The Half-Brothers

by Elizabeth Gaskell




My mother was twice married. She never spoke of her first husband, and
it is only from other people that I have learnt what little I know
about him. I believe she was scarcely seventeen when she was married to
him: and he was barely one-and-twenty. He rented a small farm up in
Cumberland, somewhere towards the sea-coast; but he was perhaps too
young and inexperienced to have the charge of land and cattle: anyhow,
his affairs did not prosper, and he fell into ill health, and died of
consumption before they had been three years man and wife, leaving my
mother a young widow of twenty, with a little child only just able to
walk, and the farm on her hands for four years more by the lease, with
half the stock on it dead, or sold off one by one to pay the more
pressing debts, and with no money to purchase more, or even to buy the
provisions needed for the small consumption of every day. There was
another child coming, too; and sad and sorry, I believe, she was to
think of it. A dreary winter she must have had in her lonesome
dwelling, with never another near it for miles around; her sister came
to bear her company, and they two planned and plotted how to make every
penny they could raise go as far as possible. I can’t tell you how it
happened that my little sister, whom I never saw, came to sicken and
die; but, as if my poor mother’s cup was not full enough, only a
fortnight before Gregory was born the little girl took ill of scarlet
fever, and in a week she lay dead. My mother was, I believe, just
stunned with this last blow. My aunt has told me that she did not cry;
aunt Fanny would have been thankful if she had; but she sat holding the
poor wee lassie’s hand and looking in her pretty, pale, dead face,
without so much as shedding a tear. And it was all the same, when they
had to take her away to be buried. She just kissed the child, and sat
her down in the window-seat to watch the little black train of people
(neighbours—my aunt, and one far-off cousin, who were all the friends
they could muster) go winding away amongst the snow, which had fallen
thinly over the country the night before. When my aunt came back from
the funeral, she found my mother in the same place, and as dry-eyed as
ever. So she continued until after Gregory was born; and, somehow, his
coming seemed to loosen the tears, and she cried day and night, till my
aunt and the other watcher looked at each other in dismay, and would
fain have stopped her if they had but known how. But she bade them let
her alone, and not be over-anxious, for every drop she shed eased her
brain, which had been in a terrible state before for want of the power
to cry. She seemed after that to think of nothing but her new little
baby; she had hardly appeared to remember either her husband or her
little daughter that lay dead in Brigham churchyard—at least so aunt
Fanny said, but she was a great talker, and my mother was very silent
by nature, and I think aunt Fanny may have been mistaken in believing
that my mother never thought of her husband and child just because she
never spoke about them. Aunt Fanny was older than my mother, and had a
way of treating her like a child; but, for all that, she was a kind,
warm-hearted creature, who thought more of her sister’s welfare than
she did of her own and it was on her bit of money that they principally
lived, and on what the two could earn by working for the great Glasgow
sewing-merchants. But by-and-by my mother’s eye-sight began to fail. It
was not that she was exactly blind, for she could see well enough to
guide herself about the house, and to do a good deal of domestic work;
but she could no longer do fine sewing and earn money. It must have
been with the heavy crying she had had in her day, for she was but a
young creature at this time, and as pretty a young woman, I have heard
people say, as any on the country side. She took it sadly to heart that
she could no longer gain anything towards the keep of herself and her
child. My aunt Fanny would fain have persuaded her that she had enough
to do in managing their cottage and minding Gregory; but my mother knew
that they were pinched, and that aunt Fanny herself had not as much to
eat, even of the commonest kind of food, as she could have done with;
and as for Gregory, he was not a strong lad, and needed, not more
food—for he always had enough, whoever went short—but better
nourishment, and more flesh-meat. One day—it was aunt Fanny who told me
all this about my poor mother, long after her death—as the sisters were
sitting together, aunt Fanny working, and my mother hushing Gregory to
sleep, William Preston, who was afterwards my father, came in. He was
reckoned an old bachelor; I suppose he was long past forty, and he was
one of the wealthiest farmers thereabouts, and had known my grandfather
well, and my mother and my aunt in their more prosperous days. He sat
down, and began to twirl his hat by way of being agreeable; my aunt
Fanny talked, and he listened and looked at my mother. But he said very
little, either on that visit, or on many another that he paid before he
spoke out what had been the real purpose of his calling so often all
along, and from the very first time he came to their house. One Sunday,
however, my aunt Fanny stayed away from church, and took care of the
child, and my mother went alone. When she came back, she ran straight
upstairs, without going into the kitchen to look at Gregory or speak
any word to her sister, and aunt Fanny heard her cry as if her heart
was breaking; so she went up and scolded her right well through the
bolted door, till at last she got her to open it. And then she threw
herself on my aunt’s neck, and told her that William Preston had asked
her to marry him, and had promised to take good charge of her boy, and
to let him want for nothing, neither in the way of keep nor of
education, and that she had consented. Aunt Fanny was a good deal
shocked at this; for, as I have said, she had often thought that my
mother had forgotten her first husband very quickly, and now here was
proof positive of it, if she could so soon think of marrying again.
Besides as aunt Fanny used to say, she herself would have been a far
more suitable match for a man of William Preston’s age than Helen, who,
though she was a widow, had not seen her four-and-twentieth summer.
However, as aunt Fanny said, they had not asked her advice; and there
was much to be said on the other side of the question. Helen’s eyesight
would never be good for much again, and as William Preston’s wife she
would never need to do anything, if she chose to sit with her hands
before her; and a boy was a great charge to a widowed mother; and now
there would be a decent steady man to see after him. So, by-and-by,
aunt Fanny seemed to take a brighter view of the marriage than did my
mother herself, who hardly ever looked up, and never smiled after the
day when she promised William Preston to be his wife. But much as she
had loved Gregory before, she seemed to love him more now. She was
continually talking to him when they were alone, though he was far too
young to understand her moaning words, or give her any comfort, except
by his caresses.

