“Ay, poor lad! God has taken him early, Mary.”
Mary could not speak, she did not know what to say; it was so much worse than she had expected. At last she ventured to whisper —
“Is there any chance for the other one, think you?”
Alice shook her head, and told with a look that she believed there was none. She next endeavoured to lift the little body, and carry it to its old accustomed bed in its parents’ room. But earnest as the father was in watching the yet-living, he had eyes and ears for all that concerned the dead, and sprang gently up, and took his dead son on his hard couch in his arms with tender strength, and carried him upstairs as if afraid of wakening him.
The other child gasped louder, longer, with more of effort.
“We mun get him away from his mother. He cannot die while she’s wishing him.”
“Wishing him?” said Mary, in a tone of inquiry.
“Ay; donno’ ye know what ‘wishing’ means? There’s none can die in the arms of those who are wishing them sore to stay on earth. The soul o’ them as holds them won’t let the dying soul go free; so it has a hard struggle for the quiet of death. We mun get him away fra’ his mother, or he’ll have a hard death, poor lile* fellow.”
*”Lile,” a north-country word for “little.”
”Wit leil labour to live.” — Piers Plowman.
So without circumlocution she went and offered to take the sinking child. But the mother would not let him go, and looking in Alice’s face with brimming and imploring eyes, declared, in earnest whispers, that she was not wishing him, that she would fain have him released from his suffering. Alice and Mary stood by with eyes fixed on the poor child, whose struggles seemed to increase, till at last his mother said, with a choking voice —
“May happen* yo’d better take him, Alice; I believe my heart’s wishing him a’ this while, for I cannot, no, I cannot bring mysel to let my two childer go in one day; I cannot help longing to keep him, and yet he shan’t suffer longer for me.”
*”May happen,” perhaps.
She bent down, and fondly, oh! with what passionate fondness, kissed her child, and then gave him up to Alice, who took him with tender care. Nature’s struggles were soon exhausted, and he breathed his little life away in peace.
Then the mother lifted up her voice and wept. Her cries brought her husband down to try with his aching heart to comfort hers. Again Alice laid out the dead, Mary helping with reverent fear. The father and mother carried him upstairs to the bed, where his little brother lay in calm repose.
Mary and Alice drew near the fire, and stood in quiet sorrow for some time. Then Alice broke the silence by saying —
“It will be bad news for Jem, poor fellow, when he comes home.”
“Where is he?” asked Mary.
“Working over-hours at th’ shop. They’n getten a large order fra’ forrin parts; and yo know, Jem mun work, though his heart’s well-nigh breaking for these poor laddies.”
Again they were silent in thought, and again Alice spoke first.
“I sometimes think the Lord is against planning. Whene’er I plan overmuch, He is sure to send and mar all my plans, as if He would ha’ me put the future into His hands. Afore Christmas time I was as full as full could be, of going home for good and all; yo han heard how I’ve wished it this terrible long time. And a young lass from behind Burton came into place in Manchester last Martinmas; so after awhile she had a Sunday out, and she comes to me, and tells me some cousins o’ mine bid her find me out, and say how glad they should be to ha’ me to bide wi’ ‘em, and look after th’ childer, for they’n getten a big farm, and she’s a deal to do among th’ cows. So many’s a winter’s night did I lie awake and think, that please God, come summer, I’d bid George and his wife goodbye, and go home at last. Little did I think how God Almighty would balk me, for not leaving my days in His hands, who had led me through the wilderness hitherto. Here’s George out of work, and more cast down than ever I seed him; wanting every chip o’ comfort he can get, e’en afore this last heavy stroke; and now I’m thinking the Lord’s finger points very clear to my fit abiding-place; and I’m sure if George and Jane can say ‘His will be done,’ it’s no more than what I’m beholden to do.”
So saying, she fell to tidying the room, removing as much as she could every vestige of sickness; making up the fire, and setting on the kettle for a cup of tea for her sister-in-law, whose low moans and sobs were occasionally heard in the room below.
