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diff --git a/old/4276-h.htm b/old/4276-h.htm deleted file mode 100644 index 4cf6010..0000000 --- a/old/4276-h.htm +++ /dev/null @@ -1,19426 +0,0 @@ -<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" -"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> - -<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en" xml:lang="en"> - <head> -<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=iso-8859-1" /> -<title> - The Project Gutenberg eBook of North And South, by Elizabeth Gaskell. -</title> -<style type="text/css"> - p {margin-top:.2em;text-align:justify;margin-bottom:.2em;text-indent:4%;} - -.cb {text-align:center;text-indent:0%;font-weight:bold;} - -.r {text-align:right;margin-right: 5%;} - -small {font-size: 70%;} - - h1 {margin-top:5%;text-align:center;clear:both;} - - h2 {margin-top:5%;margin-bottom:2%;text-align:center;clear:both; - font-size:120%;} - - hr.full {width: 50%;margin:5% auto 5% auto;border:4px double gray;} - - body{margin-left:2%;margin-right:2%;background:#fdfdfd;color:black;font-family:"Times New Roman", serif;font-size:medium;} - -.un {text-decoration:underline;} - -a:link {background-color:#ffffff;color:blue;text-decoration:none;} - - link {background-color:#ffffff;color:blue;text-decoration:none;} - -a:visited {background-color:#ffffff;color:purple;text-decoration:none;} - -a:hover {background-color:#ffffff;color:#FF0000;text-decoration:underline;} - -.blockquot {margin-top:2%;margin-bottom:2%;} - -.poem {margin-left:25%;text-indent:0%;} -.poem .stanza {margin-top: 1em;margin-bottom:1em;} -.poem span.i0 {display: block; margin-left: 0em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} -.poem span.i1 {display: block; margin-left: .4em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} -.poem span.i4 {display: block; margin-left: 4em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} -.poem span.i5 {display: block; margin-left: 5em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} -.poem span.i8 {display: block; margin-left: 8em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} -.poem span.i12 {display: block; margin-left: 12em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} -.poem span.i10 {display: block; margin-left: 10em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} -.poem span.i7 {display: block; margin-left: 7em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} -.poem span.i9 {display: block; margin-left: 9em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} -</style> - </head> -<body> - - -<pre> - -The Project Gutenberg EBook of North and South, by Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: North and South - -Author: Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell - -Posting Date: November 28, 2011 [EBook #4276] -Release Date: July, 2003 -First Posted: December 26, 2001 -[Last updated March 19, 2019] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NORTH AND SOUTH *** - - - - -Produced by Charles Aldarondo -HTML version by Chuck Greif - - - - - -</pre> - -<hr class="full" /> - -<h1>NORTH AND SOUTH</h1> - -<p class="cb">by</p> - -<p class="cb"><big>ELIZABETH GASKELL</big></p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>First published in serial form in <i>Household Words</i> in 1854-1855 and in -volume form in 1855.</p> - -<p>On its appearance in 'Household Words,' this tale was obliged to conform -to the conditions imposed by the requirements of a weekly publication, -and likewise to confine itself within certain advertised limits, in -order that faith might be kept with the public. Although these -conditions were made as light as they well could be, the author found it -impossible to develope the story in the manner originally intended, and, -more especially, was compelled to hurry on events with an improbable -rapidity towards the close. In some degree to remedy this obvious -defect, various short passages have been inserted, and several new -chapters added. With this brief explanation, the tale is commended to -the kindness of the reader;</p> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">'Beseking hym lowly, of mercy and pite,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Of its rude makyng to have compassion.'