‘Yes. If you call it murder. It was done by a blow, in the heat of passion. No one can ever tell how Dunster always irritated papa,’ said Ellinor, in a stupid, heavy way; and then she sighed.
‘How do you know this?’ There was a kind of tender reluctance in the judge’s voice, as he put all these questions. Ellinor had made up her mind beforehand that something like them must be asked, and must also be answered; but she spoke like a sleep-walker.
‘I came into papa’s room just after he had struck Mr Dunster the blow. He was lying insensible, as we thought - dead, as he really was.’
‘What was Dixon’s part in it? He must have known a good deal about it. And the horse-lancet that was found with his name upon it?’
‘Papa went to wake Dixon, and he brought his fleam - I suppose to try and bleed him. I have said enough, have I not? I seem so confused. But I will answer any question to make it appear that Dixon is innocent.’
The judge had been noting all down. He sat still now without replying to her. Then he wrote rapidly, referring to his previous paper, from time to time. In five minutes or so he read the facts which Ellinor had stated, as he now arranged them, in a legal and connected form. He just asked her one or two trivial questions as he did so. Then he read it over to her, and asked her to sign it. She took up the pen, and held it, hesitating.
‘This will never be made public?’ said she.
‘No! I shall take care that no one but the Home Secretary sees it.’
‘Thank you. I could not help it, now it has come to this.’
‘There are not many men like Dixon,’ said the judge, almost to himself, as he sealed the paper in an envelope.
‘No!’ said Ellinor. ‘I never knew anyone so faithful.’
And just at the same moment the reflection on a less faithful person that these words might seem to imply struck both of them, and each instinctively glanced at the other. ‘Ellinor!’ said the judge, after a moment’s pause, ‘we are friends, I hope?’
‘Yes; friends,’ said she, quietly and sadly.
He felt a little chagrined at her answer. Why, he could hardly tell. To cover any sign of his feeling he went on talking.
‘Where are you living now?’
‘At East Chester.’
‘But you come sometimes to town, don’t you? Let us know always - whenever you come; and Lady Corbet shall call on you, Indeed, I wish you’d let me bring her to see you today.’
‘Thank you. I am going straight back to Hellingford; at least, as soon as you can get me the pardon for Dixon.’
He half smiled at her ignorance.
‘The pardon must be sent to the sheriff, who holds the warrant for his execution. But, of course, you may have every assurance that it shall be sent as soon as possible. It is just the same as if he had it now.’
‘Thank you very much,’ said Ellinor, rising.
‘Pray don’t go without breakfast. if you would rather not see Lady Corbet just now, it shall be sent in to you in this room, unless you have already breakfasted.’
‘No, thank you; I would rather not. You are very kind, and I am very glad to have seen you once again. There is just one thing more,’ said she, colouring a little and hesitating. ‘This note to you was found under papa’s pillow after his death; some of it refers to past things; but I should be glad if you could think as kindly as you can of poor papa - and so - if you will read it --’
He took it and read it, not without emotion. Then he laid it down on his table, and said,
‘Poor man! he must have suffered a great deal for that night’s work. And you, Ellinor, you have suffered too.’
Yes, she had suffered; and he who spoke had been one of the instruments of her suffering, although he seemed forgetful of it. She shook her head a little for reply. Then she looked up at him - they were both standing at the time - and said:
‘I think I shall be happier now. I always knew it must be found out. Once more, goodbye, and thank you. I may take this letter, I suppose?’ said she, casting envious loving eyes at her father’s note, lying unregarded on the table.
‘Oh! certainly, certainly,’ said he; and then he took her hand; he held it, while he looked into her face. He had thought it changed when he had first seen her, but it was now almost the same to him as of yore. The sweet shy eyes, the indicated dimple in the cheek, and something of fever had brought a faint pink flush into her usually colourless cheeks. Married judge though he was, he was not sure if she had not more charms for him still in her sorrow and her shabbiness than the handsome stately wife in the next room, whose looks had not been of the pleasantest when he left her a few minutes before. He sighed a little regretfully as Ellinor went away. He had obtained the position he had struggled for, and sacrificed for; but now he could not help wishing that the slaughtered creature laid on the shrine of his ambition were alive again.
