ELIZABETH GASKELL Premium Collection: 10 Novels & 40+ Short Stories; Including Poems, Essays & Biographies (Illustrated). Elizabeth Gaskell
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pop her head in, with a request that he would help her to carry the great pitcher of water up-stairs, or do some other little household service; with which request he occasionally complied, but with so many complaints about the interruption, that at last she told him she would never ask him again. Gently as this was said, he yet felt it as a reproach, and tried to excuse himself.
“You see, Maggie, a man must be educated to be a gentleman. Now, if a woman knows how to keep a house, that’s all that is wanted from her. So my time is of more consequence than yours. Mamma says I’m to go to college, and be a clergyman; so I must get on with my Latin.”
Maggie submitted in silence; and almost felt it as an act of gracious condescension when, a morning or two afterwards, he came to meet her as she was toiling in from the well, carrying the great brown jug full of spring-water ready for dinner. “Here,” said he, “let us put it in the shade behind the horse-mount. Oh, Maggie! look what you’ve done! Spilt it all, with not turning quickly enough when I told you. Now you may fetch it again for yourself, for I’ll have nothing to do with it.”
“I did not understand you in time,” said she, softly. But he had turned away, and gone back in offended dignity to the house. Maggie had nothing to do but return to the well, and fill it again. The spring was some distance off, in a little rocky dell. It was so cool after her hot walk, that she sat down in the shadow of the gray limestone rock, and looked at the ferns, wet with the dripping water. She felt sad, she knew not why. “I think Ned is sometimes very cross,” thought she. “I did not understand he was carrying it there. Perhaps I am clumsy. Mamma says I am; and Ned says I am. Nancy never says so and papa never said so. I wish I could help being clumsy and stupid. Ned says all women are so. I wish I was not a woman. It must be a fine thing to be a man. Oh dear! I must go up the field again with this heavy pitcher, and my arms do so ache!” She rose and climbed the steep brae. As she went she heard her mother’s voice.
“Maggie! Maggie! there’s no water for dinner, and the potatoes are quite boiled. Where is that child?”
They had begun dinner, before she came down from brushing her hair and washing her hands. She was hurried and tired.
“Mother,” said Ned, “mayn’t I have some butter to these potatoes, as there is cold meat? They are so dry.”
“Certainly, my dear. Maggie, go and fetch a pat of butter out of the dairy.”
Maggie went from her untouched dinner without speaking.
“Here, stop, you child!” said Nancy, turning her back in the passage. “You go to your dinner, I’ll fetch the butter. You’ve been running about enough today.”
Maggie durst not go back without it, but she stood in the passage till Nancy returned; and then she put up her mouth to be kissed by the kind rough old servant.
“Thou’rt a sweet one,” said Nancy to herself, as she turned into the kitchen; and Maggie went back to her dinner with a soothed and lightened heart.
When the meal was ended, she helped her mother to wash up the old-fashioned glasses and spoons, which were treated with tender care and exquisite cleanliness in that house of decent frugality; and then, exchanging her pinafore for a black silk apron, the little maiden was wont to sit down to some useful piece of needlework, in doing which her mother enforced the most dainty neatness of stitches. Thus every hour in its circle brought a duty to be fulfilled; but duties fulfilled are as pleasures to the memory, and little Maggie always thought those early childish days most happy, and remembered them only as filled with careless contentment.
Yet, at the time they had their cares.
In fine summer days Maggie sat out of doors at her work. Just beyond the court lay the rocky moorland, almost as gay as that with its profusion of flowers. If the court had its clustering noisettes, and fraxinellas, and sweetbriar, and great tall white lilies, the moorland had its little creeping scented rose, its straggling honeysuckle, and an abundance of yellow cistus; and here and there a gray rock cropped out of the ground, and over it the yellow stone-crop and scarlet-leaved crane’s-bill grew luxuriantly. Such a rock was Maggie’s seat. I believe she considered it her own, and loved it accordingly; although its real owner was a great lord, who lived far away, and had never seen the moor, much less the piece of gray rock, in his life.
The afternoon of the day which I have begun to tell you about, she was sitting there, and singing to herself as she worked: she was within call of home, and could hear all home sounds, with their shrillness softened down. Between her and it, Edward was amusing himself; he often called upon her for sympathy, which she as readily gave.
“I wonder how men make their boats steady; I have taken mine to the pond, and she has toppled over every time I sent her in.”
“Has it? — that’s very tiresome! Would if do to put a little weight in it, to keep it down?”
“How often must I tell you to call a ship ‘her;’ and there you will go on saying — it — it!”
After this correction of his sister, Master Edward did not like the condescension of acknowledging her suggestion to be a good one; so he went silently to the house in search of the requisite ballast; but not being able to find anything suitable, he came back to his turfy hillock, littered round with chips of wood, and tried to insert some pebbles into his vessel; but they stuck fast, and he was obliged to ask again.
“Supposing it was a good thing to weight her, what could I put in?”
Maggie thought a moment.
“Would shot do?” asked she.
“It would be the very thing; but where can I get any?”
“There is some that was left of papa’s. It is in the right-hand corner of the second drawer of the bureau, wrapped up in a newspaper.”
“What a plague! I can’t remember your ‘seconds,’ and ‘right-hands,’ and fiddle-faddles.” He worked on at his pebbles. They would hot do.
“I think if you were good-natured, Maggie, you might go for me.”
“Oh, Ned! I’ve all this long seam to do. Mamma said I must finish it before tea; and that I might play a little if I had done if first,” said Maggie, rather plaintively; for it was a real pain to her to refuse a request.
“It would not take you five minutes.”
Maggie thought a little. The time would only be taken out of her playing, which, after all, did not signify; while Edward was really busy about his ship. She rose, and clambered up the steep grassy slope, slippery with the heat.
Before she had found the paper of shot, she heard her mother’s voice calling, in a sort of hushed hurried loudness, as if anxious to be heard by one person yet not by another —“Edward, Edward, come home quickly. Here’s Mr. Buxton coming along the Fell–Lane; — he’s coming here, as sure as sixpence; come, Edward, come.”
Maggie saw Edward put down his ship and come. At his mother’s bidding it certainly was; but he strove to make this as little apparent as he could, by sauntering up the slope, with his hands in his pockets, in a very independent and négligé style. Maggie had no time to watch longer; for now she was called too, and down stairs she ran.
“Here, Maggie,” said her mother, in a nervous hurry; —“help Nancy to get a tray ready all in a minute. I do believe here’s Mr. Buxton coming to call. Oh, Edward! go and brush your hair, and put on your Sunday jacket; here’s Mr. Buxton just coming round. I’ll only run up and change my cap; and you say you’ll come up and tell me, Nancy; all proper, you know.”
“To be sure, ma’am. I’ve lived in families afore now,” said Nancy, gruffly.
“Oh, yes, I know you have. Be sure you bring in the cowslip wine. I wish I could have stayed to decant some port.”
Nancy and Maggie bustled about, in and out of the kitchen and dairy; and were so deep in their preparations for Mr. Buxton’s reception that they were not aware of the very presence of that gentleman himself on the