Part 23

The solemn excitement of the services had left its traces upon her countenance and in her mind. There was a spiritual light in her usually shadowed eyes, and a slight flush on her pale cheek. Merely personal and self-conscious feelings were merged in a loving good-will to all her fellow-creatures. Under the influence of this large charity, she forgot her habitual reserve, and came forward as Philip entered to meet him with her New Year’s wishes—wishes that she had previously interchanged with the other two.

“A happy New Year to you, Philip, and may God have you in His keeping all the days thereof!”

He took her hand, and shook it warmly in reply. The flush on her cheek deepened as she withdrew it. Alice Rose said something curtly about the lateness of the hour and her being much tired; and then she and her daughter went upstairs to the front chamber and Philip and Coulson to that which they shared at the back of the house.

Kinraid’s Return to Monkshaven

From _Sylvia’s Lovers_, 1863

This description of the meeting of Sylvia’s two lovers after her marriage to Philip Hepburn is the most dramatic scene in the story.

Someone stood in the lane just on the other side of the gap; his back was to the morning sun; all she saw at first was the uniform of a naval officer, so well known in Monkshaven in those days.

Sylvia went hurrying past him, not looking again, although her clothes almost brushed his as he stood there still. She had not gone a yard—no, not half a yard—when her heart leaped up and fell again dead within her, as if she had been shot.

“Sylvia!” he said, in a voice tremulous with joy and passionate love. “Sylvia!”

She looked round; he had turned a little, so that the light fell straight on his face. It was bronzed, and the lines were strengthened; but it was the same face she had last seen in Haytersbank Gully three long years ago and had never thought to see in life again.

He was close to her, and held out his fond arms; she went fluttering towards their embrace, as if drawn by the old fascination; but when she felt them close round her, she started away, and cried out with a great pitiful shriek, and put her hands up to her forehead as if trying to clear away some bewildering mist.

Then she looked at him once more, a terrible story in her eyes, if he could but have read it.

Twice she opened her stiff lips to speak, and twice the words were overwhelmed by the surges of her misery, which bore them back into the depths of her heart.

He thought that he had come upon her too suddenly, and he attempted to soothe her with soft murmurs of love, and to woo her to his outstretched hungry arms once more. But when she saw this motion of his, she made a gesture as though pushing him away; and with an inarticulate moan of agony she put her hands to her head once more, and turning away, began to run blindly towards the town for protection.

For a minute or so he was stunned with surprise at her behaviour; and then he thought it accounted for by the shock of his accost, and that she needed time to understand the unexpected joy. So he followed her swiftly, ever keeping her in view, but not trying to overtake her too speedily.

“I have frightened my poor love,” he kept thinking. And by this thought he tried to repress his impatience and check the speed he longed to use; yet he was always so near behind that her quickened sense heard his well-known footsteps following, and a mad notion flashed across her brain that she would go to the wide full river, and end the hopeless misery she felt enshrouding her. There was a sure hiding-place from all human reproach and heavy mortal woe beneath the rushing waters borne landwards by the morning tide.

No one can tell what changed her course; perhaps the thought of her sucking child; perhaps her mother; perhaps an angel of God; no one on earth knows, but as she ran along the quay-side she all at once turned up an entry, and through an open door.

He, following all the time, came into a quiet, dark parlour, with a cloth and tea things on the table ready for breakfast; the change from the bright sunny air out of doors to the deep shadow of this room made him think for the first moment that she had passed on, and that no one was there, and he stood for an instant baffled, and hearing no sound but the beating of his own heart; but an irrepressible sobbing gasp made him look round, and there he saw her cowered behind the door, her face covered tight up, and sharp shudders going through her whole frame.

“My love, my darling!” said he, going up to her, and trying to raise her, and to loosen her hands away from her face. “I have been too sudden for thee; it was thoughtless in me; but I have so looked forward to this time, and seeing thee come along the field, and go past me; but I should ha’ been more tender and careful of thee. Nay! let me have another look of thy sweet face.”