<br /></span> -</div></div> - -<h2>Contents</h2> - -<ul><li><a href="#CHAPTER_I_HASTE_TO_THE_WEDDING"><b>CHAPTER I—'HASTE TO THE WEDDING'</b></a></li> -<li><a href="#CHAPTER_II_ROSES_AND_THORNS"><b>CHAPTER II—ROSES AND THORNS</b></a></li> -<li><a href="#CHAPTER_III_THE_MORE_HASTE_THE_WORSE_SPEED"><b>CHAPTER III—'THE MORE HASTE THE WORSE SPEED'</b></a></li> -<li><a href="#CHAPTER_IV_DOUBTS_AND_DIFFICULTIES"><b>CHAPTER IV—DOUBTS AND DIFFICULTIES</b></a></li> -<li><a href="#CHAPTER_V_DECISION"><b>CHAPTER V—DECISION</b></a></li> -<li><a href="#CHAPTER_VI_FAREWELL"><b>CHAPTER VI—FAREWELL</b></a></li> -<li><a href="#CHAPTER_VII_NEW_SCENES_AND_FACES"><b>CHAPTER VII—NEW SCENES AND FACES</b></a></li> -<li><a href="#CHAPTER_VIII_HOME_SICKNESS"><b>CHAPTER VIII—HOME SICKNESS</b></a></li> -<li><a href="#CHAPTER_IX_DRESSING_FOR_TEA"><b>CHAPTER IX—DRESSING FOR TEA</b></a></li> -<li><a href="#CHAPTER_X_WROUGHT_IRON_AND_GOLD"><b>CHAPTER X—WROUGHT IRON AND GOLD</b></a></li> -<li><a href="#CHAPTER_XI_FIRST_IMPRESSIONS"><b>CHAPTER XI—FIRST IMPRESSIONS</b></a></li> -<li><a href="#CHAPTER_XII_MORNING_CALLS"><b>CHAPTER XII—MORNING CALLS</b></a></li> -<li><a href="#CHAPTER_XIII_A_SOFT_BREEZE_IN_A_SULTRY_PLACE"><b>CHAPTER XIII—A SOFT BREEZE IN A SULTRY PLACE</b></a></li> -<li><a href="#CHAPTER_XIV_THE_MUTINY"><b>CHAPTER XIV—THE MUTINY</b></a></li> -<li><a href="#CHAPTER_XV_MASTERS_AND_MEN"><b>CHAPTER XV—MASTERS AND MEN</b></a></li> -<li><a href="#CHAPTER_XVI_THE_SHADOW_OF_DEATH"><b>CHAPTER XVI—THE SHADOW OF DEATH</b></a></li> -<li><a href="#CHAPTER_XVII_WHAT_IS_A_STRIKE"><b>CHAPTER XVII—WHAT IS A STRIKE?</b></a></li> -<li><a href="#CHAPTER_XVIII_LIKES_AND_DISLIKES"><b>CHAPTER XVIII—LIKES AND DISLIKES</b></a></li> -<li><a href="#CHAPTER_XIX_ANGEL_VISITS"><b>CHAPTER XIX—ANGEL VISITS</b></a></li> -<li><a href="#CHAPTER_XX_MEN_AND_GENTLEMEN"><b>CHAPTER XX—MEN AND GENTLEMEN</b></a></li> -<li><a href="#CHAPTER_XXI_THE_DARK_NIGHT"><b>CHAPTER XXI—THE DARK NIGHT</b></a></li> -<li><a href="#CHAPTER_XXII_A_BLOW_AND_ITS_CONSEQUENCES"><b>CHAPTER XXII—A BLOW AND ITS CONSEQUENCES</b></a></li> -<li><a href="#CHAPTER_XXIII_MISTAKES"><b>CHAPTER XXIII—MISTAKES</b></a></li> -<li><a href="#CHAPTER_XXIV_MISTAKES_CLEARED_UP"><b>CHAPTER XXIV—MISTAKES CLEARED UP</b></a></li> -<li><a href="#CHAPTER_XXV_FREDERICK"><b>CHAPTER XXV—FREDERICK</b></a></li> -<li><a href="#CHAPTER_XXVI_MOTHER_AND_SON"><b>CHAPTER XXVI—MOTHER AND SON</b></a></li> -<li><a href="#CHAPTER_XXVII_FRUIT-PIECE"><b>CHAPTER XXVII—FRUIT-PIECE</b></a></li> -<li><a href="#CHAPTER_XXVIII_COMFORT_IN_SORROW"><b>CHAPTER XXVIII—COMFORT IN SORROW</b></a></li> -<li><a href="#CHAPTER_XXIX_A_RAY_OF_SUNSHINE"><b>CHAPTER XXIX—A RAY OF SUNSHINE</b></a></li> -<li><a href="#CHAPTER_XXX_HOME_AT_LAST"><b>CHAPTER XXX—HOME AT LAST</b></a></li> -<li><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXI_SHOULD_AULD_ACQUAINTANCE_BE_FORGOT"><b>CHAPTER XXXI—'SHOULD AULD ACQUAINTANCE BE FORGOT?'</b></a></li> -<li><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXII_MISCHANCES"><b>CHAPTER XXXII—MISCHANCES</b></a></li> -<li><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIII_PEACE"><b>CHAPTER XXXIII—PEACE</b></a></li> -<li><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIV_FALSE_AND_TRUE"><b>CHAPTER XXXIV—FALSE AND TRUE</b></a></li> -<li><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXV_EXPIATION"><b>CHAPTER XXXV—EXPIATION</b></a></li> -<li><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXVI_UNION_NOT_ALWAYS_STRENGTH"><b>CHAPTER XXXVI—UNION