Delphi Complete Works of Elizabeth Gaskell

by Elizabeth Gaskell

  “Now come, mother, you know I’ve had the charge of Jenny ever since father died, and you began to go out washing--and I’ll lock father’s watch up in the box in our room.”

  “Then Tom and Jem won’t know at what time to go to the factory. Besides, Bessy,” said she, raising herself up, “they’re but young lads, and there’s a deal of temptation to take them away from their homes, if their homes are not comfortable and pleasant to them. It’s that, more than anything, I’ve been fretting about all the time I’ve been ill--that I’ve lost the power of making this house the cleanest and brightest place they know. But it’s no use fretting,” said she, falling back weakly upon the bed and sighing. “I must leave it in God’s hands. He raiseth up and He bringeth low.”

  Bessy stood silent for a minute or two. Then she said, “Well, mother, I will try to make home comfortable for the lads, if you’ll but keep your mind easy, and go off to Southport quiet and cheerful.”

  “I’ll try,” said Mrs. Lee, taking hold of Bessy’s hand, and looking up thankfully in her face.

  The next Wednesday she set off, leaving home with a heavy heart, which, however, she struggled against, and tried to make more faithful. But she wished her three weeks at Southport were over.

  Tom and Jem were both older than Bessy, and she was fifteen. Then came Bill and Mary and little Jenny. They were all good children, and all had faults. Tom and Jem helped to support the family by their earnings at the factory, and gave up their wages very cheerfully for this purpose to their mother, who, however, insisted on a little being put by every week in the savings’ bank. It was one of her griefs now that, when the doctor ordered her some expensive delicacy in the way of diet during her illness (a thing which she persisted in thinking she could have done without), her boys had gone and taken their money out in order to procure it for her. The article in question did not cost one quarter of the amount of their savings, but they had put off returning the remainder into the bank, saying the doctor’s bill had yet to be paid, and that it seemed so silly to be always taking money in and out. But meanwhile Mrs. Lee feared lest it should be spent, and begged them to restore it to the savings’ bank. This had not been done when she left for Southport. Bill and Mary went to school. Little Jenny was the darling of all, and toddled about at home, having been her sister Bessy’s especial charge when all went on well, and the mother used to go out to wash.

  Mrs. Lee, however, had always made a point of giving all her children who were at home a comfortable breakfast at seven, before she set out to her day’s work; and she prepared the boys’ dinner ready for Bessy to warm for them. At night, too, she was anxious to be at home as soon after her boys as she could; and many of her employers respected her wish, and, finding her hard-working and conscientious, took care to set her at liberty early in the evening.

  Bessy felt very proud and womanly when she returned home from seeing her mother off by the railway. She looked round the house with a new feeling of proprietorship, and then went to claim little Jenny from the neighbour’s where she had been left while Bessy had gone to the station. They asked her to stay and have a bit of chat; but she replied that she could not, for that it was near dinner-time, and she refused the invitation that was then given her to go in some evening. She was full of good plans and resolutions.

  That afternoon she took Jenny and went to her teacher’s to borrow a book, which she meant to ask one of her brothers to read to her in the evenings while she worked. She knew that it was a book which Jem would like, for though she had never read it, one of her schoolfellows had told her it was all about the sea, and desert islands, and cocoanut-trees, just the things that Jem liked to hear about. How happy they would all be this evening.

  She hurried Jenny off to bed before her brothers came home; Jenny did not like to go so early, and had to be bribed and coaxed to give up the pleasure of sitting on brother Tom’s knee; and, when she was in bed, she could not go to sleep, and kept up a little whimper of distress. Bessy kept calling out to her, now in gentle, now in sharp tones, as she made the hearth clean and bright against her brothers’ return, as she settled Bill and Mary to their next day’s lessons, and got her work ready for a happy evening.

  Presently the elder boys came in.

  “Where’s Jenny?” asked Tom, the first thing.

  “I’ve put her to bed,” said Bessy. “I’ve borrowed a book for you to read to me while I darn the stockings; and it was time for Jenny to go.”

  “Mother never puts her to bed so soon,” said Tom, dissatisfied.

  “But she’d be so in the way of any quietness over our reading,” said Bessy.

  “I don’t want to read,” said Tom; “I want Jenny to sit on my knee, as she always does, while I eat my supper.”