Mary helped her in all these little offices. They were busy in this way when the door was softly opened, and Jem came in, all grimed and dirty from his night-work, his soiled apron wrapped round his middle, in guise and apparel in which he would have been sorry at another time to have been seen by Mary. But just now he hardly saw her; he went straight up to Alice, and asked how the little chaps were. They had been a shade better at dinner-time; and he had been working away through the long afternoon, and far into the night, in the belief that they had taken the turn. He had stolen out during the half-hour allowed at the works for tea, to buy them an orange or two, which now puffed out his jacket-pocket.
He would make his aunt speak: he would not understand her shake of the head and fast coursing tears.
“They’re both gone,” said she.
“Dead!”
“Ay! poor fellows. They took worse about two o’clock. Joe went first, as easy as a lamb, and Will died harder like.”
“Both!”
“Ay, lad! both. The Lord has ta’en them from some evil to come, or
He would na’ ha’ made choice o’ them. Ye may rest sure o’ that.”
Jem went to the cupboard, and quietly extricated from his pocket the oranges he had bought. But he stayed long there, and at last his sturdy frame shook with his strong agony. The two women were frightened, as women always are, on witnessing a man’s overpowering grief. They cried afresh in company. Mary’s heart melted within her as she witnessed Jem’s sorrow, and she stepped gently up to the corner where he stood, with his back turned to them, and putting her hand softly on his arm, said —
“O Jem, don’t give way so; I cannot bear to see you.”
Jem felt a strange leap of joy in his heart, and knew the power she had of comforting him. He did not speak, as though fearing to destroy by sound or motion the happiness of that moment, when her soft hand’s touch thrilled through his frame, and her silvery voice was whispering tenderness in his ear. Yes! it might be very wrong; he could almost hate himself for it; with death and woe so surrounding him, it yet was happiness, was bliss, to be so spoken to by Mary.
“Don’t, Jem, please don’t,” whispered she again, believing that his silence was only another form of grief.
He could not contain himself. He took her hand in his firm yet trembling grasp, and said, in tones that instantly produced a revulsion in her mood —
“Mary, I almost loathe myself when I feel I would not give up this minute, when my brothers lie dead, and father and mother are in such trouble, for all my life that’s past and gone. And, Mary,” (as she tried to release her hand), “you know what makes me feel so blessed.”
She did know — he was right there. But as he turned to catch a look at her sweet face, he saw that it expressed unfeigned distress, almost amounting to vexation; a dread of him, that he thought was almost repugnance.
He let her hand go, and she quickly went away to Alice’s side.
“Fool that I was — nay, wretch that I was — to let myself take this time of trouble to tell her how I loved her; no wonder that she turns away from such a selfish beast.”
Partly to relieve her from his presence, and partly from natural desire, and partly, perhaps, from a penitent wish to share to the utmost his parents’ sorrow, he soon went upstairs to the chamber of death.
Mary mechanically helped Alice in all the duties she performed through the remainder of that long night, but she did not see Jem again. He remained upstairs until after the early dawn showed Mary tha
t she need have no fear of going home through the deserted and quiet streets, to try and get a little sleep before work-hour. So leaving kind messages to George and Jane Wilson, and hesitating whether she might dare to send a few kind words to Jem, and deciding that she had better not, she stepped out into the bright morning light, so fresh a contrast to the darkened room where death had been.
“They had
Another morn than ours.”
Mary lay down on her bed in her clothes; and whether it was this, or the broad day-light that poured in through the sky window, or whether it was over-excitement, it was long before she could catch a wink of sleep. Her thoughts ran on Jem’s manner and words; not but what she had known the tale they told for many a day; but still she wished he had not put it so plainly.
