Mrs. Gaskell was undecided about a title for her novel, when Charles Dickens, reading the following, came to the conclusion thatNorth and Southwould be most suitable. Mrs. Gaskell was inclined to give the name of the heroine, Margaret Hale, as the title.
Mrs. Gaskell was undecided about a title for her novel, when Charles Dickens, reading the following, came to the conclusion thatNorth and Southwould be most suitable. Mrs. Gaskell was inclined to give the name of the heroine, Margaret Hale, as the title.
Margaretliked this smile; it was the first thing she had admired in this new friend of her father’s; and the opposition of character, shown in all these details of appearance she had just been noticing, seemed to explain the attraction they evidently felt towards each other.
She arranged her mother’s worsted-work, and fell back into her own thoughts—as completely forgotten by Mr. Thornton as if she had not been in the room, so thoroughly was he occupied in explaining to Mr. Hale the magnificent power, yet delicate adjustment of the might of the steam-hammer, which was recalling to Mr. Hale some of the wonderful stories of subservient genii in theArabian Nights—one moment stretching from earth to sky and filling all the width of the horizon, at the next obediently compressed into a vase small enough to be borne in the hand of a child.
“And this imagination of power, this practical realisation of a gigantic thought, came out of one man’s brain in our good town. That very man has it within him to mount, step by step, on each wonder he achieves to higher marvels still. And I’ll be boundto say, we have many among us who, if he were gone, could spring into the breach and carry on the war which compels, and shall compel, all material power to yield to science.”
“Your boast reminds me of the old lines:
‘I’ve a hundred captains in England,’ he said,‘As good as ever was he.’”
‘I’ve a hundred captains in England,’ he said,‘As good as ever was he.’”
‘I’ve a hundred captains in England,’ he said,
‘As good as ever was he.’”
At her father’s quotation Margaret looked suddenly up, with inquiring wonder in her eyes. How in the world had they got from cog-wheels to Chevy Chace?
“It is no boast of mine,” replied Mr. Thornton; “it is plain matter-of-fact. I won’t deny that I am proud of belonging to a town—or perhaps I should rather say a district—the necessities of which give birth to such grandeur of conception. I would rather be a man toiling, suffering—nay, failing and successless—here, than lead a dull prosperous life in the old worn grooves of what you call more aristocratic society down in the South, with their slow days of careless ease. One may be clogged with honey and unable to rise and fly.”
“You are mistaken,” said Margaret, roused by the aspersion on her beloved South to a fond vehemence of defence, that brought the colour into her cheeks and the angry tears into her eyes. “You do not know anything about the South. If there is less adventure or less progress—I suppose I must not say less excitement—from the gambling spirit of trade, which seems requisite to force out these wonderful inventions, there is less suffering also. I see men here going about in the streets who look ground down by some pinching sorrow or care—who are not only sufferers but haters. Now, in the South we have our poor, but there is not that terrible expression in their countenances of a sullen sense of injustice which I see here. You donot know the South, Mr. Thornton,” she concluded, collapsing into a determined silence, and angry with herself for having said so much.
“And may I say you do not know the North?” asked he, with an inexpressible gentleness in his tone, as he saw that he had really hurt her. She continued resolutely silent; yearning after the lovely haunts she had left far away in Hampshire, with a passionate longing that made her feel her voice would be unsteady and trembling if she spoke.
“At any rate, Mr. Thornton,” said Mrs. Hale, “you will allow that Milton is a much more smoky, dirty town than you will ever meet with in the South.”
“I’m afraid I must give up its cleanliness,” said Mr. Thornton, with the quick gleaming smile. “But we are bidden by Parliament to burn our own smoke; so I suppose, like good little children, we shall do as we are bid—some time.”
FromNorth and South.
The Rev. William Gaskell, who, along with his gifted wife, did so much during the “Hungry Forties” as a peacemaker between the masters and the men, was often to be found in the homes of the Manchester poor listening to their tale of woe, and like Mr. Hale, he always treated the poor with marked courtesy and kindness.
The Rev. William Gaskell, who, along with his gifted wife, did so much during the “Hungry Forties” as a peacemaker between the masters and the men, was often to be found in the homes of the Manchester poor listening to their tale of woe, and like Mr. Hale, he always treated the poor with marked courtesy and kindness.
Shewondered how her father and Higgins had got on.
In the first place, the decorous, kind-hearted, simple, old-fashioned gentleman had unconsciously called out, by his own refinement and courteousness of manner, all the latent courtesy in the other.
Mr. Hale treated all his fellow creatures alike; it never entered into his head to make any difference because of their rank. He placed a chair for Nicholas: stood up till he, at Mr. Hale’s request, took a seat; and called him, invariably, “Mr. Higgins,” instead of the curt “Nicholas” or “Higgins,” to which the “drunken infidel weaver” had been accustomed. But Nicholas was neither an habitual drunkard nor a thorough infidel. He drank to drown care, as he would have himself expressed it; and he was infidel so far as he had never yet found any form of faith to which he could attach himself, heart and soul.
Margaret was a little surprised, and very much pleased, when she found her father and Higgins inearnest conversation—each speaking with gentle politeness to the other, however their opinions might clash. Nicholas—clean, tidied (if only at the pump trough), and quiet spoken—was a new creature to her, who had only seen him in the rough independence of his own hearthstone. He had “slicked” his hair down with the fresh water; he had adjusted his neck-handkerchief, and borrowed an odd candle-end to polish his clogs with; and there he sat, enforcing some opinion on her father, with a strong Darkshire accent, it is true, but with a lowered voice, and a good, earnest composure on his face. Her father, too, was interested in what his companion was saying. He looked round as she came in, smiled, and quietly gave her his chair, and then sat down afresh as quickly as possible, and with a little bow of apology to his guest for the interruption. Higgins nodded to her as a sign of greeting; and she softly adjusted her working materials on the table, and prepared to listen.
“As I was a-sayin’, sir, I reckon yo’d not ha’ much belief in yo’ if yo’ lived here—if yo’d been bred here. I ax your pardon if I use wrong words; but what I mean by belief just now, is a-thinking on sayings and maxims and promises made by folk yo’ never saw, about the things and the life yo’ never saw, nor no one else. Now, yo’ say these are true things, and true sayings, and a true life. I just say, where’s the proof? There’s many and many a one wiser, and scores better learned than I am around me—folk who’ve had time to think on these things—while my time has had to be gi’en up to getting my bread. Well, I sees these people. Their lives is pretty much open to me. They’re real folk. They don’t believe i’ the Bible—not they. They may say they do, for form’s sake; but Lord, sir, dy’e think their first cry i’ th’ morning is, ‘What shall I do to get hold oneternal life?’ or ‘What shall I do to fill my purse this blessed day? Where shall I go? What bargains shall I strike?’ The purse and the gold and the notes is real things; things as can be felt and touched; them’s realities; and eternal life is all a talk, very fit for—I ax your pardon, sir; yo’r a parson out o’ work, I believe. Well! I’ll never speak disrespectful of a man in the same fix as I’m in mysel’. But I’ll just ax yo’ another question, sir, and I dunnot want yo’ to answer it, only to put in yo’r pipe, and smoke it, afore yo’ go for to set down us, who only believe in what we see, as fools and noddies. If salvation, and life to come, and what not, was true—not in men’s words, but in men’s hearts’ core—dun yo’ not think they’d din us wi’ it as they do wi’ political ’conomy? They’re mighty anxious to come round us wi’ that piece o’ wisdom; but t’other would be a greater convarsion, if it were true.”