All this he whispered in the old tones of manœuvring love, in that voice she had yearned and hungered to hear in life, and had not heard, for all her longing, save in her dreams.

She tried to crouch more and more into the corner, into the hidden shadow—to sink into the ground out of sight.

Once more he spoke, beseeching her to lift up her face, to let him hear her speak.

But she only moaned.

“Sylvia,” said he, thinking he could change his tactics, and pique her into speaking, that he would make a pretence of suspicion and offence.

“Sylvia! one would think you were not glad to see me back again at length. I only came in late last night, and my first thought on wakening was of you; it has been ever since I left you.”

Sylvia took her hands away from her face; it was grey as the face of death; her awful eyes were passionless in her despair.

“Where have yo’ been?” she asked, in slow, hoarse tones, as if her voice were half strangled within her.

“Been!” said he, a red light coming into his eyes, as he bent his looks upon her; now, indeed, a true and not an assumed suspicion entering his mind.

“Been!” he repeated; then, coming a step nearer to her, and taking her hand, not tenderly this time, but with a resolution to be satisfied.

“Did not your cousin—Hepburn, I mean—did not he tell you?—he saw the press-gang seize me—I gave him a message to you—I bade you keep true to me as I would be to you.”

Between every clause of this speech he paused and gasped for an answer; but none came. Her eyes dilated and held his steady gaze prisoner as with a magical charm—neither could look away from the other’s wild, searching gaze. When he had ended, she was silent for a moment, then she cried out, shrill and fierce:

“Philip!” No answer.

Wilder and shriller still, “Philip!” she cried.

He was in the distant ware-room completing the last night’s work before the regular shop hours began; before breakfast, also, that his wife might not find him waiting and impatient.

He heard her cry; it cut through doors, and still air, and great bales of woollen stuff; he thought that she had hurt herself, that her mother was worse, that her baby was ill, and he hastened to the spot whence the cry proceeded.

On opening the door that separated the shop from the sitting-room, he saw the back of a naval officer, and his wife on the ground, huddled up in a heap; when she perceived him come in, she dragged herself up by means of a chair, groping like a blind person, and came and stood facing him.

The officer turned fiercely round, and would have come towards Philip, who was so bewildered by the scene that even yet he did not understand who the stranger was, did not perceive for an instant that he saw the realisation of his greatest dread.

But Sylvia laid her hand on Kinraid’s arm, and assumed to herself the right of speech. Philip did not know her voice, it was so changed.

“Philip,” she said, “this is Kinraid come back again to wed me. He is alive; he has niver been dead, only taken by t’ press-gang. And he says yo’ saw it, and knew it all t’ time. Speak, was it so?”

Philip knew not what to say, whither to turn, under what refuge of words or acts to shelter.

Sylvia’s influence was keeping Kinraid silent, but he was rapidly passing beyond it.

“Speak!” he cried, loosening himself from Sylvia’s light grasp, and coming towards Philip, with a threatening gesture. “Did I not bid you tell her how it was? did I not bid you say how I would be faithful to her, and she was to be faithful to me? Oh! you damned scoundrel! have you kept it from her all that time, and let her think me dead, or false? Take that!”

His closed fist was up to strike the man, who hung his head with bitterest shame and miserable self-reproach; but Sylvia came swift between the blow and its victim.

“Charley, thou shan’t strike him,” she said. “He is a damned scoundrel” (this was said in the hardest, quietest tone), “but he is my husband.”

“Oh! thou false heart!” exclaimed Kinraid, turning sharp on her. “If ever I trusted woman, I trusted you, Sylvia Robson.”

He made as though throwing her from him, with a gesture of contempt that stung her to life.

“Oh, Charley!” she cried, springing to him, “dunnot cut me to the quick; have pity on me, though he had none. I did so love thee; it was my very heart-strings as gave way when they told me thou was drowned—father, and the Corneys, and all, iverybody. Thy hat and the bit of ribbon I gave thee were found drenched and dripping wi’ sea-water; and I went mourning for thee all the day long—dunnot turn away from me; only hearken this once, and then kill me dead, and I’ll bless you—and have niver been mysel’ since; niver ceased to feel the sun grow dark and the air chill and dreary when I thought on the time when thou was alive. I did, my Charley, my own love! And I thought that thou was dead for iver, and I wished I were lying beside thee. Oh, Charley! Philip, there where he stands, could tell you this was true. Philip, wasn’t it so?”

