“To be sure ‘Merica is a long way to flit to; beyond London a good bit I reckon; and quite in foreign parts; but I’ve never had no opinion of England, ever since they could be such fools as to take up a quiet chap like thee, and clap thee in prison. Where you go, I’ll go. Perhaps in them Indian countries they’ll know a well-behaved lad when they see him; ne’er speak a word more, lad, I’ll go.”
Their path became daily more smooth and easy; the present was clear and practicable, the future was hopeful; they had leisure of mind enough to turn to the past.
“Jem!” said Mary to him, one evening as they sat in the twilight, talking together in low happy voices till Margaret should come to keep Mary company through the night, “Jem! you’ve never yet told me how you came to know about my naughty ways with poor young Mr. Carson.” She blushed for shame at the remembrance of her folly, and hid her head on his shoulder while he made answer.
“Darling, I’m almost loth to tell you; your aunt Esther told me.”
“Ah, I remember! but how did she know? I was so put about that night I did not think of asking her. Where did you see her? I’ve forgotten where she lives.”
Mary said all this in so open and innocent a manner, that Jem felt sure she knew not the truth respecting Esther, and he half hesitated to tell her. At length he replied —
“Where did you see Esther lately? When? Tell me, love, for you’ve never named it before, and I can’t make it out.”
“Oh! it was that horrible night, which is like a dream.” And she told him of Esther’s midnight visit, concluding with, “We must go and see her before we leave, though I don’t rightly know where to find her.”
“Dearest Mary” —
“What, Jem?” exclaimed she, alarmed by his hesitation.
“Your poor aunt Esther has no home: — she’s one of them miserable creatures that walk the streets.” And he in his turn told of his encounter with Esther, with so many details that Mary was forced to be convinced, although her heart rebelled against the belief.
“Jem, lad!” said she vehemently, “we must find her out — we must hunt her up!” She rose as if she was going on the search there and then.
“What could we do, darling?” asked he, fondly restraining her.
“Do! Why! what could we NOT do, if we could but find her? She’s none so happy in her ways, think ye, but what she’d turn from them, if any one would lend her a helping hand. Don’t hold me, Jem; this is just the time for such as her to be out, and who knows but what I might find her close to hand.”
“Stay, Mary, for a minute; I’ll go out now and search for her if you wish, though it’s but a wild chase. You must not go. It would be better to ask the police to-morrow. But if I should find her, how can I make her come with me? Once before she refused, and said she could not break off her drinking ways, come what might?”
“You never will persuade her if you fear and doubt,” said Mary, in tears. “Hope yourself, and trust to the good that must be in her. Speak to that, — she has it in her yet, — oh, bring her home, and we will love her so, we’ll make her good.”
“Yes!” said Jem, catching Mary’s sanguine spirit; “she shall go to America with us: and we’ll help her to get rid of her sins. I’ll go now, my precious darling, and if I can’t find her, it’s but trying the police to-morrow. Take care of your own sweet self, Mary,” said he, fondly kissing her before he went out.
It was not to be. Jem wandered far and wide that night, but never met Esther. The next day he applied to the police; and at last they recognised under his description of her, a woman known to them under the name of the “Butterfly,” from the gaiety of her dress a year or two ago. By their help he traced out one of her haunts, a low lodging-house behind Peter-street. He and his companion, a kind-hearted policeman, were admitted, suspiciously enough, by the landlady, who ushered them into a large garret where twenty or thirty people of all ages and both sexes lay and dosed away the day, choosing the evening and night for their trades of beggary, thieving, or prostitution.
“I know the Butterfly was here,” said she, looking round. “She came in, the night before last, and said she had not a penny to get a place for shelter; and that if she was far away in the country she could steal aside and die in a copse, or a clough, like the wild animals; but here the police would let no one alone in the streets, and she wanted a spot to die in, in peace. It’s a queer sort of peace we have here, but that night the room was uncommon empty, and I’m not a hard-hearted woman (I wish I were, I could ha’ made a good thing out of it afore this if I were harder), so I sent her up — but she’s not here now, I think.”
“Was she very bad?” asked Jem.
“Ay! nought but skin and bone, with a cough to tear her in two.”
They made some inquiries, and found that in the restlessness of approaching death, she had longed to be once more in the open air, and had gone forth — where, no one seemed to be able to tell. Leaving many messages for her, and directions that he was to be sent for if either the policeman or the landlady obtained any clue to her whereabouts, Jem bent his steps towards Mary’s house; for he had not seen her all that long day of search. He told her of his proceedings and want of success; and both were saddened at the recital, and sat silent for some time.
