The Complete Novels of Elizabeth Gaskell. Elizabeth Gaskell
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half unconsciously, how little he had seemed to care for anything but herself.
“Why, what a thing it is for you!” said Mrs. Browne, quite roused up from her languor and her head-ache. “Everybody said he was engaged to Miss Erminia. Are you quite sure you made no mistake, child? What did he say? Young men are so fond of making fine speeches; and young women are so silly in fancying they mean something. I once knew a girl who thought that a gentleman who sent her mother a present of a sucking-pig, did it as a delicate way of making her an offer. Tell me his exact words.”
But Maggie blushed, and either would not or could not. So Mrs. Browne began again:
“Well, if you’re sure, you’re sure. I wonder how he brought his father round. So long as he and Erminia have been planned for each other! That very first day we ever dined there after your father’s death, Mr. Buxton as good as told me all about it. I fancied they were only waiting till they were out of mourning.”
All this was news to Maggie. She had never thought that either Erminia or Frank was particularly fond of the other; still less had she had any idea of Mr. Buxton’s plans for them. Her mother’s surprise at her engagement jarred a little upon her too: it had become so natural, even in these last two hours, to feel that she belonged to him. But there were more discords to come. Mrs. Browne began again, half in soliloquy:
“I should think he would have four thousand a-year. He did not tell you, love, did he, if they had still that bad property in the canal, that his father complained about? But he will have four thousand. Why, you’ll have your carriage, Maggie. Well! I hope Mr. Buxton has taken it kindly, because he’ll have a deal to do with the settlements. I’m sure I thought he was engaged to Erminia.”
Ringing changes on these subjects all the afternoon, Mrs. Browne sat with Maggie. She occasionally wandered off to speak about Edward, and how favorably his future prospects would be advanced by the engagement.
“Let me see — there’s the house in Combehurst: the rent of that would be a hundred and fifty a-year, but we’ll not reckon that. But there’s the quarries” (she was reckoning upon her fingers in default of a slate, for which she had vainly searched), “we’ll call them two hundred a-year, for I don’t believe Mr. Buxton’s stories about their only bringing him in seven-pence; and there’s Newbridge, that’s certainly thirteen hundred — where had I got to, Maggie?”
“Dear mamma, do go and lie down for a little; you look quite flushed,” said Maggie, softly.
Was this the manner to view her betrothal with such a man as Frank? Her mother’s remarks depressed her more than she could have thought it possible; the excitement of the morning was having its reaction, and she longed to go up to the solitude under the thorn-tree, where she had hoped to spend a quiet, thoughtful afternoon.
Nancy came in to replace glasses and spoons in the cupboard. By some accident, the careful old servant broke one of the former. She looked up quickly at her mistress, who usually visited all such offences with no small portion of rebuke.
“Never mind, Nancy,” said Mrs. Browne. “It’s only an old tumbler; and Maggie’s going to be married, and we must buy a new set for the wedding-dinner.”
Nancy looked at both, bewildered; at last a light dawned into her mind, and her face looked shrewdly and knowingly back at Mrs. Browne. Then she said, very quietly:
“I think I’ll take the next pitcher to the well myself, and try my luck. To think how sorry I was for Miss Maggie this morning! ‘Poor thing,’ says I to myself, ‘to be kept all this time at that confounded well’ (for I’ll not deny that I swear a bit to myself at times — it sweetens the blood), ‘and she so tired.’ I e’en thought I’d go help her; but I reckon she’d some other help. May I take a guess at the young man?”
“Four thousand a-year! Nancy;” said Mrs. Browne, exultingly.
“And a blithe look, and a warm, kind heart — and a free step — and a noble way with him to rich and poor — aye, aye, I know the name. No need to alter all my neat M.B.‘s, done in turkey-red cotton. Well, well! every one’s turn comes sometime, but mine’s rather long a-coming.”
The faithful old servant came up to Maggie, and put her hand caressingly on her shoulder. Maggie threw her arms round her neck, and kissed the brown, withered face.
“God bless thee, bairn,” said Nancy, solemnly. It brought the low music of peace back into the still recesses of Maggie’s heart. She began to look out for her lover; half-hidden behind the muslin window curtain, which waved gently to and fro in the afternoon breezes. She heard a firm, buoyant step, and had only time to catch one glimpse of his face, before moving away. But that one glance made her think that the hours which had elapsed since she saw him had not been serene to him any more than to her.
When he entered the parlor, his face was glad and bright. He went up in a frank, rejoicing way to Mrs. Browne; who was evidently rather puzzled how to receive him — whether as Maggie’s betrothed, or as the son of the greatest man of her acquaintance.
“I am sure, sir,” said she, “we are all very much obliged to you for the honor you have done our family!”
He looked rather perplexed as to the nature of the honor which he had conferred without knowing it; but as the light dawned upon him, he made answer in a frank, merry way, which was yet full of respect for his future mother-inlaw:
“And I am sure I am truly grateful for the honor one of your family has done me.”
When Nancy brought in tea she was dressed in her fine-weather Sunday gown; the first time it had ever been worn out of church, and the walk to and fro.
After tea, Frank asked Maggie if she would walk out with him; and accordingly they climbed the Fell–Lane and went out upon the moors, which seemed vast and boundless as their love.
“Have you told your father?” asked Maggie; a dim anxiety lurking in her heart.
“Yes,” said Frank. He did not go on; and she feared to ask, although she longed to know, how Mr. Buxton had received the intelligence.
“What did he say?” at length she inquired.
“Oh! it was evidently a new idea to him that I was attached to you; and he does not take up a new idea speedily. He has had some notion, it seems, that Erminia and I were to make a match of it; but she and I agreed, when we talked it over, that we should never have fallen in love with each other if there had not been another human being in the world. Erminia is a little sensible creature, and says she does not wonder at any man falling in love with you. Nay, Maggie, don’t hang your head so down; let me have a glimpse of your face.”
“I am sorry your father does not like it,” said Maggie, sorrowfully.
“So am I. But we must give him time to get reconciled. Never fear but he will like it in the long run; he has too much good taste and good feeling. He must like you.”
Frank did not choose to tell even Maggie how violently his father had set himself against their engagement. He was surprised and annoyed at first to find how decidedly his father was possessed with the idea that he was to marry his cousin, and that she, at any rate, was attached to him, whatever his feelings might be toward her; but after he had gone frankly to Erminia and told her all, he found that she was as ignorant of her uncle’s plans for her as he had been; and almost as glad at any event which should frustrate them.
Indeed she came to the moorland cottage on the following day, after Frank had returned to Cambridge. She had left her horse in charge of the groom, near the fir-trees on the heights, and came running down the slope in her habit. Maggie went out to meet her, with just a little wonder at her heart if what Frank had said could possibly be true; and that Erminia, living in the house with him, could have remained indifferent to him. Erminia threw her arms round her neck, and they sat down together on the court-steps.
“I durst not ride down that hill; and Jem is holding my horse, so I may not stay very long; now begin, Maggie, at once, and go into a rhapsody about Frank. Is not he a charming fellow?