The Half-Brothers

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 only just seventeen when she married and he was twenty-one. He rented a small farm in the very north of England, somewhere near the coast, but he was perhaps too young and inexperienced to manage the land and cattle.

Anyhow, things did not go well and he fell ill and died of tuberculosis before they had been married three years, leaving my mother a young widow of twenty, with a little child only just able to walk, and the farm rented for four more years, with half the animals on it dead or sold off one by one to pay her pressing debts, and with no money to buy more, or even to buy the food we needed every day. There was another child coming too. I believe she was sad and sorry to think of it. She must have had a dull winter in her lonely home, with nobody else for miles; her sister came to keep her company, and they planned how to make every penny go as far as possible. I can't tell you how it happened that my little sister, whom I never saw, got sick and died but, as if my poor mother did not have enough problems, only a fortnight before Gregory was born the little girl became ill and in a week she was dead.

My mother was stunned by this last tragedy. My aunt has told me that she did not cry. Aunt Fanny would have been grateful if she had, but she sat holding the poor little girl's hand and looking in her pretty, pale, dead face, without shedding a tear. And it was the same when they took her away to be buried. She just kissed the child and sat down to watch the few people (neighbours and my aunt, who were all the friends they had) go away in 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. She continued like this until after Gregory was born.

But Gregory’s arrival seemed to allow her to cry, and she did – day and night, till my aunt and the other watcher looked at each other in horror and would have stopped her if they had known how. But she told them to leave her alone and not to worry, because every tear made her feel easier. She seemed after that to think of nothing but her little baby; she did not seem to remember either her husband or her little daughter that lay dead. At least Aunt Fanny said so, but she was a great talker and my mother was very silent, and I think Aunt Fanny made a mistake 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 woman, who thought more of her sister than she did of herself and it was on her little bit of money that we used to live, and what the two could earn by sewing.

But gradually my mother began to lose her eyesight. She was not exactly blind, because she could see well enough to walk about the house and do housework. But she could no longer sew and earn money. It must have been the heavy crying that caused it because she was a young woman at this time, and a pretty girl, I have heard people say. She took it to heart that she could no longer earn anything for herself or her child. My Aunt Fanny tried to tell her that she had enough to do in managing their cottage and looking after Gregory. But my mother knew that Aunt Fanny herself did not have as much to eat as she would like and Gregory was not a strong lad and needed not more – because he always had enough – but better food and more 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, William Preston, who later became my father, came in. He was thought of as an old bachelor; I suppose he was long past forty and he was one of the wealthiest farmers in the area and had known my grandfather well and my mother and my aunt when they were more comfortable. He sat down. My Aunt Fanny talked and he listened and looked at my mother. But he said very little on that visit or on many others that he paid before he explained the real reason for calling so often.

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 saying a word to her sister, and Aunt Fanny heard her cry as if her heart was breaking. So, she at last got her to open her door. And then she cried on my aunt's neck and told her that William Preston had asked her to marry him and had promised to take good care of her boy and to let him have everything he needed, and that she had agreed.

Aunt Fanny was shocked at this; because, as I have said, she often thought that my mother had forgotten her first husband very quickly, and now here was proof of it, if she could so soon think of marrying again. Besides, as Aunt Fanny used to say, she herself was closer to William Preston's age than my mother, who, though she was a widow, was not yet twenty-four. However, as Aunt Fanny said, they had not asked her advice and it was too good an opportunity to refuse. Helen's eyesight would never be good again and, as William Preston's wife, she would never need to do anything; and a boy was a great responsibility to a widowed mother and now there would be a good, steady man to look after him.

So, eventually, Aunt Fanny seemed to have a brighter opinion of the marriage than even my mother, who hardly ever looked up, and never smiled after the day when she promised William Preston to be his wife. But although 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 or give her any comfort, except by his kisses.

At last William Preston and she were married and she went to a well-stocked house, not more than half-an-hour's walk from where Aunt Fanny lived. I believe she did all that she could to please my father and I have heard him say that she did everything for him. But she did not love him and he soon found 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 made him bitter to see how she brightened when she saw that little child, while for him, who had given her so much, she had only kind words as cold as ice. He started to question her about the difference in her behaviour to Gregory and him, as if that would bring love: and he took a positive dislike to the little child. He was so jealous of the ready love that always flowed like fresh water when Gregory came near. He wanted her to love him more, and perhaps that was good; but he also wanted her to love her child less, and that was an unkind wish.

One day, he got into a temper with Gregory, who had got into some mischief, as children do. My mother made an excuse for him, but my father said it was hard enough to keep another man's child, without his wife constantly arguing with him. She ought to support him. And so the argument began and the end of it was that I was born that very day, a month early. My father was glad and proud and sorry, all at the same time; glad and proud that a son was born to him; and sorry for his poor wife's health, 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 believed that it was all Gregory's fault.

