Delphi complete works of.., p.476
Delphi Complete Works of Elizabeth Gaskell, page 476
‘Oh, Libbie, how beautiful! Oh, mother, mother! is the whole world out of Manchester as beautiful as this? I did not know trees were like this! Such green homes for birds! Look, Peter! would not you like to be there, up among those boughs? But I can’t let you go, you know, because you’re my little bird brother, and l should be quite lost without you.’
They spread a shawl upon the fine mossy turf, at the root of a beech-tree, which made a sort of natural couch, and there they laid him, and bade him rest, in spite of the delight which made him believe himself capable of any exertion. Where he lay,---- always holding Jupiter’s cage, and often talking to him as to a playfellow,----he was on the verge of a green area, shut in by magnificent trees, in all the glory of their early foliage, before the summer heats had deepened their verdure into one rich, monotonous tint. And hither came party after party; old men and maidens, young men and, children,----whole families trooped along after the guiding fathers, who bore the youngest in their arms, or astride upon their backs, while they turned round occasionally to the wives, with whom they shared some fond local remembrance. For years has Dunham Park been the favourite resort of the Manchester workpeople; for more years than I can tell; probably ever since ‘the Duke,’ by his canals, opened out the system of cheap travelling. Its scenery, too, which presents such a complete contrast to the whirl and turmoil of Manchester; so thoroughly-woodland, with its ancestral trees (here and there lightning blanched); its ‘verdurous walls’; its grassy walks, leading far away into some glade, where you start at the rabbit rustling among the last year’s fern, and where the wood-pigeon’s call seems the only fitting and accordant sound. Depend upon it, this complete sylvan repose, this accessible quiet, this lapping the soul in green images of the country, forms the most, complete contrast to a towns-person, and consequently has over such the greatest power to charm.
Presently Libbie found out she was very hungry. Now they were but provided with dinner, which was, of course, to be eaten as near twelve o’clock as might be; and Margaret Hall, in her prudence, asked a working-man near to tell her what o’clock it was.
‘Nay,’ said he, ‘I’ll ne’er look at clock or watch today. I’ll not spoil my pleasure by finding out how fast it’s going away. If thou’rt hungry, eat. I make my own dinner hour, and I have eaten mine an hour ago.’
So they had their veal pies, and then found out it was only about half-past ten o’clock; by so many pleasurable events had that morning been marked. But such was their buoyancy of spirits that they only enjoyed their mistake, and joined in the general laugh against the man who had eaten his dinner somewhere about nine. He laughed most heartily of all, till, suddenly stopping, he said, -
‘I must not go on at this rate; laughing gives one such an appetite.’
‘Oh! if that’s all,’ said a merry-looking man, lying at full length, and brushing the fresh scent out of the grass, while two or three little children tumbled over him, and crept about him, as kittens or puppies frolic with their parents, ‘if that’s all, we’ll have a subscription of eatables for them improvident folk as have eaten their dinner for their breakfast. Here’s a sausage pasty and a handful of nuts for my share. Bring round a hat, Bob, and see what the company will give.’
Bob carried out the joke, much to little Franky’s amusement; and no one was so churlish as to refuse, although the contributions varied from a peppermint drop up to a veal pie, and a sausage pasty.
‘It’s a thriving trade,’ said Bob, as be emptied his hatful of provisions on the grass by Libbie’s side. ‘Besides, it’s tiptop, too, to live on the public. Hark! what is that?’
The laughter and the chat were suddenly hushed, and mothers told their little ones to listen,----as, far away in the distance, now sinking and falling, now swelling and clear, came a ringing peal of children’s voices, blended together in one of those psalm tunes which we are all of us familiar with, and which bring to mind the old, old days, when we, as wondering children, were first led to worship ‘Our Father’ by those beloved ones who have since gone to the more perfect worship. Holy was that distant choral praise, even to the most thoughtless; and when it, in fact, was ended, in the instant’s pause, during which the ear awaits the repetition of the air, they caught the noontide hum and buzz of the myriads of insects who danced away their lives in the glorious day; they heard the swaying of the mighty woods in the soft but resistless breeze, and then again once more burst forth the merry jests and the shouts of childhood; and again the elder ones resumed their happy talk, as they lay or sat ‘under the greenwood tree.’ Fresh parties came dropping in; some laden with wild flowers----almost with branches of hawthorn, indeed; while one or two had made prizes of the earliest dog-roses, and had cast away campion, stitchwort, ragged robin, all to keep the lady of the hedges from being obscured or hidden by the community.