After awhile they began talking over their plans. In a day or two, Mary was to give up house, and go and live for a week or so with Job Legh, until the time of her marriage, which would take place immediately before sailing; they talked themselves back into silence and delicious reverie. Mary sat by Jem, his arm around her waist, her head on his shoulder; and thought over the scenes which had passed in that home she was so soon to leave for ever.
Suddenly she felt Jem start, and started too without knowing why; she tried to see his countenance, but the shades of evening had deepened so much she could read no expression there. It was turned to the window; she looked and saw a white face pressed against the panes on the outside, gazing intently into the dusky chamber. While they watched, as if fascinated by the appearance, and unable to think or stir, a film came over the bright, feverish, glittering eyes outside, and the form sank down to the ground without a struggle of instinctive resistance.
“It is Esther!” exclaimed they, both at once. They rushed outside; and, fallen into what appeared simply a heap of white or light-coloured clothes, fainting or dead, lay the poor crushed Butterfly — the once innocent Esther. She had come (as a wounded deer drags its heavy limbs once more to the green coolness of the lair in which it was born, there to die) to see the place familiar to her innocence, yet once again before her death. Whether she was indeed alive or dead, they knew not now.
Job came in with Margaret, for it was bedtime. He said Esther’s pulse beat a little yet. They carried her upstairs and laid her on Mary’s bed, not daring to undress her, lest any motion should frighten the trembling life away; but it was all in vain.
Towards midnight, she opened wide her eyes and looked around on the once familiar room; Job Legh knelt by the bed praying aloud and fervently for her, but he stopped as he saw her roused look. She sat up in bed with a sudden convulsive motion.
“Has it been a dream, then?” asked she wildly. Then with a habit, which came like instinct even in that awful dying hour, her hand sought for a locket which hung concealed in her bosom, and, finding that, she knew all was true which had befallen her since last she lay an innocent girl on that bed.
She fell back, and spoke word never more. She held the locket containing her child’s hair still in her hand, and once or twice she kissed it with a long soft kiss. She cried feebly and sadly as long as she had any strength to cry, and then she died.
They laid her in one grave with John Barton. And there they lie without name, or initial, or date. Only this verse is inscribed upon the stone which covers the remains of these two wanderers.
Psalm ciii. v. 9. — ”For He will not always chide, neither will He keep His anger for ever.”
I see a long, low, wooden
house, with room enough and to spare. The old primeval trees are felled and gone for many a mile around; one alone remains to overshadow the gable-end of the cottage. There is a garden around the dwelling, and far beyond that stretches an orchard. The glory of an Indian summer is over all, making the heart leap at the sight of its gorgeous beauty.
At the door of the house, looking towards the town, stands Mary, watching the return of her husband from his daily work; and while she watches, she listens, smiling —
”Clap hands, daddy comes,
With his pocket full of plums,
And a cake for Johnnie.”
Then comes a crow of delight from Johnnie. Then his grandmother carries him to the door, and glories in seeing him resist his mother’s blandishments to cling to her.
“English letters! ‘Twas that made me so late!”
“O Jem, Jem! don’t hold them so tight! What do they say?”
“Why, some good news. Come, give a guess what it is.”
“Oh, tell me! I cannot guess,” said Mary.
“Then you give it up, do you? What do you say, mother?”
Jane Wilson thought a moment.
“Will and Margaret are married?” asked she.
“Not exactly, — but very near. The old woman has twice the spirit of the young one. Come, Mary, give a guess?”
He covered his little boy’s eyes with his hands for an instant, significantly, till the baby pushed them down, saying in his imperfect way —
“Tan’t see.”
“There now! Johnnie can see. Do you guess, Mary?”
“They’ve done something to Margaret to give her back her sight!” exclaimed she.
“They have. She has been couched, and can see as well as ever. She and Will are to be married on the twenty-fifth of this month, and he’s bringing her out next voyage; and Job Legh talks of coming too, — not to see you, Mary, — nor you, mother, — nor you, my little hero” (kissing him), “but to try and pick up a few specimens of Canadian insects, Will says. All the compliment is to the earwigs, you see, mother!”
“Dear Job Legh!” said Mary, softly and seriously.
CRANFORD
Cranford was first published in 1851 as a serial in the magazine Household Words, which was edited by Charles Dickens. The fictional town of Cranford is closely modelled on Knutsford in Cheshire, which Mrs Gaskell knew well and lived in for many years. The novel has little in the way of plot and is more a series of episodes in the lives of Mary Smith and her friends, Miss Matty and Miss Deborah, two spinster sisters.
