ELIZABETH GASKELL Premium Collection: 10 Novels & 40+ Short Stories; Including Poems, Essays & Biographies (Illustrated). Elizabeth Gaskell
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“Oh, you relent!” said Maggie, taking his hand, and pressing it. “What could he do? He could do the same, whatever it was, as you thought of his doing, if I had written that terrible letter.”
“And you’ll be willing to give it up, if Frank wishes, when he knows all?” asked Mr. Buxton.
She crossed her hands and drooped her head, but answered steadily.
“Whatever Frank wishes, when he knows all, I will gladly do. I will speak the truth. I do not believe that any shame surrounding me, and not in me, will alter Frank’s love one title.”
“We shall see,” said Mr. Buxton. “But what I thought of Edward’s doing, in case — Well never mind! (seeing how she shrunk back from all mention of the letter he had asked her to write,)— was to go to America, out of the way. Then Mr. Henry would think he had escaped, and need never be told of my coenivance. I think he would throw up the agency, if he were; and he’s a very clever man. If Ned is in England, Mr. Henry will ferret him out. And, besides, this affair is so blown, I don’t think he could return to his profession. What do you say to this, Maggie?”
“I will tell my mother. I must ask her. To me it seems most desirable. Only, I fear he is very ill; and it seems lonely; but never mind! We ought to be thankful to you forever. I cannot tell you how I hope and trust he will live to show you what your goodness has made him.”
“But you must lose no time. If Mr. Henry traces him; I can’t answer for myself. I shall have no good reason to give, as I should have had, if I could have told him that Frank and you were to be as strangers to each other. And even then I should have been afraid, he is such a determined fellow; but uncommonly clever. Stay!” said he, yielding to a sudden and inexplicable desire to see Edward, and discover if his criminality had in any way changed his outward appearance. “I’ll go with you. I can hasten things. If Edward goes, he must be off, as soon as possible, to Liverpool, and leave no trace. The next packet sails the day after tomorrow. I noted it down from the Times.”
Maggie and he sped along the road. He spoke his thoughts aloud:
“I wonder if he will be grateful to me for this. Not that I ever mean to look for gratitude again. I mean to try, not to care for anybody but Frank. ‘Govern men by outward force,’ says Mr. Henry. He is an uncommonly clever man, and he says, the longer he lives, the more he is convinced of the badness of men. He always looks for it now, even in those who are the best, apparently.”
Maggie was too anxious to answer, or even to attend to him. At the top of the slope she asked him to wait while she ran down and told the result of her conversation with him. Her mother was alone, looking white and sick. She told her that Edward had gone into the hay-loft, above the old, disused shippon.
Maggie related the substance of her interview with Mr. Buxton, and his wish that Edward should go to America.
“To America!” said Mrs. Browne. “Why that’s as far as Botany Bay. It’s just like transporting him. I thought you’d done something for us, you looked so glad.”
“Dearest mother, it is something. He is not to be subjected to imprisonment or trial. I must go and tell him, only I must beckon to Mr. Buxton first. But when he comes, do show him how thankful we are for his mercy to Edward.”
Mrs. Browne’s murmurings, whatever was their meaning, were lost upon Maggie. She ran through the court, and up the slope, with the lightness of a lawn; for though she was tired in body to an excess she had never been before in her life, the opening beam of hope in the dark sky made her spirit conquer her flesh for the time.
She did not stop to speak, but turned again as soon as she had signed to Mr. Buxton to follow her. She left the house-door open for his entrance, and passed out again through the kitchen into the space behind, which was partly an uninclosed yard, and partly rocky common. She ran across the little green to the shippon, and mounted the ladder into the dimly-lighted loft. Up in a dark corner Edward stood, with an old rake in his hand.
“I thought it was you, Maggie!” said he, heaving a deep breath of relief. “What have you done? Have you agreed to write the letter? You’ve done something for me, I see by your looks.”
“Yes! I have told Mr. Buxton all. He is waiting for you in the parlor. Oh! I knew he could not be so hard!” She was out of breath.
“I don’t understand you!” said he. “You’ve never been such a fool as to go and tell him where I am?”
“Yes, I have. I felt I might trust him. He has promised not to prosecute you. The worst is, he says you must go to America. But come down, Ned, and speak to him. You owe him thanks, and he wants to see you.”
“I can’t go through a scene. I’m not up to it. Besides, are you sure he is not entrapping me to the police? If I had a farthing of money I would not trust him, but be off to the moors.”
“Oh, Edward! How do you think he would do anything so treacherous and mean? I beg you not to lose time in distrust. He says himself, if Mr. Henry comes before you are off, he does not know what will be the consequence. The packet sails for America in two days. It is sad for you to have to go. Perhaps even yet he may think of something better, though I don’t know how we can ask or expect it.”
“I don’t want anything better,” replied he, “than that I should have money enough to carry me to America. I’m in more scrapes than this (though none so bad) in England; and in America there’s many an opening to fortune.” He followed her down the steps while he spoke. Once in the yellow light of the watery day, she was struck by his ghastly look. Sharp lines of suspicion and cunning seemed to have been stamped upon his face, making it look older by many years than his age warranted. His jaunty evening dress, all weather-stained and dirty, added to his forlorn and disreputable appearance; but most of all — deepest of all — was the impression she received that he was not long for this world; and oh! how unfit for the next! Still, if time was given — if he were placed far away from temptation, she thought that her father’s son might yet repent, and be saved. She took his hand, for he was hanging back as they came near the parlor-door, and led him in. She looked like some guardian angel, with her face that beamed out trust, and hope, and thankfulness. He, on the contrary, hung his head in angry, awkward shame; and half wished he had trusted to his own wits, and tried to evade the police, rather than have been forced into this interview.
His mother came to him; for she loved him all the more fondly, now he seemed degraded and friendless. She could not, or would not, comprehend the extent of his guilt; and had upbraided Mr. Buxton to the top of her bent for thinking of sending him away to America. There was a silence when he came in which was insupportable to him. He looked up with clouded eyes, that dared not meet Mr. Buxton’s.
“I am here, sir, to learn what you wish me to do. Maggie says I am to go to America; if that is where you want to send me, I’m ready.”
Mr. Buxton wished himself away as heartily as Edward. Mrs. Browne’s upbraidings, just when he felt that he had done a kind action, and yielded, against his judgment, to Maggie’s entreaties, had made him think himself very ill used. And now here was Edward speaking in a sullen, savage kind of way, instead of showing any gratitude. The idea of Mr. Henry’s stern displeasure loomed in the background.
“Yes!” said he, “I’m glad to find you come into the idea of going to America. It’s the only place for you. The sooner you can go, and the better.”
“I can’t go without money,” said Edward, doggedly. “If I had had money, I need not have come here.”
“Oh, Ned! would you have gone without seeing me?” said Mrs. Browne, bursting into tears. “Mr. Buxton, I cannot let him go to America. Look how ill he is. He’ll die if you send him there.”
“Mother, don’t give way so,” said Edward, kindly, taking her hand. “I’m not ill, at least not to signify. Mr. Buxton is right: America is the only place for me. To tell the truth, even if Mr. Buxton is good enough” (he said this as if unwilling to express any word of thankfulness) “not to prosecute me,