One after another drew near to Franky, and looked on with interest as he lay sorting the flowers given to him. Happy parents stood by, with their household bands around them, in health and comeliness, and felt the sad prophecy of those shrivelled limbs, those wasted fingers, those lamp-like eyes, with their bright, dark lustre. His mother was too eagerly watching his happiness to read the meaning of those grave looks, but Libbie saw them and understood them; and a chill shudder went through her, even on that day, as she thought on the future.
‘Ay! I thought we should give you a start!’
A start they did give, with their terrible slap on Libbie’s back, as she sat idly grouping flowers, and following out her sorrowful thoughts. It was the Dixons. Instead of keeping their holiday by lying in bed, they and their children had roused themselves, and had come by the omnibus to the nearest point. For an instant the meeting was an awkward one, on account of the feud between Margaret Hall and Mrs Dixon, but there was no long resisting of kindly mother Nature’s soothings, at that holiday time, and in that lovely tranquil spot; or if they could have been unheeded, the sight of Franky would have awed every angry feeling into rest, so changed was he since the Dixons had last seen him; and since he had been the Puck or Robin Goodfellow of the neighbourhood, whose marbles were always rolling under other people’s feet, and whose top-strings were always hanging in nooses to catch the unwary. Yes, he, the feeble, mild, almost girlish-looking lad, had once been a merry, happy rogue, and as such often cuffed by Mrs Dixon, the very Mrs Dixon who now stood gazing with the tears in her eyes. Could she, in sight of him, the changed, the fading, keep up a quarrel with his mother? -
‘How long hast thou been here?’ asked Dixon.
‘Welly on for all day,’ answered Libbie.
‘Hast never been to see the deer, or the king and queen oaks? Lord, how stupid.’
His wife pinched his arm, to remind him of Franky’s helpless condition, which of course tethered the otherwise willing feet. But Dixon had a remedy. He called Bob, and one or two others, and each taking a corner of the strong plaid shawl, they slung Franky as in a hammock, and thus carried him merrily along, down the wood paths, over the smooth, grassy turf, while the glimmering shine and shadow fell on his upturned face. The women walked behind, talking, loitering along, always in sight of the hammock; now picking up some green treasure from the ground, now catching at the low hanging branches of the horse-chestnut. The soul grew much on this day, and in these woods, and all unconsciously, as souls do grow. They followed Franky’s hammock-bearers up a grassy knoll, on the top of which stood a group of pine trees, whose stems looked like dark red gold in the sunbeams. They had taken Franky there to show him Manchester, far away in the blue plain, against which the woodland foreground cut with a soft clear line. Far, far away in the distance on that flat plain, you might see the motionless cloud of smoke hanging over a great town, and that was Manchester,---- ugly, smoky Manchester, dear, busy, earnest, noble-working Manchester; where their children had been born, and where, perhaps, some lay buried; where their homes were, and where God had cast their lives; and told them to work out their destiny.
‘Hurrah! for oud smoke-jack!’ cried Bob, putting Franky softly down on the grass, before he whirled his hat round, preparatory to a shout. ‘Hurrah! hurrah!’ from all the men. ‘There’s the rim of my hat lying like a quoit yonder,’ observed Bob quietly, as he replaced his brimless hat on his head with the gravity of a judge.
‘Here’s the Sunday-school children a-coming to sit on this shady side, and have their buns and milk. Hark! they’re singing the infant-school grace.’