At last William Preston and she were wed; and she went to be mistress
of a well-stocked house, not above half-an-hour’s walk from where aunt
Fanny lived. I believe she did all that she could to please my father;
and a more dutiful wife, I have heard him himself say, could never have
been. But she did not love him, and he soon found it out. She loved
Gregory, and she did not love him. Perhaps, love would have come in
time, if he had been patient enough to wait; but it just turned him
sour to see how her eye brightened and her colour came at the sight of
that little child, while for him who had given her so much, she had
only gentle words as cold as ice. He got to taunt her with the
difference in her manner, as if that would bring love: and he took a
positive dislike to Gregory,—he was so jealous of the ready love that
always gushed out like a spring of fresh water when he came near. He
wanted her to love him more, and perhaps that was all well and good;
but he wanted her to love her child less, and that was an evil wish.
One day, he gave way to his temper, and cursed and swore at Gregory,
who had got into some mischief, as children will; my mother made some
excuse for him; my father said it was hard enough to have to keep
another man’s child, without having it perpetually held up in its
naughtiness by his wife, who ought to be always in the same mind that
he was; and so from little they got to more; and the end of it was,
that my mother took to her bed before her time, and I was born that
very day. My father was glad, and proud, and sorry, all in a breath;
glad and proud that a son was born to him; and sorry for his poor
wife’s state, and to think how his angry words had brought it on. But
he was a man who liked better to be angry than sorry, so he soon found
out that it was all Gregory’s fault, and owed him an additional grudge
for having hastened my birth. He had another grudge against him before
long. My mother began to sink the day after I was born. My father sent
to Carlisle for doctors, and would have coined his heart’s blood into
gold to save her, if that could have been; but it could not. My aunt
Fanny used to say sometimes, that she thought that Helen did not wish
to live, and so just let herself die away without trying to take hold
on life; but when I questioned her, she owned that my mother did all
the doctors bade her do, with the same sort of uncomplaining patience
with which she had acted through life. One of her last requests was to
have Gregory laid in her bed by my side, and then she made him take
hold of my little hand. Her husband came in while she was looking at us
so, and when he bent tenderly over her to ask her how she felt now, and
seemed to gaze on us two little half-brothers, with a grave sort of
kindness, she looked up in his face and smiled, almost her first smile
at him; and such a sweet smile! as more besides aunt Fanny have said.
In an hour she was dead. Aunt Fanny came to live with us. It was the
best thing that could be done. My father would have been glad to return
to his old mode of bachelor life, but what could he do with two little
children? He needed a woman to take care of him, and who so fitting as
his wife’s elder sister? So she had the charge of me from my birth; and
for a time I was weakly, as was but natural, and she was always beside
me, night and day watching over me, and my father nearly as anxious as
she. For his land had come down from father to son for more than three
hundred years, and he would have cared for me merely as his flesh and
blood that was to inherit the land after him. But he needed something
to love, for all that, to most people, he was a stern, hard man, and he
took to me as, I fancy, he had taken to no human being before—as he
might have taken to my mother, if she had had no former life for him to
be jealous of. I loved him back again right heartily. I loved all
around me, I believe, for everybody was kind to me. After a time, I
overcame my original weakness of constitution, and was just a bonny,
strong-looking lad whom every passer-by noticed, when my father took me
with him to the nearest town.