“Would God I were dead!” moaned forth the unhappy, guilty man. But she had turned to Kinraid, and was speaking again to him, and neither of them heard or heeded him—they were drawing closer and closer together—she, with her cheeks and eyes aflame, talking eagerly.

“And father was taken up, and all for setting some free as t’ press-gang had taken by a foul trick; and he were put in York prison, and tried, and hung! hung! Charley!—good kind father was hung on a gallows; and mother lost her sense and grew silly in grief, and we were like to be turned out on t’ wide world, and poor mother dateless—and I thought yo’ were dead—oh! I thought yo’ were dead, I did—oh, Charley, Charley!”

By this time they were in each other’s arms, she with her head on his shoulder, crying as if her heart would break.

Philip came forwards and took hold of her to pull her away; but Charley held her tight, mutely defying Philip. Unconsciously, she was Philip’s protection, in that hour of danger, from a blow which might have been his death if strong will could have aided it to kill.

“Sylvia!” said he, grasping her tight. “Listen to me. He did not love you as I did. He had loved other women. I, you—you alone. He had loved other girls before you, and had left off loving them. I—I wish God would free my heart from the pang; but it will go on till I die, whether you love me or not. And then—where was I? Oh! that very night that he was taken, I was a-thinking on you and on him; and I might ha’ given you his message, but I heard those speaking of him who knew him well; they talked of his false, fickle ways. How was I to know he would keep true to thee? It might be a sin in me, I cannot say; my heart and my sense are gone dead within me. I know this, I have loved you as no man but me ever loved before. Have some pity and forgiveness on me, if it’s only because I have been so tormented with my love.”

He looked at her with feverish eager wistfulness; it faded away into despair as she made no sign of having even heard his words. He let go his hold of her, and his arm fell loosely by his side.

“I may die,” he said, “for my life is ended!”

“Sylvia!” spoke out Kinraid, bold and fervent, “your marriage is no marriage. You were tricked into it. You are my wife, not his. I am your husband; we plighted each other our troth. See! here is my half of the sixpence.”

He pulled it out from his bosom, tied by a black ribbon round his neck.

“When they stripped me and searched me in the French prison, I managed to keep this. No lies can break the oath we swore to each other. I can get your pretence of a marriage set aside. I am in favour with my admiral, and he will do a deal for me, and will back me out. Come with me; your marriage shall be set aside, and we’ll be married again, all square and above-board. Come away. Leave that damned fellow to repent of the trick he played an honest sailor; we’ll be true, whatever has come and gone. Come, Sylvia.”

His arm was round her waist, and he was drawing her towards the door, his face all crimson with eagerness and hope. Just then the baby cried.

“Hark!” said she, starting away from Kinraid, “baby is crying for me. His child—yes, it is his child—I had forgotten that—forgotten all. I’ll make my vow now, lest I lose mysel’ again. I’ll niver forgive yon man, nor live with him as his wife again. All that’s done and ended. He’s spoilt my life—he’s spoilt it for as long as iver I live on this earth; but neither you nor him shall spoil my soul. It goes hard wi’ me, Charley, it does indeed. I’ll just give you one kiss—one little kiss—and then, so help me God, I’ll niver see nor hear till—no, not that, not that is needed—I’ll niver see—sure that’s enough—I’ll niver see yo’ again on this side heaven, so help me God! I’m bound and tied, but I have sworn my oath to him as well as yo’: there’s things I will do, and there’s things I won’t. Kiss me once more. God help me, he is gone!”

Roger Hamley’s Farewell

From _Wives and Daughters_, 1866

The house mentioned in this incident is Church House, Knutsford, where Mrs. Gaskell’s uncle, Dr. Holland, resided. It is now known as Hollingford House.

