Cranford by Elizabeth Gaskell
‘Thank you, sir. But I don’t know them, and I don’t think I want to know them.’
‘What did you ask all those questions for, then?’ said he, looking quickly up at me. He had no notion of doing or saying things without a purpose. I did not answer, so he continued, – ‘Make up your mind, and go off and see what this farmer-minister is like, and come back and tell me – I should like to hear.’
I was so in the habit of yielding to his authority, or influence, that I never thought of resisting, but went on my errand, though I remember feeling as if I would rather have had my head cut off. The landlord, who had evidently taken an interest in the event of our discussion in a way that country landlords have, accompanied me to the house-door, and gave me repeated directions, as if I was likely to miss my way in two hundred yards. But I listened to him, for I was glad of the delay, to screw up my courage for the effort of facing unknown people and introducing myself. I went along the lane, I recollect, switching at all the taller roadside weeds, till, after a turn or two, I found myself close in front of the Hope Farm. There was a garden between the house and the shady, grassy lane; I afterwards found that this garden was called the court; perhaps because there was a low wall round it, with an iron railing on the top of the wall, and two great gates between pillars crowned with stone balls for a state entrance to the flagged path leading up to the front door. It was not the habit of the place to go in either by these great gates or by the front door; the gates, indeed, were locked, as I found, though the door stood wide open. I had to go round by a side-path lightly worn on a broad grassy way, which led past the court-wall, past a horse-mount, half covered with stone-crop and the little wild yellow fumitory, to another door – ‘the curate’, as I found it was termed by the master of the house, while the front door, ‘handsome and all for show,’ was termed the ‘rector’. I knocked with my hand upon the ‘curate’ door; a tall girl, about my own age, as I thought, came and opened it, and stood there silent, waiting to know my errand. I see her now – cousin Phillis. The westering sun shone full upon her, and made a slanting stream of light into the room within. She was dressed in dark blue cotton of some kind; up to her throat, down to her wrists, with a little frill of the same wherever it touched her white skin. And such a white skin as it was! I have never seen the like. She had light hair, nearer yellow than any other colour. She looked me steadily in the face with large, quiet eyes, wondering, but untroubled by the sight of a stranger. I thought it odd that so old, so full-grown as she was, she should wear a pinafore over her gown.
Before I had quite made up my mind what to say in reply to her mute inquiry of what I wanted there, a woman’s voice called out, ‘Who is it, Phillis? If it is any one for butter-milk send them round to the back-door.’
I thought I could rather speak to the owner of that voice than to the girl before me; so I passed her, and stood at the entrance of a room, hat in hand, for this side-door opened straight into the hall or house-place where the family sate when work was done. There was a brisk little woman of forty or so ironing some huge muslin cravats under the light of a long vine-shaded casement window. She looked at me distrustfully till I began to speak. ‘My name is Paul Manning,’ said I; but I saw she did not know the name. ‘My mother’s name was Moneypenny,’ said I, – ‘Margaret Moneypenny.’
‘And she married one John Manning, of Birmingham,’ said Mrs Holman, eagerly. ‘And you’ll be her son. Sit down! I am right glad to see you. To think of your being Margaret’s son! Why, she was almost a child not so long ago. Well, to be sure, it is five-and-twenty years ago. And what brings you into these parts?’
She sate down herself, as if oppressed by her curiosity as to all the five-and-twenty years that had passed by since she had seen my mother. Her daughter Phillis took up her knitting – a long grey worsted man’s stocking, I remember – and knitted away without looking at her work. I felt that the steady gaze of those deep grey eyes was upon me, though once, when I stealthily raised mine to hers, she was examining something on the wall above my head.
When I had answered all my cousin Holman’s questions, she heaved a long breath, and said, ‘To think of Margaret Moneypenny’s boy being in our house! I wish the minister was here. Phillis, in what field is thy father to-day?’
‘In the five-acre; they are beginning to cut the corn.’