He had another complaint against him before long. My mother began to become ill the day after I was born. My father sent for doctors, and would have paid with his own blood to save her. My Aunt Fanny used to say sometimes that she thought that her sister did not wish to live, and so just let herself die without trying. But when I questioned her, she agreed that my mother did all the doctors told her, with the same uncomplaining patience she always had. One of her last requests was to have Gregory in her bed by my side, and then she made him take my little hand. Her husband came in while she was looking at us, and when he asked her how she felt, she seemed to look at us two little half-brothers with great kindness. Then, she looked up in his face and smiled, almost her first smile at him and such a sweet smile! 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 bachelor life, but what could he do with two little children? He needed a woman to take care of him, and who was as suitable as his wife's elder sister? So she looked after me from my birth. For a time I was weak, as was only natural, and she was always beside me, night and day watching over me, and my father was nearly as anxious as she was. His land had gone from father to son for more than three hundred years. He cared for me as his flesh and blood because I would own the land after him. But he also needed something to love, because to most people he was a hard man, and he loved me as he had never loved anyone before. I loved him back. I loved everybody around me because they were kind to me. After a time, I recovered from my weakness and was a strong-looking lad that every passer-by noticed, when my father took me with him to the nearest town.

At home I was my aunt’s darling, the pet of the servants, the "young master" of the farm-workers.

Gregory was three years older than I. Aunt Fanny was always kind to him, but she did not often think about him, she had fallen so completely into the habit of looking after me. My father never got over his dislike of his stepson, who had so innocently won my mother's heart. I think, too, that my father always considered him the cause of my mother's death and my early weakness. Yet my father would give him anything that money could buy. That was the promise he made when he married my mother.

Gregory was clumsy, breaking whatever he played with, and he got many hard words from the people around the farm who hardly waited till my father's back was turned before they shouted at his stepson. I am ashamed to remember how I followed the family habit and was rude to my poor step-brother. I don't think I was ever deliberately nasty to him, but being treated as something special made me unkind and I sometimes repeated the hard words I had heard others use to him, without fully understanding their meaning. He used to turn silent – sullen, my father thought it: stupid, Aunt Fanny used to say. But it was not only them: everyone said he was stupid, and this stupidity grew. He would sit without speaking a word, sometimes, for hours. Then my father would tell him to get up and do some work, maybe, about the farm. And he would need to tell him three or four times before he went and did it.

When we were sent to school, it was the same. He could never remember his lessons; the teacher grew tired of beating him and at last advised my father just to take him away and give him some farm work that he could understand. I think he was more gloomy and stupid than ever after this, but he was not an angry lad; he was patient and good-natured and would try to be kind to everyone, even if they had shouted at him a minute before. But very often his kindness ended badly for the people he was trying to help, because of his awkward ways. I suppose I was a clever lad; anyway, everyone said so at school. The teacher said I could learn anything I chose, but my father, who had not been to school, saw little use in education for me, and kept me with him at the farm.

Gregory became a shepherd, getting his training under old Adam, who was nearly ready to retire. I think old Adam was almost the first person who had a good opinion of Gregory. He said that my brother had good characteristics, although he did not know how to use them. My father tried to get Adam to speak about Gregory's shortcomings; but, instead of that, he would praise him twice as much.

One winter, when I was about sixteen and Gregory nineteen, I was sent by my father to do a job about seven miles away by road, but only about four miles over the hills. He told me to return by the road though because the evenings came early and were often misty; and old Adam, now bed-ridden, said it would snow before long. I soon arrived at the place and did my business – an hour earlier, I thought, than my father had expected. So I took the decision to return over the hills just as evening began to fall. It looked dark enough but everything was so still that I thought I would have more than enough time to get home before the snow came down.

I set off quickly. But night came even faster. The right path was clear in the daytime but then there was good light and the traveller could see objects far away – a piece of rock, a hole in the ground – which were invisible now. However, I took what seemed the right road. It was wrong, and led me but to some wild and lonely place where it seemed no man had ever come to break the silence. I tried to shout – with no hope of being heard – just to reassure myself by the sound of my own voice. Suddenly my face and hands were wet with snow. I now had no idea where I was because I did not know the direction I had come from, so I could not even go back. All my young courage seemed to leave me at once. I was on the point of crying. To save myself from tears, I shouted – terrible, wild shouts they were. I felt sick as I paused to listen; no answer came. Only the noiseless snow kept falling thicker, thicker – faster, faster!

I was growing numb and sleepy. I tried to move about, but I dared not go far because I was afraid of the steep hills and deep holes which, I knew, were all around me. Now and then, I stood still and shouted again; but my voice was full of tears, as I thought of the lonely death I was going to die. Everyone at home was sitting round the warm, bright fire and knew nothing about what had happened to me. And my death would surely kill my poor father – it would break his heart, poor old man! Aunt Fanny too. I began to see my life in a strange but vivid dream.