  “Tom, Tom, dear Tom!” called out little Jenny, who had heard his voice, and, perhaps, a little of the conversation.

  Tom made two steps upstairs, and re-appeared with Jenny in his arms, in her night-clothes. The little girl looked at Bessy, half triumphant and half afraid. Bessy did not speak, but she was evidently very much displeased. Tom began to eat his porridge with Jenny on his knee. Bessy’ sat in sullen silence; she was vexed with Tom, vexed with Jenny, and vexed with Jem, to gratify whose taste for reading travels she had especially borrowed this book, which he seemed to care so little about. She brooded over her fancied wrongs, ready to fall upon the first person who might give the slightest occasion for anger. It happened to be poor little Jenny, who, by some awkward movement, knocked over the jug of milk, and made a great splash on Bessy’s clean white floor.

  “Never mind!” said Tom, as Jenny began to cry. “I like my porridge as well without milk as with it.”

  “Oh, never mind!” said Bessy, her colour rising, and her breath growing shorter. “Never mind dirtying anything, Jenny; it’s only giving trouble to Bessy! But I’ll make you mind,” continued she, as she caught a glance of intelligence peep from Jem’s eyes to Tom; and she slapped Jenny’s head. The moment she had done it she was sorry for it; she could have beaten herself now with the greatest pleasure for having given way to passion; for she loved little Jenny dearly, and she saw that she really had hurt her. But Jem, with his loud, deep, “For shame, Bessy!” and Tom, with his excess of sympathy with his little sister’s wrongs, checked back any expression which Bessy might have uttered of sorrow and regret. She sat there ten times more unhappy than she had been before the accident, hardening her heart to the reproaches of her conscience, yet feeling most keenly that she had been acting wrongly. No one seemed to notice her; this was the evening she had planned and arranged for so busily; and the others, who never thought about it at all, were all quiet and happy, at least in outward appearance, while she was so wretched. By-and-by, she felt the touch of a little soft hand stealing into her own. She looked to see who it was; it was Mary, who till now had been busy learning her lessons, but uncomfortably conscious of the discordant spirit prevailing in the room; and who had at last ventured up to Bessy, as the one who looked the most unhappy, to express in her own little gentle way, her sympathy in sorrow. Mary was not a quick child; she was plain and awkward in her ways, and did not seem to have many words in which to tell her feelings, but she was very tender and loving, and submitted meekly and humbly to the little slights and rebuffs she often met with for her stupidity.

  “Dear Bessy! good-night!” said she, kissing her sister; and, at the soft kiss, Bessy’s eyes filled with tears, and her heart began to melt.

  “Jenny,” continued Mary, going to the little spoilt, wilful girl, “will you come to bed with me, and I’ll tell you stories about school, and sing you my songs as I undress? Come, little one!” said she, holding out her arms. Jenny was tempted by this speech, and went off to bed in a more reasonable frame of mind than any one had dared to hope.

  And now all seemed clear and open for the reading, but each was too proud to propose it. Jem, indeed, seemed to have forgotten the book altogether, he was so busy whittling away at a piece of wood. At la
st Tom, by a strong effort, said, “Bessy, mayn’t we have the book now?”

  “No!” said Jem, “don’t begin reading, for I must go out and try and make Ned Bates give me a piece of ash-wood--deal is just good for nothing.”

  “Oh!” said Bessy, “I don’t want any one to read this book who does not like it. But I know mother would be better pleased if you were stopping at home quiet, rather than rambling to Ned Bates’s at this time of night.”

  “I know what mother would like as well as you, and I’m not going to be preached to by a girl,” said Jem, taking up his cap and going out. Tom yawned and went up to bed. Bessy sat brooding over the evening.

  “So much as I thought and I planned! I’m sure I tried to do what was right, and make the boys happy at home. And yet nothing has happened as I wanted it to do. Every one has been so cross and contrary. Tom would take Jenny up when she ought to have been in bed. Jem did not care a straw for this book that I borrowed on purpose for him, but sat laughing. I saw, though he did not think I did, when all was going provoking and vexatious. Mary--no! Mary was a help and a comfort, as she always is, I think, though she is so stupid over her book. Mary always contrives to get people right, and to have her own way somehow; and yet I’m sure she does not take half the trouble I do to please people.”