“But the masters have nothing to do with your religion. All that they are connected with you in is trade—so they think—and all that it concerns them, therefore, to rectify your opinions in is the science of trade.”
“I’m glad, sir,” said Higgins, with a curious wink of his eye, “that yo’ put in, ‘so they think.’ I’d ha’ thought yo’ a hypocrite, I’m afeard, if yo’ hadn’t, for all yo’r a parson, or rayther because yo’r a parson. Yo’ see, if yo’d spoken o’ religion as a thing that, if it was true, it didn’t concern all men to press on all men’s attention, above everything else in this ’varsal earth, I should ha’ thought yo’ a knave for to be a parson; and I’d rather think yo’ a fool than a knave. No offence, I hope, sir.”
“None at all. You consider me mistaken, and I consider you far more fatally mistaken. I don’t expect to convince you in a day—not in one conversation;but let us know each other, and speak freely to each other about these things, and the truth will prevail. I should not believe in God if I did not believe that. Mr. Higgins, I trust, whatever else you have given up, you believe” (Mr. Hale’s voice dropped low in reverence)—“you believe in Him.”
Nicholas Higgins suddenly stood straight, stiff up. Margaret started to her feet—for she thought, by the working of his face, he was going into convulsions. Mr. Hale looked at her dismayed. At last Higgins found words:
“Man! I could fell yo’ to the ground for tempting me. Whatten business have yo’ to try me wi’ your doubts? Think o’ her lying theere, after the life hoo’s led; and think then how yo’d deny me the one sole comfort left—that there is a God, and that He set her her life. I dunnot believe she’ll ever live again,” said he, sitting down, and drearily going on, as if to the unsympathising fire. “I dunnot believe in any other life than this, in which she dreed such trouble, and had such never-ending care; and I cannot bear to think it were all a set o’ chances, that might ha’ been altered wi’ a breath o’ wind. There’s many a time when I’ve thought I didna believe in God, but I’ve never put if fair out before me in words, as many men do. I may ha’ laughed at those who did, to brave it out like—but I have looked round at after, to see if He heard me, if so be there was a He; but to-day, when I’m left desolate, I wunnot listen to yo’ wi’ yo’r questions, and yo’r doubts. There’s one thing steady and quiet i’ all this reeling world, and, reason or no reason, I’ll cling to that.”
FromWives and Daughters, 1866
Writing ofWives and Daughters, Madame Mohl said: “The Hamleys are delightful, and Mrs. Gibson! oh, the tricks are delicious; but I am not up to Cynthia yet. Molly is the best heroine you have had yet. Everyone says it is the best thing you ever did.”
Writing ofWives and Daughters, Madame Mohl said: “The Hamleys are delightful, and Mrs. Gibson! oh, the tricks are delicious; but I am not up to Cynthia yet. Molly is the best heroine you have had yet. Everyone says it is the best thing you ever did.”
OnTuesday afternoon Molly returned home—to the home which was already strange, and what Warwickshire people would call “unked,” to her. New paper, new colours; grim servants dressed in their best, and objecting to every change—from their master’s marriage to the new oilcloth in the hall, “which tripped ’em up, and threw ’em down, and was cold to the feet, and smelt just abominable.” All these complaints Molly had to listen to, and it was not a cheerful preparation for the reception which she already felt to be so formidable.
The sound of their carriage-wheels was heard at last, and Molly went to the front door to meet them. Her father got out first, and took her hand and held it while he helped his bride to alight. Then he kissed her fondly, and passed her on to his wife; but her veil was so securely (and becomingly) fastened down,that it was some time before Mrs. Gibson could get her lips clear to greet her new daughter. Then there was luggage to be seen about; and both the travellers were occupied in this, while Molly stood by trembling with excitement, unable to help, and only conscious of Betty’s rather cross looks, as heavy box after heavy box jammed up the passage.
“Molly, my dear, show—your mamma to her room!”
Mr. Gibson had hesitated, because the question of the name by which Molly was to call her new relation had never occurred to him before. The colour flashed into Molly’s face. Was she to call her “mamma”?—the name long appropriated in her mind to someone else—to her own dead mother. The rebellious heart rose against it, but she said nothing. She led the way upstairs, Mrs. Gibson turning round from time to time with some fresh direction as to which bag or trunk she needed most. She hardly spoke to Molly till they were both in the newly-furnished bedroom, where a small fire had been lighted by Molly’s orders.
“Now, my love, we can embrace each other in peace. O dear, how tired I am!”—(after the embrace had been accomplished). “My spirits are so easily affected with fatigue; but your dear papa has been kindness itself. Dear! what an old-fashioned bed! And what a—But it doesn’t signify. By and by we’ll renovate the house—won’t we, my dear? And you’ll be my little maid to-night, and help me to arrange a few things, for I’m just worn out with the day’s journey.”
“I’ve ordered a sort of tea-dinner to be ready for you,” said Molly. “Shall I go and tell them to send it in?”
“I’m not sure if I can go down again to-night. It would be very comfortable to have a little tablebrought in here, and sit in my dressing-gown by this cheerful fire. But, to be sure, there’s your dear papa! I really don’t think he would eat anything if I were not there. One must not think about oneself, you know. Yes, I’ll come down in a quarter of an hour.”
But Mr. Gibson had found a note awaiting him, with an immediate summons to an old patient, dangerously ill; and, snatching a mouthful of food while his horse was being saddled, he had to resume at once his old habits of attention to his profession above everything.
As soon as Mrs. Gibson found that he was not likely to miss her presence—he had eaten a very tolerable lunch of bread and cold meat in solitude, so her fears about his appetite in her absence were not well founded—she desired to have her meal upstairs in her own room; and poor Molly, not daring to tell the servants of this whim, had to carry up first a table, which, however small, was too heavy for her; and afterwards all the choice portions of the meal, which she had taken great pains to arrange on the table, as she had seen such things done at Hamley, intermixed with fruit and flowers that had that morning been sent in from various great houses where Mr. Gibson was respected and valued. How pretty Molly had thought her handiwork an hour or two before! How dreary it seemed as, at last released from Mrs. Gibson’s conversation, she sat down in solitude to cold tea and the drumsticks of the chicken! No one to look at her preparations and admire her deft-handedness and taste! She had thought that her father would be gratified by it, and then he had never seen it. She had meant her cares as an offering of goodwill to her stepmother, who even now was ringing her bell to have the tray taken away and Miss Gibson summoned to her bedroom.
