North and South by Elizabeth Gaskell (classic literature books .txt) 📖

‘Th’ brook!—why there’s not water enough to drown him!’

‘He was a determined chap. He lay with his face downwards. He was sick enough o’ living, choose what cause he had for it.’

Higgins crept up to Margaret’s side, and said in a weak piping kind of voice: ‘It’s not John Boucher? He had na spunk enough. Sure! It’s not John Boucher! Why, they are a’ looking this way! Listen! I’ve a singing in my head, and I cannot hear.’

They put the door down carefully upon the stones, and all might see the poor drowned wretch—his glassy eyes, one half-open, staring right upwards to the sky. Owing to the position in which he had been found lying, his face was swollen and discoloured besides, his skin was stained by the water in the brook, which had been used for dyeing purposes. The fore part of his head was bald; but the hair grew thin and long behind, and every separate lock was a conduit for water. Through all these disfigurements, Margaret recognised John Boucher. It seemed to her so sacrilegious to be peering into that poor distorted, agonised face, that, by a flash of instinct, she went forwards and softly covered the dead man’s countenance with her handkerchief. The eyes that saw her do this followed her, as she turned away from her pious office, and were thus led to the place where Nicholas Higgins stood, like one rooted to the spot. The men spoke together, and then one of them came up to Higgins, who would have fain shrunk back into his house.

‘Higgins, thou knowed him! Thou mun go tell the wife. Do it gently, man, but do it quick, for we canna leave him here long.’

‘I canna go,’ said Higgins. ‘Dunnot ask me. I canna face her.’

‘Thou knows her best,’ said the man. ‘We’n done a deal in bringing him here—thou take thy share.’

‘I canna do it,’ said Higgins. ‘I’m welly felled wi’ seeing him. We wasn’t friends; and now he’s dead.’

‘Well, if thou wunnot thou wunnot. Some one mun, though. It’s a dree task; but it’s a chance, every minute, as she doesn’t hear on it in some rougher way nor a person going to make her let on by degrees, as it were.’

‘Papa, do you go,’ said Margaret, in a low voice.

‘If I could—if I had time to think of what I had better say; but all at once–-‘ Margaret saw that her father was indeed unable. He was trembling from head to foot.

‘I will go,’ said she.

‘Bless yo’, miss, it will be a kind act; for she’s been but a sickly sort of body, I hear, and few hereabouts know much on her.’

Margaret knocked at the closed door; but there was such a noise, as of many little ill-ordered children, that she could hear no reply; indeed, she doubted if she was heard, and as every moment of delay made her recoil from her task more and more, she opened the door and went in, shutting it after her, and even, unseen to the woman, fastening the bolt.

Mrs. Boucher was sitting in a rocking-chair, on the other side of the ill-redd-up fireplace; it looked as if the house had been untouched for days by any effort at cleanliness.

Margaret said something, she hardly knew what, her throat and mouth were so dry, and the children’s noise completely prevented her from being heard. She tried again.

‘How are you, Mrs. Boucher? But very poorly, I’m afraid.’

‘I’ve no chance o’ being well,’ said she querulously. ‘I’m left alone to manage these childer, and nought for to give ‘em for to keep ‘em quiet. John should na ha’ left me, and me so poorly.’

‘How long is it since he went away?’

‘Four days sin’. No one would give him work here, and he’d to go on tramp toward Greenfield. But he might ha’ been back afore this, or sent me some word if he’d getten work. He might–-‘

‘Oh, don’t blame him,’ said Margaret. ‘He felt it deeply, I’m sure–-‘

‘Willto’ hold thy din, and let me hear the lady speak!’ addressing herself, in no very gentle voice, to a little urchin of about a year old. She apologetically continued to Margaret, ‘He’s always mithering me for “daddy” and “butty;” and I ha’ no butties to give him, and daddy’s away, and forgotten us a’, I think. He’s his father’s darling, he is,’ said she, with a sudden turn of mood, and, dragging the child up to her knee, she began kissing it fondly.

Margaret laid her hand on the woman’s arm to arrest her attention. Their eyes met.

‘Poor little fellow!’ said Margaret, slowly; ‘he was his father’s darling.’

‘He is his father’s darling,’ said the woman, rising hastily, and standing face to face with Margaret. Neither of them spoke for a moment or two. Then Mrs. Boucher began in a low, growling tone, gathering in wildness as she went on: He is his father’s darling, I say. Poor folk can love their childer as well as rich. Why dunno yo’ speak? Why dun yo’ stare at me wi’ your great pitiful eyes? Where’s John?’ Weak as she was, she shook Margaret to force out an answer. ‘Oh, my God!’ said she, understanding the meaning of that tearful look. She sank hack into the chair. Margaret took up the child and put him into her arms.

‘He loved him,’ said she.

‘Ay,’ said the woman, shaking her head, ‘he loved us a’. We had some one to love us once. It’s a long time ago; but when he were in life and with us, he did love us, he did. He loved this babby mappen the best on us; but he loved me and I loved him, though I was calling him five minutes agone. Are yo’ sure he’s dead?’ said she, trying to get up. ‘If it’s only that he’s ill and like to die, they may bring him round yet. I’m but an ailing creature mysel’—I’ve been ailing this long time.’

