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diff --git a/2547-h/2547-h.htm b/2547-h/2547-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9e26d1c --- /dev/null +++ b/2547-h/2547-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,2618 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Half a Life-time Ago, by Elizabeth Gaskell</title> + +<style type="text/css"> + +body { margin-left: 20%; + margin-right: 20%; + text-align: justify; } + +h1, h2, h3, h4, h5 {text-align: center; font-style: normal; font-weight: +normal; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: .5em; margin-bottom: .5em;} + +h1 {font-size: 300%; + margin-top: 0.6em; + margin-bottom: 0.6em; + letter-spacing: 0.12em; + word-spacing: 0.2em; + text-indent: 0em;} +h2 {font-size: 150%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 1em;} +h3 {font-size: 130%; margin-top: 1em;} +h4 {font-size: 120%;} +h5 {font-size: 110%;} + +.no-break {page-break-before: avoid;} /* for epubs */ + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always; margin-top: 4em;} + +hr {width: 80%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;} + +p {text-indent: 1em; + margin-top: 0.25em; + margin-bottom: 0.25em; } + +a:link {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:visited {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:hover {color:red} + +</style> + +</head> + +<body> + +<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold;'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Half a Life-time Ago, by Elizabeth Gaskell</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online +at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you +are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the +country where you are located before using this eBook. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Half a Life-time Ago</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Elizabeth Gaskell</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Release Date: April 21, 2000 [eBook #2547]<br /> +[Most recently updated: April 20, 2021]</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: David Price</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em;margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HALF A LIFE-TIME AGO ***</div> + +<h1>Half a Life-time Ago</h1> + +<h2 class="no-break">by Elizabeth Gaskell</h2> + +<hr /> + +<h2>Contents</h2> + +<table summary="" style=""> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap01">CHAPTER I.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap02">CHAPTER II.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap03">CHAPTER III.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap04">CHAPTER IV.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap05">CHAPTER V.</a></td> +</tr> + +</table> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap01"></a>CHAPTER I.</h2> + +<p> +Half a life-time ago, there lived in one of the Westmoreland dales a single +woman, of the name of Susan Dixon. She was owner of the small farm-house where +she resided, and of some thirty or forty acres of land by which it was +surrounded. She had also an hereditary right to a sheep-walk, extending to the +wild fells that overhang Blea Tarn. In the language of the country she was a +Stateswoman. Her house is yet to be seen on the Oxenfell road, between Skelwith +and Coniston. You go along a moorland track, made by the carts that +occasionally came for turf from the Oxenfell. A brook babbles and brattles by +the wayside, giving you a sense of companionship, which relieves the deep +solitude in which this way is usually traversed. Some miles on this side of +Coniston there is a farmstead—a gray stone house, and a square of +farm-buildings surrounding a green space of rough turf, in the midst of which +stands a mighty, funereal umbrageous yew, making a solemn shadow, as of death, +in the very heart and centre of the light and heat of the brightest summer day. +On the side away from the house, this yard slopes down to a dark-brown pool, +which is supplied with fresh water from the overflowings of a stone cistern, +into which some rivulet of the brook before-mentioned continually and +melodiously falls bubbling. The cattle drink out of this cistern. The household +bring their pitchers and fill them with drinking-water by a dilatory, yet +pretty, process. The water-carrier brings with her a leaf of the +hound’s-tongue fern, and, inserting it in the crevice of the gray rock, +makes a cool, green spout for the sparkling stream. +</p> + +<p> +The house is no specimen, at the present day, of what it was in the lifetime of +Susan Dixon. Then, every small diamond pane in the windows glittered with +cleanliness. You might have eaten off the floor; you could see yourself in the +pewter plates and the polished oaken awmry, or dresser, of the state kitchen +into which you entered. Few strangers penetrated further than this room. Once +or twice, wandering tourists, attracted by the lonely picturesqueness of the +situation, and the exquisite cleanliness of the house itself, made their way +into this house-place, and offered money enough (as they thought) to tempt the +hostess to receive them as lodgers. They would give no trouble, they said; they +would be out rambling or sketching all day long; would be perfectly content +with a share of the food which she provided for herself; or would procure what +they required from the Waterhead Inn at Coniston. But no liberal sum—no +fair words—moved her from her stony manner, or her monotonous tone of +indifferent refusal. No persuasion could induce her to show any more of the +house than that first room; no appearance of fatigue procured for the weary an +invitation to sit down and rest; and if one more bold and less delicate did so +without being asked, Susan stood by, cold and apparently deaf, or only replying +by the briefest monosyllables, till the unwelcome visitor had departed. Yet +those with whom she had dealings, in the way of selling her cattle or her farm +produce, spoke of her as keen after a bargain—a hard one to have to do +with; and she never spared herself exertion or fatigue, at market or in the +field, to make the most of her produce. She led the hay-makers with her swift, +steady rake, and her noiseless evenness of motion. She was about among the +earliest in the market, examining samples of oats, pricing them, and then +turning with grim satisfaction to her own cleaner corn. +</p> + +<p> +She was served faithfully and long by those who were rather her +fellow-labourers than her servants. She was even and just in her dealings with +them. If she was peculiar and silent, they knew her, and knew that she might be +relied on. Some of them had known her from her childhood; and deep in their +hearts was an unspoken—almost unconscious—pity for her, for they +knew her story, though they never spoke of it. +</p> + +<p> +Yes; the time had been when that tall, gaunt, hard-featured, angular +woman—who never smiled, and hardly ever spoke an unnecessary +word—had been a fine-looking girl, bright-spirited and rosy; and when the +hearth at the Yew Nook had been as bright as she, with family love and youthful +hope and mirth. Fifty or fifty-one years ago, William Dixon and his wife +Margaret were alive; and Susan, their daughter, was about eighteen years +old—ten years older than the only other child, a boy named after his +father. William and Margaret Dixon were rather superior people, of a character +belonging—as far as I have seen—exclusively to the class of +Westmoreland and Cumberland statesmen—just, independent, upright; not +given to much speaking; kind-hearted, but not demonstrative; disliking change, +and new ways, and new people; sensible and shrewd; each household +self-contained, and its members having little curiosity as to their neighbours, +with whom they rarely met for any social intercourse, save at the stated times +of sheep-shearing and Christmas; having a certain kind of sober pleasure in +amassing money, which occasionally made them miserable (as they call miserly +people up in the north) in their old age; reading no light or ephemeral +literature, but the grave, solid books brought round by the pedlars (such as +the “Paradise Lost” and “Regained,’” “The +Death of Abel,” “The Spiritual Quixote,” and “The +Pilgrim’s Progress”), were to be found in nearly every house: the +men occasionally going off laking, <i>i.e.</i> playing, <i>i.e.</i> drinking +for days together, and having to be hunted up by anxious wives, who dared not +leave their husbands to the chances of the wild precipitous roads, but walked +miles and miles, lantern in hand, in the dead of night, to discover and guide +the solemnly-drunken husband home; who had a dreadful headache the next day, +and the day after that came forth as grave, and sober, and virtuous looking as +if there were no such thing as malt and spirituous liquors in the world; and +who were seldom reminded of their misdoings by their wives, to whom such +occasional outbreaks were as things of course, when once the immediate anxiety +produced by them was over. Such were—such are—the characteristics +of a class now passing away from the face of the land, as their compeers, the +yeomen, have done before them. Of such was William Dixon. He was a shrewd +clever farmer, in his day and generation, when shrewdness was rather shown in +the breeding and rearing of sheep and cattle than in the cultivation of land. +Owing to this character of his, statesmen from a distance from beyond Kendal, +or from Borrowdale, of greater wealth than he, would send their sons to be +farm-servants for a year or two with him, in order to learn some of his methods +before setting up on land of their own. When Susan, his daughter, was about +seventeen, one Michael Hurst was farm-servant at Yew Nook. He worked with the +master, and lived with the family, and was in all respects treated as an equal, +except in the field. His father was a wealthy statesman at Wythburne, up beyond +Grasmere; and through Michael’s servitude the families had become +acquainted, and the Dixons went over to the High Beck sheep-shearing, and the +Hursts came down by Red Bank and Loughrig Tarn and across the Oxenfell when +there was the Christmas-tide feasting at Yew Nook. The fathers strolled round +the fields together, examined cattle and sheep, and looked knowing over each +other’s horses. The mothers inspected the dairies and household +arrangements, each openly admiring the plans of the other, but secretly +preferring their own. Both fathers and mothers cast a glance from time to time +at Michael and Susan, who were thinking of nothing less than farm or dairy, but +whose unspoken attachment was, in all ways, so suitable and natural a thing +that each parent rejoiced over it, although with characteristic reserve it was +never spoken about—not even between husband and wife. +</p> + +<p> +Susan had been a strong, independent, healthy girl; a clever help to her +mother, and a spirited companion to her father; more of a man in her (as he +often said) than her delicate little brother ever would have. He was his +mother’s darling, although she loved Susan well. There was no positive +engagement between Michael and Susan—I doubt whether even plain words of +love had been spoken; when one winter-time Margaret Dixon was seized with +inflammation consequent upon a neglected cold. She had always been strong and +notable, and had been too busy to attend to the early symptoms of illness. It +would go off, she said to the woman who helped in the kitchen; or if she did +not feel better when they had got the hams and bacon out of hand, she would +take some herb-tea and nurse up a bit. But Death could not wait till the hams +and bacon were cured: he came on with rapid strides, and shooting arrows of +portentous agony. Susan had never seen illness—never knew how much she +loved her mother till now, when she felt a dreadful, instinctive certainty that +she was losing her. Her mind was thronged with recollections of the many times +she had slighted her mother’s wishes; her heart was full of the echoes of +careless and angry replies that she had spoken. What would she not now give to +have opportunities of service and obedience, and trials of her patience and +love, for that dear mother who lay gasping in torture! And yet Susan had been a +good girl and an affectionate daughter. +</p> + +<p> +The sharp pain went off, and delicious ease came on; yet still her mother sunk. +In the midst of this languid peace she was dying. She motioned Susan to her +bedside, for she could only whisper; and then, while the father was out of the +room, she spoke as much to the eager, hungering eyes of her daughter by the +motion of her lips, as by the slow, feeble sounds of her voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Susan, lass, thou must not fret. It is God’s will, and thou wilt +have a deal to do. Keep father straight if thou canst; and if he goes out +Ulverstone ways, see that thou meet him before he gets to the Old Quarry. +It’s a dree bit for a man who has had a drop. As for lile +Will”—Here the poor woman’s face began to work and her +fingers to move nervously as they lay on the bed-quilt—“lile Will +will miss me most of all. Father’s often vexed with him because +he’s not a quick strong lad; he is not, my poor lile chap. And father +thinks he’s saucy, because he cannot always stomach oat-cake and +porridge. There’s better than three pound in th’ old black tea-pot +on the top shelf of the cupboard. Just keep a piece of loaf-bread by you, Susan +dear, for Will to come to when he’s not taken his breakfast. I have, may +be, spoilt him; but there’ll be no one to spoil him now.” +</p> + +<p> +She began to cry a low, feeble cry, and covered up her face that Susan might +not see her. That dear face! those precious moments while yet the eyes could +look out with love and intelligence. Susan laid her head down close by her +mother’s ear. +</p> + +<p> +“Mother I’ll take tent of Will. Mother, do you hear? He shall not +want ought I can give or get for him, least of all the kind words which you had +ever ready for us both. Bless you! bless you! my own mother.