettish airs, as she prepared to pour out the coffee; our Fraulein was talking busily to the Frau Mama; the younger boys and girls of the family filling up the room. A ghost would have startled the assembled party less than I did, and would probably have been more welcome, considering the news I brought. As he listened, the master caught up his hat and went forth, without apology or farewell. Our Fraulein made up for both, and questioned me fully; but now she, I could see, was in haste to go, although restrained by her manners, and the kindhearted Frau Pastorin soon set her at liberty to follow her inclination. As for me I was dead-beat, and only too glad to avail myself of the hospitable couple’s pressing request that I would stop and share their meal. Other magnates of the village came in presently, and relieved me of the strain of keeping up a German conversation about nothing at all with entire strangers. The pretty Fraulein’s face had clouded over a little at Herr Muller’s sudden departure; but she was soon as bright as could be, giving private chase and sudden little scoldings to her brothers, as they made raids upon the dainties under her charge. After I was duly rested and refreshed, I took my leave; for I, too, had my quieter anxieties about the sorrow in the Muller family.

  The only person I could see at the Halbmond was Lottchen; everyone else was busy about the poor little Max, who was passing from one fit into another. I told Lottchen to ask the doctor to come in and see me before he took his leave for the night, and tired as I was, I kept up till after his visit, though it was very late before he came; I could see from his face how anxious he was. He would give me no opinion as to the child’s chances of recovery, from which I guessed that he had not much hope. But when I expressed my fear he cut me very short.

  ‘The truth is, you know nothing about it; no more do I, for that matter. It is enough to try any man, much less a father, to hear his perpetual moans--not that he is conscious of pain, poor little worm; but if she stops for a moment in her perpetual carrying him backwards and forwards, he plains so piteously it is enough to--enough to make a man bless the Lord who never led him into the pit of matrimony. To see the father up there, following her as she walks up and down the room, the child’s head over her shoulder, and Muller trying to make the heavy eyes recognize the old familiar ways of play, and the chirruping sounds which he can scarce make for crying--I shall be here tomorrow early, though before that either life or death will have come without the old doctor’s help.’

  All night long I dreamt my feverish dream--of the vineyard--the carts, which held little coffins instead of baskets of grapes--of the pastor’s daughter, who would pull the dying child out of Thekla’s arms; it was a bad, weary night! I slept long into the morning; the broad daylight filled my room, and yet no one had been near to waken me! Did that mean life or death? I got up and dressed as fast as I could; for I was aching all over with the fatigue of the day before. Out into the sitting-room; the table was laid for breakfast, but no one was there. I passed into the house beyond, up the stairs, blindly seeking for the room where I might know whether it was life or death. At the door of a room I found Lottchen crying; at the sight of me in that unwonted place she started, and began some kind of apology, broken both by tears and smiles, as she told me that the doctor said the danger was over--past, and that Max was sleeping a gentle peaceful slumber in Thekla’s arms--arms that had held him all through the livelong night.

  ‘Look at him, sir; only go in softly; it is a pleasure to see the child today; tread softly, sir.’

  She opened the chamber-door. I could see Thekla sitting, propped up by cushions and stools, holding her heavy burden, and bending over him with a look of tenderest love. Not far off stood the Fraulein, all disordered and tearful, stirring or seasoning some hot soup, while the master stood by her impatient. As soon as it was cooled or seasoned enough he took the basin and went to Thekla, and said something very low; she lifted up her head, and I could see her face; pale, weary with watching, but with a soft peaceful look upon it, which it had not worn for weeks. Fritz Muller began to feed her, for her hands were occupied in holding his child; I could not help remembering Mrs Inchbald’s pretty description of Dorriforth’s anxiety in feeding Miss Milner; she compares it, if I remember rightly, to that of a tender-hearted boy, caring for his darling bird, the loss of which would embitter all the joys of his holidays. We closed the door without noise, so as not to waken the sleeping child. Lottchen brought me my coffee and bread; she was ready either to laugh or to weep on the slightest occasion. I could not tell if it was in innocence or mischief. She asked me the following question,--

  ‘Do you think Thekla will leave today, sir?’

  In the afternoon I heard Thekla’s step behind my extemporary screen. I knew it quite well. She stopped for a moment before emerging into my view.

  She was trying to look as composed as usual, but, perhaps because her steady nerves had been shaken by her night’s watching, she could not help faint touches of dimples at the corners of her mouth, and her eyes were veiled from any inquisitive look by their drooping lids.

  ‘I thought you would like to know that the doctor says Max is quite out of danger now. He will only require care.’

  ‘Thank you, Thekla; Doctor ---- has been in already this afternoon to tell me so, and I am truly glad.’

  She went to the window, and looked out for a moment. Many people were in the vineyards again today; although we, in our household anxiety, had paid them but little heed. Suddenly she turned round into the room, and I saw that her face was crimson with blushes. In another instant Herr Muller entered by the window.

  ‘Has she told you, sir?’ said he, possessing himself of her hand, and looking all aglow with happiness. ‘Hast thou told our good friend?’ addressing her.