‘He’ll not like being sent for, then, else I should have liked you to have seen the minister. But the five-acre is a good step off. You shall have a glass of wine and a bit of cake before you stir from this house, though. You’re bound to go, you say, or else the minister comes in mostly when the men have their four o’clock.’
‘I must go – I ought to have been off before now.’
‘Here, then, Phillis, take the keys.’ She gave her daughter some whispered directions, and Phillis left the room.
‘She is my cousin, is she not?’ I asked. I knew she was, but somehow I wanted to talk of her, and did not know how to begin.
‘Yes – Phillis Holman. She is our only child – now.’
Either from that ‘now,’ or from a strange momentary wistfulness in her eyes, I knew that there had been more children, who were now dead.
‘How old is cousin Phillis?’ said I, scarcely venturing on the new name, it seemed too prettily familiar for me to call her by it; but cousin Holman took no notice of it, answering straight to the purpose.
‘Seventeen last May-day; but the minister does not like to hear me calling it May-day,’ said she, checking herself with a little awe. ‘Phillis was seventeen on the first day of May last,’ she repeated in an amended edition.
‘And I am nineteen in another month,’ thought I, to myself; I don’t know why.
Then Phillis came in, carrying a tray with wine and cake upon it.
‘We keep a house-servant,’ said cousin Holman, ‘but it is churning day, and she is busy.’ It was meant as a little proud apology for her daughter’s being the hand-maiden.
‘I like doing it, mother,’ said Phillis, in her grave, full voice.
I felt as if I were somebody in the Old Testament – who, I could not recollect – being served and waited upon by the daughter of the host. Was I like Abraham’s steward, when Rebekah gave him to drink at the well? I thought Isaac had not gone the pleasantest way to work in winning him a wife. But Phillis never thought about such things. She was a stately, gracious young woman, in the dress and with the simplicity of a child.
As I had been taught, I drank to the health of my new-found cousin and her husband; and then I ventured to name my cousin Phillis with a little bow of my head towards her; but I was too awkward to look and see how she took my compliment. ‘I must go now,’ said I, rising.
Neither of the women had thought of sharing in the wine; cousin Holman had broken a bit of cake for form’s sake.
‘I wish the minister had been within,’ said his wife, rising too. Secretly I was very glad he was not. I did not take kindly to ministers in those days, and I thought he must be a particular kind of man, by his objecting to the term May-day. But before I went, cousin Holman made me promise that I would come back on the Saturday following and spend Sunday with them; when I should see something of ‘the minister.’
‘Come on Friday, if you can,’ were her last words as she stood at the curate-door, shading her eyes from the sinking sun with her hand.
Inside the house sate cousin Phillis, her golden hair, her dazzling complexion, lighting up the corner of the vine-shadowed room. She had not risen when I bade her good-by; she had looked at me straight as she said her tranquil words of farewell.
I found Mr Holdsworth down at the line, hard at work superintending. As soon as he had a pause, he said, ‘Well, Manning, what are the new cousins like? How do preaching and farming seem to get on together? If the minister turns out to be practical as well as reverend, I shall begin to respect him.’
But he hardly attended to my answer, he was so much more occupied with directing his work-people. Indeed, my answer
‘Oh, of course you can go – and on Friday, too, if you like; there is no reason why not this week; and you’ve done a long spell of work this time, old fellow.’
I thought that I did not want to go on Friday; but when the day came, I found that I should prefer going to staying away, so I availed myself of Mr Holdsworth’s permission, and went over to Hope Farm some time in the afternoon, a little later than my first visit. I found the ‘curate’ open to admit the soft September air, so tempered by the warmth of the sun, that it was warmer out of doors than in, although the wooden log lay smouldering in front of a heap of hot ashes on the hearth. The vine-leaves over the window had a tinge more yellow, their edges were here and there scorched and browned; there was no ironing about, and cousin Holman sate just outside the house, mending a shirt. Phillis was at her knitting indoors: it seemed as if she had been at it all the week. The many-speckled fowls were pecking about in the farmyard beyond, and the milk-cans glittered with brightness, hung out to sweeten. The court was so full of flowers that they crept out upon the low-covered wall and horse-mount, and were even to be found self-sown upon the turf that bordered the path to the back of the house. I fancied that my Sunday coat was scented for days afterwards by the bushes of sweetbriar and the fraxinella that perfumed the air. From time to time cousin Holman put her hand into a covered basket at her feet, and threw handsful of corn down for the pigeons that cooed and fluttered in the air around, in expectation of this treat.
