Delphi Complete Works of Elizabeth Gaskell

by Elizabeth Gaskell

  ‘That Horrocks — that very last witness of all, has proved as unavailing as all the others. Mr. Lennox has discovered that he sailed for Australia only last August; only two months before Frederick was in England, and gave us the names of — — ’

  ‘Frederick in England! you never told me that!’ exclaimed Mr.

  Bell in surprise.

  ‘I thought you knew. I never doubted you had been told. Of course, it was a great secret, and perhaps I should not have named it now,’ said Margaret, a little dismayed.

  ‘I have never named it to either my brother or your cousin,’ said Mr. Lennox, with a little professional dryness of implied reproach.

  ‘Never mind, Margaret. I am not living in a talking, babbling world, nor yet among people who are trying to worm facts out of me; you needn’t look so frightened because you have let the cat out of the bag to a faithful old hermit like me. I shall never name his having been in England; I shall be out of temptation, for no one will ask me. Stay!’ (interrupting himself rather abruptly) ‘was it at your mother’s funeral?’

  ‘He was with mamma when she died,’ said Margaret, softly.

  ‘To be sure! To be sure! Why, some one asked me if he had not been over then, and I denied it stoutly — not many weeks ago — who could it have been? Oh! I recollect!’

  But he did not say the name; and although Margaret would have given much to know if her suspicions were right, and it had been Mr. Thornton who had made the enquiry, she could not ask the question of Mr. Bell, much as she longed to do so.

  There was a pause for a moment or two. Then Mr. Lennox said, addressing himself to Margaret, ‘I suppose as Mr. Bell is now acquainted with all the circumstances attending your brother’s unfortunate dilemma, I cannot do better than inform him exactly how the research into the evidence we once hoped to produce in his favour stands at present. So, if he will do me the honour to breakfast with me to-morrow, we will go over the names of these missing gentry.’

  ‘I should like to hear all the particulars, if I may. Cannot you come here? I dare not ask you both to breakfast, though I am sure you would be welcome. But let me know all I can about Frederick, even though there may be no hope at present.’

  ‘I have an engagement at half-past eleven. But I will certainly come if you wish it,’ replied Mr. Lennox, with a little afterthought of extreme willingness, which made Margaret shrink into herself, and almost wish that she had not proposed her natural request. Mr. Bell got up and looked around him for his hat, which had been removed to make room for tea.

  ‘Well!’ said he, ‘I don’t know what Mr. Lennox is inclined to do, but I’m disposed to be moving off homewards. I’ve been a journey to-day, and journeys begin to tell upon my sixty and odd years.’

  ‘I believe I shall stay and see my brother and sister,’ said Mr. Lennox, making no movement of departure. Margaret was seized with a shy awkward dread of being left alone with him. The scene on the little terrace in the Helstone garden was so present to her, that she could hardly help believing it was so with him.

  ‘Don’t go yet, please, Mr. Bell,’ said she, hastily. ‘I want you to see Edith; and I want Edith to know you. Please!’ said she, laying a light but determined hand on his arm. He looked at her, and saw the confusion stirring in her countenance; he sate down again, as if her little touch had been possessed of resistless strength.

  ‘You see how she overpowers me, Mr. Lennox,’ said he. ‘And I hope you noticed the happy choice of her expressions; she wants me to “see” this cousin Edith, who, I am told, is a great beauty; but she has the honesty to change her word when she comes to me — Mrs. Lennox is to “know” me. I suppose I am not much to “see,” eh, Margaret?’

  He joked, to give her time to recover from the slight flutter which he had detected in her manner on his proposal to leave; and she caught the tone, and threw the ball back. Mr. Lennox wondered how his brother, the Captain, could have reported her as having lost all her good looks. To be sure, in her quiet black dress, she was a contrast to Edith, dancing in her white crape mourning, and long floating golden hair, all softness and glitter. She dimpled and blushed most becomingly when introduced to Mr. Bell, conscious that she had her reputation as a beauty to keep up, and that it would not do to have a Mordecai refusing to worship and admire, even in the shape of an old Fellow of a College, which nobody had ever heard of. Mrs. Shaw and Captain Lennox, each in their separate way, gave Mr. Bell a kind and sincere welcome, winning him over to like them almost in spite of himself, especially when he saw how naturally Margaret took her place as sister and daughter of the house.