  ‘No. I was going to tell him, but I did. not know how to begin.’

  ‘Then I will prompt thee. Say after me--”I have been a wilful, foolish woman ----”‘

  She wrenched her hand out of his, half-laughing--’I am a foolish woman, for I have promised to marry him. But he is a still more foolish man, for he wishes to marry me. That is what I say.’

  ‘And I have sent Babette to Frankfurt with the pastor. He is going there, and will explain all to Frau v. Schmidt; and Babette will serve her for a time. When Max is well enough to have the change of air the doctor prescribes for him, thou shalt take him to Altenahr, and thither will I also go; and become known to thy people and thy father. And before Christmas the gentleman here shall dance at our wedding.’

  ‘I
must go home to England, dear friends, before many days are over. Perhaps we may travel together as far as Remagen. Another year I will come back to Heppenheim and see you.’

  As I planned it, so it was. We left Heppenheim all together on a lovely All Saints’ Day. The day before--the day of All Souls--I had watched Fritz and Thekla lead little Lina up to the Acre of God, the Field of Rest, to hang the wreath of immortelles on her mother’s grave. Peace be with the dead and the living.

  SOME PASSAGES FROM THE HISTORY OF THE CHOMLEY FAMILY

  The majority of men are so much occupied now-a-days with the present and the future, that they are unwilling to cast a glance upon the past. It seems a matter of little importance to them that even the very names of families, the members of which played a busy part in the history of their country, should die out unnoticed and uncared for. Yet it would not surely be so if we were better aware how much of interest lies in the story of the lives and careers of some of the “forebears” of our English gentry. Still it is not often that a fortunate chance enables us to see our ancestors as they lived and moved among their contemporaries. Too frequently the details handed down respecting them are so few and meagre, that it is impossible to form out of them a faithful picture of either the men or their surroundings. These remarks do not, however, apply to the memoirs of Sir Hugh Chomley, in which he gives “some account of his family, and the distresses they underwent during the wars between the King and the Parliament.” For a long period these memoirs existed in manuscript only. But, towards the close of the last century, Mr. Nathaniel Chomley, one of Sir Hugh’s descendants, had them printed for private circulation amongst the members of his family. Thanks to the kind permission we have received to make what use we please of the volume, we are in a position to give an abstract of their contents.

  Every autobiography, whatever its merits or its defects may be, will present some points of interest. These will be increased in proportion as the writer neither attempts to glorify his own doings nor to paint his contemporaries in any colours save their true ones. Moreover, when the memoir has not been written with a view to the public eye, but has been intended solely to keep the memory of their ancestor fresh in the breasts of his descendants, the probabilities become very great that in it we shall have a faithful representation of the life and times of the writer.

  Many have been the motives which have induced men to record the story of their lives. In this case, Sir Hugh Chomley tells his sons that he was “first and chiefly moved to the work by the love he bore to their indulgent mother, his dear wife. Being desirous,” he says, “to embalm her great virtues and perfections to future ages, I consider it would not be so proper, nor so much for her honour, to speak of her single as to bring her in her proper range and place among those preceding deserving women, mothers of families, amongst which she will be found a prime flower in the garland. And this,” he goes on to say, “could not be done without mentioning their husbands, who, in respect of their sex, may not only claim to have the greatest honour and reverence ascribed to them, but commonly are the greatest actors in the scene.”

  Sir Hugh begins his narrative with a sketch of the first of his progenitors, who planted himself in the East Riding. In the reign of Henry VII., Sir Roger Chomley, a “black, proper, stout man,” having married a daughter of Sir Marmaduke Constable, of Flamborough, quitted Cheshire, his native county, in order to settle in Yorkshire. In the fifth year of Henry VIII. Sir Roger was knighted, and on the 28th of April, 1538, he fell sick and died. Of the four children who survived him, Richard, the eldest, was made a knight at the battle of Musselburgh, in which he had commanded a regiment raised merely by his power and interest in his own county. Nor was he eminent as a soldier only; he was also a great improver of his estates, and added considerably to their extent. His chief place of residence was at Roxby, near Pickering, where he lived “in great port,” having a large family, comprising at least fifty or sixty men-servants. But although there used to be often as many as twenty-four pieces of beef put in the morning into the pot, yet sometimes it so happened that but one would be left for Sir Richard’s own dinner. The idle serving men, it appears, were accustomed to have their breakfast in the house, and going into the kitchen would use so much liberty as to stick their daggers into the pot and take out the beef without the leave or privacy of the cook. On such occasions Sir Richard would merely laugh and cry out, “What! would not the knaves leave me but one piece for my own dinner?” Nevertheless, he always liked to have a great train of these menials about his person. Even when he journeyed to London on business, unaccompanied by his wife, he used to be attended by never less than thirty, and sometimes even forty of them. And as there chanced to be a great feud between Sir Richard and his brother-in-law the Earl of Westmoreland, who had married successively two of Sir Richard’s sisters, the retainers of the gentlemen never met, whether in London streets or elsewhere, but a fight took place. These brawls were, however, attended with less danger to life and less bloodshed than they would have been in succeeding times; for the men fought with buckler and short swords, and it was counted unmannerly to make a thrust.

