Cranford

  ‘To think of Mr Holdsworth’s being married! I can’t get over it, Paul. Not but what he was a very nice young man! I don’t like her name, though; it sounds foreign. Say it again, my dear. I hope she’ll know how to take care of him, English fashion. He is not strong, and if she does not see that his things are well aired, I should be afraid of the old cough.’

  ‘He always said he was stronger than he had ever been before, after that fever.’

  ‘He might think so, but I have my doubts. He was a very pleasant young man, but he did not stand nursing very well. He got tired of being coddled, as he called it. I hope they’ll soon come back to England, and then he’ll have a chance for his health. I wonder now, if she speaks English; but, to be sure, he can speak foreign tongues like anything, as I’ve heard the minister say.’

  And so we went on for some time, till she became drowsy over her knitting, on the sultry summer afternoon; and I stole away for a walk, for I wanted some solitude in which to think over things, and, alas! to blame myself with poignant stabs of remorse.

  I lounged lazily as soon as I got to the wood. Here and there the bubbling, brawling brook circled round a great stone, or a root of an old tree, and made a pool; otherwise it coursed brightly over the gravel and stones. I stood by one of these for more than half an hour, or, indeed, longer, throwing bits of wood or pebbles into the water, and wondering what I could do to remedy the present state of things. Of course all my meditation was of no use; and at length the distant sound of the horn employed to tell the men far afield to leave off work, warned me that it was six o’clock, and time for me to go home. Then I caught wafts of the loud-voiced singing of the evening psalm. As I was crossing the ash-field, I saw the minister at some distance talking to a man. I could not hear what they were saying, but I saw an impatient or dissentient (I could not tell which) gesture on the part of the former, who walked quickly away, and was apparently absorbed in his thoughts, for though he passed within twenty yards of me, as both our paths converged towards home, he took no notice of me. He passed the evening in a way which was even worse than dinner-time. The minister was silent, depressed, even irritable. Poor cousin Holman was utterly perplexed by this unusual frame of mind and temper in her husband; she was not well herself, and was suffering from the extreme and sultry heat, which made her less talkative than usual. Phillis, usually so reverently tender to her parents, so soft, so gentle, seemed now to take no notice of the unusual state of things, but talked to me – to any one, on indifferent subjects, regardless of her father’s gravity, of her mother’s piteous looks of bewilderment. But once my eyes fell upon her hands, concealed under the table, and I could see the passionate, convulsive manner in which she laced and interlaced her fingers perpetually, wringing them together from time to time, wringing till the compressed flesh became perfectly white. What could I do? I talked with her, as I saw she wished; her grey eyes had dark circles round them, and a strange kind of dark light in them; her cheeks were flushed, but her lips were white and wan. I wondered that others did not read these signs as clearly as I did. But perhaps they did; I think, from what came afterwards, the minister did.

  Poor cousin Holman! she worshipped her husband; and the outward signs of his uneasiness were more patent to her simple heart than were her daughter’s. After a while she could bear it no longer. She got up, and, softly laying her hand on his broad stooping shoulder, she said, –

  ‘What is the matter, minister? Has anything gone wrong?’

  He started as if from a dream. Phillis hung her head, and caught her breath in terror at the answer she feared. But he, looking round with a sweeping glance, turned his broad, wise face up to his anxious wife, and forced a smile, and took her hand in a reassuring manner.

  ‘I am blaming myself, dear. I have been overcome with anger this afternoon. I scarcely knew what I was doing, but I turned away Timothy Cooper. He has killed the Ribstone pippin at the corner of the orchard; gone and piled the quicklime for the mortar for the new stable wall against the trunk of the tree – stupid fellow! killed the tree outright – and it loaded with apples!’

  ‘And Ribstone pippins are so scarce,’ said sympathetic cousin Holman.