Molly hastily finished her meal, and went upstairs again.
“I feel so lonely, darling, in this strange house; do come and be with me, and help me to unpack. I think your dear papa might have put off his visit to Mr. Craven Smith for just this one evening.”
“Mr. Craven Smith couldn’t put off his dying,” said Molly, bluntly.
“You droll girl!” said Mrs. Gibson, with a faint laugh. “But if this Mr. Smith is dying, as you say, what’s the use of your father’s going off to him in such a hurry? Does he expect any legacy, or anything of that kind?”
Molly bit her lips to prevent herself from saying something disagreeable. She only answered:
“I don’t quite know that he is dying. The man said so; and papa can sometimes do something to make the last struggle easier. At any rate, it’s always a comfort to the family to have him.”
“What dreary knowledge of death you have learned for a girl of your age! Really, if I had heard all these details of your father’s profession, I doubt if I could have brought myself to have him!”
“He doesn’t make the illness or the death; he does his best against them. I call it a very fine thing to think of what he does or tries to do. And you will think so, too, when you see how he is watched for, and how people welcome him!”
“Well, don’t let us talk any more of such gloomy things, to-night! I think I shall go to bed at once, I am so tired, if you will only sit by me till I get sleepy, darling. If you will talk to me, the sound of your voice will soon send me off.”
Molly got a book and read her stepmother to sleep, preferring that to the harder task of keeping up a continual murmur of speech.
Then she stole down and went into the dining-room, where the fire was gone out; purposely neglected by the servants, to mark their displeasure at their new mistress’s having had her tea in her own room. Molly managed to light it, however, before her father came home, and collected and rearranged some comfortable food for him. Then she knelt down again on the hearth-rug, gazing into the fire in a dreamy reverie, which had enough of sadness about it to cause the tear to drop unnoticed from her eyes. But she jumped up, and shook herself into brightness at the sound of her father’s step.
“How is Mr. Craven Smith?” said she.
“Dead. He just recognised me. He was one of my first patients on coming to Hollingford.”
Mr. Gibson sat down in the arm-chair made ready for him, and warmed his hands at the fire, seeming neither to need food nor talk, as he went over a train of recollections. Then he roused himself from his sadness, and looking round the room, he said, briskly enough:
“And where’s the new mamma?”
“She was tired, and went to bed early. Oh, papa! must I call her ‘mamma’?”
“I should like it,” replied he, with a slight contraction of the brows.
Molly was silent. She put a cup of tea near him; he stirred it, and sipped it, and then he recurred to the subject.
“Why shouldn’t you call her ‘mamma’? I’m sure she means to do the duty of a mother to you. We all may make mistakes, and her ways may not be quite all at once our ways; but at any rate let us start with a family bond between us.”
What would Roger say was right?—that was the question that rose to Molly’s mind. She had alwaysspoken of her father’s new wife as Mrs. Gibson, and had once burst out at Miss Brownings’ with a protestation that she would never call her “mamma.” She did not feel drawn to her new relation by their intercourse that evening. She kept silence, though she knew her father was expecting an answer. At last he gave up his expectation and turned to another subject; told about their journey, questioned her as to the Hamleys, the Brownings, Lady Harriet, and the afternoon they had passed together at the Manor-house. But there was a certain hardness and constraint in his manner, and in hers a heaviness and absence of mind. All at once she said:
“Papa, I will call her ‘mamma’!”
He took her hand and grasped it tight; but for an instant or two he did not speak. Then he said:
“You won’t be sorry for it, Molly, when you come to lie as poor Craven Smith did to-night.”
FromWives and Daughters.
Lady Ritchie says: “To people of an elder generation re-readingWives and Daughters, now, strong, gentle, and full of fun and wisdom, all youth seems to be in it; it is rest to live again in the merry touching pages” (Blackstick Papers, 1908).
Lady Ritchie says: “To people of an elder generation re-readingWives and Daughters, now, strong, gentle, and full of fun and wisdom, all youth seems to be in it; it is rest to live again in the merry touching pages” (Blackstick Papers, 1908).
Oneday, for some reason or other, Mr. Gibson came home unexpectedly. He was crossing the hall, having come in by the garden door—the garden communicated with the stable-yard, where he had left his horse—when the kitchen door opened, and the girl who was underling in the establishment came quickly intothe hall with a note in her hand, and made as if she was taking it upstairs; but on seeing her master she gave a little start, and turned back as if to hide herself in the kitchen. If she had not made this movement, so conscious of guilt, Mr. Gibson, who was anything but suspicious, would never have taken any notice of her. As it was, he stepped quickly forwards, opened the kitchen door, and called out “Bethia” so sharply that she could not delay coming forwards.
“Give me that note,” he said. She hesitated a little.
“It’s for Miss Molly,” she stammered out.
“Give it to me!” he repeated more quickly than before. She looked as if she would cry; but still she kept the note tight held behind her back.
“He said as I was to give it into her own hands; and I promised as I would, faithful.”
“Cook, go and find Miss Molly. Tell her to come here at once.”
He fixed Bethia with his eyes. It was of no use trying to escape: she might have thrown it into the fire, but she had not presence of mind enough. She stood immovable, only her eyes looked any way rather than encounter her master’s steady gaze. “Molly, my dear!”
“Papa! I did not know you were at home,” said innocent, wondering Molly.
“Bethia, keep your word. Here is Miss Molly; give her the note.”
“Indeed, miss, I couldn’t help it!”
Molly took the note, but before she could open it, her father said: “That’s all, my dear; you need not read it. Give it to me. Tell those who sent you, Bethia, that all letters for Miss Molly must pass through my hands. Now be off with you, goosey, and go back to where you came from.”
“Papa, I shall make you tell me who my correspondent is.”
“We’ll see about that, by and by.”
She went a little reluctantly, with ungratified curiosity, upstairs to Miss Eyre, who was still her daily companion, if not her governess. He turned into the empty dining-room, shut the door, broke the seal of the note, and began to read it. It was a flaming love-letter from Mr. Coxe; who professed himself unable to go on seeing her day after day without speaking to her of the passion she had inspired—an “eternal passion,” he called it; on reading which Mr. Gibson laughed a little. Would she not look kindly at him? would she not think of him whose only thought was of her? and so on, with a very proper admixture of violent compliments to her beauty. She was fair, not pale; her eyes were lode-stars, her dimples marks of Cupid’s fingers, etc.
Mr. Gibson finished reading it; and began to think about it in his own mind. “Who would have thought the lad had been so poetical? but, to be sure, there’s aShakespearein the surgery library: I’ll take it away and putJohnson’s Dictionaryinstead. One comfort is the conviction of her perfect innocence—ignorance, I should rather say—for it is easy to see it’s the first “confession of his love,” as he calls it. But it’s an awful worry—to begin with lovers so early. Why, she’s only just seventeen—not seventeen, indeed, till July; not for six weeks yet. Sixteen and three-quarters! Why, she’s quite a baby. To be sure—poor Jeanie was not so old, and how I did love her!” (Mrs. Gibson’s name was Mary, so he must have been referring to someone else). Then his thoughts wandered back to other days, though he still held the open note in his hand. By and by his eyes fell upon it again, and his mind came back to bear upon thepresent time. “I’ll not be hard upon him. I’ll give him a hint; he is quite sharp enough to take it. Poor laddie! if I send him away, which would be the wisest course, I do believe he’s got no home to go to.”
