Lizzie Leigh by Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell


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Page 1

She sat rocking herself to and fro by the side of the bed, while the
footsteps below went in and out; she had been in sorrow too long to have
any violent burst of deep grief now; the furrows were well worn in her
cheeks, and the tears flowed quietly, if incessantly, all the day long.
But when the winter's night drew on, and the neighbours had gone away to
their homes, she stole to the window, and gazed out, long and wistfully,
over the dark grey moors. She did not hear her son's voice, as he spoke
to her from the door, nor his footstep as he drew nearer. She started
when he touched her.

"Mother! come down to us. There's no one but Will and me. Dearest
mother, we do so want you." The poor lad's voice trembled, and he began
to cry. It appeared to require an effort on Mrs. Leigh's part to tear
herself away from the window, but with a sigh she complied with his
request.

The two boys (for though Will was nearly twenty-one, she still thought of
him as a lad) had done everything in their power to make the house-place
comfortable for her. She herself, in the old days before her sorrow, had
never made a brighter fire or a cleaner hearth, ready for her husband's
return home, than now awaited her. The tea-things were all put out, and
the kettle was boiling; and the boys had calmed their grief down into a
kind of sober cheerfulness. They paid her every attention they could
think of, but received little notice on her part; she did not resist, she
rather submitted to all their arrangements; but they did not seem to
touch her heart.

When tea was ended--it was merely the form of tea that had been gone
through--Will moved the things away to the dresser. His mother leant
back languidly in her chair.

"Mother, shall Tom read you a chapter? He's a better scholar than I."

"Ay, lad!" said she, almost eagerly. "That's it. Read me the Prodigal
Son. Ay, ay, lad. Thank thee."

Tom found the chapter, and read it in the high-pitched voice which is
customary in village schools. His mother bent forward, her lips parted,
her eyes dilated; her whole body instinct with eager attention. Will sat
with his head depressed and hung down. He knew why that chapter had been
chosen; and to him it recalled the family's disgrace. When the reading
was ended, he still hung down his head in gloomy silence. But her face
was brighter than it had been before for the day. Her eyes looked
dreamy, as if she saw a vision; and by-and-by she pulled the Bible
towards her, and, putting her finger underneath each word, began to read
them aloud in a low voice to herself; she read again the words of bitter
sorrow and deep humiliation; but most of all, she paused and brightened
over the father's tender reception of the repentant prodigal.

So passed the Christmas evening in the Upclose Farm.

The snow had fallen heavily over the dark waving moorland before the day
of the funeral. The black storm-laden dome of heaven lay very still and
close upon the white earth, as they carried the body forth out of the
house which had known his presence so long as its ruling power. Two and
two the mourners followed, making a black procession, in their winding
march over the unbeaten snow, to Milne Row Church; now lost in some
hollow of the bleak moors, now slowly climbing the heaving ascents. There
was no long tarrying after the funeral, for many of the neighbours who
accompanied the body to the grave had far to go, and the great white
flakes which came slowly down were the boding forerunners of a heavy
storm. One old friend alone accompanied the widow and her sons to their
home.

The Upclose Farm had belonged for generations to the Leighs; and yet its
possession hardly raised them above the rank of labourers. There was the
house and out-buildings, all of an old-fashioned kind, and about seven
acres of barren unproductive land, which they had never possessed capital
enough to improve; indeed, they could hardly rely upon it for
subsistence; and it had been customary to bring up the sons to some
trade, such as a wheelwright's or blacksmith's.

James Leigh had left a will in the possession of the old man who
accompanied them home. He read it aloud. James had bequeathed the farm
to his faithful wife, Anne Leigh, for her lifetime, and afterwards to his
son William. The hundred and odd pounds in the savings bank was to
accumulate for Thomas.

After the reading was ended, Anne Leigh sat silent for a time and then
she asked to speak to Samuel Orme alone. The sons went into the back
kitchen, and thence strolled out into the fields regardless of the
driving snow. The brothers were dearly fond of each other, although they
were very different in character. Will, the elder, was like his father,
stern, reserved, and scrupulously upright. Tom (who was ten years
younger) was gentle and delicate as a girl, both in appearance and
character. He had always clung to his mother and dreaded his father.
They did not speak as they walked, for they were only in the habit of
talking about facts, and hardly knew the more sophisticated language
applied to the description of feelings.

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Books | Photos | Paul Mutton | Thu 28th Mar 2024, 15:04