The kedgeree was brought up again, smoking hot, but it remained untasted by him; and though he appeared to be reading The Times, he did not see a word of the distinct type. His wife, meanwhile, continued her complaints of the untimely visitor, whose name he did not give to her in its corrected form, as he was not anxious that she should have it in her power to identify the call of this morning with a possible future acquaintance.
When Ellinor reached Mr Johnson’s house in Hellingford that afternoon, she found Miss Monro was there, and that she had been with much difficulty restrained by Mr Johnson from following her to London.
Miss Monro fondled and purred inarticulately through her tears over her recovered darling, before she could speak intelligibly enough to tell her that Canon Livingstone had come straight to see her immediately on his return to East Chester, and had suggested her journey to Hellingford, in order that she might be of all the comfort she could to Ellinor. She did not at first let out that he had accompanied her to Hellingford; she was a little afraid of Ellinor’s displeasure at his being there; Ellinor had always objected so much to any advance towards intimacy with him that Miss Monro had wished to make. But Ellinor was different now.
‘How white you are, Nelly!’ said Miss Monro. ‘You have been travelling too much and too fast, my child.’
‘My head aches!’ said Ellinor, wearily. ‘But I must go to the castle, and tell my poor Dixon that he is reprieved, - I am so tired! Will you ask Mr Johnson to get me leave to see him? He will know all about it.’
She threw herself down on the bed in the spare room; the bed with the heavy blue curtains. After an unheeded remonstrance, Miss Monro went to do her bidding. But it was now late afternoon, and Mr Johnson said that it would be impossible for him to get permission from the sheriff that night.
‘Besides,’ said he, courteously, ‘one scarcely knows whether Miss Wilkins may not give the old man false hopes, - whether she has not been excited to have false hopes herself; it might be a cruel kindness to let her see him, without more legal certainty as to what his sentence, or reprieve, is to be. By tomorrow morning, if I have properly understood her story, which was a little confused --’
‘She is so dreadfully tired, poor creature,’ put in Miss Monro, who never could bear the shadow of a suspicion that Ellinor was not wisest, best, in all relations and situations of life.
Mr Johnson went on, with a deprecatory bow: ‘Well then - it really is the only course open to her besides, - persuade her to rest for this evening. By tomorrow morning I will have obtained the sheriff’s leave, and he will most likely have heard from London.’
‘Thank you! I believe that will be best.’
‘It is the only course,’ said he.
When Miss Monro returned to the bedroom, Ellinor was in a heavy feverish slumber: so feverish and so uneasy did she appear, that, after the hesitation of a moment or two, Miss Monro had no scruple in wakening her.
But she did not appear to understand the answer to her request; she did not seem even to remember that she had made any request.
The journey to England, the misery, the surprises, had been too much fo
r her. The morrow morning came, bringing the formal free pardon for Abraham Dixon. The sheriff’s order for her admission to see the old man lay awaiting her wish to use it; but she knew nothing of all this.
For days, nay weeks, she hovered between life and death, tended, as of old, by Miss Monro, while good Mrs Johnson was ever willing to assist.
One summer evening in early June she wakened into memory.
Miss Monro heard the faint piping voice, as she kept her watch by the bedside.
‘Where is Dixon?’ asked she.
‘At the canon’s house at Bromham.’ This was the name of Dr Livingstone’s country parish.
‘Why?’
‘We thought it better to get him into country air and fresh scenes at once.
‘How is he?’
‘Much better. Get strong, and he shall come to see you.’
‘You are sure all is right?’ said Ellinor.
‘Sure, my dear. All is quite right.’
Then Ellinor went to sleep again out of very weakness and weariness.
From that time she recovered pretty steadily. Her great desire was to return to East Chester as soon as possible. The associations of grief, anxiety, and coming illness, connected with Hellingford, made her wish to be once again in the solemn, quiet, sunny close of East Chester.