  ‘What a shame that we were not at home to receive you,’ said

  Edith. ‘You, too, Henry! though I don’t know that we should have

  stayed at home for you. And for Mr. Bell! for Margaret’s Mr.

  Bell — — ’

  ‘There is no knowing what sacrifices you would not have made,’ said her brother-in-law. ‘Even a dinner-party! and the delight of wearing this very becoming dress.’

  Edith did not know whether to frown or to smile. But it did not suit Mr. Lennox to drive her to the first of these alternatives; so he went on.

  ‘Will you show your readiness to make sacrifices to-morrow morning, first by asking me to breakfast, to meet Mr. Bell, and secondly, by being so kind as to order it at half-past nine, instead of ten o’clock? I have some letters and papers that I want to show to Miss Hale and Mr. Bell.’

  ‘I hope Mr. Bell will make our house his own during his stay in London,’ said Captain Lennox. ‘I am only so sorry we cannot offer him a bed-room.’

  ‘Thank you. I am much obliged to you. You would only think me a churl if you had, for I should decline it, I believe, in spite of all the temptations of such agreeable company,’ said Mr. Bell, bowing all round, and secretly congratulating himself on the neat turn he had given to his sentence, which, if put into plain language, would have been more to this effect: ‘I couldn’t stand the restraints of such a proper-behaved and civil-spoken set of people as these are: it would be like meat without salt. I’m thankful they haven’t a bed. And how well I rounded my sentence! I am absolutely catching the trick of good manners.’

  His self-satisfaction lasted him till he was fairly out in the streets, walking side by side with Henry Lennox. Here he suddenly remembered Margaret’s little look of entreaty as she urged him to stay longer, and he also recollected a few hints given him long ago by an acquaintance of Mr. Lennox’s, as to his admiration of Margaret. It gave a new direction to his thoughts. ‘You have known Miss Hale for a long time, I believe. How do you think her looking? She strikes me as pale and ill.’

  ‘I thought her looking remarkably well. Perhaps not when I first came in — now I think of it. But certainly, when she grew animated, she looked as well as ever I saw her do.’

  ‘She has had a great deal to go through,’ said Mr. Bell.

  ‘Yes! I have been sorry to hear of all she has had to bear; not merely the common and universal sorrow arising from death, but all the annoyance which her father’s conduct must have caused her, and then — — ’

  ‘Her father’s conduct!’ said Mr. Bell, in an accent of surprise. ‘You must have heard some wrong statement. He behaved in the most conscientious manner. He showed more resolute strength than I should ever have given him credit for formerly.’

  ‘Perhaps I have been wrongly informed. But I have been told, by his successor in the living — a clever, sensible man, and a thoroughly active clergyman — that there was no call upon Mr. Hale to do what he did, relinquish the living, and throw himself and his family on the tender mercies of private teaching in a manufacturing town; the bishop had offered him another living, it is true, but if he had come to entertain certain doubts, he could have remained where he was, and so had no occasion to resign. But the truth is, these country clergymen live such isolated lives — isolated, I mean, from all intercourse with men of equal cultivation with themselves, by whose minds they might regulate their own
, and discover when they were going either too fast or too slow — that they are very apt to disturb themselves with imaginary doubts as to the articles of faith, and throw up certain opportunities of doing good for very uncertain fancies of their own.’

  ‘I differ from you. I do not think they are very apt to do as my poor friend Hale did.’ Mr. Bell was inwardly chafing.

  ‘Perhaps I used too general an expression, in saying “very apt.” But certainly, their lives are such as very often to produce either inordinate self-sufficiency, or a morbid state of conscience,’ replied Mr. Lennox with perfect coolness.

  ‘You don’t meet with any self-sufficiency among the lawyers, for instance?’ asked Mr. Bell. ‘And seldom, I imagine, any cases of morbid conscience.’ He was becoming more and more vexed, and forgetting his lately-caught trick of good manners. Mr. Lennox saw now that he had annoyed his companion; and as he had talked pretty much for the sake of saying something, and so passing the time while their road lay together, he was very indifferent as to the exact side he took upon the question, and quietly came round by saying: ‘To be sure, there is something fine in a man of Mr. Hale’s age leaving his home of twenty years, and giving up all settled habits, for an idea which was probably erroneous — but that does not matter — an untangible thought. One cannot help admiring him, with a mixture of pity in one’s admiration, something like what one feels for Don Quixote. Such a gentleman as he was too! I shall never forget the refined and simple hospitality he showed to me that last day at Helstone.’