‘But he is dead—he is drowned!’

‘Folk are brought round after they’re dead-drowned. Whatten was I thinking of, to sit still when I should be stirring mysel’? Here, whisth thee, child—whisth thee! tak’ this, tak’ aught to play wi’, but dunnot cry while my heart’s breaking! Oh, where is my strength gone to? Oh, John—husband!’

Margaret saved her from falling by catching her in her arms. She sate down in the rocking chair, and held the woman upon her knees, her head lying on Margaret’s shoulder. The other children, clustered together in affright, began to understand the mystery of the scene; but the ideas came slowly, for their brains were dull and languid of perception. They set up such a cry of despair as they guessed the truth, that Margaret knew not how to bear it. Johnny’s cry was loudest of them all, though he knew not why he cried, poor little fellow.

The mother quivered as she lay in Margaret’s arms. Margaret heard a noise at the door.

‘Open it. Open it quick,’ said she to the eldest child. ‘It’s bolted; make no noise—be very still. Oh, papa, let them go upstairs very softly and carefully, and perhaps she will not hear them. She has fainted—that’s all.’

‘It’s as well for her, poor creature,’ said a woman following in the wake of the bearers of the dead. ‘But yo’re not fit to hold her. Stay, I’ll run fetch a pillow and we’ll let her down easy on the floor.’

This helpful neighbour was a great relief to Margaret; she was evidently a stranger to the house, a new-comer in the district, indeed; but she was so kind and thoughtful that Margaret felt she was no longer needed; and that it would be better, perhaps, to set an example of clearing the house, which was filled with idle, if sympathising gazers.

She looked round for Nicholas Higgins. He was not there. So she spoke to the woman who had taken the lead in placing Mrs. Boucher on the floor.

‘Can you give all these people a hint that they had better leave in quietness? So that when she comes round, she should only find one or two that she knows about her. Papa, will you speak to the men, and get them to go away? She cannot breathe, poor thing, with this crowd about her.’

Margaret was kneeling down by Mrs. Boucher and bathing he face with vinegar; but in a few minutes she was surprised at the gush of fresh air. She looked round, and saw a smile pass between her father and the woman.

‘What is it?’ asked she.

‘Only our good friend here,’ replied her father, ‘hit on a capital expedient for clearing the place.’

‘I bid ‘em begone, and each take a child with ‘em, and to mind that they were orphans, and their mother a widow. It was who could do most, and the childer are sure of a bellyful to-day, and of kindness too. Does hoo know how he died?’

‘No,’ said Margaret; ‘I could not tell her all at once.’

‘Hoo mun be told because of th’ Inquest. See! Hoo’s coming round; shall you or I do it? or mappen your father would be best?’

‘No; you, you,’ said Margaret.

They awaited her perfect recovery in silence. Then the neighbour woman sat down on the floor, and took Mrs. Boucher’s head and shoulders on her lap.

‘Neighbour,’ said she, ‘your man is dead. Guess yo’ how he died?’

‘He were drowned,’ said Mrs. Boucher, feebly, beginning to cry for the first time, at this rough probing of her sorrows.

‘He were found drowned. He were coming home very hopeless o’ aught on earth. He thought God could na be harder than men; mappen not so hard; mappen as tender as a mother; mappen tenderer. I’m not saying he did right, and I’m not saying he did wrong. All I say is, may neither me nor mine ever have his sore heart, or we may do like things.’

‘He has left me alone wi’ a’ these children!’ moaned the widow, less distressed at the manner of the death than Margaret expected; but it was of a piece with her helpless character to feel his loss as principally affecting herself and her children.

‘Not alone,’ said Mr. Hale, solemnly. ‘Who is with you? Who will take up your cause?’ The widow opened her eyes wide, and looked at the new speaker, of whose presence she had not been aware till then.

‘Who has promised to be a father to the fatherless?’ continued he.

‘But I’ve getten six children, sir, and the eldest not eight years of age. I’m not meaning for to doubt His power, sir,—only it needs a deal o’ trust;’ and she began to cry afresh.

‘Hoo’ll be better able to talk to-morrow, sir,’ said the neighbour. ‘Best comfort now would be the feel of a child at her heart. I’m sorry they took the babby.’

‘I’ll go for it,’ said Margaret. And in a few minutes she returned, carrying Johnnie, his face all smeared with eating, and his hands loaded with treasures in the shape of shells, and bits of crystal, and the head of a plaster figure. She placed him in his mother’s arms.

‘There!’ said the woman, ‘now you go. They’ll cry together, and comfort together, better nor any one but a child can do. I’ll stop with her as long as I’m needed, and if yo’ come to-morrow, yo’ can have a deal o’ wise talk with her, that she’s not up to to-day.’

As Margaret and her father went slowly up the street, she paused at Higgins’s closed door.

‘Shall we go in?’ asked her father. ‘I was thinking of him too.’

They knocked. There was no