After a little more consideration in the same strain, Mr. Gibson went and sat down at the writing-table and wrote the following formula:
Master Coxe
(“That ‘master’ will touch him to the quick,” said Mr. Gibson to himself as he wrote the word).
Mr. Gibson smiled a little sadly as he re-read his words. “Poor Jeanie,” he said aloud. And then he chose out an envelope, enclosed the fervid love-letter, and the above prescription; sealed it with his own sharply-cut seal-ring, R. G., in old English letters, and then paused over the address.
“He’ll not likeMasterCoxe outside; no need to put him to unnecessary shame.” So the direction on the envelope was:
Edward Coxe, Esq.
Then Mr. Gibson applied himself to the professional business which had brought him home so opportunely and unexpectedly, and afterwards he went back through the garden to the stables; and just as he had mounted his horse, he said to the stable-man—“Oh! by the way, here’s a letter for Mr. Coxe. Don’t send it through the women; take it round yourself to the surgery door, and do it at once.”
The slight smile upon his face, as he rode out of the gates, died away as soon as he found himself in the solitude of the lanes. He slackened his speed, and began to think. It was very awkward, he considered, to have a motherless girl growing up into womanhood in the same house with two young men, even if she only met them at meal-times, and all the intercourse they had with each other was merely the utterance of such words as, “May I help you to potatoes?” or, as Mr. Wynne would persevere in saying, “May I assist you to potatoes?”—a form of speech which grated daily more and more upon Mr. Gibson’s ears. Yet Mr. Coxe, the offender in this affair which had just occurred, had to remain for three years more as a pupil in Mr. Gibson’s family. He should be the very last of the race. Still there were three years to be got over; and if this stupid passionate calf-love of his lasted, what was to be done? Sooner or later Molly would become aware of it. The contingencies of the affair were so excessively disagreeable to contemplate, that Mr. Gibson determined to dismiss the subject from his mind by a good strong effort. He put his horse to a gallop, and found that the violent shaking over the lanes—paved as they were with round stones, which had been dislocated by the wear and tear of a hundred years—was the very best thing for the spirits, if not for the bones. He made a long round that afternoon, and came back to his home imagining that the worse was over, and that Mr. Coxe would have taken the hint conveyed in the prescription. All that would be needed was to find a safe place for the unfortunate Bethia, who had displayed such a daring aptitude for intrigue. But Mr. Gibson reckoned without his host. It was the habit of the young men to come in to tea with the family in the dining-room, to swallow two cups, munch their bread and toast,and then disappear. This night Mr. Gibson watched their countenances furtively from under his long eyelashes, while he tried against his wont to keep up adégagémanner, and a brisk conversation on general subjects. He saw that Mr. Wynne was on the point of breaking out into laughter, and that red-haired, red-faced Mr. Coxe was redder and fiercer than ever, while his whole aspect and ways betrayed indignation and anger.
“He will have it, will he?” thought Mr. Gibson to himself; and he girded up his loins for the battle. He did not follow Molly and Miss Eyre into the drawing-room as he usually did. He remained where he was, pretending to read the newspaper, while Bethia, her face swelled up with crying, and with an aggrieved and offended aspect, removed the tea-things. Not five minutes after the room was cleared, came the expected tap at the door. “May I speak to you, sir?’ said the invisible Mr. Coxe, from outside.
“To be sure. Come in, Mr. Coxe. I was rather wanting to talk to you about that bill of Corbyn’s. Pray sit down.”
“It is about nothing of that kind, sir, that I wanted—that I wished—No, thank you—I would rather not sit down.” He, accordingly, stood in offended dignity. “It is about that letter, sir—that letter with the insulting prescription, sir.”
“Insulting prescription! I am surprised at such a word being applied to any prescription of mine—though, to be sure, patients are sometimes offended at being told the nature of their illnesses; and, I daresay, they may take offence at the medicines which their cases require.”
“I did not ask you to prescribe for me.”
“Oh, no! Then you are the Master Coxe who sent the note through Bethia! Let me tell you it hascost her her place, and was a very silly letter into the bargain.”
“It was not the conduct of a gentleman, sir, to intercept it, and to open it, and to read words never addressed to you, sir.”
“No!” said Mr. Gibson, with a slight twinkle in his eye and a curl on his lips, not unnoticed by the indignant Mr. Coxe. “I believe I was once considered tolerably good-looking, and I daresay I was as great a coxcomb as anyone at twenty; but I don’t think that even then I should quite have believed that all those pretty compliments were addressed to myself.”
“It was not the conduct of a gentleman, sir,” repeated Mr. Coxe, stammering over his words—he was going on to say something more, when Mr. Gibson broke in.
“And let me tell you, young man,” replied Mr. Gibson, with a sudden sternness in his voice, “that what you have done is only excusable in consideration of your youth and extreme ignorance of what are considered the laws of domestic honour. I receive you into my house as a member of the family—you induce one of my servants—corrupting her with a bribe, I have no doubt——”
“Indeed, sir! I never gave her a penny.”
“Then you ought to have done. You should always pay those who do your dirty work.”
“Just now, sir, you called it corrupting with a bribe,” muttered Mr. Coxe.
Mr. Gibson took no notice of this speech, but went on—“Inducing one of my servants to risk her place, without offering her the slightest equivalent, by begging her to convey a letter clandestinely to my daughter—a mere child.”
“Miss Gibson, sir, is nearly seventeen! I heardyou say so only the other day,” said Mr. Coxe, aged twenty. Again Mr. Gibson ignored the remark.
“A letter which you were unwilling to have seen by her father, who had tacitly trusted to your honour, by receiving you as an inmate of this house. Your father’s son—I know Major Coxe well—ought to have come to me, and have said out openly, ‘Mr. Gibson, I love—or I fancy that I love—your daughter; I do not think it right to conceal this from you, although unable to earn a penny; and with no prospect of an unassisted livelihood, even for myself, for several years, I shall not say a word about my feelings—or fancied feelings—to the very young lady herself.’ That is what your father’s son ought to have said; if, indeed, a couple of grains of reticent silence would not have been better still.”
“And if I had said it, sir—perhaps I ought to have said it,” said Mr. Coxe, in a hurry of anxiety, “what would have been your answer? Would you have sanctioned my passion, sir?”
“I would have said, most probably—I will not be certain of my exact words in a supposititious case—that you were a young fool, but not a dishonourable young fool, and I should have told you not to let your thoughts run upon a calf-love until you had magnified it into a passion. And I daresay, to make up for the mortification I should have given you, I should have prescribed your joining the Hollingford Cricket Club, and set you at liberty as often as I could, on the Saturday afternoons. As it is, I must write to your father’s agent in London, and ask him to remove you out of my household, repaying the premium, of course, which will enable you to start afresh in some other doctor’s surgery.”