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thou’lt promise me that, Susan, wilt thou? I can die easy if +thou’lt take charge of him. But he’s hardly like other folk; he +tries father at times, though I think father’ll be tender of him when +I’m gone, for my sake. And, Susan, there’s one thing more. I never +spoke on it for fear of the bairn being called a tell-tale, but I just +comforted him up. He vexes Michael at times, and Michael has struck him before +now. I did not want to make a stir; but he’s not strong, and a word from +thee, Susan, will go a long way with Michael.” +</p> + +<p> +Susan was as red now as she had been pale before; it was the first time that +her influence over Michael had been openly acknowledged by a third person, and +a flash of joy came athwart the solemn sadness of the moment. Her mother had +spoken too much, and now came on the miserable faintness. She never spoke again +coherently; but when her children and her husband stood by her bedside, she +took lile Will’s hand and put it into Susan’s, and looked at her +with imploring eyes. Susan clasped her arms round Will, and leaned her head +upon his little curly one, and vowed within herself to be as a mother to him. +</p> + +<p> +Henceforward she was all in all to her brother. She was a more spirited and +amusing companion to him than his mother had been, from her greater activity, +and perhaps, also, from her originality of character, which often prompted her +to perform her habitual actions in some new and racy manner. She was tender to +lile Will when she was prompt and sharp with everybody else—with Michael +most of all; for somehow the girl felt that, unprotected by her mother, she +must keep up her own dignity, and not allow her lover to see how strong a hold +he had upon her heart. He called her hard and cruel, and left her so; and she +smiled softly to herself, when his back was turned, to think how little he +guessed how deeply he was loved. For Susan was merely comely and fine looking; +Michael was strikingly handsome, admired by all the girls for miles round, and +quite enough of a country coxcomb to know it and plume himself accordingly. He +was the second son of his father; the eldest would have High Beck farm, of +course, but there was a good penny in the Kendal bank in store for Michael. +When harvest was over, he went to Chapel Langdale to learn to dance; and at +night, in his merry moods, he would do his steps on the flag floor of the Yew +Nook kitchen, to the secret admiration of Susan, who had never learned dancing, +but who flouted him perpetually, even while she admired, in accordance with the +rule she seemed to have made for herself about keeping him at a distance so +long as he lived under the same roof with her. One evening he sulked at some +saucy remark of hers; he sitting in the chimney corner with his arms on his +knees, and his head bent forwards, lazily gazing into the wood-fire on the +hearth, and luxuriating in rest after a hard day’s labour; she sitting +among the geraniums on the long, low window-seat, trying to catch the last +slanting rays of the autumnal light to enable her to finish stitching a +shirt-collar for Will, who lounged full length on the flags at the other side +of the hearth to Michael, poking the burning wood from time to time with a long +hazel-stick to bring out the leap of glittering sparks. +</p> + +<p> +“And if you can dance a threesome reel, what good does it do ye?” +asked Susan, looking askance at Michael, who had just been vaunting his +proficiency. “Does it help you plough, reap, or even climb the rocks to +take a raven’s nest? If I were a man, I’d be ashamed to give in to +such softness.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you were a man, you’d be glad to do anything which made the +pretty girls stand round and admire.” +</p> + +<p> +“As they do to you, eh! Ho, Michael, that would not be my way o’ +being a man!” +</p> + +<p> +“What would then?” asked he, after a pause, during which he had +expected in vain that she would go on with her sentence. No answer. +</p> + +<p> +“I should not like you as a man, Susy; you’d be too hard and +headstrong.” +</p> + +<p> +“Am I hard and headstrong?” asked she, with as indifferent a tone +as she could assume, but which yet had a touch of pique in it. His quick ear +detected the inflexion. +</p> + +<p> +“No, Susy! You’re wilful at times, and that’s right enough. I +don’t like a girl without spirit. There’s a mighty pretty girl +comes to the dancing class; but she is all milk and water. Her eyes never flash +like yours when you’re put out; why, I can see them flame across the +kitchen like a cat’s in the dark. Now, if you were a man, I should feel +queer before those looks of yours; as it is, I rather like them, +because—” +</p> + +<p> +“Because what?” asked she, looking up and perceiving that he had +stolen close up to her. +</p> + +<p> +“Because I can make all right in this way,” said he, kissing her +suddenly. +</p> + +<p> +“Can you?” said she, wrenching herself out of his grasp and +panting, half with rage. “Take that, by way of proof that making right is +none so easy.” And she boxed his ears pretty sharply. He went back to his +seat discomfited and out of temper. She could no longer see to look, even if +her face had not burnt and her eyes dazzled, but she did not choose to move her +seat, so she still preserved her stooping attitude and pretended to go on +sewing. +</p> + +<p> +“Eleanor Hebthwaite may be milk-and-water,” muttered he, +“but—Confound thee, lad! what art thou doing?” exclaimed +Michael, as a great piece of burning wood was cast into his face by an unlucky +poke of Will’s. “Thou great lounging, clumsy chap, I’ll teach +thee better!” and with one or two good round kicks he sent the lad +whimpering away into the back-kitchen. When he had a little recovered himself +from his passion, he saw Susan standing before him, her face looking strange +and almost ghastly by the reversed position of the shadows, arising from the +firelight shining upwards right under it. +</p> + +<p> +“I tell thee what, Michael,” said she, “that lad’s +motherless, but not friendless.” +</p> + +<p> +“His own father leathers him, and why should not I, when he’s given +me such a burn on my face?” said Michael, putting up his hand to his +cheek as if in pain. +</p> + +<p> +“His father’s his father, and there is nought more to be said. But +if he did burn thee, it was by accident, and not o’ purpose; as thou +kicked him, it’s a mercy if his ribs are not broken.” +</p> + +<p> +“He howls loud enough, I’m sure. I might ha’ kicked many a +lad twice as hard, and they’d ne’er ha’ said ought but +‘damn ye;’ but yon lad must needs cry out like a stuck pig if one +touches him;” replied Michael, sullenly. +</p> + +<p> +Susan went back to the window-seat, and looked absently out of the window at +the drifting clouds for a minute or two, while her eyes filled with tears. Then +she got up and made for the outer door which led into the back-kitchen. Before +she reached it, however, she heard a low voice, whose music made her thrill, +say— +</p> + +<p> +“Susan, Susan!” +</p> + +<p> +Her heart melted within her, but it seemed like treachery to her poor boy, like +faithlessness to her dead mother, to turn to her lover while the tears which he +had caused to flow were yet unwiped on Will’s cheeks. So she seemed to +take no heed, but passed into the darkness, and, guided by the sobs, she found +her way to where Willie sat crouched among the disused tubs and churns. +</p> + +<p> +“Come out wi’ me, lad;” and they went out into the orchard, +where the fruit-trees were bare of leaves, but ghastly in their tattered +covering of gray moss: and the soughing November wind came with long sweeps +over the fells till it rattled among the crackling boughs, underneath which the +brother and sister sat in the dark; he in her lap, and she hushing his head +against her shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +“Thou should’st na’ play wi’ fire. It’s a naughty +trick. Thoul’t suffer for it in worse ways nor this before thou’st +done, I’m afeared. I should ha’ hit thee twice as lungeous kicks as +Mike, if I’d been in his place. He did na’ hurt thee, I am +sure,” she assumed, half as a question. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes but he did. He turned me quite sick.” And he let his head fall +languidly down on his sister’s breast. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, lad! come, lad!” said she anxiously. “Be a man. It was +not much that I saw. Why, when first the red cow came she kicked me far harder +for offering to milk her before her legs were tied. See thee! here’s a +peppermint-drop, and I’ll make thee a pasty to-night; only don’t +give way so, for it hurts me sore to think that Michael has done thee any harm, +my pretty.” +</p> + +<p> +Willie roused himself up, and put back the wet and ruffled hair from his heated +face; and he and Susan rose up, and hand-in-hand went towards the house, +walking slowly and quietly except for a kind of sob which Willie could not +repress. Susan took him to the pump and washed his tear-stained face, till she +thought she had obliterated all traces of the recent disturbance, arranging his +curls for him, and then she kissed him tenderly, and led him in, hoping to find +Michael in the kitchen, and make all straight between them. But the blaze had +dropped down into darkness; the wood was a heap of gray ashes in which the +sparks ran hither and thither; but even in the groping darkness Susan knew by +the sinking at her heart that Michael was not there. She threw another brand on +the hearth and lighted the candle, and sat down to her work in silence. Willie +cowered on his stool by the side of the fire, eyeing his sister from time to +time, and sorry and oppressed, he knew not why, by the sight of her grave, +almost stern face. No one came. They two were in the house alone. The old woman +who helped Susan with the household work had gone out for the night to some +friend’s dwelling. William Dixon, the father, was up on the fells seeing +after his sheep. Susan had no heart to prepare the evening meal. +</p> + +<p> +“Susy, darling, are you angry with me?” said Willie, in his little +piping, gentle voice. He had stolen up to his sister’s side. “I +won’t never play with the fire again; and I’ll not cry if Michael +does kick me. Only don’t look so like dead +mother—don’t—don’t—please don’t!” he +exclaimed, hiding his face on her shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m not angry, Willie,” said she. “Don’t be +feared on me. You want your supper, and you shall have it; and don’t you +be feared on Michael. He shall give reason for every hair of your head that he +touches—he shall.” +</p> + +<p> +When William Dixon came home he found Susan and Willie sitting together, +hand-in-hand, and apparently pretty cheerful. He bade them go to bed, for that +he would sit up for Michael; and the next morning, when Susan came down, she +found that Michael had started an hour before with the cart for lime. It was a +long day’s work; Susan knew it would be late, perhaps later than on the +preceding night, before he returned—at any rate, past her usual bed-time; +and on no account would she stop up a minute beyond that hour in the kitchen, +whatever she might do in her bed-room. Here she sat and watched till past +midnight; and when she saw him coming up the brow with the carts, she knew full +well, even in that faint moonlight, that his gait was the gait of a man in +liquor. But though she was annoyed and mortified to find in what way he had +chosen to forget her, the fact did not disgust or shock her as it would have +done many a girl, even at that day, who had not been brought up as Susan had, +among a class who considered it no crime, but rather a mark of spirit, in a man +to get drunk occasionally. Nevertheless, she chose to hold herself very high +all the next day when Michael was, perforce, obliged to give up any attempt to +do heavy work, and hung about the out-buildings and farm in a very disconsolate +and sickly state. Willie had far more pity on him than Susan. Before evening, +Willie and he were fast, and, on his side, ostentatious friends. Willie rode +the horses down to water; Willie helped him to chop wood. Susan sat gloomily at +her work, hearing an indistinct but cheerful conversation going on in the +shippon, while the cows were being milked. She almost felt irritated with her +little brother, as if he were a traitor, and had gone over to the enemy in the +very battle that she was fighting in his cause. She was alone with no one to +speak to, while they prattled on regardless if she were glad or sorry. +</p> + +<p> +Soon Willie burst in. “Susan! Susan! come with me; I’ve something +so pretty to show you. Round the corner of the barn—run! run!” (He +was dragging her along, half reluctant, half desirous of some change in that +weary day.) Round the corner of the barn; and caught hold of by Michael, who +stood there awaiting her. +</p> + +<p> +“O Willie!” cried she “you naughty boy. There is nothing +pretty—what have you brought me here for? Let me go; I won’t be +held.” +</p> + +<p> +“Only one word. Nay, if you wish it so much, you may go,” said +Michael, suddenly loosing his hold as she struggled. But now she was free, she +only drew off a step or two, murmuring something about Willie. +</p> + +<p> +“You are going, then?” said Michael, with seeming sadness. +“You won’t hear me say a word of what is in my heart.” +</p> + +<p> +“How can I tell whether it is what I should like to hear?” replied +she, still drawing back. +</p> + +<p> +“That is just what I want you to tell me; I want you to hear it and then +to tell me whether you like it or not.