“O dear,” said she to herself, “I wish he would not mistake me so; I never dare to speak a common word o’ kindness, but his eye brightens and his cheek flushes. It’s very hard on me; for father and George Wilson are old friends; and Jem and I ha’ known each other since we were quite children. I cannot think what possesses me, that I must always be wanting to comfort him when he’s downcast, and that I must go meddling wi’ him to-night, when sure enough it was his aunt’s place to speak to him. I don’t care for him, and yet, unless I’m always watching myself, I’m speaking to him in a loving voice. I think I cannot go right, for I either check myself till I’m downright cross to him, or else I speak just natural, and that’s too kind and tender by half. And I’m as good as engaged to be married to another; and another far handsomer than Jem; only I think I like Jem’s face best for all that; liking’s liking, and there’s no help for it. Well, when I’m Mrs. Harry Carson, may happen I can put some good fortune in Jem’s way. But will he thank me for it? He’s rather savage at times, that I can see, and perhaps kindness from me, when I’m another’s, will only go against the grain. I’ll not plague myself wi’ thinking any more about him, that I won’t.”
So she turned on her pillow, and fell asleep, and dreamt of what was often in her waking thoughts; of the day when she should ride from church in her carriage, with wedding-bells ringing, and take up her astonished father, and drive away from the old dim work-a-day court for ever, to live in a grand house, where her father should have newspapers, and pamphlets, and pipes, and meat dinners every day — and all day long if he liked.
Such thoughts mingled in her predilection for the handsome young Mr. Carson, who, unfettered by work-hours, let scarcely a day pass without contriving a meeting with the beautiful little milliner he had first seen while lounging in a shop where his sisters were making some purchases, and afterwards never rested till he had freely, though respectfully, made her acquaintance in her daily walks. He was, to use his own expression to himself, quite infatuated by her, and was restless each day till the time came when he had a chance, and, of late, more than a chance of meeting her. There was something of keen practical shrewdness about her, which contrasted very bewitchingly with the simple, foolish, unworldly ideas she had picked up from the romances which Miss Simmonds’ young ladies were in the habit of recommending to each other.
Yes! Mary was ambitious, and did not favour Mr. Carson the less because he was rich and a gentleman. The old leaven, infused years ago by her Aunt Esther, fermented in her little bosom, and perhaps all the more, for her father’s aversion to the rich and the gentle. Such is the contrariness of the human heart, from Eve downwards, that we all, in our old Adam state, fancy things forbidden sweetest. So Mary dwelt upon and enjoyed the idea of some day becoming a lady, and doing all the elegant nothings appertaining to ladyhood. It was a comfort to her, when scolded by Miss Simmonds, to think of the day when she would drive up to the door in her own carriage, to order her gowns from the hasty-tempered yet kind dressmaker. It was a pleasure to her to hear the general admiration of the two elder Miss Carsons, acknowledged beauties in ball-room and street, on horseback and on foot, and to think of the time when she should ride and walk with them in loving sisterhood. But the best of her plans, the holiest, that which in some measure redeemed the vanity of the rest, were those relating to her father; her dear father, now oppressed with care, and always a disheartened, gloomy person. How she would surround him with every comfort she could devise (of course, he was to live with them), till he should acknowledge riches to be very pleasant things, and bless his lady-daughter! Every one who had shown her kindness in her low estate should then be repaid a hundredfold.
Such were the castles in air, the Alnaschar-visions in which Mary indulged, and which she was doomed in after days to expiate with many tears.
Meanwhile, her words — or, even more, her tones — would maintain their hold on Jem Wilson’s memory. A thrill would yet come over him when he remembered how her hand had rested on his arm. The thought of her mingled with all his grief, and it was profound, for the loss of his brothers.
VIII. MARGARET’S DEBUT AS A PUBLIC SINGER.
“Deal gently with them, they have much endured;
Scoff not at their fond hopes and earnest plans,
Though they may seem to thee wild dreams and fancies.