“It will so grieve my father,” said Mr. Coxe, startled into dismay, if not repentance.
“I see no other course open. It will give Major Coxe some trouble (I shall take care that he is at no extra expense), but what I think will grieve him the most is the betrayal of confidence; for I trusted you, Edward, like a son of my own!” There was something in Mr. Gibson’s voice when he spoke seriously, especially when he referred to any feeling of his own—he who so rarely betrayed what was passing in his heart—that was irresistible to most people: the change from joking and sarcasm to tender gravity.
Mr. Coxe hung his head a little, and meditated.
“I do love Miss Gibson,” said he, at length. “Who could help it?”
“Mr. Wynne, I hope!” said Mr. Gibson.
“His heart is pre-engaged,” replied Mr. Coxe. “Mine was free as air till I saw her.”
“Would it tend to cure your—well! passion, we’ll say—if she wore blue spectacles at meal-times? I observe you dwell much on the beauty of her eyes.”
“You are ridiculing my feelings, Mr. Gibson. Do you forget that you yourself were young once?”
“Poor Jeanie” rose before Mr. Gibson’s eyes; and he felt a little rebuked.
“Come, Mr. Coxe, let us see if we can’t make a bargain,” said he, after a minute or so of silence. “You have done a really wrong thing, and I hope you are convinced of it in your heart, or that you will be when the heat of this discussion is over, and you come to think a little about it. But I won’t lose all respect for your father’s son. If you will give me your word that, as long as you remain a member of my family—pupil, apprentice, what you will—you won’t again try to disclose your passion—you see I am careful to take your view of what I should call a mere fancy—by word or writing, looks or acts, in any manner whatever,to my daughter, or to talk about your feelings to anyone else, you shall remain here. If you cannot give me your word, I must follow out the course I named, and write to your father’s agent.”
Mr. Coxe stood irresolute.
“Mr. Wynne knows all I feel for Miss Gibson, sir. He and I have no secrets from each other.”
“Well, I suppose he must represent the reeds. You know the story of King Midas’s barber, who found out that his royal master had the ears of an ass beneath his hyacinthine curls. So the barber, in default of a Mr. Wynne, went to the reeds that grew on the shores of a neighbouring lake and whispered to them, ‘King Midas has the ears of an ass.’ But he repeated it so often that the reeds learnt the words, and kept on saying them all day long, till at last the secret was no secret at all. If you keep on telling your tale to Mr. Wynne, are you sure he won’t repeat it in his turn?”
“If I pledge my word as a gentleman, sir, I pledge it for Mr. Wynne as well.”
“I suppose I must run the risk. But remember how soon a young girl’s name may be breathed upon, and sullied. Molly has no mother, and for that very reason she ought to move among you all as unharmed as Una herself.”
“Mr. Gibson, if you wish it, I’ll swear it on the Bible,” cried the excitable young man.
“Nonsense. As if your word, if it’s worth anything, was not enough! We’ll shake hands upon it, if you like.”
Mr. Coxe came forward eagerly, and almost squeezed Mr. Gibson’s ring into his finger.
As he was leaving the room, he said, a little uneasily, “May I give Bethia a crown-piece?”
“No, indeed! Leave Bethia to me. I hope youwon’t say another word to her while she is here. I shall see that she gets a respectable place when she goes away.”
From Mr. Harrison’s Confessions,The Ladies’ Companion, 1851
Miss Carolinealways received me, and kept me talking in her washed-out style, after I had seen my patient. One day she told me she thought she had a weakness about the heart, and would be glad if I would bring my stethoscope the next time, which I accordingly did! and, while I was on my hands and knees listening to the pulsations, one of the young ladies came in. She said:
“Oh, dear! I never! I beg your pardon, ma’am,” and scuttled out. There was not much the matter with Miss Caroline’s heart: a little feeble in action or so, a mere matter of weakness and general languor. When I went down I saw two or three of the girls peeping out of the half-closed schoolroom door, but they shut it immediately, and I heard them laughing. The next time I called, Miss Tomkinson was sitting in state to receive me.
“Miss Tyrrell’s throat does not seem to make much progress. Do you understand the case, Mr. Harrison, or should we have further advice. I think Mr. Morgan would probably know more about it.”
I assured her it was the simplest thing in the world; that it always implied a little torpor in the constitution, and that we preferred working through the system, which of course was a slow process; and that the medicine the young lady was taking(iodide of iron) was sure to be successful, although the progress would not be rapid. She bent her head and said, “It might be so; but she confessed she had more confidence in medicines which had some effect.”
She seemed to expect me to tell her something; but I had nothing to say, and accordingly I bade good-bye. Somehow, Miss Tomkinson always managed to make me feel very small, by a succession of snubbings; and, whenever I left her I had always to comfort myself under her contradictions by saying to myself, “Her saying it is so, does not make it so.” Or I invented good retorts which I might have made to her brusque speeches, if I had but thought of them at the right time. But it was provoking that I had not had the presence of mind to recollect them just when they were wanted.
From Mr. Harrison’s Confessions,The Ladies’ Companion.
A fewdays after the sale, I was in the consulting-room. The servant must have left the folding-doors a little ajar, I think. Mrs. Munton came to call on Mrs. Rose; and the former being deaf, I heard all the speeches of the latter lady, as she was obliged to speak very loud in order to be heard. She began:
“This is a great pleasure, Mrs. Munton, so seldom as you are well enough to go out.”
Mumble, mumble, mumble, through the door.
“Oh, very well, thank you. Take this seat, and then you can admire my new work-table, ma’am; a present from Mr. Harrison.”
Mumble, mumble.
“Who could have told you, ma’am? Miss Horsman? Oh, yes, I showed it Miss Horsman.”
Mumble, mumble.
“I don’t quite understand you, ma’am.”
Mumble, mumble.
“I’m not blushing, I believe, I really am quite in the dark as to what you mean.”
Mumble, mumble.
“Oh, yes, Mr. Harrison and I are most comfortable together. He reminds me so of my dear Mr. Rose—just as fidgety and anxious in his profession.”
Mumble, mumble.
“I’m sure you are joking now, ma’am.” Then I heard a pretty loud:
“Oh, no;” mumble, mumble, mumble, for a long time.
“Did he really? Well, I’m sure I don’t know, I should be sorry to think he was doomed to be unfortunate in so serious an affair; but you know my undying regard for the late Mr. Rose.”
Another long mumble.
“You’re very kind, I’m sure. Mr. Rose always thought more of my happiness than his own”—a little crying—“but the turtle-dove has always been my ideal, ma’am.”
Mumble, mumble.
“No one could have been happier than I. As you say, it is a compliment to matrimony.”
Mumble.
“Oh, you must not repeat such a thing! Mr. Harrison would not like it. He can’t bear to have his affairs spoken about.”