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you may speak,” replied she, turning her back, and beginning +to plait the hem of her apron. +</p> + +<p> +He came close to her ear. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m sorry I hurt Willie the other night. He has forgiven me. Can +you?” +</p> + +<p> +“You hurt him very badly,” she replied. “But you are right to +be sorry. I forgive you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Stop, stop!” said he, laying his hand upon her arm. “There +is something more I’ve got to say. I want you to be my—what is it +they call it, Susan?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know,” said she, half-laughing, but trying to get +away with all her might now; and she was a strong girl, but she could not +manage it. +</p> + +<p> +“You do. My—what is it I want you to be?” +</p> + +<p> +“I tell you I don’t know, and you had best be quiet, and just let +me go in, or I shall think you’re as bad now as you were last +night.” +</p> + +<p> +“And how did you know what I was last night? It was past twelve when I +came home. Were you watching? Ah, Susan! be my wife, and you shall never have +to watch for a drunken husband. If I were your husband, I would come straight +home, and count every minute an hour till I saw your bonny face. Now you know +what I want you to be. I ask you to be my wife. Will you, my own dear +Susan?” +</p> + +<p> +She did not speak for some time. Then she only said “Ask father.” +And now she was really off like a lapwing round the corner of the barn, and up +in her own little room, crying with all her might, before the triumphant smile +had left Michael’s face where he stood. +</p> + +<p> +The “Ask father” was a mere form to be gone though. Old Daniel +Hurst and William Dixon had talked over what they could respectively give their +children before this; and that was the parental way of arranging such matters. +When the probable amount of worldly gear that he could give his child had been +named by each father, the young folk, as they said, might take their own time +in coming to the point which the old men, with the prescience of experience, +saw they were drifting to; no need to hurry them, for they were both young, and +Michael, though active enough, was too thoughtless, old Daniel said, to be +trusted with the entire management of a farm. Meanwhile, his father would look +about him, and see after all the farms that were to be let. +</p> + +<p> +Michael had a shrewd notion of this preliminary understanding between the +fathers, and so felt less daunted than he might otherwise have done at making +the application for Susan’s hand. It was all right, there was not an +obstacle; only a deal of good advice, which the lover thought might have as +well been spared, and which it must be confessed he did not much attend to, +although he assented to every part of it. Then Susan was called down stairs, +and slowly came dropping into view down the steps which led from the two family +apartments into the house-place. She tried to look composed and quiet, but it +could not be done. She stood side by side with her lover, with her head +drooping, her cheeks burning, not daring to look up or move, while her father +made the newly-betrothed a somewhat formal address in which he gave his +consent, and many a piece of worldly wisdom beside. Susan listened as well as +she could for the beating of her heart; but when her father solemnly and sadly +referred to his own lost wife, she could keep from sobbing no longer; but +throwing her apron over her face, she sat down on the bench by the dresser, and +fairly gave way to pent-up tears. Oh, how strangely sweet to be comforted as +she was comforted, by tender caress, and many a low-whispered promise of love! +Her father sat by the fire, thinking of the days that were gone; Willie was +still out of doors; but Susan and Michael felt no one’s presence or +absence—they only knew they were together as betrothed husband and wife. +</p> + +<p> +In a week, or two, they were formally told of the arrangements to be made in +their favour. A small farm in the neighbourhood happened to fall vacant; and +Michael’s father offered to take it for him, and be responsible for the +rent for the first year, while William Dixon was to contribute a certain amount +of stock, and both fathers were to help towards the furnishing of the house. +Susan received all this information in a quiet, indifferent way; she did not +care much for any of these preparations, which were to hurry her through the +happy hours; she cared least of all for the money amount of dowry and of +substance. It jarred on her to be made the confidante of occasional slight +repinings of Michael’s, as one by one his future father-in-law set aside +a beast or a pig for Susan’s portion, which were not always the best +animals of their kind upon the farm. But he also complained of his own +father’s stinginess, which somewhat, though not much, alleviated +Susan’s dislike to being awakened out of her pure dream of love to the +consideration of worldly wealth. +</p> + +<p> +But in the midst of all this bustle, Willie moped and pined. He had the same +chord of delicacy running through his mind that made his body feeble and weak. +He kept out of the way, and was apparently occupied in whittling and carving +uncouth heads on hazel-sticks in an out-house. But he positively avoided +Michael, and shrunk away even from Susan. She was too much occupied to notice +this at first. Michael pointed it out to her, saying, with a laugh,— +</p> + +<p> +“Look at Willie! he might be a cast-off lover and jealous of me, he looks +so dark and downcast at me.” Michael spoke this jest out loud, and Willie +burst into tears, and ran out of the house. +</p> + +<p> +“Let me go. Let me go!” said Susan (for her lover’s arm was +round her waist). “I must go to him if he’s fretting. I promised +mother I would!” She pulled herself away, and went in search of the boy. +She sought in byre and barn, through the orchard, where indeed in this leafless +winter-time there was no great concealment; up into the room where the wool was +usually stored in the later summer, and at last she found him, sitting at bay, +like some hunted creature, up behind the wood-stack. +</p> + +<p> +“What are ye gone for, lad, and me seeking you everywhere?” asked +she, breathless. +</p> + +<p> +“I did not know you would seek me. I’ve been away many a time, and +no one has cared to seek me,” said he, crying afresh. +</p> + +<p> +“Nonsense,” replied Susan, “don’t be so foolish, ye +little good-for-nought.” But she crept up to him in the hole he had made +underneath the great, brown sheafs of wood, and squeezed herself down by him. +“What for should folk seek after you, when you get away from them +whenever you can?” asked she. +</p> + +<p> +“They don’t want me to stay. Nobody wants me. If I go with father, +he says I hinder more than I help. You used to like to have me with you. But +now, you’ve taken up with Michael, and you’d rather I was away; and +I can just bide away; but I cannot stand Michael jeering at me. He’s got +you to love him and that might serve him.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I love you, too, dearly, lad!” said she, putting her arm round +his neck. +</p> + +<p> +“Which one of us do you like best?” said he, wistfully, after a +little pause, putting her arm away, so that he might look in her face, and see +if she spoke truth. +</p> + +<p> +She went very red. +</p> + +<p> +“You should not ask such questions. They are not fit for you to ask, nor +for me to answer.” +</p> + +<p> +“But mother bade you love me!” said he, plaintively. +</p> + +<p> +“And so I do. And so I ever will do. Lover nor husband shall come betwixt +thee and me, lad—ne’er a one of them. That I promise thee (as I +promised mother before), in the sight of God and with her hearkening now, if +ever she can hearken to earthly word again. Only I cannot abide to have thee +fretting, just because my heart is large enough for two.” +</p> + +<p> +“And thou’lt love me always?” +</p> + +<p> +“Always, and ever. And the more—the more thou’lt love +Michael,” said she, dropping her voice. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll try,” said the boy, sighing, for he remembered many a +harsh word and blow of which his sister knew nothing. She would have risen up +to go away, but he held her tight, for here and now she was all his own, and he +did not know when such a time might come again. So the two sat crouched up and +silent, till they heard the horn blowing at the field-gate, which was the +summons home to any wanderers belonging to the farm, and at this hour of the +evening, signified that supper was ready. Then the two went in. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap02"></a>CHAPTER II.</h2> + +<p> +Susan and Michael were to be married in April. He had already gone to take +possession of his new farm, three or four miles away from Yew Nook—but +that is neighbouring, according to the acceptation of the word in that +thinly-populated district,—when William Dixon fell ill. He came home one +evening, complaining of head-ache and pains in his limbs, but seemed to loathe +the posset which Susan prepared for him; the treacle-posset which was the +homely country remedy against an incipient cold. He took to his bed with a +sensation of exceeding weariness, and an odd, unusual looking-back to the days +of his youth, when he was a lad living with his parents, in this very house. +</p> + +<p> +The next morning he had forgotten all his life since then, and did not know his +own children; crying, like a newly-weaned baby, for his mother to come and +soothe away his terrible pain. The doctor from Coniston said it was the +typhus-fever, and warned Susan of its infectious character, and shook his head +over his patient. There were no near friends to come and share her anxiety; +only good, kind old Peggy, who was faithfulness itself, and one or two +labourers’ wives, who would fain have helped her, had not their hands +been tied by their responsibility to their own families. But, somehow, Susan +neither feared nor flagged. As for fear, indeed, she had no time to give way to +it, for every energy of both body and mind was required. Besides, the young +have had too little experience of the danger of infection to dread it much. She +did indeed wish, from time to time, that Michael had been at home to have taken +Willie over to his father’s at High Beck; but then, again, the lad was +docile and useful to her, and his fecklessness in many things might make him +harshly treated by strangers; so, perhaps, it was as well that Michael was away +at Appleby fair, or even beyond that—gone into Yorkshire after horses. +</p> + +<p> +Her father grew worse; and the doctor insisted on sending over a nurse from +Coniston. Not a professed nurse—Coniston could not have supported such a +one; but a widow who was ready to go where the doctor sent her for the sake of +the payment. When she came, Susan suddenly gave way; she was felled by the +fever herself, and lay unconscious for long weeks. Her consciousness returned +to her one spring afternoon; early spring: April,—her wedding-month. +There was a little fire burning in the small corner-grate, and the flickering +of the blaze was enough for her to notice in her weak state. She felt that +there was some one sitting on the window-side of her bed, behind the curtain, +but she did not care to know who it was; it was even too great a trouble for +her languid mind to consider who it was likely to be. She would rather shut her +eyes, and melt off again into the gentle luxury of sleep. The next time she +wakened, the Coniston nurse perceived her movement, and made her a cup of tea, +which she drank with eager relish; but still they did not speak, and once more +Susan lay motionless—not asleep, but strangely, pleasantly conscious of +all the small chamber and household sounds; the fall of a cinder on the hearth, +the fitful singing of the half-empty kettle, the cattle tramping out to field +again after they had been milked, the aged step on the creaking stair—old +Peggy’s, as she knew. It came to her door; it stopped; the person outside +listened for a moment, and then lifted the wooden latch, and looked in. The +watcher by the bedside arose, and went to her. Susan would have been glad to +see Peggy’s face once more, but was far too weak to turn, so she lay and +listened. +</p> + +<p> +“How is she?” whispered one trembling, aged voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Better,” replied the other. “She’s been awake, and had +a cup of tea. She’ll do now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Has she asked after him?” +</p> + +<p> +“Hush! No; she has not spoken a word.” +</p> + +<p> +“Poor lass! poor lass!” +</p> + +<p> +The door was shut. A weak feeling of sorrow and self-pity came over Susan. What +was wrong? Whom had she loved? And dawning, dawning, slowly rose the sun of her +former life, and all particulars were made distinct to her. She felt that some +sorrow was coming to her, and cried over it before she knew what it was, or had +strength enough to ask. In the dead of night,—and she had never slept +again,—she softly called to the watcher, and asked— +</p> + +<p> +“Who?” +</p> + +<p> +“Who what?” replied the woman, with a conscious affright, +ill-veiled by a poor assumption of ease. “Lie still, there’s a +darling, and go to sleep. Sleep’s better for you than all the +doctor’s stuff.