  Jem came back soon, disappointed because Ned Bates was out, and could not give him any ash-wood. Bessy said it served him right for going at that time of night, and the brother and sister spoke angrily to each other all the way upstairs, and parted without even saying good-night. Jenny was asleep when Bessy entered the bedroom which she shared with her sisters and her mother; but she saw Mary’s wakeful eyes looking at her as she came in.

  “O Mary,” said she, “I wish mother was back. The lads would mind her, and now I see they’ll just go and get into mischief to spite and plague me.”

  “I don’t think it’s for that,” said Mary softly. “Jem did want that ash-wood, I know, for he told me in the morning he didn’t think that deal would do. He wants to make a wedge to keep the window from rattling so on windy nights; you know how that fidgets mother.”

  The next day, little Mary, on her way to school, went round by Ned Bates’s to beg a piece of wood for her brother Jem; she brought it home to him at dinner-time, and asked him to be so good as to have everything ready for a quiet whittling at night, while Tom or Bessy read aloud. She told Jenny she would make haste with her lessons, so as to be ready to come to bed early, and talk to her about school (a grand, wonderful place, in Jenny’s eyes), and thus Mary quietly and gently prepared for a happy evening, by attending to the kind of happiness for which every one wished.

  While Mary had thus been busy preparing for a happy evening, Bessy had been spending part of the afternoon at a Mrs. Foster’s, a neighbour of her mother’s, and a very tidy, industrious old widow. Mrs. Foster earned part of her livelihood by working for the shops where knitted work of all kinds is to be sold; and Bessy’s attention was caught, almost as soon as she went in, by a very gay piece of woolknitting, in a new stitch, that was to be used as a warm covering for the feet. After admirnig its pretty looks, Bessy thought how useful it might be to her mother; and when Mrs. Foster heard this, she offered to teach Bessy how to do it. But where were the wools to come from? Those which Mrs. Foster used were provided her by the shop; and she was a very poor woman--too poor to make presents, though rich enough (as we all are) to give help of many other kinds, and willing to do what she could (which some of us are not).

  The two sat perplexed. “How much did you say it would cost?” said Bessy at last; as if the article was likely to have become cheaper since she asked the question before.

  “Well! it’s sure to be more than two shillings if it’s German wool. You might get it for eighteenpence if you could be content with English.”

  “But I’ve not got eighteenpence,” said Bessy gloomily.

  “I could lend it you,” said Mrs. Foster, “If I was sure of having it back before Monday. But it’s part of my rentmoney. Could you make sure, do you think?”

  “Oh, yes!” said Bessy eagerly. “At least I’d try. But perhaps I had better not take it, for after all I don’t know where I could get it. What Tom and Jem earn is little enough for the house, now that mother’s washing is cut off.”

  “They are good, dutiful lads, to give it to their mother,” said Mrs. Foster, sighing: for she thought of her own boys, that had left her in her old age to toil on, with faded eyesight and weakened strength.

  “Oh! but mother makes them each keep a shilling out of it for themselves,” said Bessy, in a complaining tone, for she wanted money and was inclined to envy any one who possessed it.

  “That’s right enough,” said Mrs. Foster. “They that earn it should have some of the power over it.”

  “But about this wool; this eighteenpence! I wish I was a boy and could earn money. I wish mother would have let me go to work in the factory.”

  “Come now, Bessy, I can have none of that nonsense. Thy mother knows what’s best for thee; and I’m not going to hear thee complain of what she has thought right. But may be, I can help you to a way of gaining eighteenpence. Mrs. Scott at the worsted shop told me that she should want some one to clean on Saturday; now you’re a good strong girl, and can do a woman’s work if you’ve a mind. Shall I say you will go? and then I don’t mind if I lend you my eighteenpence. You’ll pay me before I want my rent on Monday.”

  “Oh! thank you, dear Mrs. Foster,” said Bessy. “I can scour as well as any woman, mother often says so; and I’ll do my best on Saturday; they shan’t blame you for having spoken up for me.”

  “No, Bessy, they won’t, I’m sure, if you do your best. You’re a good sharp girl for your years.”

  Bessy lingered for some time, hoping that Mrs. Foster would remember her offer of lending her the money; but, finding that she had quite forgotten it, she ventured to remind the kind old woman. That it was nothing but forgetfulness, was evident from the haste with which Mrs. Foster bustled up to her tea-pot and took from it the money required.