The day of Roger’s departure came. Molly tried hard to forget it in the working away at a cushion she was preparing as a present to Cynthia; people did worsted-work in those days. One, two, three. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven; all wrong; she was thinking of something else, and had to unpick it. It was a rainy day, too; and Mrs. Gibson, who had planned to go out and pay some calls, had to stay indoors. This made her restless and fidgety. She kept going backwards and forwards to different windows in the drawing-room to look at the weather, as if she imagined that while it rained at one window, it might be fine weather at another. “Molly—come here! who is that man wrapped up in a cloak,—there—near the Park wall, under the beech-tree—he has been there this half-hour and more, never stirring, and looking at this house all the time! I think it’s very suspicious.”

Molly looked, and in an instant recognised Roger under all his wraps. Her first instinct was to draw back. The next to come forwards, and say, “Why, mamma, it’s Roger Hamley! Look now—he’s kissing his hand; he’s wishing us good-bye in the only way he can!” And she responded to his sign; but she was not sure if he perceived her modest, quiet movement, for Mrs. Gibson became immediately so demonstrative that Molly fancied that her eager, foolish pantomimic motions must absorb all his attention.

“I call this so attentive of him,” said Mrs. Gibson, in the midst of a volley of kisses of her hand. “Really it is quite romantic. It reminds me of former days—but he will be too late! I must send him away; it is half-past twelve!” And she took out her watch and held it up, tapping it with her forefinger, and occupying the very centre of the window. Molly could only peep here and there, dodging now up, now down, now on this side, now on that of the perpetually moving arms. She fancied she saw something of a corresponding movement on Roger’s part. At length he went away slowly, slowly, and often looking back, in spite of the tapped watch. Mrs. Gibson at last retreated, and Molly quietly moved into her place to see his figure once more before the turn of the road hid it from her view. He, too, knew where the last glimpse of Mr. Gibson’s house was to be obtained, and once more he turned, and his white handkerchief floated in the air. Molly waved hers high up, with eager longing that it should be seen. And then, he was gone! and Molly returned to her worsted-work, happy, glowing, sad, content, and thinking to herself how sweet is friendship!

When she came to a sense of the present, Mrs. Gibson was saying:

“Upon my word, though Roger Hamley has never been a great favourite of mine, this little attention of his has reminded me very forcibly of a very charming young man—a _soupirant_, as the French would call him—Lieutenant Harper—you must have heard me speak of him, Molly?”

“I think I have!” said Molly absently.

“Well, you remember how devoted he was to me when I was at Mrs. Duncombe’s, my first situation, and I only seventeen. And when the recruiting party was ordered to another town, poor Mr. Harper came and stood opposite the schoolroom window for nearly an hour, and I know it was his doing that the band played ‘The girl I left behind me,’ when they marched out the next day. Poor Mr. Harper! It was before I knew dear Mr. Kirkpatrick! Dear me. How often my poor heart has had to bleed in this life of mine! not but what dear papa is a very worthy man, and makes me very happy. He would spoil me, indeed, if I would let him. Still, he is not as rich as Mr. Henderson.”

That last sentence contained the germ of Mrs. Gibson’s present grievance. Having married Cynthia, as her mother put it—taking credit to herself as if she had had the principal part in the achievement—she now became a little envious of her daughter’s good fortune in being the wife of a young, handsome, rich, and moderately fashionable man, who lived in London. She naïvely expressed her feelings on this subject to her husband one day when she was really not feeling quite well, and when consequently her annoyances were much more present to her mind than her sources of happiness.

“It is such a pity!” said she, “that I was born when I was. I should so have liked to belong to this generation.”

“That’s sometimes my own feeling,” said he. “So many new views seem to be opened in science, that I should like, if it were possible, to live till their reality was ascertained, and one saw what they led to. But I don’t suppose that’s your reason, my dear, for wishing to be twenty or thirty years younger.”