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who?” repeated Susan. “Something is wrong. Who?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, dear!” said the woman. “There’s nothing wrong. +Willie has taken the turn, and is doing nicely.” +</p> + +<p> +“Father?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well! he’s all right now,” she answered, looking another +way, as if seeking for something. +</p> + +<p> +“Then it’s Michael! Oh, me! oh, me!” She set up a succession +of weak, plaintive, hysterical cries before the nurse could pacify her, by +declaring that Michael had been at the house not three hours before to ask +after her, and looked as well and as hearty as ever man did. +</p> + +<p> +“And you heard of no harm to him since?” inquired Susan. +</p> + +<p> +“Bless the lass, no, for sure! I’ve ne’er heard his name +named since I saw him go out of the yard as stout a man as ever trod +shoe-leather.” +</p> + +<p> +It was well, as the nurse said afterwards to Peggy, that Susan had been so +easily pacified by the equivocating answer in respect to her father. If she had +pressed the questions home in his case as she did in Michael’s, she would +have learnt that he was dead and buried more than a month before. It was well, +too, that in her weak state of convalescence (which lasted long after this +first day of consciousness) her perceptions were not sharp enough to observe +the sad change that had taken place in Willie. His bodily strength returned, +his appetite was something enormous, but his eyes wandered continually; his +regard could not be arrested; his speech became slow, impeded, and incoherent. +People began to say that the fever had taken away the little wit Willie Dixon +had ever possessed and that they feared that he would end in being a +“natural,” as they call an idiot in the Dales. +</p> + +<p> +The habitual affection and obedience to Susan lasted longer than any other +feeling that the boy had had previous to his illness; and, perhaps, this made +her be the last to perceive what every one else had long anticipated. She felt +the awakening rude when it did come. It was in this wise:— +</p> + +<p> +One June evening, she sat out of doors under the yew-tree, knitting. She was +pale still from her recent illness; and her languor, joined to the fact of her +black dress, made her look more than usually interesting. She was no longer the +buoyant self-sufficient Susan, equal to every occasion. The men were bringing +in the cows to be milked, and Michael was about in the yard giving orders and +directions with somewhat the air of a master, for the farm belonged of right to +Willie, and Susan had succeeded to the guardianship of her brother. Michael and +she were to be married as soon as she was strong enough—so, perhaps, his +authoritative manner was justified; but the labourers did not like it, although +they said little. They remembered a stripling on the farm, knowing far less +than they did, and often glad to shelter his ignorance of all agricultural +matters behind their superior knowledge. They would have taken orders from +Susan with far more willingness; nay, Willie himself might have commanded them; +and from the old hereditary feeling toward the owners of land, they would have +obeyed him with far greater cordiality than they now showed to Michael. But +Susan was tired with even three rounds of knitting, and seemed not to notice, +or to care, how things went on around her; and Willie—poor +Willie!—there he stood lounging against the door-sill, enormously grown +and developed, to be sure, but with restless eyes and ever-open mouth, and +every now and then setting up a strange kind of howling cry, and then smiling +vacantly to himself at the sound he had made. As the two old labourers passed +him, they looked at each other ominously, and shook their heads. +</p> + +<p> +“Willie, darling,” said Susan, “don’t make that +noise—it makes my head ache.” +</p> + +<p> +She spoke feebly, and Willie did not seem to hear; at any rate, he continued +his howl from time to time. +</p> + +<p> +“Hold thy noise, wilt’a?” said Michael, roughly, as he passed +near him, and threatening him with his fist. Susan’s back was turned to +the pair. The expression of Willie’s face changed from vacancy to fear, +and he came shambling up to Susan, who put her arm round him, and, as if +protected by that shelter, he began making faces at Michael. Susan saw what was +going on, and, as if now first struck by the strangeness of her brother’s +manner, she looked anxiously at Michael for an explanation. Michael was +irritated at Willie’s defiance of him, and did not mince the matter. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s just that the fever has left him silly—he never was as +wise as other folk, and now I doubt if he will ever get right.” +</p> + +<p> +Susan did not speak, but she went very pale, and her lip quivered. She looked +long and wistfully at Willie’s face, as he watched the motion of the +ducks in the great stable-pool. He laughed softly to himself every now and +then. +</p> + +<p> +“Willie likes to see the ducks go overhead,” said Susan, +instinctively adopting the form of speech she would have used to a young child. +</p> + +<p> +“Willie, boo! Willie, boo!” he replied, clapping his hands, and +avoiding her eye. +</p> + +<p> +“Speak properly, Willie,” said Susan, making a strong effort at +self-control, and trying to arrest his attention. +</p> + +<p> +“You know who I am—tell me my name!” She grasped his arm +almost painfully tight to make him attend. Now he looked at her, and, for an +instant, a gleam of recognition quivered over his face; but the exertion was +evidently painful, and he began to cry at the vainness of the effort to recall +her name. He hid his face upon her shoulder with the old affectionate trick of +manner. She put him gently away, and went into the house into her own little +bedroom. She locked the door, and did not reply at all to Michael’s calls +for her, hardly spoke to old Peggy, who tried to tempt her out to receive some +homely sympathy, and through the open easement there still came the idiotic +sound of “Willie, boo! Willie, boo!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap03"></a>CHAPTER III.</h2> + +<p> +After the stun of the blow came the realization of the consequences. Susan +would sit for hours trying patiently to recall and piece together fragments of +recollection and consciousness in her brother’s mind. She would let him +go and pursue some senseless bit of play, and wait until she could catch his +eye or his attention again, when she would resume her self-imposed task. +Michael complained that she never had a word for him, or a minute of time to +spend with him now; but she only said she must try, while there was yet a +chance, to bring back her brother’s lost wits. As for marriage in this +state of uncertainty, she had no heart to think of it. Then Michael stormed, +and absented himself for two or three days; but it was of no use. When he came +back, he saw that she had been crying till her eyes were all swollen up, and he +gathered from Peggy’s scoldings (which she did not spare him) that Susan +had eaten nothing since he went away. But she was as inflexible as ever. +</p> + +<p> +“Not just yet. Only not just yet. And don’t say again that I do not +love you,” said she, suddenly hiding herself in his arms. +</p> + +<p> +And so matters went on through August. The crop of oats was gathered in; the +wheat-field was not ready as yet, when one fine day Michael drove up in a +borrowed shandry, and offered to take Willie a ride. His manner, when Susan +asked him where he was going to, was rather confused; but the answer was +straight and clear enough. +</p> + +<p> +He had business in Ambleside. He would never lose sight of the lad, and have +him back safe and sound before dark. So Susan let him go. +</p> + +<p> +Before night they were at home again: Willie in high delight at a little +rattling paper windmill that Michael had bought for him in the street, and +striving to imitate this new sound with perpetual buzzings. Michael, too, +looked pleased. Susan knew the look, although afterwards she remembered that he +had tried to veil it from her, and had assumed a grave appearance of sorrow +whenever he caught her eye. He put up his horse; for, although he had three +miles further to go, the moon was up—the bonny harvest-moon—and he +did not care how late he had to drive on such a road by such a light. After the +supper which Susan had prepared for the travellers was over, Peggy went +up-stairs to see Willie safe in bed; for he had to have the same care taken of +him that a little child of four years old requires. +</p> + +<p> +Michael drew near to Susan. +</p> + +<p> +“Susan,” said he, “I took Will to see Dr. Preston, at Kendal. +He’s the first doctor in the county. I thought it were better for +us—for you—to know at once what chance there were for him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well!” said Susan, looking eagerly up. She saw the same strange +glance of satisfaction, the same instant change to apparent regret and pain. +“What did he say?” said she. “Speak! can’t you?” +</p> + +<p> +“He said he would never get better of his weakness.” +</p> + +<p> +“Never!” +</p> + +<p> +“No; never. It’s a long word, and hard to bear. And there’s +worse to come, dearest. The doctor thinks he will get badder from year to year. +And he said, if he was us—you—he would send him off in time to +Lancaster Asylum. They’ve ways there both of keeping such people in order +and making them happy. I only tell you what he said,” continued he, +seeing the gathering storm in her face. +</p> + +<p> +“There was no harm in his saying it,” she replied, with great +self-constraint, forcing herself to speak coldly instead of angrily. +“Folk is welcome to their opinions.” +</p> + +<p> +They sat silent for a minute or two, her breast heaving with suppressed +feeling. +</p> + +<p> +“He’s counted a very clever man,” said Michael at length. +</p> + +<p> +“He may be. He’s none of my clever men, nor am I going to be guided +by him, whatever he may think. And I don’t thank them that went and took +my poor lad to have such harsh notions formed about him. If I’d been +there, I could have called out the sense that is in him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well! I’ll not say more to-night, Susan. You’re not taking +it rightly, and I’d best be gone, and leave you to think it over. +I’ll not deny they are hard words to hear, but there’s sense in +them, as I take it; and I reckon you’ll have to come to ’em. +Anyhow, it’s a bad way of thanking me for my pains, and I don’t +take it well in you, Susan,” said he, getting up, as if offended. +</p> + +<p> +“Michael, I’m beside myself with sorrow. Don’t blame me if I +speak sharp. He and me is the only ones, you see. And mother did so charge me +to have a care of him! And this is what he’s come to, poor lile +chap!” She began to cry, and Michael to comfort her with caresses. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t,” said she. “It’s no use trying to make me +forget poor Willie is a natural. I could hate myself for being happy with you, +even for just a little minute. Go away, and leave me to face it out.