At home I was the darling of my aunt, the tenderly-beloved of my
father, the pet and plaything of the old domestics, the “young master”
of the farm-labourers, before whom I played many a lordly antic,
assuming a sort of authority which sat oddly enough, I doubt not, on
such a baby as I was.

Gregory was three years older than I. Aunt Fanny was always kind to him
in deed and in action, but she did not often think about him, she had
fallen so completely into the habit of being engrossed by me, from the
fact of my having come into her charge as a delicate baby. My father
never got over his grudging dislike to his stepson, who had so
innocently wrestled with him for the possession of my mother’s heart. I
mistrust me, too, that my father always considered him as the cause of
my mother’s death and my early delicacy; and utterly unreasonable as
this may seem, I believe my father rather cherished his feeling of
alienation to my brother as a duty, than strove to repress it. Yet not
for the world would my father have grudged him anything that money
could purchase. That was, as it were, in the bond when he had wedded my
mother. Gregory was lumpish and loutish, awkward and ungainly, marring
whatever he meddled in, and many a hard word and sharp scolding did he
get from the people about the farm, who hardly waited till my father’s
back was turned before they rated the stepson. I am ashamed—my heart is
sore to think how I fell into the fashion of the family, and slighted
my poor orphan step-brother. I don’t think I ever scouted him, or was
wilfully ill-natured to him; but the habit of being considered in all
things, and being treated as something uncommon and superior, made me
insolent in my prosperity, and I exacted more than Gregory was always
willing to grant, and then, irritated, I sometimes repeated the
disparaging words I had heard others use with regard to him, without
fully understanding their meaning. Whether he did or not I cannot tell.
I am afraid he did. He used to turn silent and quiet—sullen and sulky,
my father thought it: stupid, aunt Fanny used to call it. But every one
said he was stupid and dull, and this stupidity and dullness grew upon
him. He would sit without speaking a word, sometimes, for hours; then
my father would bid him rise and do some piece of work, maybe, about
the farm. And he would take three or four tellings before he would go.
When we were sent to school, it was all the same. He could never be
made to remember his lessons; the school-master grew weary of scolding
and flogging, and at last advised my father just to take him away, and
set him to some farm-work that might not be above his comprehension. I
think he was more gloomy and stupid than ever after this, yet he was
not a cross lad; he was patient and good-natured, and would try to do a
kind turn for any one, even if they had been scolding or cuffing him
not a minute before. But very often his attempts at kindness ended in
some mischief to the very people he was trying to serve, owing to his
awkward, ungainly ways. I suppose I was a clever lad; at any rate, I
always got plenty of praise; and was, as we called it, the cock of the
school. The schoolmaster said I could learn anything I chose, but my
father, who had no great learning himself, saw little use in much for
me, and took me away betimes, and kept me with him about the farm.
Gregory was made into a kind of shepherd, receiving his training under
old Adam, who was nearly past his work. I think old Adam was almost the
first person who had a good opinion of Gregory. He stood to it that my
brother had good parts, though he did not rightly know how to bring
them out; and, for knowing the bearings of the Fells, he said he had
never seen a lad like him. My father would try to bring Adam round to
speak of Gregory’s faults and shortcomings; but, instead of that, he
would praise him twice as much, as soon as he found out what was my
father’s object.