I had a thorough welcome as soon as she saw me. ‘Now this is kind – this is right down friendly,’ shaking my hand warmly. ‘Phillis, your cousin Manning is come!’
‘Call me Paul, will you?’ said I; ‘they call me so at home, and Manning in the office.’
‘Well, Paul, then. Your room is all ready for you, Paul, for, as I said to the minister, “I’ll have it ready whether he comes o’ Friday or not.” And the minister said he must go up to the ash-field whether you were to come or not; but he would come home betimes to see if you were here. I’ll show you to your room, and you can wash the dust off a bit.’
After I came down, I think she did not quite know what to do with me; or she might think I was dull; or she might have work to do in which I hindered her; for she called Phillis, and bade her put on her bonnet, and go with me to the ash-field, and find father. So we set off, I in a little flutter of a desire to make myself agreeable, but wishing that my companion were not quite so tall; for she was above me in height. While I was wondering how to begin our conversation, she took up the words.
‘I suppose, cousin Paul, you have to be very busy at your work all day long in general.’
‘Yes, we have to be in the office at half-past eight; and we have an hour for dinner, and then we go at it again till eight or nine.’
‘Then you have not much time for reading.’
‘No,’ said I, with a sudden consciousness that I did not make the most of what leisure I had.
‘No more have I. Father always gets an hour before going a-field in the mornings, but mother does not like me to get up so early.’
‘My mother is always wanting me to get up earlier when I am at home.’
‘What time do you get up?’
‘Oh! – ah! – sometimes half-past six; not often though;’ for I remembered only twice that I had done so during the past summer.
She turned her head and looked at me.
‘Father is up at three; and so was mother till she was ill. I should like to be up at four.’
‘Your father up at three! Why, what has he to do at that hour?’
‘What has he not to do? He has his private exercise in his own room; he always rings the great bell which calls the men to milking; he rouses up Betty, our maid; as often as not he gives the horses their feed before the man is up – for Jem, who takes care of the horses, is an old man; and father is always loth to disturb him; he looks at the calves, and the shoulders, heels, traces, chaff, and corn before the horses go a-field; he has often to whipcord the plough-whips; he sees the hogs fed; he looks into the swill-tubs, and writes his orders for what is wanted for food for man and beast; yes, and for fuel, too. And then, if he has a bit of time to spare, he comes in and reads with me – but only English; we keep Latin for the evenings, that we may have time to enjoy it; and then he calls in the man to breakfast, and cuts the boys’ bread and cheese; and sees their wooden bottles filled, and sends them off to their work; – and by this time it is half-past six, and we have our breakfast. There is father,’ she exclaimed, pointing out to me a man in his shirt-sleeves, taller by the head than the other two with whom he was working. We only saw him through the leaves of the ash-trees growing in the hedge, and I thought I must be confusing the figures, or mistaken: that man still looked like a very powerful labourer, and had none of the precise demureness of appearance which I had always imagined was the characteristic of a minister. It was the Reverend Ebenezer Holman, however. He gave us a nod as we entered the stubble-field; and I think he would have come to meet us but that he was in the middle of giving some directions to his men. I could see that Phillis was built more after his type than her mother’s. He, like his daughter, was largely made, and of a fair, ruddy complexion, whereas hers was brilliant and delicate. His hair had been yellow or sandy, but now was grizzled. Yet his grey hairs betokened no failure in strength. I never saw a more powerful man – deep chest, lean flanks, well-planted head. By this time we were nearly up to him; and he interrupted himself and stepped forwards; holding out his hand to me, but addressing Phillis.