A copy of Household Words, Dickens’ weekly magazine
The successful 2007 BBC TV series, which sparked new interest in Gaskell’s works
CRANFORD
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I - OUR SOCIETY
CHAPTER II - THE CAPTAIN
CHAPTER III - A LOVE AFFAIR OF LONG AGO
CHAPTER IV - A VISIT TO AN OLD BACHELOR
CHAPTER V - OLD LETTERS
CHAPTER VI - POOR PETER
CHAPTER VII - VISITING
CHAPTER VIII - “YOUR LADYSHIP”
CHAPTER IX - SIGNOR BRUNONI
CHAPTER X - THE PANIC
CHAPTER XI - SAMUEL BROWN
CHAPTER XII - ENGAGED TO BE MARRIED
CHAPTER XIII - STOPPED PAYMENT
CHAPTER XIV - FRIENDS IN NEED
CHAPTER XV - A HAPPY RETURN
CHAPTER XVI - PEACE TO CRANFORD
CHAPTER I - OUR SOCIETY
In the first place, Cranford is in possession of the Amazons; all the holders of houses above a certain rent are women. If a married couple come to settle in the town, somehow the gentleman disappears; he is either fairly frightened to death by being the only man in the Cranford evening parties, or he is accounted for by being with his regiment, his ship, or closely engaged in business all the week in the great neighbouring commercial town of Drumble, distant only twenty miles on a railroad. In short, whatever does become of the gentlemen, they are not at Cranford. What could they do if they were there? The surgeon has his round of thirty miles, and sleeps at Cranford; but every man cannot be a surgeon. For keeping the trim gardens full of choice flowers without a weed to speck them; for frightening away little boys who look wistfully at the said flowers through the railings; for rushing out at the geese that occasionally venture in to the gardens if the gates are left open; for deciding all questions of literature and politics without troubling themselves with unnecessary reasons or arguments; for obtaining clear and correct knowledge of everybody’s affairs in the parish; for keeping their neat maid-servants in admirable order; for kindness (somewhat dictatorial) to the poor, and real tender good offices to each other whenever they are in distress, the ladies of Cranford are quite sufficient. “A man,” as one of them observed to me once, “is so in the way in the house!” Although the ladies of Cranford know all each other’s proceedings, they are exceedingly indifferent to each other’s opinions. Indeed, as each has her own individuality, not to say eccentricity, pretty strongly developed, nothing is so easy as verbal retaliation; but, somehow, good-will reigns among them to a considerable degree.
The Cranford ladies have only an occasional little quarrel, spirited out in a few peppery words and angry jerks of the head; just enough to prevent the even tenor of their lives from becoming too flat. Their dress is very independent of fashion; as they observe, “What does it signify how we dress here at Cranford, where everybody knows us?” And if they go from home, their reason is equally cogent, “What does it signify how we dress here, where nobody knows us?” The materials of their clothes are, in general, good and plain, and most of them are nearly as scrupulous as Miss Tyler, of cleanly memory; but I will answer for it, the last gigot, the last tight and scanty petticoat in wear in England, was seen in Cranford - and seen without a smile.
I can testify to a magnificent family red silk umbrella, under which a gentle little spinster, left alone of many brothers and sisters, used to patter to church on rainy days. Have you any red silk umbrellas in London? We had a tradition of the first that had ever been seen in Cranford; and the little boys mobbed it, and called it “a stick in petticoats.” It might have been the very red silk one I have described, held by a strong father over a troop of little ones; the poor little lady - the survivor of all - could scarcely carry it.
Then there were rules and regulations for visiting and calls; and they were announced to any young people who might be staying in the town, with all the solemnity with which the old Manx laws were read once a year on the Tinwald Mount.
“Our friends have sent to inquire how you are after your journey to-night, my dear” (fifteen miles in a gentleman’s carriage); “they will give you some rest to-morrow, but the next day, I have no doubt, they will call; so be at liberty after twelve - from twelve to three are our calling hours.”
Then, after they had called -
“It is the third day; I dare say your mamma has told you, my dear, never to let more than three days elapse between receiving a call and returning it; and also, that you are never to stay longer than a quarter of an hour.”
“But am I to look at my watch? How am I to find out when a quarter of an hour has passed?”
“You must keep thinking about the time, my dear, and not allow yourself to forget it in conversation.”
As everybody had this rule in their minds, whether they received or paid a call, of course no absorbing subject was ever spoken about. We kept ourselves to short sentences of small talk, and were punctual to our time.