  In his youth Sir Richard had married Margaret, the daughter of Lord Conyers. She dying before him, he took for his second wife the beautiful widow of Lord Scroope of Bolton. Soon after the birth of their first child a difference, caused no doubt by Sir Richard’s conduct, arose between the pair and continued many years. At last, coming to a gentleman’s house where they were strait of lodging, the husband and wife were perforce thrown together. The consequence was a reconciliation, which was soon afterwards still more closely cemented by the birth of a son, whom they named Henry, and who in course of time succeeded to his father’s estates.

  At the age of 63, in the year 1589, the “great black knight of the north” died, and was buried in the chancel of Thornton church. He was tall of stature, “and withal big and strongly made, having had in his youth a very able body.” His hair was black, his eyes the same hue, and his complexion a clear brown. Nor was he great only in stature; but also in power, estate, and fortune. A wise and prudent man, too, as regarded the management of his estates, a kind master, a liberal landlord, a loving father, and a tender husband, albeit “extraordinarily given to the love of women.”

  In his choice of wives he was peculiarly fortunate. His second wife, the Lady Katharine, was not only a gentlewoman of great piety, but endowed with a more than ordinary share of beauty. Outwardly a Roman Catholic, she seems to have been at heart a Protestant; for almost the last words she spoke were, “Daughter, let the priests be put out of the house.” She died in the year 1598, having survived her husband nearly twenty years, and was buried in the chancel of Whitby church “under the great blue stone.”

  By his first wife Sir Richard had three sons and several daughters. By his second wife he had a daughter named Katherine after her mother, and a son named Henry. His eldest son, Francis, succeeded to a brief enjoyment of the title and estates. He was, like his stalwart father, a right proper man, and had been bred a soldier. Sir Richard loved him entirely, and if he had but married with his approbation would have left his estates freely to him. But the young man was obstinately determined to take to wife one Mrs. Jane Boulmer, who though of good family was not equally fortunate in the matter of reputation. In fact, her character and manner of life were such that Sir Richard was accustomed to say she was of a humour he liked better for a mistress than a wife for a son. When, however, he saw that Francis was not to be dissuaded from the match, he determined to settle his lands in such a way that his heir should have power to dispose of only Ê£500 a year by will. If he had not made this arrangement, he was sure, he said, that after his death his Aunt Frank -- for so he always called Mrs. Jane -- would have made her husband cut off the entail, and so settle the estates that not a foot should come to any of his blood. The event proved that he had been right. No sooner had the old man gone down to his grave than Aunt Frank so wrought upon her husband that he settled on her all
the lands he had at his disposal.

  After his father’s death, Sir Francis resided for the most part at Whitby, where he built a house. Yielding to Mrs. Jane’s persuasions, the dwelling was constructed entirely of wood, although the country afforded plenty of good stone. “Wood would serve them well enough for their time,” the lady was wont to say, knowing she should not have a child, and therefore caring little what destruction she did to the woods. She was, moreover, of a most haughty spirit, and had such a hold over her husband, who was a very valiant man and a complete gentleman in all points, that it was thought her influence over him could only proceed from witchcraft. So exceedingly over-topped was he by her that he even submitted to have the first letter of her name carved upon the door-post before his. Moreover, though Sir Francis died at Whitby, she would not permit him to be buried in his own church, but caused his body to be carried to Beverley, a place with which the Chomley family had no relations. There, in the church of St. Mary’s, she laid him in his grave; but though she had vowed he should be buried in “a place where never a Chomley should set his foot on,” her purpose was afterwards frustrated, “as it were by Divine Providence,” piously observes Sir Hugh. After the death of Sir Francis, his widow married a man of mean quality, to whom she gave all the land which her late husband had settled upon her.

  Sir Francis Chomley having died childless, his half-brother, Henry, became heir to the estates. Previous to the death of Sir Francis, Henry had married Sir William Babthorpe’s daughter. The lady being a Roman Catholic, and the husband and wife living then at Whitby, their house became a sort of receptacle for seminary priests coming from beyond the seas, and who landed frequently at that port. Sometimes as many as three or four of these gentry would come together; and as they generally made their appearance with but a scant supply of clothes and money, Sir Henry was accustomed to send them away, being so charged by his wife, with a great supply of all kinds of both necessary and superfluous garments. Thus those who entered the house in rags might be seen leaving it clad in scarlet and satin, and attended with men and horses, the better to disguise their profession. Sir Henry himself seems to have somewhat inclined to Catholicism, though he attended the services of the Reformed Church. His tendencies, and perhaps the imprudent conduct of his wife, often brought him into trouble. On several occasions he was not only called upon to pay heavy penalties, but had the grief of seeing his wife carried off, not merely once, but again and again, to prison, and kept there for a long time. However, as years passed by, his opinions underwent a change, and at last both he and his wife became not only Protestants, but very zealous ones too.