Then there was a change of subject; an inquiry after some poor person, I imagine. I heard Mrs. Rose say:
“She has got a mucous membrane, I’m afraid, ma’am.”
A commiserating mumble.
“Not always fatal. I believe Mr. Rose knew some cases that lived for years after it was discovered that they had a mucous membrane.” A pause. Then Mrs. Rose spoke in a different tone.
“Are you sure, ma’am, there is no mistake about what he said?”
Mumble.
“Pray don’t be so observant, Mrs. Munton; you find out too much. One can have no little secrets.”
The call broke up; and I heard Mrs. Munton say in the passage, “I wish you joy, ma’am, with all my heart. There’s no use denying it; for I’ve seen all along what would happen.”
When I went in to dinner, I said to Mrs. Rose:
“You’ve had Mrs. Munton here, I think. Did she bring any news?” To my surprise, she bridled and simpered, and replied, “Oh, you must not ask, Mr. Harrison; such foolish reports!”
I did not ask, as she seemed to wish me not, and I knew there were silly reports always about. Then I think she was vexed that I did not ask. Altogether she went on so strangely that I could not help looking at her; and then she took up a hand-screen, and held it between me and her. I really felt rather anxious.
“Are you not feeling well?” said I innocently.
“Oh, thank you, I believe I’m quite well; only the room is rather warm, is it not?”
“Let me put the blinds down for you? The sun begins to have a good deal of power.” I drew down the blinds.
“You are so attentive, Mr. Harrison. Mr. Rosehimself never did more for my little wishes than you do.”
“I wish I could do more—I wish I could show you how much I feel”—her kindness to John Brouncker, I was going to say; but I was just then called out to a patient. Before I went I turned back, and said:
“Take care of yourself, my dear Mrs. Rose; you had better rest a little.”
“For your sake I will,” she said tenderly.
I did not care for whose sake she did it. Only I really thought she was not quite well, and required rest. I thought she was more affected than usual at tea-time; and could have been angry with her nonsensical ways once or twice, but that I knew the real goodness of her heart. She said she wished she had the power to sweeten my life as she could my tea. I told her what a comfort she had been during my late time of anxiety; and then I stole out to try if I could hear the evening singing at the vicarage, by standing close to the garden wall.
“Oh, Mr. Harrison,” said she, “if you have really loved Caroline, do not let a little paltry money make you desert her for another.”
I was struck dumb. Loved Miss Caroline! I loved Miss Tomkinson a great deal better, and yet I disliked her. She went on:
“I have saved nearly three thousand pounds. If you think you are too poor to marry without money, I will give it all to Caroline. I am strong, and can go on working; but she is weak, and this disappointment will kill her.” She sat down suddenly, and covered her face with her hands. Then she looked up.
“You are unwilling, I see. Don’t suppose I wouldhave urged you if it had been for myself; but she has had so much sorrow.” And now she fairly cried aloud. I tried to explain; but she would not listen, but kept saying, “Leave the house, sir! leave the house!” But I would be heard.
“I have never had any feeling warmer than respect for Miss Caroline, and I have never shown any different feeling. I never for an instant thought of making her my wife, and she has had no cause in my behaviour to imagine I entertained any such intention.”
“This is adding insult to injury,” said she. “Leave the house, sir, this instant!”
I went, and sadly enough. In a small town such an occurrence is sure to be talked about, and to make a great deal of mischief. When I went home to dinner I was so full of it, and foresaw so clearly that I should need some advocate soon to set the case in its right light, that I determined on making a confidante of good Mrs. Rose. I could not eat. She watched me tenderly, and sighed when she saw my want of appetite.
“I am sure you have something on your mind, Mr. Harrison. Would it be—would it not be—a relief to impart it to some sympathising friend?”
It was just what I wanted to do.
“My dear kind Mrs. Rose,” said I, “I must tell you, if you will listen.”
She took up the hand-screen, and held it, as yesterday between me and her.
“The most unfortunate misunderstanding has taken place. Miss Tomkinson thinks that I have been paying attentions to Miss Caroline; when, in fact—may I tell you, Mrs. Rose?—my affections areplaced elsewhere. Perhaps you have found it out already?” for indeed I thought I had been too much in love to conceal my attachment to Sophy from anyone who knew my movements as well as Mrs. Rose.
She hung down her head, and said she believed she had found out my secret.
“Then only think how miserably I am situated. If I have any hope—oh, Mrs. Rose, do you think I have any hope—?”
She put the hand-screen still more before her face, and after some hesitation she said she thought “If I persevered—in time—I might have hope.” And then she suddenly got up, and left the room.
That afternoon I met Mr. Bullock in the street. My mind was so full of the affair with Miss Tomkinson that I should have passed him without notice, if he had not stopped me short, and said that he must speak to me; about my wonderful five hundred pounds, I supposed. But I did not care for that now.
“What is this I hear,” he said severely, “about your engagement with Mrs. Rose?”
“With Mrs. Rose!” said I, almost laughing, although my heart was heavy enough.
“Yes! with Mrs. Rose!” said he sternly.
“I’m not engaged to Mrs. Rose,” I replied. “There is some mistake.”
“I’m glad to hear it, sir,” he answered, “very glad. It requires some explanation, however. Mrs. Rose has been congratulated, and has acknowledged the truth of the report. It is confirmed by many facts. The work-table you bought, confessing your intention of giving it to your future wife, is given to her. How do you account for these things, sir?”
I said I did not pretend to account for them. At present a good deal was inexplicable; and, when I could give an explanation, I did not think I should feel myself called upon to give it to him.…
He looked as if he would like to horsewhip me.
“Once for all, I am not engaged to anybody. Till you have seen your daughter, and learnt the truth from her, I will wish you farewell.”
I bowed in a stiff, haughty manner and walked off homewards. But when I got to my own door, I remembered Mrs. Rose, and all that Mr. Bullock had said about her acknowledging the truth of the report of my engagement to her. Where could I go to be safe? Mrs. Rose, Miss Bullock, Miss Caroline—they lived, as it were, at the three points of an equilateral triangle; here was I in the centre. I would go to Mr. Morgan’s, and drink tea with him. There, at any rate, I was secure from anyone wanting to marry me; and I might be as professionally bland as I liked, without being misunderstood. But there, too, a contretemps awaited me.
Mr. Morgan was looking grave. After a minute or two of humming and hawing, he said:
“I have been sent for to Miss Caroline Tomkinson. Mr. Harrison, I am sorry to hear of this. I am grieved to find that there seems to have been some trifling with the affections of a very worthy lady. Miss Tomkinson, who is in sad distress, tells me that they had every reason to believe that you were attached to her sister. May I ask if you do not intend to marry her?”
I said nothing was farther from my thoughts.
“My dear sir,” said Mr. Morgan, rather agitated, “do not express yourself so strongly and vehemently.It is derogatory to the sex to speak so. It is more respectful to say, in these cases, that you do not venture to entertain a hope; such a manner is generally understood and does not sound like such positive objection.”