  “You’re as welcome to it as can be, Bessy, as long as I’m sure of its being repaid by Monday. But you’re in a mighty hurry about this coverlet,” continued she, as she saw Bessy put on her bonnet and prepare to go out. “Stay, you must take patterns, and go to the right shop in St. Mary’s Gate. Why, your mother won’t be back this three weeks, child.”

  “No. But I can’t abide waiting, and I want to set to it before it is dark; and you’ll teach me the stitch, won’t you, when I come back with the wools? I won’t be half-an-hour away.”

  But Mary and Bill had to “abide waiting” that afternoon; for, though the neighbour at whose house the key was left could let them into the house, there was no supper ready for them on their return from school; even Jenny was away spending the afternoon with a playfellow; the fire was nearly out, the milk had been left at a neighbour’s; altogether home was very comfortless to the poor tired children, and Bill grumbled terribly; Mary’s head ached, and the very tones of her brother’s voice, as he complained, gave her pain; and for a minute she felt inclined to sit down and cry. But then she thought of many little sayings which she had heard from her teacher--such as “Never complain of what you can cure,” “Bear and forbear,” and several other short sentences of a similar description. So she began to make up the fire, and asked Bill to fetch some chips; and when he gave her the gruff answer, that he did not see any use in making a fire when there was nothing to cook by it, she went herself and brought the wood without a word of complaint.

  Presently Bill said, “Here! you lend me those bellows; you’re not blowing it in the right way; girls never do!” He found out that Mary was wise in making a bright fire ready; for, before the blowing was ended, the neighbour with whom the milk had been left brought it in, and little handy Mary prepared the porridge as well as the mother herself could have done. They had just ended when Bessy came in almost breathless; for she had suddenly remembered, in
the middle of her knitting lesson, that Bill and Mary must be at home from school.

  “Oh!” she said, “that’s right. I have so hurried myself! I was afraid the fire would be out. Where’s Jenny? You were to have called for her, you know, as you came from school. Dear! how stupid you are, Mary. I am sure I told you over and over again. Now don’t cry, silly child. The best thing you can do is to run off back again for her.”

  “But my lessons, Bessy. They are so bad to learn. It’s tables day to-morrow,” pleaded Mary.

  “Nonsense; tables are as easy as can be. I can say up to sixteen times sixteen in no time.”

  “But you know, Bessy, I’m very stupid, and my head aches so to-night!”

  “Well! the air will do it good. Really, Mary, I would go myself, only I’m so busy; and you know Bill is too careless, mother says, to fetch Jenny through the streets; and besides they would quarrel, and you can always manage Jenny.”

  Mary sighed, and went away to bring her sister home. Bessy sat down to her knitting. Presently Bill came up to her with some question about his lesson. She told him the answer without looking at the book; it was all wrong and made nonsense; but Bill did not care to understand what he learnt, and went on saying, “Twelve inches make one shilling,” as contentedly as if it were right.

  Mary brought Jenny home quite safely. Indeed, Mary always did succeed in everything, except learning her lessons well; and, sometimes, if the teacher could have known how many tasks fell upon the willing, gentle girl at home, she would not have thought that poor Mary was slow or a dunce; and such thoughts would come into the teacher’s mind sometimes, although she fully appreciated Mary’s sweetness and humility of disposition.

  To-night she tried hard at her tables, and all to no use. Her head ached so, she could not remember them, do what she would. She longed to go to her mother, whose cool hands around her forehead always seemed to do her so much good, and whose soft, loving words were such a help to her when she had to bear pain. She had arranged so many plans for to-night, and now all were deranged by Bessy’s new fancy for knitting. But Mary did not see this in the plain, clear light in which I have put it before you. She only was sorry that she could not make haste with her lessons, as she had promised Jenny, who was now upbraiding her with the non-fulfilment of her words. Jenny was still up when Tom and Jem came in. They spoke sharply to Bessy for not having their porridge ready; and, while she was defending herself, Mary, even at the risk of imperfect lessons, began to prepare the supper for her brothers. She did it all so quietly, that almost before they were aware, it was ready for them; and Bessy, suddenly ashamed of herself, and touched by Mary’s quiet helpfulness, bent down and kissed her, as once more she settled to the never-ending difficulty of her lesson.