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you’ll think it over, Susan, and remember what the doctor +says?” +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t forget,” said she. She meant she could not forget +what the doctor had said about the hopelessness of her brother’s case; +Michael had referred to the plan of sending Willie to an asylum, or madhouse, +as they were called in that day and place. The idea had been gathering force in +Michael’s mind for some time; he had talked it over with his father, and +secretly rejoiced over the possession of the farm and land which would then be +his in fact, if not in law, by right of his wife. He had always considered the +good penny her father could give her in his catalogue of Susan’s charms +and attractions. But of late he had grown to esteem her as the heiress of Yew +Nook. He, too, should have land like his brother—land to possess, to +cultivate, to make profit from, to bequeath. For some time he had wondered that +Susan had been so much absorbed in Willie’s present, that she had never +seemed to look forward to his future, state. Michael had long felt the boy to +be a trouble; but of late he had absolutely loathed him. His gibbering, his +uncouth gestures, his loose, shambling gait, all irritated Michael +inexpressibly. He did not come near the Yew Nook for a couple of days. He +thought that he would leave her time to become anxious to see him and +reconciled to his plan. They were strange lonely days to Susan. They were the +first she had spent face to face with the sorrows that had turned her from a +girl into a woman; for hitherto Michael had never let twenty-four hours pass by +without coming to see her since she had had the fever. Now that he was absent, +it seemed as though some cause of irritation was removed from Will, who was +much more gentle and tractable than he had been for many weeks. Susan thought +that she observed him making efforts at her bidding, and there was something +piteous in the way in which he crept up to her, and looked wistfully in her +face, as if asking her to restore him the faculties that he felt to be wanting. +</p> + +<p> +“I never will let thee go, lad. Never! There’s no knowing where +they would take thee to, or what they would do with thee. As it says in the +Bible, ‘Nought but death shall part thee and me!’” +</p> + +<p> +The country-side was full, in those days, of stories of the brutal treatment +offered to the insane; stories that were, in fact, but too well founded, and +the truth of one of which only would have been a sufficient reason for the +strong prejudice existing against all such places. Each succeeding hour that +Susan passed, alone, or with the poor affectionate lad for her sole companion, +served to deepen her solemn resolution never to part with him. So, when Michael +came, he was annoyed and surprised by the calm way in which she spoke, as if +following Dr. Preston’s advice was utterly and entirely out of the +question. He had expected nothing less than a consent, reluctant it might be, +but still a consent; and he was extremely irritated. He could have repressed +his anger, but he chose rather to give way to it; thinking that he could thus +best work upon Susan’s affection, so as to gain his point. But, somehow, +he over-reached himself; and now he was astonished in his turn at the passion +of indignation that she burst into. +</p> + +<p> +“Thou wilt not bide in the same house with him, say’st thou? +There’s no need for thy biding, as far as I can tell. There’s +solemn reason why I should bide with my own flesh and blood and keep to the +word I pledged my mother on her death-bed; but, as for thee, there’s no +tie that I know on to keep thee fro’ going to America or Botany Bay this +very night, if that were thy inclination. I will have no more of your threats +to make me send my bairn away. If thou marry me, thou’lt help me to take +charge of Willie. If thou doesn’t choose to marry me on those +terms—why, I can snap my fingers at thee, never fear. I’m not so +far gone in love as that. But I will not have thee, if thou say’st in +such a hectoring way that Willie must go out of the house—and the house +his own too—before thoul’t set foot in it. Willie bides here, and I +bide with him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thou hast may-be spoken a word too much,” said Michael, pale with +rage. “If I am free, as thou say’st, to go to Canada, or Botany +Bay, I reckon I’m free to live where I like, and that will not be with a +natural who may turn into a madman some day, for aught I know. Choose between +him and me, Susy, for I swear to thee, thou shan’t have both.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have chosen,” said Susan, now perfectly composed and still. +“Whatever comes of it, I bide with Willie.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well,” replied Michael, trying to assume an equal composure +of manner. “Then I’ll wish you a very good night.” He went +out of the house door, half-expecting to be called back again; but, instead, he +heard a hasty step inside, and a bolt drawn. +</p> + +<p> +“Whew!” said he to himself, “I think I must leave my lady +alone for a week or two, and give her time to come to her senses. She’ll +not find it so easy as she thinks to let me go.” +</p> + +<p> +So he went past the kitchen-window in nonchalant style, and was not seen again +at Yew Nook for some weeks. How did he pass the time? For the first day or two, +he was unusually cross with all things and people that came athwart him. Then +wheat-harvest began, and he was busy, and exultant about his heavy crop. Then a +man came from a distance to bid for the lease of his farm, which, by his +father’s advice, had been offered for sale, as he himself was so soon +likely to remove to the Yew Nook. He had so little idea that Susan really would +remain firm to her determination, that he at once began to haggle with the man +who came after his farm, showed him the crop just got in, and managed skilfully +enough to make a good bargain for himself. Of course, the bargain had to be +sealed at the public-house; and the companions he met with there soon became +friends enough to tempt him into Langdale, where again he met with Eleanor +Hebthwaite. +</p> + +<p> +How did Susan pass the time? For the first day or so, she was too angry and +offended to cry. She went about her household duties in a quick, sharp, +jerking, yet absent way; shrinking one moment from Will, overwhelming him with +remorseful caresses the next. The third day of Michael’s absence, she had +the relief of a good fit of crying; and after that, she grew softer and more +tender; she felt how harshly she had spoken to him, and remembered how angry +she had been. She made excuses for him. “It was no wonder,” she +said to herself, “that he had been vexed with her; and no wonder he would +not give in, when she had never tried to speak gently or to reason with him. +She was to blame, and she would tell him so, and tell him once again all that +her mother had bade her to be to Willie, and all the horrible stories she had +heard about madhouses, and he would be on her side at once.” +</p> + +<p> +And so she watched for his coming, intending to apologise as soon as ever she +saw him. She hurried over her household work, in order to sit quietly at her +sewing, and hear the first distant sound of his well-known step or whistle. But +even the sound of her flying needle seemed too loud—perhaps she was +losing an exquisite instant of anticipation; so she stopped sewing, and looked +longingly out through the geranium leaves, in order that her eye might catch +the first stir of the branches in the wood-path by which he generally came. Now +and then a bird might spring out of the covert; otherwise the leaves were +heavily still in the sultry weather of early autumn. Then she would take up her +sewing, and, with a spasm of resolution, she would determine that a certain +task should be fulfilled before she would again allow herself the poignant +luxury of expectation. Sick at heart was she when the evening closed in, and +the chances of that day diminished. Yet she stayed up longer than usual, +thinking that if he were coming—if he were only passing along the distant +road—the sight of a light in the window might encourage him to make his +appearance even at that late hour, while seeing the house all darkened and shut +up might quench any such intention. +</p> + +<p> +Very sick and weary at heart, she went to bed; too desolate and despairing to +cry, or make any moan. But in the morning hope came afresh. Another +day—another chance! And so it went on for weeks. Peggy understood her +young mistress’s sorrow full well, and respected it by her silence on the +subject. Willie seemed happier now that the irritation of Michael’s +presence was removed; for the poor idiot had a sort of antipathy to Michael, +which was a kind of heart’s echo to the repugnance in which the latter +held him. Altogether, just at this time, Willie was the happiest of the three. +</p> + +<p> +As Susan went into Coniston, to sell her butter, one Saturday, some +inconsiderate person told her that she had seen Michael Hurst the night before. +I said inconsiderate, but I might rather have said unobservant; for any one who +had spent half-an-hour in Susan Dixon’s company might have seen that she +disliked having any reference made to the subjects nearest her heart, were they +joyous or grievous. Now she went a little paler than usual (and she had never +recovered her colour since she had had the fever), and tried to keep silence. +But an irrepressible pang forced out the question— +</p> + +<p> +“Where?” +</p> + +<p> +“At Thomas Applethwaite’s, in Langdale. They had a kind of +harvest-home, and he were there among the young folk, and very thick wi’ +Nelly Hebthwaite, old Thomas’s niece. Thou’lt have to look after +him a bit, Susan!” +</p> + +<p> +She neither smiled nor sighed. The neighbour who had been speaking to her was +struck with the gray stillness of her face. Susan herself felt how well her +self-command was obeyed by every little muscle, and said to herself in her +Spartan manner, “I can bear it without either wincing or +blenching.” She went home early, at a tearing, passionate pace, trampling +and breaking through all obstacles of briar or bush. Willie was moping in her +absence—hanging listlessly on the farm-yard gate to watch for her. When +he saw her, he set up one of his strange, inarticulate cries, of which she was +now learning the meaning, and came towards her with his loose, galloping run, +head and limbs all shaking and wagging with pleasant excitement. Suddenly she +turned from him, and burst into tears. She sat down on a stone by the wayside, +not a hundred yards from home, and buried her face in her hands, and gave way +to a passion of pent-up sorrow; so terrible and full of agony were her low +cries, that the idiot stood by her, aghast and silent. All his joy gone for the +time, but not, like her joy, turned into ashes. Some thought struck him. Yes! +the sight of her woe made him think, great as the exertion was. He ran, and +stumbled, and shambled home, buzzing with his lips all the time. She never +missed him. He came back in a trice, bringing with him his cherished paper +windmill, bought on that fatal day when Michael had taken him into Kendal to +have his doom of perpetual idiocy pronounced. He thrust it into Susan’s +face, her hands, her lap, regardless of the injury his frail plaything thereby +received. He leapt before her to think how he had cured all heart-sorrow, +buzzing louder than ever. Susan looked up at him, and that glance of her sad +eyes sobered him. He began to whimper, he knew not why: and she now, comforter +in her turn, tried to soothe him by twirling his windmill. But it was broken; +it made no noise; it would not go round. This seemed to afflict Susan more than +him. She tried to make it right, although she saw the task was hopeless; and +while she did so, the tears rained down unheeded from her bent head on the +paper toy. +</p> + +<p> +“It won’t do,” said she, at last. “It will never do +again.” And, somehow, she took the accident and her words as omens of the +love that was broken, and that she feared could never be pieced together more. +She rose up and took Willie’s hand, and the two went slowly into the +house. +</p> + +<p> +To her surprise, Michael Hurst sat in the house-place. House-place is a sort of +better kitchen, where no cookery is done, but which is reserved for state +occasions. Michael had gone in there because he was accompanied by his only +sister, a woman older than himself, who was well married beyond Keswick, and +who now came for the first time to make acquaintance with Susan. Michael had +primed his sister with his wishes regarding Will, and the position in which he +stood with Susan; and arriving at Yew Nook in the absence of the latter, he had +not scrupled to conduct his sister into the guest-room, as he held Mrs. +Gale’s worldly position in respect and admiration, and therefore wished +her to be favourably impressed