Authors: Elizabeth Gaskell
I do not know how it was that it came to pass that my lady became
reconciled to Miss Galindo about this time. Whether it was that her
ladyship was weary of the unspoken coolness with her old friend; or that
the specimens of delicate sewing and fine spinning at the school had
mollified her towards Miss Bessy; but I was surprised to learn one day
that Miss Galindo and her young friend were coming that very evening to
tea at the Hall. This information was given me by Mrs. Medlicott, as a
message from my lady, who further went on to desire that certain little
preparations should be made in her own private sitting-room, in which the
greater part of my days were spent. From the nature of these
preparations, I became quite aware that my lady intended to do honour to
her expected visitors. Indeed, Lady Ludlow never forgave by halves, as I
have known some people do. Whoever was coming as a visitor to my lady,
peeress, or poor nameless girl, there was a certain amount of preparation
required in order to do them fitting honour. I do not mean to say that
the preparation was of the same degree of importance in each case. I
dare say, if a peeress had come to visit us at the Hall, the covers would
have been taken off the furniture in the white drawing-room (they never
were uncovered all the time I stayed at the Hall), because my lady would
wish to offer her the ornaments and luxuries which this grand visitor
(who never came—I wish she had! I did so want to see that furniture
uncovered!) was accustomed to at home, and to present them to her in the
best order in which my lady could. The same rule, mollified, held good
with Miss Galindo. Certain things, in which my lady knew she took an
interest, were laid out ready for her to examine on this very day; and,
what was more, great books of prints were laid out, such as I remembered
my lady had had brought forth to beguile my own early days of
illness,—Mr. Hogarth's works, and the like,—which I was sure were put
out for Miss Bessy.
No one knows how curious I was to see this mysterious Miss Bessy—twenty
times more mysterious, of course, for want of her surname. And then
again (to try and account for my great curiosity, of which in
recollection I am more than half ashamed), I had been leading the quiet
monotonous life of a crippled invalid for many years,—shut up from any
sight of new faces; and this was to be the face of one whom I had thought
about so much and so long,—Oh! I think I might be excused.
Of course they drank tea in the great hall, with the four young
gentlewomen, who, with myself, formed the small bevy now under her
ladyship's charge. Of those who were at Hanbury when first I came, none
remained; all were married, or gone once more to live at some home which
could be called their own, whether the ostensible head were father or
brother. I myself was not without some hopes of a similar kind. My
brother Harry was now a curate in Westmoreland, and wanted me to go and
live with him, as eventually I did for a time. But that is neither here
nor there at present. What I am talking about is Miss Bessy.
After a reasonable time had elapsed, occupied as I well knew by the meal
in the great hall,—the measured, yet agreeable conversation
afterwards,—and a certain promenade around the hall, and through the
drawing-rooms, with pauses before different pictures, the history or
subject of each of which was invariably told by my lady to every new
visitor,—a sort of giving them the freedom of the old family-seat, by
describing the kind and nature of the great progenitors who had lived
there before the narrator,—I heard the steps approaching my lady's room,
where I lay. I think I was in such a state of nervous expectation, that
if I could have moved easily, I should have got up and run away. And yet
I need not have been, for Miss Galindo was not in the least altered (her
nose a little redder, to be sure, but then that might only have had a
temporary cause in the private crying I know she would have had before
coming to see her dear Lady Ludlow once again). But I could almost have
pushed Miss Galindo away, as she intercepted me in my view of the
mysterious Miss Bessy.
Miss Bessy was, as I knew, only about eighteen, but she looked older.