One winter-time, when I was about sixteen, and Gregory nineteen, I was
sent by my father on an errand to a place about seven miles distant by
the road, but only about four by the Fells. He bade me return by the
road, whichever way I took in going, for the evenings closed in early,
and were often thick and misty; besides which, old Adam, now paralytic
and bedridden, foretold a downfall of snow before long. I soon got to
my journey’s end, and soon had done my business; earlier by an hour, I
thought, than my father had expected, so I took the decision of the way
by which I would return into my own hands, and set off back again over
the Fells, just as the first shades of evening began to fall. It looked
dark and gloomy enough; but everything was so still that I thought I
should have plenty of time to get home before the snow came down. Off I
set at a pretty quick pace. But night came on quicker. The right path
was clear enough in the day-time, although at several points two or
three exactly similar diverged from the same place; but when there was
a good light, the traveller was guided by the sight of distant
objects,—a piece of rock,—a fall in the ground—which were quite
invisible to me now. I plucked up a brave heart, however, and took what
seemed to me the right road. It was wrong, nevertheless, and led me
whither I knew not, but to some wild boggy moor where the solitude
seemed painful, intense, as if never footfall of man had come thither
to break the silence. I tried to shout—with the dimmest possible hope
of being heard—rather to reassure myself by the sound of my own voice;
but my voice came husky and short, and yet it dismayed me; it seemed so
weird and strange, in that noiseless expanse of black darkness.
Suddenly the air was filled thick with dusky flakes, my face and hands
were wet with snow. It cut me off from the slightest knowledge of where
I was, for I lost every idea of the direction from which I had come, so
that I could not even retrace my steps; it hemmed me in, thicker,
thicker, with a darkness that might be felt. The boggy soil on which I
stood quaked under me if I remained long in one place, and yet I dared
not move far. All my youthful hardiness seemed to leave me at once. I
was on the point of crying, and only very shame seemed to keep it down.
To save myself from shedding tears, I shouted—terrible, wild shouts for
bare life they were. I turned sick as I paused to listen; no answering
sound came but the unfeeling echoes. Only the noiseless, pitiless snow
kept falling thicker, thicker—faster, faster! I was growing numb and
sleepy. I tried to move about, but I dared not go far, for fear of the
precipices which, I knew, abounded in certain places on the Fells. Now
and then, I stood still and shouted again; but my voice was getting
choked with tears, as I thought of the desolate helpless death I was to
die, and how little they at home, sitting round the warm, red, bright
fire, wotted what was become of me,—and how my poor father would grieve
for me—it would surely kill him—it would break his heart, poor old man!
Aunt Fanny too—was this to be the end of all her cares for me? I began
to review my life in a strange kind of vivid dream, in which the
various scenes of my few boyish years passed before me like visions. In
a pang of agony, caused by such remembrance of my short life, I
gathered up my strength and called out once more, a long, despairing,
wailing cry, to which I had no hope of obtaining any answer, save from
the echoes around, dulled as the sound might be by the thickened air.
To my surprise I heard a cry—almost as long, as wild as mine—so wild
that it seemed unearthly, and I almost thought it must be the voice of
some of the mocking spirits of the Fells, about whom I had heard so
many tales. My heart suddenly began to beat fast and loud. I could not
reply for a minute or two. I nearly fancied I had lost the power of
utterance. Just at this moment a dog barked. Was it Lassie’s bark—my
brother’s collie?—an ugly enough brute, with a white, ill-looking face,
that my father always kicked whenever he saw it, partly for its own
demerits, partly because it belonged to my brother. On such occasions,
Gregory would whistle Lassie away, and go off and sit with her in some
outhouse. My father had once or twice been ashamed of himself, when the
poor collie had yowled out with the suddenness of the pain, and had
relieved himself of his self-reproach by blaming my brother, who, he
said, had no notion of training a dog, and was enough to ruin any
collie in Christendom with his stupid way of allowing them to lie by
the kitchen fire. To all which Gregory would answer nothing, nor even
seem to hear, but go on looking absent and moody.

Yes! there again! It was Lassie’s bark! Now or never! I lifted up my
voice and shouted “Lassie! Lassie! for God’s sake, Lassie!” Another
moment, and the great white-faced Lassie was curving and gambolling
with delight round my feet and legs, looking, however, up in my face
with her intelligent, apprehensive eyes, as if fearing lest I might
greet her with a blow, as I had done oftentimes before. But I cried
with gladness, as I stooped down and patted her. My mind was sharing in
my body’s weakness, and I could not reason, but I knew that help was at
hand. A gray figure came more and more distinctly out of the thick,
close-pressing darkness. It was Gregory wrapped in his maud.

“Oh, Gregory!” said I, and I fell upon his neck, unable to speak
another word. He never spoke much, and made me no answer for some
little time. Then he told me we must move, we must walk for the dear
life—we must find our road home, if possible; but we must move, or we
should be frozen to death.

“Don’t you know the way home?” asked I.

“I thought I did when I set out, but I am doubtful now. The snow blinds
me, and I am feared that in moving about just now, I have lost the
right gait homewards.”

He had his shepherd’s staff with him, and by dint of plunging it before
us at every step we took—clinging close to each other, we went on
safely enough, as far as not falling down any of the steep rocks, but
it was slow, dreary work. My brother, I saw, was more guided by Lassie
and the way she took than anything else, trusting to her instinct. It
was too dark to see far before us; but he called her back continually,
and noted from what quarter she returned, and shaped our slow steps
accordingly. But the tedious motion scarcely kept my very blood from
freezing. Every bone, every fibre in my body seemed first to ache, and
then to swell, and then to turn numb with the intense cold. My brother
bore it better than I, from having been more out upon the hills. He did
not speak, except to call Lassie. I strove to be brave, and not
complain; but now I felt the deadly fatal sleep stealing over me.