“I cannot help it, sir; I must talk in my own natural manner. I would not speak disrespectfully of any woman; but nothing should induce me to marry Miss Caroline Tomkinson; not if she were Venus herself, and Queen of England in the bargain. I cannot understand what has given rise to the idea.”
“Indeed, sir; I think that is very plain. You have a trifling case to attend to in the house, and you invariably make it a pretext for seeing and conversing with the lady.”
“That was her doing, not mine!” said I vehemently.
“But, my dear sir, I had no idea that you would carry it out to such consequences. ‘Philandering,’ Miss Tomkinson called it. That is a hard word, sir. My manner has been always tender and sympathetic, but I am not aware that I ever excited any hopes; there never was any report about me. I believe no lady was ever attached to me. You must strive after this happy medium, sir.”
I was still distressed. Mr. Morgan had only heard of one, but there were three ladies (including Miss Bullock) hoping to marry me. He saw my annoyance.
“Don’t be too much distressed about it, my dear sir; I was sure you were too honourable a man from the first. With a conscience like yours, I would defy the world.”
I was very cowardly. I positively dared not go home; but at length I was obliged to. I had done all I could to console Mr. Morgan, but he refused to be comforted. I went at last. I rang the bell. I don’t know who opened the door, but I think it was Mrs. Rose. I kept a handkerchief to my face, and, muttering something about having a dreadful toothache, I flew up to my room and bolted the door. I had no candle; but what did that signify. I was safe. I could not sleep; and when I did fall into a sort of doze, it was ten times worse waking up. I could not remember whether I was engaged or not. If I was engaged, who was the lady? I had always considered myself as rather plain than otherwise; but surely I had made a mistake. Fascinating I certainly must be; but perhaps I was handsome. As soon as day dawned, I got up to ascertain the fact at the looking-glass. Even with the best disposition to be convinced, I could not see any striking beauty in my round face, with an unshaven beard and a nightcap like a fool’s cap at the top. No! I must be content to be plain, but agreeable. All this I tell you in confidence. I would not have my little bit of vanity known for the world.
FromCousin Phillis, 1865
Assoon as supper was done, the household assembled for prayer. It was a long impromptu evening prayer; and it would have seemed desultory enough had I not had a glimpse of the kind of day that preceded it, and so been able to find a clue to the thoughts that preceded the disjointed utterances; for he kept there kneeling down in the centre of a circle, his eyes shut, his outstretched hands pressed palm to palm—sometimes with a long pause of silence, as if waiting to see if there was anything else he wished to “lay before the Lord” (to use his own expression) before he concluded with the blessing. He prayed for the cattle and live creatures, rather to my surprise; for my attention had begun to wander, till it was recalled by the familiar words.
And here I must not forget to name an odd incident at the conclusion of the prayer, and before we had risen from our knees (indeed, before Betty was well awake, for she made a nightly practice of having a sound nap, her weary head lying on her stalwart arms); the minister, still kneeling in our midst, with his eyes wide open, and his arms dropped by his side, spoke to the elder man, who turned round on his knees to attend. “John, didst see that Daisy had her warm mash to-night? for we must not neglect the means, John—two quarts of gruel, a spoonful of ginger, and a gill of beer—the poor beast needs it, and I fear it slipped out of my mind to tell thee; and here was I asking a blessing andneglecting the means, which is a mockery,” said he, dropping his voice.
Before he went to bed, he told me he should see little or nothing more of me during my visit, which was to end on Sunday evening, as he always gave up both Saturday and Sabbath to his work in the ministry. I remembered that the landlord at the inn had told me this on the day when I first inquired about these new relations of mine; and I did not dislike the opportunity which I saw would be afforded me of becoming more acquainted with Cousin Holman and Phillis, though I earnestly hoped that the latter would not attack me on the subject of the dead languages.
FromMy Lady Ludlow, 1859
Noone knows how great a trial it was to her when she thought of Sally, unchecked and unscolded for three hours every morning. But all she said was:
“‘Sally, go to the Deuce.’ I beg your pardon, my lady, if I was talking to myself; it’s a habit I have got into of keeping my tongue in practice, and I am not quite aware when I do it. Three hours every morning! I shall be only too proud to do what I can for your ladyship; and I hope Mr. Horner will not be too impatient with me at first. You know, perhaps, that I was nearly being an authoress once, and that seems as if I was destined to ‘employ my time in writing.’”
“No, indeed; we must return to the subject of the clerkship afterwards, if you please. An authoress, Miss Galindo! You surprise me!”
“But, indeed, I was. All was quite ready. Doctor Burney used to teach me music; not that I ever could learn, but it was a fancy of my poor father’s. And his daughter wrote a book, and they said she was but a very young lady, and nothing but a music-master’s daughter; so why should not I try?”
“Well?”
“Well! I got paper and half-a-hundred good pens, a bottle of ink, all ready.”
“And then——”
“Oh, it ended in my having nothing to say, when I sat down to write. But sometimes, when I get hold of a book, I wonder why I let such a poor reason stop me. It does not others.”
“But I think it was very well it did, Miss Galindo,” said her ladyship. “I am extremely against women usurping men’s employments, as they are very apt to do. But perhaps, after all, the notion of writing a book improved your hand. It is one of the most legible I ever saw.”
“I despise z’s without tails,” said Miss Galindo, with a good deal of gratified pride at my lady’s praise. Presently, my lady took her to look at a curious old cabinet, which Lord Ludlow had picked up at the Hague; and, while they were out of the room on this errand, I suppose the question of remuneration was settled, for I heard no more of it.
And the most delicate dainty work of all was done by Miss Galindo, as Lady Ludlow very well knew. Yet, for all their fine sewing, it sometimes happened that Miss Galindo’s patterns were of an old-fashioned kind; and the dozen night-caps, maybe, on the materials for which she had expendedbona-fidemoney, and on the making-up, no little time and eyesight, would lie for months in a yellow neglected heap; and at such times, it was said, Miss Galindo was more amusing than usual, more full of dry drollery and humour; just as at times when an order came in to X (the initial she had chosen) for a stock of well-paying things, she sat and stormed at her servant as she stitched away. She herself explained her practice in this way:
“When everything goes wrong, one would give up breathing if one could not lighten one’s heart by a joke. But when I’ve to sit from morning to night, I must have something to stir my blood, or I should go off into an apoplexy; so I set to, and quarrel with Sally.”
Such were Miss Galindo’s means and manner of living in her own house. Out of doors, and in the village, she was not popular, although she would have been sorely missed had she left the place. But she asked too many home questions (not to say impertinent) respecting the domestic economies (for even the very poor liked to spend their bit of money in their own way), and would open cupboards to find out hidden extravagances, and question closely respecting the weekly amount of butter; till one day she met with what would have been a rebuff to any other person, but was by her rather enjoyed than otherwise.
She was going into a cottage, and in the doorway met the good woman chasing out a duck, and apparently unconscious of her visitor.