  ‘Ay! But Timothy is but a half-wit; and he has a wife and children. He had often put me to it sore, with his slothful ways, but I had laid it before the Lord, and striven to bear with him. But I will not stand it any longer, it’s past my patience. And he has notice to find another place. Wife, we won’t talk more about it.’ He took her hand gently off his shoulder, touched it with his lips; but relapsed into a silence as profound, if not quite so morose in appearance, as before. I could not tell why, but this bit of talk between her father and mother seemed to take all the factitious spirits out of Phillis. She did not speak now, but looked out of the open casement at the calm large moon, slowly moving through the twilight sky. Once I thought her eyes were filling with tears; but, if so, she shook them off, and arose with alacrity when her mother, tired and dispirited, proposed to go to bed immediately after prayers. We all said good-night in our separate ways to the minister, who still sat at the table with the great Bible open before him, not much looking up at any of our salutations, but returning them kindly. But when I, last of all, was on the point of leaving the room, he said, still scarcely looking up –

  ‘Paul, you will oblige me by staying here a few minutes. I would fain have some talk with you.’

  I knew what was coming, all in a moment. I carefully shut-to the door, put out my candle, and sat down to my fate. He seemed to find some difficulty in beginning, for, if I had not heard that he wanted to speak to me, I should never have guessed it, he seemed so much absorbed in reading a chapter to the end. Suddenly he lifted his head up and said, –

  ‘It is about that friend of yours, Holdsworth! Paul, have you any reason for thinking he has played tricks upon Phillis?’

  I saw that his eyes were blazing with such a fire of anger at the bare idea, that I lost all my presence of mind, and only repeated, –

  ‘Played tricks on Phillis!’

  ‘Ay! you know what I mean: made love to her, courted her, made her think that he loved her, and then gone away and left her. Put it as you will, only give me an answer of some kind or another – a true answer, I mean – and don’t repeat my words, Paul.’

  He was shaking all over as he said this. I did not delay a moment in answering him, –

  ‘I do not believe that Edward Holdsworth ever played tricks on Phillis, ever made love to her; he never, to my knowledge, made her believe that he loved her.’

  I stopped; I wanted to nerve up my courage for a confession, yet I wished to save the secret of Phillis’s love for Holdsworth as much as I could; that secret which she had so striven to keep sacred and safe; and I had need of some reflection before I went on with what I had to say.

  He began again before I had quite arranged my manner of speech. It was almost as if to himself, – ‘She is my only child; my little daughter! She is hardly out of childhood; I have thought to gather her under my wings for years to come; her mother and I would lay down our lives to keep her from harm and grief.’ Then, raising his voice, and looking at me, he said, ‘Something has gone wrong with the child; and it seemed to me to date from the time she heard of that marriage. It is hard to think that you may know more of her secret cares and sorrows than I do, – but perhaps you do, Paul, perhaps you do, – only, if it be not a sin, tell me what I can do to make her happy again; tell me.’

  ‘It will not do much good, I am afraid,’ said I, ‘but I will own how wrong I did; I don’t mean wrong in the way of sin, but in the way of judgment. Holdsworth told me just before he went that he loved Phillis, and hoped to make her his wife, and I told her.’

  There! it was out; all my part in it, at least; and I set my lips together, and waited for the words to come. I did not see his face; I looked straight at the wall opposite; but I heard him once begin to speak, and then turn over the leaves in the book before him. How awfully still th
at room was! The air outside, how still it was! The open windows let in no rustle of leaves, no twitter or movement of birds – no sound whatever. The clock on the stairs – the minister’s hard breathing – was it to go on for ever? Impatient beyond bearing at the deep quiet, I spoke again, –

  ‘I did it for the best, as I thought.’

  The minister shut the book to hastily, and stood up. Then I saw how angry he was.

  ‘For the best, do you say? It was best, was it, to go and tell a young girl what you never told a word of to her parents, who trusted you like a son of their own?’

  He began walking about, up and down the room close under the open windows, churning up his bitter thoughts of me.

  ‘To put such thoughts into the child’s head,’ continued he; ‘to spoil her peaceful maidenhood with talk about another man’s love; and such love, too,’ he spoke scornfully now – ‘a love that is ready for any young woman. Oh, the misery in my poor little daughter’s face to-day at dinner – the misery, Paul! I thought you were one to be trusted – your father’s son too, to go and put such thoughts into the child’s mind; you two talking together about that man wishing to marry her.’