with all the signs of property which he was +beginning to consider as Susan’s greatest charms. He had secretly said to +himself, that if Eleanor Hebthwaite and Susan Dixon were equal in point of +riches, he would sooner have Eleanor by far. He had begun to consider Susan as +a termagant; and when he thought of his intercourse with her, recollections of +her somewhat warm and hasty temper came far more readily to his mind than any +remembrance of her generous, loving nature. +</p> + +<p> +And now she stood face to face with him; her eyes tear-swollen, her garments +dusty, and here and there torn in consequence of her rapid progress through the +bushy by-paths. She did not make a favourable impression on the well-clad Mrs. +Gale, dressed in her best silk gown, and therefore unusually susceptible to the +appearance of another. Nor were Susan’s manners gracious or cordial. How +could they be, when she remembered what had passed between Michael and herself +the last time they met? For her penitence had faded away under the daily +disappointment of these last weary weeks. +</p> + +<p> +But she was hospitable in substance. She bade Peggy hurry on the kettle, and +busied herself among the tea-cups, thankful that the presence of Mrs. Gale, as +a stranger, would prevent the immediate recurrence to the one subject which she +felt must be present in Michael’s mind as well as in her own. But Mrs. +Gale was withheld by no such feelings of delicacy. She had come ready-primed +with the case, and had undertaken to bring the girl to reason. There was no +time to be lost. It had been prearranged between the brother and sister that he +was to stroll out into the farm-yard before his sister introduced the subject; +but she was so confident in the success of her arguments, that she must needs +have the triumph of a victory as soon as possible; and, accordingly, she +brought a hail-storm of good reasons to bear upon Susan. Susan did not reply +for a long time; she was so indignant at this intermeddling of a stranger in +the deep family sorrow and shame. Mrs. Gale thought she was gaining the day, +and urged her arguments more pitilessly. Even Michael winced for Susan, and +wondered at her silence. He shrank out of sight, and into the shadow, hoping +that his sister might prevail, but annoyed at the hard way in which she kept +putting the case. +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly Susan turned round from the occupation she had pretended to be engaged +in, and said to him in a low voice, which yet not only vibrated itself, but +made its hearers thrill through all their obtuseness: +</p> + +<p> +“Michael Hurst! does your sister speak truth, think you?” +</p> + +<p> +Both women looked at him for his answer; Mrs. Gale without anxiety, for had she +not said the very words they had spoken together before? had she not used the +very arguments that he himself had suggested? Susan, on the contrary, looked to +his answer as settling her doom for life; and in the gloom of her eyes you +might have read more despair than hope. +</p> + +<p> +He shuffled his position. He shuffled in his words. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it you ask? My sister has said many things.” +</p> + +<p> +“I ask you,” said Susan, trying to give a crystal clearness both to +her expressions and her pronunciation, “if, knowing as you do how Will is +afflicted, you will help me to take that charge of him which I promised my +mother on her death-bed that I would do; and which means, that I shall keep him +always with me, and do all in my power to make his life happy. If you will do +this, I will be your wife; if not, I remain unwed.” +</p> + +<p> +“But he may get dangerous; he can be but a trouble; his being here is a +pain to you, Susan, not a pleasure.” +</p> + +<p> +“I ask you for either yes or no,” said she, a little contempt at +his evading her question mingling with her tone. He perceived it, and it +nettled him. +</p> + +<p> +“And I have told you. I answered your question the last time I was here. +I said I would ne’er keep house with an idiot; no more I will. So now +you’ve gotten your answer.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have,” said Susan. And she sighed deeply. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, now,” said Mrs. Gale, encouraged by the sigh; “one +would think you don’t love Michael, Susan, to be so stubborn in yielding +to what I’m sure would be best for the lad.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! she does not care for me,” said Michael. “I don’t +believe she ever did.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t I? Haven’t I?” asked Susan, her eyes blazing out +fire. She left the room directly, and sent Peggy in to make the tea; and +catching at Will, who was lounging about in the kitchen, she went up-stairs +with him and bolted herself in, straining the boy to her heart, and keeping +almost breathless, lest any noise she made might cause him to break out into +the howls and sounds which she could not bear that those below should hear. +</p> + +<p> +A knock at the door. It was Peggy. +</p> + +<p> +“He wants for to see you, to wish you good-bye.” +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot come. Oh, Peggy, send them away.” +</p> + +<p> +It was her only cry for sympathy; and the old servant understood it. She sent +them away, somehow; not politely, as I have been given to understand. +</p> + +<p> +“Good go with them,” said Peggy, as she grimly watched their +retreating figures. “We’re rid of bad rubbish, anyhow.” And +she turned into the house, with the intention of making ready some refreshment +for Susan, after her hard day at the market, and her harder evening. But in the +kitchen, to which she passed through the empty house-place, making a face of +contemptuous dislike at the used tea-cups and fragments of a meal yet standing +there, she found Susan, with her sleeves tucked up and her working apron on, +busied in preparing to make clap-bread, one of the hardest and hottest domestic +tasks of a Daleswoman. She looked up, and first met, and then avoided +Peggy’s eye; it was too full of sympathy. Her own cheeks were flushed, +and her own eyes were dry and burning. +</p> + +<p> +“Where’s the board, Peggy? We need clap-bread; and, I reckon, +I’ve time to get through with it to-night.” Her voice had a sharp, +dry tone in it, and her motions a jerking angularity about them. +</p> + +<p> +Peggy said nothing, but fetched her all that she needed. Susan beat her cakes +thin with vehement force. As she stooped over them, regardless even of the task +in which she seemed so much occupied, she was surprised by a touch on her mouth +of something—what she did not see at first. It was a cup of tea, +delicately sweetened and cooled, and held to her lips, when exactly ready, by +the faithful old woman. Susan held it off a hand’s breath, and looked +into Peggy’s eyes, while her own filled with the strange relief of tears. +</p> + +<p> +“Lass!” said Peggy, solemnly, “thou hast done well. It is not +long to bide, and then the end will come.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you are very old, Peggy,” said Susan, quivering. +</p> + +<p> +“It is but a day sin’ I were young,” replied Peggy; but she +stopped the conversation by again pushing the cup with gentle force to +Susan’s dry and thirsty lips. When she had drunken she fell again to her +labour, Peggy heating the hearth, and doing all that she knew would be +required, but never speaking another word. Willie basked close to the fire, +enjoying the animal luxury of warmth, for the autumn evenings were beginning to +be chilly. It was one o’clock before they thought of going to bed on that +memorable night. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap04"></a>CHAPTER IV.</h2> + +<p> +The vehemence with which Susan Dixon threw herself into occupation could not +last for ever. Times of languor and remembrance would come—times when she +recurred with a passionate yearning to bygone days, the recollection of which +was so vivid and delicious, that it seemed as though it were the reality, and +the present bleak bareness the dream. She smiled anew at the magical sweetness +of some touch or tone which in memory she felt and heard, and drank the +delicious cup of poison, although at the very time she knew what the +consequences of racking pain would be. +</p> + +<p> +“This time, last year,” thought she, “we went nutting +together—this very day last year; just such a day as to-day. Purple and +gold were the lights on the hills; the leaves were just turning brown; here and +there on the sunny slopes the stubble-fields looked tawny; down in a cleft of +yon purple slate-rock the beck fell like a silver glancing thread; all just as +it is to-day. And he climbed the slender, swaying nut-trees, and bent the +branches for me to gather; or made a passage through the hazel copses, from +time to time claiming a toll. Who could have thought he loved me so +little?—who?—who?” +</p> + +<p> +Or, as the evening closed in, she would allow herself to imagine that she heard +his coming step, just that she might recall time feeling of exquisite delight +which had passed by without the due and passionate relish at the time. Then she +would wonder how she could have had strength, the cruel, self-piercing +strength, to say what she had done; to stab himself with that stern resolution, +of which the sear would remain till her dying day. It might have been right; +but, as she sickened, she wished she had not instinctively chosen the right. +How luxurious a life haunted by no stern sense of duty must be! And many led +this kind of life; why could not she? O, for one hour again of his sweet +company! If he came now, she would agree to whatever he proposed. +</p> + +<p> +It was a fever of the mind. She passed through it, and came out healthy, if +weak. She was capable once more of taking pleasure in following an unseen guide +through briar and brake. She returned with tenfold affection to her protecting +care of Willie. She acknowledged to herself that he was to be her all-in-all in +life. She made him her constant companion. For his sake, as the real owner of +Yew Nook, and she as his steward and guardian, she began that course of careful +saving, and that love of acquisition, which afterwards gained for her the +reputation of being miserly. She still thought that he might regain a scanty +portion of sense—enough to require some simple pleasures and excitement, +which would cost money. And money should not be wanting. Peggy rather assisted +her in the formation of her parsimonious habits than otherwise; economy was the +order of the district, and a certain degree of respectable avarice the +characteristic of her age. Only Willie was never stinted nor hindered of +anything that the two women thought could give him pleasure, for want of money. +</p> + +<p> +There was one gratification which Susan felt was needed for the restoration of +her mind to its more healthy state, after she had passed through the whirling +fever, when duty was as nothing, and anarchy reigned; a gratification that, +somehow, was to be her last burst of unreasonableness; of which she knew and +recognised pain as the sure consequence. She must see him once +more,—herself unseen. +</p> + +<p> +The week before the Christmas of this memorable year, she went out in the dusk +of the early winter evening, wrapped close in shawl and cloak. She wore her +dark shawl under her cloak, putting it over her head in lieu of a bonnet; for +she knew that she might have to wait long in concealment. Then she tramped over +the wet fell-path, shut in by misty rain for miles and miles, till she came to +the place where he was lodging; a farm-house in Langdale, with a steep, stony +lane leading up to it: this lane was entered by a gate out of the main road, +and by the gate were a few bushes—thorns; but of them the leaves had +fallen, and they offered no concealment: an old wreck of a yew-tree grew among +them, however, and underneath that Susan cowered down, shrouding her face, of +which the colour might betray her, with a corner of her shawl. Long did she +wait; cold and cramped she became, too damp and stiff to change her posture +readily. And after all, he might never come! But, she would wait till daylight, +if need were; and she pulled out a crust, with which she had providently +supplied herself. The rain had ceased,—a dull, still, brooding weather +had succeeded; it was a night to hear distant sounds. She heard horses’ +hoofs striking and splashing in the stones, and in the pools of the road at her +back. Two horses; not well-ridden, or evenly guided, as she could tell. +</p> + +<p> +Michael Hurst and a companion drew near: not tipsy, but not sober. They stopped +at the gate to bid each other a maudlin farewell. Michael stooped forward to +catch the latch with the hook of the stick which he carried; he dropped the +stick, and it fell with one end close to Susan,—indeed, with the +slightest change of posture she could have opened the gate for him. He swore a +great oath, and struck his horse with his closed fist, as if that animal had +been to blame; then