‘Well, my lass, this is cousin Manning, I suppose. Wait a minute, young man, and I’ll put on my coat, and give you a decorous and formal welcome. But – Ned Hall, there ought to be a water-furrow across this land: it’s a nasty, stiff, clayey, dauby bit of ground, and thou and I must fall to, come next Monday – I beg your pardon, cousin Manning – and there’s old Jem’s cottage wants a bit of thatch; you can do that job tomorrow while I am busy.’ Then, suddenly changing the tone of his deep bass voice to an odd suggestion of chapels and preachers, he added, ‘Now, I will give out the psalm, “Come all harmonious tongues,” to be sung to “Mount Ephraim” tune.’
He lifted his spade in his hand, and began to beat time with it; the two labourers seemed to know both words and music, though I did not; and so did Phillis: her rich voice followed her father’s as he set the tune; and the men came in with more uncertainty, but still harmoniously. Phillis looked at me once or twice with a little surprise at my silence; but I did not know the words. There we five stood, bareheaded, excepting Phillis, in the tawny stubble-field, from which all the shocks of corn had not yet been carried – a dark wood on one side, where the woodpigeons were cooing; blue distance seen through the ash-trees on the other. Somehow, I think that if I had known the words, and could have sung, my throat would have been choked up by the feeling of the unaccustomed scene.
The hymn was ended, and the men had drawn off before I could stir. I saw the minister beginning to put on his coat, and looking at me with friendly inspection in his gaze, before I could rouse myself.
‘I dare say you railway gentlemen don’t wind up the day with singing a psalm together,’ said he; ‘but it is not a bad practice – not a bad practice. We have had it a bit earlier to-day for hospitality’s sake – that’s all.’
I had nothing particular to say to this, though I was thinking a great deal. From time to time I stole a look at my companion. His coat was black, and so was his waistcoat; neckcloth he had none, his strong full throat being bare above the snow-white shirt. He wore drab-coloured knee-breeches, grey worsted stockings (I thought I knew the maker), and strong-nailed shoes. He carried his hat in his hand, as if he liked to feel the coming breeze lifting his hair. After a while, I saw that the father took hold of the daughter’s hand, and so, they holding each other, went along towards home. We had to cross a lane. In it w
‘Hollo! Hollo! What’s all this?’ said the minister. ‘Why, what have you been about, Tommy,’ lifting the little petticoated lad, who was lying sobbing, with one vigorous arm. Tommy looked at him with surprise in his round eyes, but no affright – they were evidently old acquaintances.
‘Mammy’s jug!’ said he, at last, beginning to cry afresh.
‘Well! and will crying piece mammy’s jug, or pick up spilt milk? How did you manage it, Tommy?’
‘He’ (jerking his head at the other) ‘and me was running races.’
‘Tommy said he could beat me,’ put in the other.
‘Now, I wonder what will make you two silly lads mind, and not run races again with a pitcher of milk between you,’ said the minister, as if musing. ‘I might flog you, and so save mammy the trouble; for I dare say she’ll do it if I don’t.’ The fresh burst of whimpering from both showed the probability of this. ‘Or I might take you to the Hope Farm and give you some more milk; but then you’d be running races again, and my milk would follow that to the ground, and make another white pool. I think the flogging would be best – don’t you?’
‘We would never run races no more,’ said the elder of the two.
‘Then you’d not be boys; you’d be angels.’
‘No, we shouldn’t.’
‘Why not?’
They looked into each other’s eyes for an answer to this puzzling question. At length, one said, ‘Angels is dead folk.’
‘Come; we’ll not get too deep into theology. What do you think of my lending you a tin can with a lid to carry the milk in? That would not break, at any rate; though I would not answer for the milk not spilling if you ran races. That’s it!’