Dark hair, dark eyes, a tall, firm figure, a good, sensible face, with a
serene expression, not in the least disturbed by what I had been thinking
must be such awful circumstances as a first introduction to my lady, who
had so disapproved of her very existence: those are the clearest
impressions I remember of my first interview with Miss Bessy. She seemed
to observe us all, in her quiet manner, quite as much as I did her; but
she spoke very little; occupied herself, indeed, as my lady had planned,
with looking over the great books of engravings. I think I must have
(foolishly) intended to make her feel at her ease, by my patronage; but
she was seated far away from my sofa, in order to command the light, and
really seemed so unconcerned at her unwonted circumstances, that she did
not need my countenance or kindness. One thing I did like—her watchful
look at Miss Galindo from time to time: it showed that her thoughts and
sympathy were ever at Miss Galindo's service, as indeed they well might
be. When Miss Bessy spoke, her voice was full and clear, and what she
said, to the purpose, though there was a slight provincial accent in her
way of speaking. After a while, my lady set us two to play at chess, a
game which I had lately learnt at Mr. Gray's suggestion. Still we did
not talk much together, though we were becoming attracted towards each
other, I fancy.
"You will play well," said she. "You have only learnt about six months,
have you? And yet you can nearly beat me, who have been at it as many
years."
"I began to learn last November. I remember Mr. Gray's bringing me
'Philidor on Chess,' one very foggy, dismal day."
What made her look up so suddenly, with bright inquiry in her eyes? What
made her silent for a moment as if in thought, and then go on with
something, I know not what, in quite an altered tone?
My lady and Miss Galindo went on talking, while I sat thinking. I heard
Captain James's name mentioned pretty frequently; and at last my lady put
down her work, and said, almost with tears in her eyes:
"I could not—I cannot believe it. He must be aware she is a schismatic;
a baker's daughter; and he is a gentleman by virtue and feeling, as well
as by his profession, though his manners may be at times a little rough.
My dear Miss Galindo, what will this world come to?"
Miss Galindo might possibly be aware of her own share in bringing the
world to the pass which now dismayed my lady,—for of course, though all
was now over and forgiven, yet Miss, Bessy's being received into a
respectable maiden lady's house, was one of the portents as to the
world's future which alarmed her ladyship; and Miss Galindo knew
this,—but, at any rate, she had too lately been forgiven herself not to
plead for mercy for the next offender against my lady's delicate sense of
fitness and propriety,—so she replied:
"Indeed, my lady, I have long left off trying to conjecture what makes
Jack fancy Gill, or Gill Jack. It's best to sit down quiet under the
belief that marriages are made for us, somewhere out of this world, and
out of the range of this world's reason and laws. I'm not so sure that I
should settle it down that they were made in heaven; t'other place seems
to me as likely a workshop; but at any rate, I've given up troubling my
head as to why they take place. Captain James is a gentleman; I make no
doubt of that ever since I saw him stop to pick up old Goody Blake (when
she tumbled down on the slide last winter) and then swear at a little lad
who was laughing at her, and cuff him till he tumbled down crying; but we
must have bread somehow, and though I like it better baked at home in a
good sweet brick oven, yet, as some folks never can get it to rise, I
don't see why a man may not be a baker. You see, my lady, I look upon
baking as a simple trade, and as such lawful. There is no machine comes
in to take away a man's or woman's power of earning their living, like
the spinning-jenny (the old busybody that she is), to knock up all our
good old women's livelihood, and send them to their graves before their
time. There's an invention of the enemy, if you will!"
"That's very true!" said my lady, shaking her head.
"But baking bread is wholesome, straight-forward elbow-work. They have
not got to inventing any contrivance for that yet, thank Heaven! It does
not seem to me natural, nor according to Scripture, that iron and steel
(whose brows can't sweat) should be made to do man's work. And so I say,
all those trades where iron and steel do the work ordained to man at the
Fall, are unlawful, and I never stand up for them. But say this baker
Brooke did knead his bread, and make it rise, and then that people, who
had, perhaps, no good ovens, came to him, and bought his good light
bread, and in this manner he turned an honest penny and got rich; why,
all I say, my lady, is this,—I dare say he would have been born a
Hanbury, or a lord if he could; and if he was not, it is no fault of his,
that I can see, that he made good bread (being a baker by trade), and got
money, and bought his land. It was his misfortune, not his fault, that
he was not a person of quality by birth."
"That's very true," said my lady, after a moment's pause for
consideration. "But, although he was a baker, he might have been a
Churchman. Even your eloquence, Miss Galindo, shan't convince me that
that is not his own fault."