“No, indeed. And I did not put it in that hard, unpleasant way; I only said I should like to belong to this generation. To tell the truth, I was thinking of Cynthia. Without vanity, I believe I was as pretty as she is—when I was a girl, I mean; I had not her dark eyelashes, but then my nose was straighter. And now look at the difference! I have to live in a little country town with three servants, and no carriage; and she with her inferior good looks will live in Sussex Place, and keep a man and a brougham, and I don’t know what. But the fact is, in this generation there are so many more rich young men than there were when I was a girl.”

“Oh, oh! so that’s your reason, is it, my dear? If you had been young now you might have married somebody as well off as Walter?”

“Yes!” said she. “I think that was my idea. Of course, I should have liked him to be you. I always think if you had gone to the Bar you might have succeeded better, and lived in London, too. I don’t think Cynthia cares much where she lives, yet you see it has come to her.”

“What has—London?”

“Oh, you dear, facetious man. Now that’s just the thing to have captivated a jury. I don’t believe Walter will ever be so clever as you are. Yet he can take Cynthia to Paris, and abroad, and everywhere. I only hope all this indulgence won’t develop the faults in Cynthia’s character. It’s a week since we heard from her, and I did write so particularly to ask her for the autumn fashions before I bought my new bonnet. But riches are a great snare.”

“Be thankful you are spared temptation, my dear.”

“No, I’m not. Everybody likes to be tempted. And, after all, it’s very easy to resist temptation, if one wishes.”

“I don’t find it so easy,” said her husband.

“Here’s medicine for you, mamma,” said Molly, entering with a letter held up in her hand. “A letter from Cynthia.”

“Oh, you dear little messenger of good news! There was one of the heathen deities in Mangnall’s Questions whose office it was to bring news. The letter is dated from Calais. They’re coming home! She’s bought me a shawl and a bonnet! The dear creature! Always thinking of others before herself: good fortune cannot spoil her. They’ve a fortnight left of their holiday! Their house is not quite ready; they’re coming here. Oh, now, Mr. Gibson, we must have the new dinner-service at Watt’s I’ve set my heart on so long! ‘Home’ Cynthia calls this house. I’m sure it has been a home to her, poor darling! I doubt if there is another man in the world who would have treated his step-daughter like dear papa! And, Molly, you must have a new gown.”

“Come, come! Remember I belong to the last generation,” said Mr. Gibson.

“And Cynthia won’t mind what I wear,” said Molly, bright with pleasure at the thought of seeing her again.

“No! but Walter will. He has such a quick eye for dress, and I think I rival papa; if he is a good stepfather, I’m a good stepmother, and I could not bear to see my Molly shabby, and not looking her best. I must have a new gown too. It won’t do to look as if we had nothing but the dresses which we wore at the wedding!”

But Molly stood out against the new gown for herself, and urged that if Cynthia and Walter were to come to visit them often, they had better see them as they really were, in dress, habits, and appointments. When Mr. Gibson had left the room, Mrs. Gibson softly reproached Molly for her obstinacy.

“You might have allowed me to beg for a new gown for you, Molly, when you knew how much I admired that figured silk at Brown’s the other day. And now, of course, I can’t be so selfish as to get it for myself, and you to have nothing. You should learn to understand the wishes of other people. Still, on the whole, you are a dear, sweet girl, and I only wish—well, I know what I wish; only dear papa does not like it to be talked about. And now cover me up close, and let me go to sleep, and dream about my dear Cynthia and my new shawl!”

Cousin Phillis

From _Cousin Phillis_, first published as a serial in the _Cornhill Magazine_ from November, 1863, to February, 1864, and afterwards issued in book form in 1865. This exquisite prose idyll represents Mrs. Gaskell’s best work, and has been described as “a gem without a flaw”; as a short story it is certainly a model. The breath of the open country is ever around it. The places so graphically described are associated with Mrs. Gaskell’s maternal grandfather’s farm at Sandlebridge, near Knutsford.

A VISIT TO HOPE FARM

“Make up your mind, and go off and see what this farmer-minister is like, and come back and tell me—I should like to hear.”…