  I could not help remembering the pinafore, the childish garment which Phillis wore so long, as if her parents were unaware of her progress towards womanhood. Just in the same way the minister spoke and thought of her now, as a child, whose innocent peace I had spoiled by vain and foolish talk. I knew that the truth was different, though I could hardly have told it now; but, indeed, I never thought of trying to tell; it was far from my mind to add one iota to the sorrow which I had caused. The minister went on walking, occasionally stopping to move things on the table, or articles of furniture, in a sharp, impatient, meaningless way, then he began again, –

  ‘So young, so pure from the world! how could you go and talk to such a child, raising hopes, exciting feelings – all to end thus; and best so, even though I saw her poor piteous face look as it did. I can’t forgive you, Paul; it was more than wrong – it was wicked – to go and repeat that man’s words.’

  His back was now to the door, and, in listening to his low angry tones, he did not hear it slowly open, nor did he see Phillis, standing just within the room, until he turned round; then he stood still. She must have been half undressed; but she had covered herself with a dark winter cloak, which fell in long folds to her white, naked, noiseless feet. Her face was strangely pale: her eyes heavy in the black circles round them. She came up to the table very slowly, and leant her hand upon it, saying mournfully, –

  ‘Father, you must not blame Paul. I could not help hearing a great deal of what you were saying. He did tell me, and perhaps it would have been wiser not, dear Paul! But – oh, dear! oh, dear! I am so sick with shame! He told me out of his kind heart, because he saw – that I was so very unhappy at his going away.’

  She hung her head, and leant more heavily than before on her supporting hand.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said her father; but he was beginning to understand. Phillis did not answer till he asked her again. I could have struck him now for his cruelty; but then I knew all.

  ‘I loved him, father!’ she said at length, raising her eyes to the minister’s face.

  ‘Had he ever spoken of love to you? Paul says not!’

  ‘Never.’ She let fall her eyes, and drooped more than ever. I almost thought she would fall.

  ‘I could not have believed it,’ said he, in a hard voice, yet sighing the moment he had spoken. A dead silence for a moment. ‘Paul! I was unjust to you. You deserved blame, but not all that I said.’ Then again a silence. I thought I saw Phillis’s white lips moving, but it might be the flickering of the candlelight – a moth had flown in through the open casement, and was fluttering round the flame; I might have saved it, but I did not care to do so, my heart was too full of other things. At any rate, no sound was heard for long endless minutes. Then he said, – ‘Phillis! did we not make you happy here? Have we not loved you enough?’

  She did not seem to understand the drift of this question; she looked up as if bewildered, and her beautiful eyes dilated with a painful, tortured expression. He went on, without noticing the look on her face; he did not see it, I am sure.

  ‘And yet you would have left us, left your home, left your father and your mother, and gone away with this stranger, wandering over the world.’

  He suffered, too; there were tones of pain in the voice in which he uttered this reproach. Probably the father and daughter were never so far apart in their lives, so unsympathetic. Yet some new terror came over her, and it was to him she turned for help. A shadow came over her face, and she tottered towards her father; falling down, her arms across his knees, and moaning out, –

  ‘Father, my head! my head!’ and then she slipped through his quick-enfolding arms, and lay on the ground at his feet.

  I shall never forget his sudden look of agony while I live; never! We raised her up; her colour had strangely darkened; she was insensible. I ran through the back-kitchen to the yard pump, and brought back water. The minister had her on his knees, her head against his breast, almost as though she were a sleeping child. He was trying to rise up with his poor precious burden, but the momentary terror had robbed the strong man of his strength, and he sank back in his chair with sobbing breath.

  ‘She is not dead, Paul! is she?’ he whispered, hoarse, as I came near him.