Perchance, in the rough school of stern Experience,
They’ve something learned which Theory does not teach;
Or if they greatly err, deal gently still,
And let their error but the stronger plead,
’Give us the light and guidance that we need!’“
— LOVE THOUGHTS.
One Sunday afternoon, about three weeks after that mournful night, Jem Wilson set out with the ostensible purpose of calling on John Barton. He was dressed in his best — his Sunday suit of course; while his face glittered with the scrubbing he had bestowed on it. His dark black hair had been arranged and rearranged before the household looking-glass, and in his button-hole he stuck a narcissus (a sweet Nancy is its pretty Lancashire name), hoping it would attract Mary’s notice, so that he might have the delight of giving it her.
It was a bad beginning of his visit of happiness that Mary saw him some minutes before he came into her father’s house. She was sitting at the end of the dresser, with the little window-blind drawn on one side, in order that she might see the passers-by, in the intervals of reading her Bible, which lay open before her. So she watched all the greeting a friend gave Jem; she saw the face of condolence, the sympathetic shake of the hand, and had time to arrange her own face and manner before Jem came in, which he did, as if he had eyes for no one but her father, who sat smoking his pipe by the fire, while he read an old Northern Star, borrowed from a neighbouring public-house.
Then he turned to Mary, who, he felt through the sure instinct of love, by which almost his body thought, was present. Her hands were busy adjusting her dress; a forced and unnecessary movement Jem could not help thinking. Her accost was quiet and friendly, if grave; she felt that she reddened like a rose, and wished she could prevent it, while Jem wondered if her blushes arose from fear, or anger, or love.
She was very cunning, I am afraid. She pretended to read diligently, and not to listen to a word that was said, while in fact she heard all sounds, even to Jem’s long, deep sighs, which wrung her heart. At last she took up her Bible, and as if their conversation disturbed her, went upstairs to her little room. And she had scarcely spoken a word to Jem; scarcely looked at him; never noticed his beautiful sweet Nancy, which only awaited her least word of praise to be hers! He did not know — that pang was spared — that in her little dingy bedroom stood a white jug, filled with a luxuriant bunch of early spring roses, making the whole room fragrant and bright. They were the gift of her richer lover. So Jem had to go on sitting with John Barton, fairly caught in his own trap, and had to listen to his talk, and answer him as best he might.
“There’s the right stuff in this here Star, and no mistake. Such a right-down piece for short hours.”
“At the same rate of wages as now?” asked Jem.
“Aye, aye! else where’s the use? It’s only taking out o’ the masters’ p
ocket what they can well afford. Did I ever tell yo what th’ Infirmary chap let me into, many a year agone?”
“No,” said Jem listlessly.
“Well! yo must know I were in th’ Infirmary for a fever, and times were rare and bad, and there be good chaps there to a man while he’s wick,* whate’er they may be about cutting him up at after.** So when I were better o’ th’ fever, but weak as water, they says to me, says they, ‘If yo can write, you may stay in a week longer, and help our surgeon wi’ sorting his papers; and we’ll take care yo’ve your bellyful of meat and drink. Yo’ll be twice as strong in a week.’ So there wanted but one word to that bargain. So I were set to writing and copying; th’ writing I could do well enough, but they’d such queer ways o’ spelling, that I’d ne’er been used to, that I’d to look first at th’ copy and then at my letters, for all the world like a cock picking up grains o’ corn. But one thing startled me e’en then, and I thought I’d make bold to ask the surgeon the meaning o’t. I’ve getten no head for numbers, but this I know, that by FAR TH’ GREATER PART O’ THE ACCIDENTS AS COMED IN, HAPPENED IN TH’ LAST TWO HOURS O’ WORK, when folk getten tired and careless. Th’ surgeon said it were all true, and that he were going to bring that fact to light.”
*Wick; alive. Anglo-Saxon, cwic. “The QUICK and the dead.”
— Book of Common Prayer.
Delphi Complete Works of Elizabeth Gaskell Page 10