I imagine that a few of the gentlefolks of Cranford were poor, and had some difficulty in making both ends meet; but they were like the Spartans, and concealed their smart under a smiling face. We none of us spoke of money, because that subject savoured of commerce and trade, and though some might be poor, we were all aristocratic. The Cranfordians had that kindly esprit de corps which made them overlook all deficiencies in success when some among them tried to conceal their poverty. When Mrs Forrester, for i
nstance, gave a party in her baby-house of a dwelling, and the little maiden disturbed the ladies on the sofa by a request that she might get the tea-tray out from underneath, everyone took this novel proceeding as the most natural thing in the world, and talked on about household forms and ceremonies as if we all believed that our hostess had a regular servants’ hall, second table, with housekeeper and steward, instead of the one little charity-school maiden, whose short ruddy arms could never have been strong enough to carry the tray upstairs, if she had not been assisted in private by her mistress, who now sat in state, pretending not to know what cakes were sent up, though she knew, and we knew, and she knew that we knew, and we knew that she knew that we knew, she had been busy all the morning making tea-bread and sponge-cakes.
There were one or two consequences arising from this general but unacknowledged poverty, and this very much acknowledged gentility, which were not amiss, and which might be introduced into many circles of society to their great improvement. For instance, the inhabitants of Cranford kept early hours, and clattered home in their pattens, under the guidance of a lantern-bearer, about nine o’clock at night; and the whole town was abed and asleep by half-past ten. Moreover, it was considered “vulgar” (a tremendous word in Cranford) to give anything expensive, in the way of eatable or drinkable, at the evening entertainments. Wafer bread-and-butter and sponge-biscuits were all that the Honourable Mrs Jamieson gave; and she was sister-in-law to the late Earl of Glenmire, although she did practise such “elegant economy.”
“Elegant economy!” How naturally one falls back into the phraseology of Cranford! There, economy was always “elegant,” and money-spending always “vulgar and ostentatious”; a sort of sour-grapeism which made us very peaceful and satisfied. I never shall forget the dismay felt when a certain Captain Brown came to live at Cranford, and openly spoke about his being poor - not in a whisper to an intimate friend, the doors and windows being previously closed, but in the public street! in a loud military voice! alleging his poverty as a reason for not taking a particular house. The ladies of Cranford were already rather moaning over the invasion of their territories by a man and a gentleman. He was a half-pay captain, and had obtained some situation on a neighbouring railroad, which had been vehemently petitioned against by the little town; and if, in addition to his masculine gender, and his connection with the obnoxious railroad, he was so brazen as to talk of being poor - why, then, indeed, he must be sent to Coventry. Death was as true and as common as poverty; yet people never spoke about that, loud out in the streets. It was a word not to be mentioned to ears polite. We had tacitly agreed to ignore that any with whom we associated on terms of visiting equality could ever be prevented by poverty from doing anything that they wished. If we walked to or from a party, it was because the night was so fine, or the air so refreshing, not because sedan-chairs were expensive. If we wore prints, instead of summer silks, it was because we preferred a washing material; and so on, till we blinded ourselves to the vulgar fact that we were, all of us, people of very moderate means. Of course, then, we did not know what to make of a man who could speak of poverty as if it was not a disgrace. Yet, somehow, Captain Brown made himself respected in Cranford, and was called upon, in spite of all resolutions to the contrary. I was surprised to hear his opinions quoted as authority at a visit which I paid to Cranford about a year after he had settled in the town. My own friends had been among the bitterest opponents of any proposal to visit the Captain and his daughters, only twelve months before; and now he was even admitted in the tabooed hours before twelve. True, it was to discover the cause of a smoking chimney, before the fire was lighted; but still Captain Brown walked upstairs, nothing daunted, spoke in a voice too large for the room, and joked quite in the way of a tame man about the house. He had been blind to all the small slights, and omissions of trivial ceremonies, with which he had been received. He had been friendly, though the Cranford ladies had been cool; he had answered small sarcastic compliments in good faith; and with his manly frankness had overpowered all the shrinking which met him as a man who was not ashamed to be poor. And, at last, his excellent masculine common sense, and his facility in devising expedients to overcome domestic dilemmas, had gained him an extraordinary place as authority among the Cranford ladies. He himself went on in his course, as unaware of his popularity as he had been of the reverse; and I am sure he was startled one day when he found his advice so highly esteemed as to make some counsel which he had given in jest to be taken in sober, serious earnest.
Delphi Complete Works of Elizabeth Gaskell Page 48