he dismounted, opened the gate, and fumbled about for his +stick. When he had found it (Susan had touched the other end) his first use of +it was to flog his horse well, and she had much ado to avoid its kicks and +plunges. Then, still swearing, he staggered up the lane, for it was evident he +was not sober enough to remount. +</p> + +<p> +By daylight Susan was back and at her daily labours at Yew Nook. When the +spring came, Michael Hurst was married to Eleanor Hebthwaite. Others, too, were +married, and christenings made their firesides merry and glad; or they +travelled, and came back after long years with many wondrous tales. More +rarely, perhaps, a Dalesman changed his dwelling. But to all households more +change came than to Yew Nook. There the seasons came round with monotonous +sameness; or, if they brought mutation, it was of a slow, and decaying, and +depressing kind. Old Peggy died. Her silent sympathy, concealed under much +roughness, was a loss to Susan Dixon. Susan was not yet thirty when this +happened, but she looked a middle-aged, not to say an elderly woman. People +affirmed that she had never recovered her complexion since that fever, a dozen +years ago, which killed her father, and left Will Dixon an idiot. But besides +her gray sallowness, the lines in her face were strong, and deep, and hard. The +movements of her eyeballs were slow and heavy; the wrinkles at the corners of +her mouth and eyes were planted firm and sure; not an ounce of unnecessary +flesh was there on her bones—every muscle started strong and ready for +use. She needed all this bodily strength, to a degree that no human creature, +now Peggy was dead, knew of: for Willie had grown up large and strong in body, +and, in general, docile enough in mind; but, every now and then, he became +first moody, and then violent. These paroxysms lasted but a day or two; and it +was Susan’s anxious care to keep their very existence hidden and unknown. +It is true, that occasional passers-by on that lonely road heard sounds at +night of knocking about of furniture, blows, and cries, as of some tearing +demon within the solitary farm-house; but these fits of violence usually +occurred in the night; and whatever had been their consequence, Susan had +tidied and redded up all signs of aught unusual before the morning. For, above +all, she dreaded lest some one might find out in what danger and peril she +occasionally was, and might assume a right to take away her brother from her +care. The one idea of taking charge of him had deepened and deepened with +years. It was graven into her mind as the object for which she lived. The +sacrifice she had made for this object only made it more precious to her. +Besides, she separated the idea of the docile, affectionate, loutish, indolent +Will, and kept it distinct from the terror which the demon that occasionally +possessed him inspired her with. The one was her flesh and her blood—the +child of her dead mother; the other was some fiend who came to torture and +convulse the creature she so loved. She believed that she fought her +brother’s battle in holding down those tearing hands, in binding whenever +she could those uplifted restless arms prompt and prone to do mischief. All the +time she subdued him with her cunning or her strength, she spoke to him in +pitying murmurs, or abused the third person, the fiendish enemy, in no +unmeasured tones. Towards morning the paroxysm was exhausted, and he would fall +asleep, perhaps only to waken with evil and renewed vigour. But when he was +laid down, she would sally out to taste the fresh air, and to work off her wild +sorrow in cries and mutterings to herself. The early labourers saw her gestures +at a distance, and thought her as crazed as the idiot-brother who made the +neighbourhood a haunted place. But did any chance person call at Yew Nook later +on in the day, he would find Susan Dixon cold, calm, collected; her manner +curt, her wits keen. +</p> + +<p> +Once this fit of violence lasted longer than usual. Susan’s strength both +of mind and body was nearly worn out; she wrestled in prayer that somehow it +might end before she, too, was driven mad; or, worse, might be obliged to give +up life’s aim, and consign Willie to a madhouse. From that moment of +prayer (as she afterwards superstitiously thought) Willie calmed—and then +he drooped—and then he sank—and, last of all, he died in reality +from physical exhaustion. +</p> + +<p> +But he was so gentle and tender as he lay on his dying bed; such strange, +child-like gleams of returning intelligence came over his face, long after the +power to make his dull, inarticulate sounds had departed, that Susan was +attracted to him by a stronger tie than she had ever felt before. It was +something to have even an idiot loving her with dumb, wistful, animal +affection; something to have any creature looking at her with such beseeching +eyes, imploring protection from the insidious enemy stealing on. And yet she +knew that to him death was no enemy, but a true friend, restoring light and +health to his poor clouded mind. It was to her that death was an enemy; to her, +the survivor, when Willie died; there was no one to love her. +</p> + +<p> +Worse doom still, there was no one left on earth for her to love. +</p> + +<p> +You now know why no wandering tourist could persuade her to receive him as a +lodger; why no tired traveller could melt her heart to afford him rest and +refreshment; why long habits of seclusion had given her a moroseness of manner, +and how care for the interests of another had rendered her keen and miserly. +</p> + +<p> +But there was a third act in the drama of her life. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap05"></a>CHAPTER V.</h2> + +<p> +In spite of Peggy’s prophecy that Susan’s life should not seem +long, it did seem wearisome and endless, as the years slowly uncoiled their +monotonous circles. To be sure, she might have made change for herself, but she +did not care to do it. It was, indeed, more than “not caring,” +which merely implies a certain degree of <i>vis inertiæ</i> to be subdued +before an object can be attained, and that the object itself does not seem to +be of sufficient importance to call out the requisite energy. On the contrary, +Susan exerted herself to avoid change and variety. She had a morbid dread of +new faces, which originated in her desire to keep poor dead Willie’s +state a profound secret. She had a contempt for new customs; and, indeed, her +old ways prospered so well under her active hand and vigilant eye, that it was +difficult to know how they could be improved upon. She was regularly present in +Coniston market with the best butter and the earliest chickens of the season. +Those were the common farm produce that every farmer’s wife about had to +sell; but Susan, after she had disposed of the more feminine articles, turned +to on the man’s side. A better judge of a horse or cow there was not in +all the country round. Yorkshire itself might have attempted to jockey her, and +would have failed. Her corn was sound and clean; her potatoes well preserved to +the latest spring. People began to talk of the hoards of money Susan Dixon must +have laid up somewhere; and one young ne’er-do-weel of a farmer’s +son undertook to make love to the woman of forty, who looked fifty-five, if a +day. He made up to her by opening a gate on the road-path home, as she was +riding on a bare-backed horse, her purchase not an hour ago. She was off before +him, refusing his civility; but the remounting was not so easy, and rather than +fail she did not choose to attempt it. She walked, and he walked alongside, +improving his opportunity, which, as he vainly thought, had been consciously +granted to him. As they drew near Yew Nook, he ventured on some expression of a +wish to keep company with her. His words were vague and clumsily arranged. +Susan turned round and coolly asked him to explain himself, he took courage, as +he thought of her reputed wealth, and expressed his wishes this second time +pretty plainly. To his surprise, the reply she made was in a series of smart +strokes across his shoulders, administered through the medium of a supple +hazel-switch. +</p> + +<p> +“Take that!” said she, almost breathless, “to teach thee how +thou darest make a fool of an honest woman old enough to be thy mother. If thou +com’st a step nearer the house, there’s a good horse-pool, and +there’s two stout fellows who’ll like no better fun than ducking +thee. Be off wi’ thee!” +</p> + +<p> +And she strode into her own premises, never looking round to see whether he +obeyed her injunction or not. +</p> + +<p> +Sometimes three or four years would pass over without her hearing Michael +Hurst’s name mentioned. She used to wonder at such times whether he were +dead or alive. She would sit for hours by the dying embers of her fire on a +winter’s evening, trying to recall the scenes of her youth; trying to +bring up living pictures of the faces she had then known—Michael’s +most especially. She thought it was possible, so long had been the lapse of +years, that she might now pass by him in the street unknowing and unknown. His +outward form she might not recognize, but himself she should feel in the thrill +of her whole being. He could not pass her unawares. +</p> + +<p> +What little she did hear about him, all testified a downward tendency. He +drank—not at stated times when there was no other work to be done, but +continually, whether it was seed-time or harvest. His children were all ill at +the same time; then one died, while the others recovered, but were poor sickly +things. No one dared to give Susan any direct intelligence of her former lover; +many avoided all mention of his name in her presence; but a few spoke out +either in indifference to, or ignorance of, those bygone days. Susan heard +every word, every whisper, every sound that related to him. But her eye never +changed, nor did a muscle of her face move. +</p> + +<p> +Late one November night she sat over her fire; not a human being besides +herself in the house; none but she had ever slept there since Willie’s +death. The farm-labourers had foddered the cattle and gone home hours before. +There were crickets chirping all round the warm hearth-stones; there was the +clock ticking with the peculiar beat Susan had known from her childhood, and +which then and ever since she had oddly associated within the idea of a mother +and child talking together, one loud tick, and quick—a feeble, sharp one +following. +</p> + +<p> +The day had been keen, and piercingly cold. The whole lift of heaven seemed a +dome of iron. Black and frost-bound was the earth under the cruel east wind. +Now the wind had dropped, and as the darkness had gathered in, the weather-wise +old labourers prophesied snow. The sounds in the air arose again, as Susan sat +still and silent. They were of a different character to what they had been +during the prevalence of the east wind. Then they had been shrill and piping; +now they were like low distant growling; not unmusical, but strangely +threatening. Susan went to the window, and drew aside the little curtain. The +whole world was white—the air was blinded with the swift and heavy fall +of snow. At present it came down straight, but Susan knew those distant sounds +in the hollows and gulleys of the hills portended a driving wind and a more +cruel storm. She thought of her sheep; were they all folded? the new-born calf, +was it bedded well? Before the drifts were formed too deep for her to pass in +and out—and by the morning she judged that they would be six or seven +feet deep—she would go out and see after the comfort of her beasts. She +took a lantern, and tied a shawl over her head, and went out into the open air. +She had tenderly provided for all her animals, and was returning, when, borne +on the blast as if some spirit-cry—for it seemed to come rather down from +the skies than from any creature standing on earth’s level—she +heard a voice of agony; she could not distinguish words; it seemed rather as if +some bird of prey was being caught in the whirl of the icy wind, and torn and +tortured by its violence. Again up high above! Susan put down her lantern, and +shouted loud in return; it was an instinct, for if the creature were not human, +which she had doubted but a moment before, what good could her responding cry +do? And her cry was seized on by the tyrannous wind, and borne farther away in +the opposite direction to that from which the call of agony had proceeded. +Again she listened; no sound: then again it rang through space; and this time +she was sure it was human. She turned into the house, and heaped turf and wood +on the fire, which, careless of her own sensations, she had allowed to fade and +almost die out. She put a new candle in her lantern; she changed her shawl for +a maud, and leaving the door on latch, she sallied out. Just at the moment when +her ear first encountered the weird noises of the storm, on issuing forth into +the open air, she thought she heard the words, “O God! O help!” +They were a guide to her, if words they were, for they came straight