Hopelessly, I called out once more, a long, desperate cry that nobody could hear or answer. To my surprise, I heard a shout – almost as long and wild as mine. My heart suddenly began to beat fast and loud. I could not reply for a minute or two. Just at that moment a dog barked. Was it my brother's dog? – an ugly animal, with a white face, that my father always kicked whenever he saw it, partly because it belonged to my brother. At those times, Gregory would call Lassie away and go off and sit with her outside. My father had once or twice been ashamed of himself, when the poor animal had barked with pain and had blamed my brother, who, he said, had no idea how to train a dog. Gregory would not answer, but go on looking gloomy.

Yes! It was Lassie's bark! Now or never! I shouted "Lassie! Lassie! For God's sake, Lassie!" Another moment, and the great white-faced dog was playing happily round my feet and legs, looking, however, up in my face with her intelligent eyes, like she was worried that I might hit her, as I had done many times before. But I cried with gladness. My mind was as weak as my body and I could not think, but I knew that help was at hand. A grey figure came more and more clearly out of the thick darkness. It was Gregory.

"Oh, Gregory!" I said and I held him, unable to speak another word. He never spoke much and gave no answer for some time. Then he told me we must move, we must walk to stay alive – we must find our road home, if possible. But we must move, or we would freeze to death.

"Don't you know the way home?" I asked.

"I thought I did when I set off but I am doubtful now. The snow has blinded me and I am worried that in moving about just now, I have lost the right way home."

He had his shepherd's stick with him and by pushing it in front of us at every step, holding each other closely, we went safely, but it was slow work. My brother, I saw, trusted Lassie and the path she took more than anything else. It was too dark to see far in front of us but he called her back continually, and noted carefully where she returned from so we could follow her. But the slow movement only just kept my blood from freezing. Every bone in my body seemed first to ache and then to turn numb with the intense cold. My brother managed better than I did. He did not speak, except to call Lassie. I tried to be brave and not complain but now I felt deadly sleep coming.

"I can go no farther," I said, tiredly. I remember I suddenly decided that I would sleep only for five minutes, even if I died as a result. Gregory stood still.

"It’s no use," he said. "We are no nearer home than we were when we started, as far as I can tell. Our only chance is Lassie. Here! Put my coat on, lad, and lie down on this side of the rock. Come close under it, lad, and I'll lie by you and try to stay warm. Wait! Have you got anything with you that they'll know at home?"

I felt he was unkind to stop me from sleeping, but when he repeated the question, I pulled out my handkerchief, which Aunt Fanny had made for me – Gregory took it and tied it round Lassie's neck.

"Lassie, go home!" And the white-faced animal was off like a shot in the darkness. Now I could lie down, now I could sleep. I felt my brother covering me; but I neither knew nor cared – I was too selfish, too numb to think, or I might have known that in that bleak place there was nothing to cover me with, except his own coat. I was glad enough when he lay down beside me. I took his hand.

"You can’t remember, lad, how we lay together like this by our dying mother. She put your small hand in mine – I reckon she sees us now and probably we’ll soon be with her."

"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 a moment – or so it seemed – there were many voices around me – the sweet luxury of warmth was in every part of me. I was in my own little bed at home. I’m pleased to say, my first words were "Where’s Gregory?"

A look passed from one to another – my father's eyes filled slowly with tears.

I slowly recovered weeks afterwards. My father's hair was white then, 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; my father would try to touch her, but she always ran away and he would be silent for a time.

Aunt Fanny – always a talker – told me everything. How, on that fatal night, my father, irritated by my long absence and probably worried too, had been even fiercer to Gregory than usual; had talked about his father's poverty, and his own stupidity which made his work useless. At last, Gregory had got up and taken Lassie out with him – poor Lassie, under his chair, afraid of a kick. Some time before, my father and my aunt had talked about my return and when Aunt Fanny told me all this, she said that Gregory might have noticed the coming storm and gone out silently to meet me. Three hours afterwards, when everyone was running about in panic, not knowing where to search for me and not even missing Gregory, poor boy – poor, poor boy! – Lassie came home, with my handkerchief tied round her neck.

They knew and understood and everyone at the farm went out to follow her, with clothes and blankets and everything that could be thought of. I lay asleep, but still alive, beneath the rock that Lassie took them to. I was covered with my brother's coat. He was in his shirt, his arm over me – a quiet smile (he had hardly ever smiled in life) on his still, cold face.

My father's last words were, "God forgive me my hardness of heart towards the fatherless child!"

We found a paper giving directions after his death. He wanted to lie at the end of the grave, in which poor Gregory had been buried with our mother.