  Only half mollified, and yet anxious, in order to lull certain qualms of his own conscience, to believe that Mr. Hale’s conduct had a tinge of Quixotism in it, Mr. Bell growled out — ’Aye! And you don’t know Milton. Such a change from Helstone! It is years since I have been at Helstone — but I’ll answer for it, it is standing there yet — every stick and every stone as it has done for the last century, while Milton! I go there every four or five years — and I was born there — yet I do assure you, I often lose my way — aye, among the very piles of warehouses that are built upon my father’s orchard. Do we part here? Well, good night, sir; I suppose we shall meet in Harley Street to-morrow morning.’

  CHAPTER XLV

  NOT ALL A DREAM

  ‘Where are the sounds that swam along

  The buoyant air when I was young?

  The last vibration now is o’er,

  And they who listened are no more;

  Ah! let me close my eyes and dream.’

  W. S. LANDOR.

  The idea of Helstone had been suggested to Mr. Bell’s waking mind by his conversation with Mr. Lennox, and all night long it ran riot through his dreams. He was again the tutor in the college where he now held the rank of Fellow; it was again a long vacation, and he was staying with his newly married friend, the proud husband, and happy Vicar of Helstone. Over babbling brooks they took impossible leaps, which seemed to keep them whole days suspended in the air. Time and space were not, though all other things seemed real. Every event was measured by the emotions of the mind, not by its actual existence, for existence it had none. But the trees were gorgeous in their autumnal leafiness — the warm odours of flower and herb came sweet upon the sense — the young wife moved about her house with just that mixture of annoyance at her position, as regarded wealth, with pride in her handsome and devoted husband, which Mr. Bell had noticed in real life a quarter of a century ago. The dream was so like life that, when he awoke, his present life seemed like a dream. Where was he? In the close, handsomely furnished room of a London hotel! Where were those who spoke to him, moved around him, touched him, not an instant ago? Dead! buried! lost for evermore, as far as earth’s for evermore would extend. He was an old man, so lately exultant in the full strength of manhood. The utter loneliness of his life was insupportable to think about. He got up hastily, and tried to forget what never more might be, in a hurried dressing for the breakfast in Harley Street.

  He could not attend to all the lawyer’s details, which, as he saw, made Margaret’s eyes dilate, and her lips grow pale, as one by one fate decreed, or so it seemed, every morsel of evidence which would exonerate Frederick, should fall from beneath her feet and disappear. Even Mr. Lennox’s well-regulated professional voice took a softer, tenderer tone, as he drew near to the extinction of the last hope. It was not that Margaret had not been perfectly aware of the result before. It was only that the details of each successive disappointment came with such relentless minuteness to quench all hope, that she at last fairly gave way to tears. Mr. Lennox stopped reading.

  ‘I had better not go on,’ said he, in a concerned voice. ‘It was a foolish proposal of mine. Lieutenant Hale,’ and even this giving him the title of the service from which he had so harshly been expelled, was soothing to Margaret, ‘Lieutenant Hale is happy now; more secure in fortune and future prospects than he could ever have been in the navy; and has, doubtless, adopted his wife’s country as his own.’

  ‘That is it,’ said Margaret. ‘It seems so selfish in me to regret it,’ trying to smile, ‘and yet he is lost to me, and I am so lonely.’ Mr. Lennox turned over his papers, and wished that he were as rich and prosperous as he believed he should be some day. Mr. Bell blew his nose, but, otherwise, he also kept silence; and Margaret, in a minute or two, had apparently recovered her usual composure. She thanked Mr. Lennox very courteously for his trouble; all the more courteously and graciously because she was conscious that, by her behaviour, he might have probably been led to imagine that he had given her needless pain. Yet it was pain she would not have been without.

  Mr. Bell came up to wish her good-bye.

  ‘Margaret!’ said he, as he fumbled with his gloves. ‘I am going down to Helstone to-morrow, to look at the old place. Would you like to come with me? Or would it give you too much pain? Speak out, don’t be afraid.’

  ‘Oh, Mr. Bell,’ said she — and could say no more. But she took his old gouty hand, and kissed it.