Canon Livingstone came over to assist Miss Monro in managing the journey with her invalid. But he did not intrude himself upon Ellinor, any more than he had done in coming from home.
The morning after her return, Miss Monro said:
‘Do you feel strong enough to see Dixon?’
‘Yes. Is he here?’
‘He is at the canon’s house. He sent for him from Bromham, in order that he might be ready for you to see him when you wished.’
‘Please let him come directly,’ said Ellinor, flushing and trembling.
She went to the door to meet the tottering old man; she led him to the easy-chair that had been placed and arranged for herself, she knelt down before him, and put his hands on her head, he trembling and shaking all the while.
‘Forgive me all the shame and misery, Dixon. Say you forgive me; and give me your blessing. And then let never a word of the terrible past be spoken between us,’
‘It’s not for me to forgive you as never did harm to no one --’
‘But say you do - it will ease my heart.’
‘I forgive thee!’ said he. And then he raised himself to his feet with effort, and, standing up above her, he blessed her solemnly.
After that he sat down, she by him, gazing at him.
‘Yon’s a good man, missy,’ he said, at length, lifting his slow eyes and looking at her. ‘Better nor t’other ever was.’
‘He is a good man,’ said Ellinor.
But no more was spoken on the subject. The next day, Canon Livingstone made his formal call. Ellinor would fain have kept Miss Monro in the room, but that worthy lady knew better than to stop.
They went on, forcing talk on indifferent subjects. At last he could speak no longer on everything but that which he had most at heart, ‘Miss Wilkins!’ (he had got up, and was standing by the mantelpiece, apparently examining the ornaments upon it) - ‘Miss Wilkins! is there any chance of your giving me a favourable answer now - you know what I mean - what we spoke about at the Great Western Hotel, that day?’
Ellinor hung her head.
‘You know that I was once engaged before?’
‘Yes! I know; to Mr Corbet - he that is now the judge; you cannot suppose that would make any difference, if that is all. I have loved you, and you only, ever since we met eighteen years ago, Miss Wilkins - Ellinor - put me out of suspense.’
‘I will!’ said she, putting out her thin white hand for him to take and kiss, almost with tears of gratitude, but she seemed frightened at his impetuosity, and tried to check him. ‘Wait - you have not heard all - my poor, poor father, in a fit of anger, irritated beyond his bearing, struck the blow that killed Mr Dunster - Dixon and I knew of it, just after the blow was struck - we helped to hide it - we kept the secret - my poor father died of sorrow and remorse - you now know all - can you still love me? It seems to me as if I had been an accomplice in such a terrible thing!’
‘Poor, poor Ellinor!’ said he, now taking her in his arms as a shelter. ‘How I wish I had known of all this years and years ago: I could have stood between you and so much!’
Those who pass through the village of Bromham, and pause to look over the laurel-hedge that separates the rectory garden from the road, may often see, on summer days, an old, old man, sitting in a wicker-chair, out upon the lawn. He leans upon his stick, and seldom raises his bent head; but for all that his eyes are on a level with the two little fairy children who come to him in all their small joys and sorrows, and who learnt to lisp his name, almost as soon as they did that of their father and mother.
Nor is Miss Monro often absent; and although she prefers to retain the old house in the Close for winter quarters, she generally makes her way across to Canon Livingstone’s residence every evening.
COUSIN PHILLIS
Published in 1864, this novella tells the story of Paul Manning, a youth of nineteen who moves to the country and befriends his mother’s family and his cousin Phillis Holman, who is confused by her own placement at the edge of adolescence. Many critics agree that Cousin Phillis is Gaskell’s crowning achievement in short fiction.
