Title: The Half-Brothers
Author: Gaskell, Elizabeth Cleghorn, 1810-1865
Language: English
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Transcribed from the 1896 Smith, Elder and Co. "Lizzie Leigh and Other
Jennifer Lee, Alev Akman and Andy Wallace.



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.





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