  ‘Come, come; that’s enough,’ said he, reddening with awkwardness. ‘I suppose your aunt Shaw will trust you with me. We’ll go to-morrow morning, and we shall get there about two o’clock, I fancy. We’ll take a snack, and order dinner at the little inn — the Lennard Arms, it used to be, — and go and get an appetite in the forest. Can you stand it, Margaret? It will be a trial, I know, to both of us, but it will be a pleasure to me, at least. And there we’ll dine — it will be but doe-venison, if we can get it at all — and then I’ll take my nap while you go out and see old friends. I’ll give you back safe and sound, barring railway accidents, and I’ll insure your life for a thousand pounds before starting, which may be some comfort to your relations; but otherwise, I’ll bring you back to Mrs. Shaw by lunch-time on Friday. So, if you say yes, I’ll just go up-stairs and propose it.’

  ‘It’s no use my trying to say how much I shall like it,’ said

  Margaret, through her tears.

  ‘Well, then, prove your gratitude by keeping those fountains of yours dry for the next two days. If you don’t, I shall feel queer myself about the lachrymal ducts, and I don’t like that.’

  ‘I won’t cry a drop,’ said Margaret, winking her eyes to shake the tears off her eye-lashes, and forcing a smile.

  ‘There’s my good girl. Then we’ll go up-stairs and settle it all.’ Margaret was in a state of almost trembling eagerness, while Mr. Bell discussed his plan with her aunt Shaw, who was first startled, then doubtful and perplexed, and in the end, yielding rather to the rough force of Mr. Bell’s words than to her own conviction; for to the last, whether it was right or wrong, proper or improper, she could not settle to her own satisfaction, till Margaret’s safe return, the happy fulfilment of the project, gave her decision enough to say, ‘she was sure it had been a very kind thought of Mr. Bell’s, and just what she herself had been wishing for Margaret, as giving her the very change which she required, after all the anxious time she had had.’

  CHAPTER XLVI

  ONCE AND NOW

  �
��So on those happy days of yore

  Oft as I dare to dwell once more,

  Still must I miss the friends so tried,

  Whom Death has severed from my side.

  But ever when true friendship binds,

  Spirit it is that spirit finds;

  In spirit then our bliss we found,

  In spirit yet to them I’m bound.’

  UHLAND.

  Margaret was ready long before the appointed time, and had leisure enough to cry a little, quietly, when unobserved, and to smile brightly when any one looked at her. Her last alarm was lest they should be too late and miss the train; but no! they were all in time; and she breathed freely and happily at length, seated in the carriage opposite to Mr. Bell, and whirling away past the well-known stations; seeing the old south country-towns and hamlets sleeping in the warm light of the pure sun, which gave a yet ruddier colour to their tiled roofs, so different to the cold slates of the north. Broods of pigeons hovered around these peaked quaint gables, slowly settling here and there, and ruffling their soft, shiny feathers, as if exposing every fibre to the delicious warmth. There were few people about at the stations, it almost seemed as if they were too lazily content to wish to travel; none of the bustle and stir that Margaret had noticed in her two journeys on the London and North-Western line. Later on in the year, this line of railway should be stirring and alive with rich pleasure-seekers; but as to the constant going to and fro of busy trades-people it would always be widely different from the northern lines. Here a spectator or two stood lounging at nearly every station, with his hands in his pockets, so absorbed in the simple act of watching, that it made the travellers wonder what he could find to do when the train whirled away, and only the blank of a railway, some sheds, and a distant field or two were left for him to gaze upon. The hot air danced over the golden stillness of the land, farm after farm was left behind, each reminding Margaret of German Idyls — of Herman and Dorothea — of Evangeline. From this waking dream she was roused. It was the place to leave the train and take the fly to Helstone. And now sharper feelings came shooting through her heart, whether pain or pleasure she could hardly tell. Every mile was redolent of associations, which she would not have missed for the world, but each of which made her cry upon ‘the days that are no more,’ with ineffable longing. The last time she had passed along this road was when she had left it with her father and mother — the day, the season, had been gloomy, and she herself hopeless, but they were there with her. Now she was alone, an orphan, and they, strangely, had gone away from her, and vanished from the face of the earth. It hurt her to see the Helstone road so flooded in the sun-light, and every turn and every familiar tree so precisely the same in its summer glory as it had been in former years. Nature felt no change, and was ever young.