COUSIN PHILLIS
CONTENTS
PART I
PART II
PART III
PART IV
PART I
It is a great thing for a lad when he is first turned into the independence of lodgings. I do not think I ever was so satisfied and proud in my life as when, at seventeen, I sate down in a little three-cornered room above a pastry-cook’s shop in the county town of Eltham. My father had left me that afternoon, after delivering himself of a few plain precepts, strongly expressed, for my guidance in the new course of life on which I was entering. I was to be a clerk under the engineer who had undertaken to make the little branch line from Eltham to Hornby. My father had got me this situation, which was in a position rather above his own in life; or perhaps I should say, above the station in which he was born and bred; for he was raising himself every year in men’s consideration and respect. He was a mechanic by trade, but he had some inventive genius, and a great deal of perseverance, and had devised several valuable improvements in railway machinery. He did not do this for profit, though, as was reasonable, what came in the natural course of things was acceptable; he worked out his ideas, because, as he said, ‘until he could put them into shape, they plagued him by night and by day.’ But this is enough about my dear father; it is a good thing for a country where there are many like him. He was a sturdy Independent by descent and conviction; and this it was, I believe, which made him place me in the lodgings at the pastry-cook’s. The shop was kept by the two sisters of our minister at home; and this was considered as a sort of safeguard to my morals, when I was turned loose upon the temptations of the county town, with a salary of thirty pounds a year.
My father had given up two precious days, and put on his Sunday clothes, in order to bring me to Eltham, and accompany me first to the office, to introduce me to my new master (who was under some obligations to my father for a suggestion), and next to take me to call on the Independent minister of the little congregation at Eltham. And then he left me; and though sorry to part with him, I now began to taste with relish the pleasure of being my own master. I unpacked the hamper that my mother had provided me with, and smelt the pots of preserve with all the delight of a possessor who might break into their contents at any time he pleased. I handled and weighed in my fancy the home-cured ham, which seemed to promise me interminable feasts; and, above all, there was the fine savour of knowing that I might eat of these dainties when I liked, at my sole will, not dependent on the pleasure of any one else, however indulgent. I stowed my eatables away in the little corner cupboard — that
room was all corners, and everything was placed in a corner, the fire-place, the window, the cupboard; I myself seemed to be the only thing in the middle, and there was hardly room for me. The table was made of a folding leaf under the window, and the window looked out upon the market-place; so the studies for the prosecution of which my father had brought himself to pay extra for a sitting-room for me, ran a considerable chance of being diverted from books to men and women. I was to have my meals with the two elderly Miss Dawsons in the little parlour behind the three-cornered shop downstairs; my breakfasts and dinners at least, for, as my hours in an evening were likely to be uncertain, my tea or supper was to be an independent meal.
Then, after this pride and satisfaction, came a sense of desolation. I had never been from home before, and I was an only child; and though my father’s spoken maxim had been, ‘Spare the rod, and spoil the child’, yet, unconsciously, his heart had yearned after me, and his ways towards me were more tender than he knew, or would have approved of in himself could he have known. My mother, who never professed sternness, was far more severe than my father: perhaps my boyish faults annoyed her more; for I remember, now that I have written the above words, how she pleaded for me once in my riper years, when I had really offended against my father’s sense of right.
But I have nothing to do with that now. It is about cousin Phillis that I am going to write, and as yet I am far enough from even saying who cousin Phillis was.
For some months after I was settled in Eltham, the new employment in which I was engaged — the new independence of my life — occupied all my thoughts. I was at my desk by eight o’clock, home to dinner at one, back at the office by two. The afternoon work was more uncertain than the morning’s; it might be the same, or it might be that I had to accompany Mr Holdsworth, the managing engineer, to some point on the line between Eltham and Hornby. This I always enjoyed, because of the variety, and because of the country we traversed (which was very wild and pretty), and because I was thrown into companionship with Mr Holdsworth, who held the position of hero in my boyish mind. He was a young man of five-and-twenty or so, and was in a station above mine, both by birth and education; and he had travelled on the Continent, and wore mustachios and whiskers of a somewhat foreign fashion. I was proud of being seen with him. He was really a fine fellow in a good number of ways, and I might have fallen into much worse hands.
Delphi Complete Works of Elizabeth Gaskell Page 379