"I don't see even that, begging your pardon, my lady," said Miss Galindo,
emboldened by the first success of her eloquence. "When a Baptist is a
baby, if I understand their creed aright, he is not baptized; and,
consequently, he can have no godfathers and godmothers to do anything for
him in his baptism; you agree to that, my lady?"
My lady would rather have known what her acquiescence would lead to,
before acknowledging that she could not dissent from this first
proposition; still she gave her tacit agreement by bowing her head.
"And, you know, our godfathers and godmothers are expected to promise and
vow three things in our name, when we are little babies, and can do
nothing but squall for ourselves. It is a great privilege, but don't let
us be hard upon those who have not had the chance of godfathers and
godmothers. Some people, we know, are born with silver spoons,—that's
to say, a godfather to give one things, and teach one's catechism, and
see that we're confirmed into good church-going Christians,—and others
with wooden ladles in their mouths. These poor last folks must just be
content to be godfatherless orphans, and Dissenters, all their lives; and
if they are tradespeople into the bargain, so much the worse for them;
but let us be humble Christians, my dear lady, and not hold our heads too
high because we were born orthodox quality."
"You go on too fast, Miss Galindo! I can't follow you. Besides, I do
believe dissent to be an invention of the Devil's. Why can't they
believe as we do? It's very wrong. Besides, its schism and heresy, and,
you know, the Bible says that's as bad as witchcraft."
My lady was not convinced, as I could see. After Miss Galindo had gone,
she sent Mrs. Medlicott for certain books out of the great old library up
stairs, and had them made up into a parcel under her own eye.
"If Captain James comes to-morrow, I will speak to him about these
Brookes. I have not hitherto liked to speak to him, because I did not
wish to hurt him, by supposing there could be any truth in the reports
about his intimacy with them. But now I will try and do my duty by him
and them. Surely this great body of divinity will bring them back to the
true church."
I could not tell, for though my lady read me over the titles, I was not
any the wiser as to their contents. Besides, I was much more anxious to
consult my lady as to my own change of place. I showed her the letter I
had that day received from Harry; and we once more talked over the
expediency of my going to live with him, and trying what entire change of
air would do to re-establish my failing health. I could say anything to
my lady, she was so sure to understand me rightly. For one thing, she
never thought of herself, so I had no fear of hurting her by stating the
truth. I told her how happy my years had been while passed under her
roof; but that now I had begun to wonder whether I had not duties
elsewhere, in making a home for Harry,—and whether the fulfilment of
these duties, quiet ones they must needs be in the case of such a cripple
as myself, would not prevent my sinking into the querulous habit of
thinking and talking, into which I found myself occasionally falling. Add
to which, there was the prospect of benefit from the more bracing air of
the north.
It was then settled that my departure from Hanbury, my happy home for so
long, was to take place before many weeks had passed. And as, when one
period of life is about to be shut up for ever, we are sure to look back
upon it with fond regret, so I, happy enough in my future prospects,
could not avoid recurring to all the days of my life in the Hall, from
the time when I came to it, a shy awkward girl, scarcely past childhood,
to now, when a grown woman,—past childhood—almost, from the very
character of my illness, past youth,—I was looking forward to leaving my
lady's house (as a residence) for ever. As it has turned out, I never
saw either her or it again. Like a piece of sea-wreck, I have drifted
away from those days: quiet, happy, eventless days,—very happy to
remember!
I thought of good, jovial Mr. Mountford,—and his regrets that he might
not keep a pack, "a very small pack," of harriers, and his merry ways,
and his love of good eating; of the first coming of Mr. Gray, and my
lady's attempt to quench his sermons, when they tended to enforce any
duty connected with education. And now we had an absolute school-house
in the village; and since Miss Bessy's drinking tea at the Hall, my lady
had been twice inside it, to give directions about some fine yarn she was
having spun for table-napery. And her ladyship had so outgrown her old
custom of dispensing with sermon or discourse, that even during the
temporary preaching of Mr. Crosse, she had never had recourse to it,
though I believe she would have had all the congregation on her side if
she had.