“I can go no farther,” I said, in a drowsy tone. I remember I suddenly
became dogged and resolved. Sleep I would, were it only for five
minutes. If death were to be the consequence, sleep I would. Gregory
stood still. I suppose, he recognized the peculiar phase of suffering
to which I had been brought by the cold.

“It is of no use,” said he, as if to himself. “We are no nearer home
than we were when we started, as far as I can tell. Our only chance is
in Lassie. Here! roll thee in my maud, lad, and lay thee down on this
sheltered side of this bit of rock. Creep close under it, lad, and I’ll
lie by thee, and strive to keep the warmth in us. Stay! hast gotten
aught about thee they’ll know at home?”

I felt him unkind thus to keep me from slumber, but on his repeating
the question, I pulled out my pocket-handkerchief, of some showy
pattern, which Aunt Fanny had hemmed for me—Gregory took it, and tied
it round Lassie’s neck.

“Hie thee, Lassie, hie thee home!” And the white-faced ill-favoured
brute was off like a shot in the darkness. Now I might lie down—now I
might sleep. In my drowsy stupor I felt that I was being tenderly
covered up by my brother; but what with I neither knew nor cared—I was
too dull, too selfish, too numb to think and reason, or I might have
known that in that bleak bare place there was nought to wrap me in,
save what was taken off another. I was glad enough when he ceased his
cares and lay down by me. I took his hand.

“Thou canst not remember, lad, how we lay together thus by our dying
mother. She put thy small, wee hand in mine—I reckon she sees us now;
and belike we shall soon be with her. Anyhow, God’s will be done.”

“Dear Gregory,” I muttered, and crept nearer to him for warmth. He was
talking still, and again about our mother, when I fell asleep. In an
instant—or so it seemed—there were many voices about me—many faces
hovering round me—the sweet luxury of warmth was stealing into every
part of me. I was in my own little bed at home. I am thankful to say,
my first word was “Gregory?”

A look passed from one to another—my father’s stern old face strove in
vain to keep its sternness; his mouth quivered, his eyes filled slowly
with unwonted tears.

“I would have given him half my land—I would have blessed him as my
son,—oh God! I would have knelt at his feet, and asked him to forgive
my hardness of heart.”

I heard no more. A whirl came through my brain, catching me back to
death.

I came slowly to my consciousness, weeks afterwards. My father’s hair
was white when I recovered, and his hands shook as he looked into my
face.

We spoke no more of Gregory. We could not speak of him; but he was
strangely in our thoughts. Lassie came and went with never a word of
blame; nay, my father would try to stroke her, but she shrank away; and
he, as if reproved by the poor dumb beast, would sigh, and be silent
and abstracted for a time.

Aunt Fanny—always a talker—told me all. How, on that fatal night, my
father,—irritated by my prolonged absence, and probably more anxious
than he cared to show, had been fierce and imperious, even beyond his
wont, to Gregory; had upbraided him with his father’s poverty, his own
stupidity which made his services good for nothing—for so, in spite of
the old shepherd, my father always chose to consider them. At last,
Gregory had risen up, and whistled Lassie out with him—poor Lassie,
crouching underneath his chair for fear of a kick or a blow. Some time
before, there had been some talk between my father and my aunt
respecting my return; and when aunt Fanny told me all this, she said
she fancied that Gregory might have noticed the coming storm, and gone
out silently to meet me. Three hours afterwards, when all were running
about in wild alarm, not knowing whither to go in search of me—not even
missing Gregory, or heeding his absence, poor fellow—poor, poor
fellow!—Lassie came home, with my handkerchief tied round her neck.
They knew and understood, and the whole strength of the farm was turned
out to follow her, with wraps, and blankets, and brandy, and every
thing that could be thought of. I lay in chilly sleep, but still alive,
beneath the rock that Lassie guided them to. I was covered over with my
brother’s plaid, and his thick shepherd’s coat was carefully wrapped
round my feet. He was in his shirt-sleeves—his arm thrown over me—a
quiet smile (he had hardly ever smiled in life) upon his still, cold
face.

My father’s last words were, “God forgive me my hardness of heart
towards the fatherless child!”

And what marked the depth of his feeling of repentance, perhaps more
than all, considering the passionate love he bore my mother, was this:
we found a paper of directions after his death, in which he desired
that he might lie at the foot of the grave, in which, by his desire,
poor Gregory had been laid with OUR MOTHER.