“Get out, Miss Galindo!” she cried, addressing the duck. “Get out! Oh, I ask your pardon,” she continued as if seeing the lady for the first time. “It’s only that weary duck will come in. Get out, Miss Gal——” (to the duck).
“And so you call it after me, do you?” inquired her visitor.
“Oh, yes, ma’am; my master would have it so; for, he said, sure enough the unlucky bird was always poking herself where she was not wanted.”
“Ha, ha! very good! And so your master is a wit, is he? Well! tell him to come up and speak to me to-night about my parlour chimney; for there is no one like him for chimney doctoring.”
And the master went up, and was so won over by Miss Galindo’s merry ways, and sharp insight into the mysteries of his various kinds of business (he was a mason, chimney-sweeper and rat-catcher), that he came home and abused his wife the next time she called the duck the name by which he himself had christened her.
FromMary Barton, 1848
“Dotell us all about London, dear father,” asked Mary, who was sitting at her old post by her father’s knee.
“How can I tell yo’ a’ about it when I never see’d one-tenth of it. It’s as big as six Manchesters they telled me. One-sixth may be made up o’ grand palaces, and three-sixths o’ middling kind, an th’ rest o’ holes o’ iniquity and filth, such as Manchester knows nought on, I’m glad to say.”
“Well, father, but did you see the Queen?”
“I believe I didn’t, though one day I thought I’d seen her many a time. You see,” said he, turning to Job Legh, “there were a day appointed for us togo to Parliament House. We were most on us biding at a public-house in Holborn, where they did very well for us. Th’ morning of taking our petition we had such a spread for breakfast as th’ Queen hersel might ha’ sitten down to. I suppose they thought we wanted putting in heart. There were mutton kidneys, and sausages, and broiled ham and fried beef and onions; more like a dinner nor a breakfast. Many on our chaps though, I could see, could eat but little. Th’ food stuck in their throats when they thought o’ them at home, wives and little ones, as had, maybe at that very time, nought to eat. Well, after breakfast, we were all set to walk in procession, and a time it took to put us in order, two and two, and the petition, as was yards long, carried by the foremost pairs. The men looked grave enough yo’ may ye sure; and such a set of thin, wan, wretched-looking chaps as they were!”
“Yourself is none to boast on.”
“Ay, but I were fat and rosy to many a one. Well, we walked on and on through many a street, much the same as Deansgate. We had to walk slowly, slowly, for th’ carriages an’ cabs as thronged th’ streets. I thought by-and-by we should maybe get clear on ’em, but as the streets grew wider they grew worse, and at last we were fairly blocked up at Oxford Street. We getten across it after a while though, and my eyes! the grand streets we were in then! They’re sadly puzzled how to build houses though in London; there’d be an opening for a good steady master builder there, as know’d his business. For yo see the houses are many on ’em built without any proper shape for a body to live in; some on ’em they’ve after thought would fall down, so they’ve stuck great ugly pillars out before ’em. And some on ’em (we thought they must be th’ tailors’ sign)had getten stone men and women as wanted clothes stuck on ’em. I were like a child, I forgot a’ my errand in looking about me. By this it were dinnertime, or better, as we could tell by the sun, right above our heads, and we were dusty and tired, going a step now and a step then. Well, at last we getten into a street grander nor all, leading to th’ Queen’s palace, and there it were I thought I saw th’ Queen. Yo’ve seen th’ hearses wi’ white plumes, Job?”
Job assented.
“Well, them undertaker folk are driving a pretty trade in London. Wellnigh every lady we saw in a carriage had hired one o’ them plumes for the day, and had it niddle noddling on her head. It were th’ Queen’s drawing-room, they said, and th’ carriages went bowling along towards her house, some wi’ dressed-up gentlemen like circus folk in ’em, and rucks o’ ladies in others. Carriages themselves were great shakes too. Some o’ th’ gentlemen as couldn’t get inside hung on behind, wi’ nosegays to smell at, and sticks to keep off folks as might splash their silk stockings. I wonder why they didn’t hire a cab rather than hang on like a whip-behind boy; but I suppose they wished to keep wi’ their wives, Darby and Joan like. Coachmen were little squat men, wi’ wigs like th’ oud-fashioned parsons’. Well, we could na get on for these carriages, though we waited and waited. Th’ horses were too fat to move quick; they never known want o’ food, one might tell by their sleek coats; and police pushed us back when we tried to cross. One or two of ’em struck wi’ their sticks, and coachmen laughed, and some officers as stood nigh put their spy-glasses in their eye, and left ’em sticking there like mountebanks. One o’ th’ police struck me. ‘Whatten business have you to do that?’ said I.
“‘You’re frightening them horses,’ says he, in his mincing way (for Londoners are mostly all tongue-tied, and can’t say their a’s and i’s properly), ‘and it’s our business to keep you from molesting the ladies and gentlemen going to her Majesty’s drawing-room.’
“‘And why are we to be molested,’ asked I, ‘going decently about our business, which is life and death to us, and many a little one clemming at home in Lancashire? Which business is of most consequence i’ the sight o’ God, think yo, our’n or them grand ladies and gentlemen as yo think so much on?’
“But I might as well ha’ held my peace, for he only laughed.”
John ceased. After waiting a little, to see if he would go on himself, Job said:
“Well, but that’s not a’ your story, man. Tell us what happened when you got to th’ Parliament House.”
After a little pause, John answered:
“If you please, neighbour, I’d rather say nought about that. It’s not to be forgotten or forgiven either, by me or many another; but I canna tell of our down-casting just as a piece of London news. As long as I live, our rejection of that day will abide in my heart; and as long as I live I shall curse them as so cruelly refused to hear us; but I’ll not speak of it no more.”
FromCranford, 1853
Major Jenkynswrote to propose that he and his wife should spend a night at Cranford, on his way to Scotland—at the inn, if it did not suit Miss Matilda to receive them into her house; in which case they should hope to be with her as much as possible during the day. Of course, itmustsuit her, as she said; for all Cranford knew that she had her sister’s bedroom at liberty; but I am sure she wished the Major had stopped in India and forgotten his cousins out and out.
“Oh! how must I manage?” asked she helplessly. “If Deborah had been alive, she would have known what to do with the gentleman-visitor. Must I put razors in his dressing-room? Dear! dear! and I’ve got none. Deborah would have had them. And slippers and coat-brushes?” I suggested that probably he would bring all these things with him. “And after dinner, how am I to know when to get up, and leave him to his wine? Deborah would have done it so well; she would have been quite in her element. Will he want coffee, do you think?” I undertook the management of the coffee, and told her I would instruct Martha in the art of waiting, in which it must be owned she was terribly deficient; and that I had no doubt Major and Mrs. Jenkyns would understand the quiet mode in which a lady lived by herself in a country town. But she was sadly flustered. I made her empty her decanters, and bring up two fresh bottles of wine. I wished I could have prevented her being present at my instructions to Martha; for she frequently cut inwith some fresh direction, muddling the poor girl’s mind, as she stood open-mouthed, listening to us both.