They sat close at hand, so that Franky could hear the words they sang, in rings of children, making, in their gay summer prints, newly donned for that week, garlands of little faces, all happy and bright upon that green hillside. One little ‘Dot’ of a girl came shyly behind Franky, whom she had long been watching, and threw her half-bun at his side, and then ran away and hid herself, in very shame at the boldness of her own sweet impulse. She kept peeping from her screen at Franky all the time; and----he meanwhile was almost too much pleased and happy to eat; the world was so beautiful, and men, women, and children all so tender, and kind; so softened, in fact, by the beauty of this earth, so unconsciously touched by the spirit of love, which was the Creator of this lovely earth. But the day drew to an end; the heat declined; the birds once more began their warblings; the fresh scents again hung about plant, and tree, and grass, betokening the fragrant presence of the reviving dew and----the boat time was near. As they trod the meadow-path once more, they were joined by many a party they had encountered during the day, all abounding in happiness, all full of the day’s adventures. Long-cherished quarrels had been forgotten, new friendships formed. Fresh tastes and higher delights had been imparted that day. We have all of us our look, now and then, called up by some noble or loving thought (our highest on earth), which will be our likeness in heaven. I can catch the, glance on many a face, the glancing light of the cloud of glory from heaven, ‘which is our home.’ That look was present on many a hard-worked, wrinkled countenance, as they turned backwards to catch a longing, lingering look at Dunham woods, fast deepening into blackness of night, but whose memory was to haunt, in greenness and freshness, many a loom, and workshop, and factory, with images of peace and beauty.
That night, as Libbie lay awake, revolving the incidents of the day, she caught Franky’s voice through the open windows. Instead of the frequent moan of pain, he was trying to recall the burden of one of the children’s hymns, -
Here we suffer grief and pain,
Here we meet to part again;
In Heaven we part no more.
Oh! that will be joyful, &c.
She recalled his question, the whispered question, to her, in the happiest part of the day. He asked Libbie, ‘Is Dunham like heaven? the people here are as kind as angels, and I don’t want heaven to be more beautiful than this place. If you and mother would but die with me, I should like to die, and live always there!’ She had checked him, for she feared he was impious; but now the young child’s craving for some definite idea of the land to which his inner wisdom told him he was hastening, had nothing in it wrong, or even sorrowful, for --
In Heaven we part no more.
ERA III
MICHAELMAS
The church clocks had struck three; the crowds of gentlemen returning to business, after their early dinners, had disappeared within offices and warehouses; the streets were clear and quiet, and ladies were venturing to sally forth for their afternoon shoppings and their afternoon calls.
Slowly, slowly, along the streets, elbowed by life at every turn, a little funeral wound its quiet way. Four men bore along a child’s coffin; two women with bowed heads followed meekly.
I need not tell you whose coffin it was, or who were those two mourners. All was now over with little Frank Hall: his romps, his games, his sickening, his suffering, his death. All was now over, but the Resurrection and the Life.
His mother walked as in a stupor. Could it be that he was dead! If he had been less of an object of her thoughts, less of a motive for her labours, she could sooner have realized it. As it was, she followed his poor, cast-off, worn-out body as if she were borne along by some oppressive dream. If he were really dead, how could she be still alive?
Libbie’s mind was far less stunned, and consequently far more active, than Margaret Hall’s. Visions, as in a phantasmagoria, came rapidly passing before her----recollections of the time (which seemed now so long ago) when the shadow of the feebly-waving arm first caught her attention; of the bright, strangely isolated day at Dunham Park, where the world had seemed so full of enjoyment, and beauty, and life; of the long-continued heat, through which poor Franky had panted away his strength in the little close room, where there was no escaping the hot rays of the afternoon sun; of the long nights when his mother and she had watched by his side, as he moaned continually, whether awake or asleep; of the fevered moaning slumber of exhaustion; of the pitiful, little self-upbraidings for his own impatience of suffering, only impatient in his own eyes----most true and holy patience in the sight of others; and then the fading away of life, the loss of power, the increased unconsciousness, the lovely look of angelic peace, which followed the dark shadow on the countenance, where was he----what was he now?