from a +rock not a quarter of a mile from Yew Nook, but only to be reached, on account +of its precipitous character, by a round-about path. Thither she steered, +defying wind and snow; guided by here a thorn-tree, there an old, doddered oak, +which had not quite lest their identity under the whelming mask of snow. Now +and then she stopped to listen; but never a word or sound heard she, till right +from where the copse-wood grew thick and tangled at the base of the rock, round +which she was winding, she heard a moan. Into the brake—all snow in +appearance—almost a plain of snow looked on from the little eminence +where she stood—she plunged, breaking down the bush, stumbling, bruising +herself, fighting her way; her lantern held between her teeth, and she herself +using head as well as hands to butt away a passage, at whatever cost of bodily +injury. As she climbed or staggered, owing to the unevenness of the +snow-covered ground, where the briars and weeds of years were tangled and +matted together, her foot felt something strangely soft and yielding. She +lowered her lantern; there lay a man, prone on his face, nearly covered by the +fast-falling flakes; he must have fallen from the rock above, as, not knowing +of the circuitous path, he had tried to descend its steep, slippery face. Who +could tell? it was no time for thinking. Susan lifted him up with her wiry +strength; he gave no help—no sign of life; but for all that he might be +alive: he was still warm; she tied her maud round him; she fastened the lantern +to her apron-string; she held him tight: half-carrying, +half-dragging—what did a few bruises signify to him, compared to dear +life, to precious life! She got him through the brake, and down the path. +There, for an instant, she stopped to take breath; but, as if stung by the +Furies, she pushed on again with almost superhuman strength. Clasping him round +the waist, and leaning his dead weight against the lintel of the door, she +tried to undo the latch; but now, just at this moment, a trembling faintness +came over her, and a fearful dread took possession of her—that here, on +the very threshold of her home, she might be found dead, and buried under the +snow, when the farm-servants came in the morning. This terror stirred her up to +one more effort. Then she and her companion were in the warmth of the quiet +haven of that kitchen; she laid him on the settle, and sank on the floor by his +side. How long she remained in this swoon she could not tell; not very long she +judged by the fire, which was still red and sullenly glowing when she came to +herself. She lighted the candle, and bent over her late burden to ascertain if +indeed he were dead. She stood long gazing. The man lay dead. There could be no +doubt about it. His filmy eyes glared at her, unshut. But Susan was not one to +be affrighted by the stony aspect of death. It was not that; it was the bitter, +woeful recognition of Michael Hurst! +</p> + +<p> +She was convinced he was dead; but after a while she refused to believe in her +conviction. She stripped off his wet outer-garments with trembling, hurried +hands. She brought a blanket down from her own bed; she made up the fire. She +swathed him in fresh, warm wrappings, and laid him on the flags before the +fire, sitting herself at his head, and holding it in her lap, while she +tenderly wiped his loose, wet hair, curly still, although its colour had +changed from nut-brown to iron-gray since she had seen it last. From time to +time she bent over the face afresh, sick, and fain to believe that the flicker +of the fire-light was some slight convulsive motion. But the dim, staring eyes +struck chill to her heart. At last she ceased her delicate, busy cares: but she +still held the head softly, as if caressing it. She thought over all the +possibilities and chances in the mingled yarn of their lives that might, by so +slight a turn, have ended far otherwise. If her mother’s cold had been +early tended, so that the responsibility as to her brother’s weal or woe +had not fallen upon her; if the fever had not taken such rough, cruel hold on +Will; nay, if Mrs. Gale, that hard, worldly sister, had not accompanied him on +his last visit to Yew Nook—his very last before this fatal, stormy might; +if she had heard his cry,—cry uttered by these pale, dead lips with such +wild, despairing agony, not yet three hours ago!—O! if she had but heard +it sooner, he might have been saved before that blind, false step had +precipitated him down the rock! In going over this weary chain of unrealized +possibilities, Susan learnt the force of Peggy’s words. Life was short, +looking back upon it. It seemed but yesterday since all the love of her being +had been poured out, and run to waste. The intervening years—the long +monotonous years that had turned her into an old woman before her +time—were but a dream. +</p> + +<p> +The labourers coming in the dawn of the winter’s day were surprised to +see the fire-light through the low kitchen-window. They knocked, and hearing a +moaning answer, they entered, fearing that something had befallen their +mistress. For all explanation they got these words +</p> + +<p> +“It is Michael Hurst. He was belated, and fell down the Raven’s +Crag. Where does Eleanor, his wife, live?” +</p> + +<p> +How Michael Hurst got to Yew Nook no one but Susan ever knew. They thought he +had dragged himself there, with some sore internal bruise sapping away his +minuted life. They could not have believed the superhuman exertion which had +first sought him out, and then dragged him hither. Only Susan knew of that. +</p> + +<p> +She gave him into the charge of her servants, and went out and saddled her +horse. Where the wind had drifted the snow on one side, and the road was clear +and bare, she rode, and rode fast; where the soft, deceitful heaps were massed +up, she dismounted and led her steed, plunging in deep, with fierce energy, the +pain at her heart urging her onwards with a sharp, digging spur. +</p> + +<p> +The gray, solemn, winter’s noon was more night-like than the depth of +summer’s night; dim-purple brooded the low skies over the white earth, as +Susan rode up to what had been Michael Hurst’s abode while living. It was +a small farm-house carelessly kept outside, slatternly tended within. The +pretty Nelly Hebthwaite was pretty still; her delicate face had never suffered +from any long-enduring feeling. If anything, its expression was that of +plaintive sorrow; but the soft, light hair had scarcely a tinge of gray; the +wood-rose tint of complexion yet remained, if not so brilliant as in youth; the +straight nose, the small mouth were untouched by time. Susan felt the contrast +even at that moment. She knew that her own skin was weather-beaten, furrowed, +brown,—that her teeth were gone, and her hair gray and ragged. And yet +she was not two years older than Nelly,—she had not been, in youth, when +she took account of these things. Nelly stood wondering at the strange-enough +horse-woman, who stopped and panted at the door, holding her horse’s +bridle, and refusing to enter. +</p> + +<p> +“Where is Michael Hurst?” asked Susan, at last. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I can’t rightly say. He should have been at home last night, +but he was off, seeing after a public-house to be let at Ulverstone, for our +farm does not answer, and we were thinking—” +</p> + +<p> +“He did not come home last night?” said Susan, cutting short the +story, and half-affirming, half-questioning, by way of letting in a ray of the +awful light before she let it full in, in its consuming wrath. +</p> + +<p> +“No! he’ll be stopping somewhere out Ulverstone ways. I’m +sure we’ve need of him at home, for I’ve no one but lile Tommy to +help me tend the beasts. Things have not gone well with us, and we don’t +keep a servant now. But you’re trembling all over, ma’am. +You’d better come in, and take something warm, while your horse rests. +That’s the stable-door, to your left.” +</p> + +<p> +Susan took her horse there; loosened his girths, and rubbed him down with a +wisp of straw. Then she hooked about her for hay; but the place was bare of +feed, and smelt damp and unused. She went to the house, thankful for the +respite, and got some clap-bread, which she mashed up in a pailful of lukewarm +water. Every moment was a respite, and yet every moment made her dread the more +the task that lay before her. It would be longer than she thought at first. She +took the saddle off, and hung about her horse, which seemed, somehow, more like +a friend than anything else in the world. She laid her cheek against its neck, +and rested there, before returning to the house for the last time. +</p> + +<p> +Eleanor had brought down one of her own gowns, which hung on a chair against +the fire, and had made her unknown visitor a cup of hot tea. Susan could hardly +bear all these little attentions: they choked her, and yet she was so wet, so +weak with fatigue and excitement, that she could neither resist by voice or by +action. Two children stood awkwardly about, puzzled at the scene, and even +Eleanor began to wish for some explanation of who her strange visitor was. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve, maybe, heard him speaking of me? I’m called Susan +Dixon.” +</p> + +<p> +Nelly coloured, and avoided meeting Susan’s eye. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve heard other folk speak of you. He never named your +name.” +</p> + +<p> +This respect of silence came like balm to Susan: balm not felt or heeded at the +time it was applied, but very grateful in its effects for all that. +</p> + +<p> +“He is at my house,” continued Susan, determined not to stop or +quaver in the operation—the pain which must be inflicted. +</p> + +<p> +“At your house? Yew Nook?” questioned Eleanor, surprised. +“How came he there?”—half jealously. “Did he take +shelter from the coming storm? Tell me,—there is something—tell me, +woman!” +</p> + +<p> +“He took no shelter. Would to God he had!” +</p> + +<p> +“O! would to God! would to God!” shrieked out Eleanor, learning all +from the woful import of those dreary eyes. Her cries thrilled through the +house; the children’s piping wailings and passionate cries on +“Daddy! Daddy!” pierced into Susan’s very marrow. But she +remained as still and tearless as the great round face upon the clock. +</p> + +<p> +At last, in a lull of crying, she said,—not exactly questioning, but as +if partly to herself— +</p> + +<p> +“You loved him, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Loved him! he was my husband! He was the father of three bonny bairns +that lie dead in Grasmere churchyard. I wish you’d go, Susan Dixon, and +let me weep without your watching me! I wish you’d never come near the +place.” +</p> + +<p> +“Alas! alas! it would not have brought him to life. I would have laid +down my own to save his. My life has been so very sad! No one would have cared +if I had died. Alas! alas!” +</p> + +<p> +The tone in which she said this was so utterly mournful and despairing that it +awed Nelly into quiet for a time. But by-and-by she said, “I would not +turn a dog out to do it harm; but the night is clear, and Tommy shall guide you +to the Red Cow. But, oh, I want to be alone! If you’ll come back +to-morrow, I’ll be better, and I’ll hear all, and thank you for +every kindness you have shown him,—and I do believe you’ve showed +him kindness,—though I don’t know why.” +</p> + +<p> +Susan moved heavily and strangely. +</p> + +<p> +She said something—her words came thick and unintelligible. She had had a +paralytic stroke since she had last spoken. She could not go, even if she +would. Nor did Eleanor, when she became aware of the state of the case, wish +her to leave. She had her laid on her own bed, and weeping silently all the +while for her last husband, she nursed Susan like a sister. She did not know +what her guest’s worldly position might be; and she might never be +repaid. But she sold many a little trifle to purchase such small comforts as +Susan needed. Susan, lying still and motionless, learnt much. It was not a +severe stroke; it might be the forerunner of others yet to come, but at some +distance of time. But for the present she recovered, and regained much of her +former health. On her sick-bed she matured her plans. When she returned to Yew +Nook, she took Michael Hurst’s widow and children with her to live there, +and fill up the haunted hearth with living forms that should banish the ghosts. +</p> + +<p> +And so it fell out that the latter days of Susan Dixon’s life were better +than the former. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div style='display:block;margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HALF A LIFE-TIME AGO ***</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0;'>This file should be named 2547-h.htm or 2547-h.zip</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0;'>This and all associated files of various formats will be found in https://www.gutenberg.org/2/5/4/2547/</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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