  I, too, could not speak, but I pointed to the quivering of the muscles round her mouth. Just then cousin Holman, attracted by some unwonted sound, came down. I remember I was surprised at the time at her presence of mind, she seemed to know so much better what to do than the minister, in the midst of the sick affright which blanched her countenance, and made her tremble all over. I think now that it was the recollection of what had gone before; the miserable thought that possibly his words had brought on this attack, whatever it might be, that so unmanned the minister. We carried her up-stairs, and while the women were putting her to bed, still unconscious, still slightly convulsed, I slipped out, and saddled one of the horses, and rode as fast as the heavy-trotting beast could go, to Hornby, to find the doctor there, and bring him back. He was out, might be detained the whole night. I remember saying, ‘God help us all!’ as I sate on my horse, under the window, through which the apprentice’s head had appeared to answer my furious tugs at the night-bell. He was a good-natured fellow. He said, –

  ‘He may be home in half an hour, there’s no knowing; but I daresay he will. I’ll send him out to the Hope Farm directly he comes in. It’s that good-looking young woman, Holman’s daughter, that’s ill, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It would be a pity if she was to go. She’s an only child, isn’t she? I’ll get up, and smoke a pipe in the surgery, ready for the governor’s coming home. I might go to sleep if I went to bed again.’

  ‘Thank you, you’re a good fellow!’ and I rode back almost as quickly as I came.

  It was a brain fever. The doctor said so, when he came in the early summer morning. I believe we had come to know the nature of the illness in the nightwatches that had gone before. As to hope of ultimate recovery, or even evil prophecy of the probable end, the cautious doctor would be entrapped into neither. He gave his directions, and promised to come again; so soon, that this one thing showed his opinion of the gravity of the case.

  By God’s mercy she recovered, but it was a long, weary time first. According to previously made plans, I was to have gone home at the beginning of August. But all such ideas were put aside now, without a word being spoken. I really think that I was necessary in the house, and especially to the minister at this time; my father was the last man in the world under such circumstances, to expect me home.

  I say, I think I was necessary in the house. Every person (I had almost said every creature, for all the dumb beasts seemed to know and love Phillis) about the place went grieving and sad, as though a cloud was over the sun. They did their work, each striving to st
eer clear of the temptation to eye-service, in fulfilment of the trust reposed in them by the minister. For the day after Phillis had been taken ill, he had called the men employed on the farm into the empty barn; and there he had entreated their prayers for his only child; and then and there he had told them of his present incapacity for thought about any other thing in this world but his little daughter, lying nigh unto death, and he had asked them to go on with their daily labours as best they could, without his direction. So, as I say, these honest men did their work to the best of their ability, but they slouched along with sad and careful faces, coming one by one in the dim mornings to ask news of the sorrow that overshadowed the house; and receiving Betty’s intelligence, always darkened by passing through her mind, with slow shakes of the head, and a dull wistfulness of sympathy. But, poor fellows, they were hardly fit to be trusted with hasty messages, and here my poor services came in. One time I was to ride hard to Sir William Bentinck’s, and petition for ice out of his ice-house, to put on Phillis’s head. Another it was to Eltham I must go, by train, horse, anyhow, and bid the doctor there come for a consultation, for fresh symptoms appeared, which Mr Brown, of Hornby, considered unfavourable. Many an hour have I sate on the window-seat, half-way up the stairs, close by the old clock, listening in the hot stillness of the house for the sounds in the sickroom. The minister and I met often, but spoke together seldom. He looked so old – so old! He shared the nursing with his wife; the strength that was needed seemed to be given to them both in that day. They required no one else about their child. Every office about her was sacred to them; even Betty only went into the room for the most necessary purposes. Once I saw Phillis through the open door; her pretty golden hair had been cut off long before; her head was covered with wet cloths, and she was moving it backwards and forwards on the pillow, with weary, never-ending motion, her poor eyes shut, trying in the old accustomed way to croon out a hymn tune, but perpetually breaking it up into moans of pain. Her mother sate by her, tearless, changing the cloths upon her head with patient solicitude. I did not see the minister at first, but there he was in a dark corner, down upon his knees, his hands clasped together in passionate prayer. Then the door shut, and I saw no more.