And so they laid him in his grave, and heard the solemn funeral words; but far off in the distance, as if not addressed to them.
Margaret Hall bent over the grave to catch one last glance---- she had not spoken, nor sobbed, nor done aught but shiver now and then, since the morning; but now her weight bore more heavily on Libbie’s arm, and without sigh or sound she fell an unconscious heap on the piled-up gravel. They helped Libbie to bring her round; but long after her half-opened eyes and altered breathings showed that her senses were restored, she lay, speechless and motionless, without attempting to rise from her strange bed, as if the earth contained nothing worth even that trifling exertion.
At last Libbie and she left that holy, consecrated spot, and bent their steps back to the only place more consecrated still; where he had rendered up his spirit; and where memories of him haunted each common, rude piece of furniture that their eyes fell upon. As the woman of the house opened the door, she pulled Libbie on one side, and said----
‘Anne Dixon has been across to see you; she wants to have a word with you.’
‘I cannot go now,’ replied Libbie, as she pushed hastily along, in order to enter the room (his room), at the same time with the childless mother: for, as she had anticipated, the sight of that empty spot, the glance at the uncurtained open window, letting in the fresh air, and the broad, rejoicing light of day, where all had so long been darkened and subdued, unlocked the waters of the fountain, and long and shrill were the cries for her boy that the poor woman uttered.
‘Oh! dear Mrs Hall,’ said Libbie, herself drenched in tears, ‘do not take on so badly; I’m sure it would grieve him sore if he were alive, and you know he is----Bible tells us so; and maybe he’s here watching how we go on without him, and hoping we don’t fret over-much.’
Mrs Hall’s sobs grew worse and more hysterical.
‘Oh! listen,’ said Libbie, once more struggling against her own increasing agitation. ‘Listen! there’s Peter chirping as he always does when he’s put about, frightened like; and you know he that’s gone could never abide to hear the canary chirp in that shrill way.’
Margaret Hall did check herself, and curb her expressions of agony, in order not to frighten the little creature he had loved; and as her outward grief subsided, Libbie took up the large old Bible, which fell open at the never-failing comfort of the fourteenth chapter of St John’s Gospel.
How often these large family Bibles do open at that chapter! as if, unused in more joyous and prosperous times, the soul went home to its words of loving sympathy when weary and sorrowful, just as the little child seeks the tender comfort of its mother in all its griefs and cares.
And Margaret put back her wet, ruffled, grey hair from her heated, tear-stained, woeful face, and listened with such earnest eyes, trying to form some idea of the ‘Father’s house,’ where her boy had gone to dwell.
They were interrupted by a low tap at the door. Libbie went. ‘Anne Dixon has watched you home, and wants to have a word with you,’ said the woman of the house, in a whisper. Libbie went back and closed the book, with a word of explanation to Margaret Hall, and then ran downstairs, to learn the reason of Anne’s anxiety to see her.
‘Oh, Libbie!’ she burst out with, and then, checking herself with the remembrance of Libbie’s last solemn duty, ‘how’s Margaret Hall? But, of course, poor thing, she’ll fret a bit at first; she’ll be some time coming round, mother says, seeing it’s as well that poor lad is taken, for he’d always ha’ been a cripple, and a trouble to her----he was a fine lad once, too.’
She had come full of another and a different subject; but the sight of Libbie’s sad, weeping face, and the quiet, subdued tone of her manner, made her feel it awkward to begin on any other theme than the one which filled up her companion’s mind. To her last speech Libbie answered sorrowfully -
‘No doubt, Anne, it’s ordered for the best; but oh! don’t call him, don’t think he could ever ha’ been, a trouble to his mother, though he were a cripple. She loved him all the more for each thing she had to do for him----I am sure I did.’ Libbie cried a little behind her apron. Anne Dixon felt still more awkward in introducing the discordant subject.
‘Well! “flesh is grass,” Bible says,’ and having fulfilled the etiquette of quoting a text if possible, if not of making a moral observation on the fleeting nature of earthly things, she thought she was at liberty to pass on to her real errand.