NOT ALWAYS STRENGTH</b></a></li> -<li><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXVII_LOOKING_SOUTH"><b>CHAPTER XXXVII—LOOKING SOUTH</b></a></li> -<li><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXVIII_PROMISES_FULFILLED"><b>CHAPTER XXXVIII—PROMISES FULFILLED</b></a></li> -<li><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIX_MAKING_FRIENDS"><b>CHAPTER XXXIX—MAKING FRIENDS</b></a></li> -<li><a href="#CHAPTER_XL_OUT_OF_TUNE"><b>CHAPTER XL—OUT OF TUNE</b></a></li> -<li><a href="#CHAPTER_XLI_THE_JOURNEYS_END"><b>CHAPTER XLI—THE JOURNEY'S END</b></a></li> -<li><a href="#CHAPTER_XLII_ALONE_ALONE"><b>CHAPTER XLII—ALONE! ALONE!</b></a></li> -<li><a href="#CHAPTER_XLIII_MARGARETS_FLITTIN"><b>CHAPTER XLIII—MARGARET'S FLITTIN'</b></a></li> -<li><a href="#CHAPTER_XLIV_EASE_NOT_PEACE"><b>CHAPTER XLIV—EASE NOT PEACE</b></a></li> -<li><a href="#CHAPTER_XLV_NOT_ALL_A_DREAM"><b>CHAPTER XLV—NOT ALL A DREAM</b></a></li> -<li><a href="#CHAPTER_XLVI_ONCE_AND_NOW"><b>CHAPTER XLVI—ONCE AND NOW</b></a></li> -<li><a href="#CHAPTER_XLVII_SOMETHING_WANTING"><b>CHAPTER XLVII—SOMETHING WANTING</b></a></li> -<li><a href="#CHAPTER_XLVIII_NEER_TO_BE_FOUND_AGAIN"><b>CHAPTER XLVIII—'NE'ER TO BE FOUND AGAIN'</b></a></li> -<li><a href="#CHAPTER_XLIX_BREATHING_TRANQUILLITY"><b>CHAPTER XLIX—BREATHING TRANQUILLITY</b></a></li> -<li><a href="#CHAPTER_L_CHANGES_AT_MILTON"><b>CHAPTER L—CHANGES AT MILTON</b></a></li> -<li><a href="#CHAPTER_LI_MEETING_AGAIN"><b>CHAPTER LI—MEETING AGAIN</b></a></li> -<li><a href="#CHAPTER_LII_PACK_CLOUDS_AWAY"><b>CHAPTER LII—'PACK CLOUDS AWAY'</b></a></li> -</ul> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_I_HASTE_TO_THE_WEDDING" id="CHAPTER_I_HASTE_TO_THE_WEDDING"></a>CHAPTER I—'HASTE TO THE WEDDING'</h2> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">'Wooed and married and a'.'<br /></span> -</div></div> - -<p>'Edith!' said Margaret, gently, 'Edith!'</p> - -<p>But, as Margaret half suspected, Edith had fallen asleep. She lay curled -up on the sofa in the back drawing-room in Harley Street, looking very -lovely in her white muslin and blue ribbons. If Titania had ever been -dressed in white muslin and blue ribbons, and had fallen asleep on a -crimson damask sofa in a back drawing-room, Edith might have been taken -for her. Margaret was struck afresh by her cousin's beauty. They had -grown up together from childhood, and all along Edith had been remarked -upon by every one, except Margaret, for her prettiness; but Margaret had -never thought about it until the last few days, when the prospect of -soon losing her companion seemed to give force to every sweet quality -and charm which Edith possessed. They had been talking about wedding -dresses, and wedding ceremonies; and Captain Lennox, and what he had -told Edith about her future life at Corfu, where his regiment was -stationed; and the difficulty of keeping a piano in good tune (a -difficulty which Edith seemed to consider as one of the most formidable -that could befall her in her married life), and what gowns she should -want in the visits to Scotland, which would immediately succeed her -marriage; but the whispered tone had latterly become more drowsy; and -Margaret, after a pause of a few minutes, found, as she fancied, that in -spite of the buzz in the next room, Edith had rolled herself up into a -soft ball of muslin and ribbon, and silken curls, and gone off into a -peaceful little after-dinner nap.</p> - -<p>Margaret had been on the point of telling her cousin of some of the -plans and visions which she entertained as to her future life in the -country parsonage, where her father and mother lived; and where her -bright holidays had always been passed, though for the last ten years -her aunt Shaw's house had been considered as her home. But in default of -a listener, she had to brood over the change in her life silently as -heretofore. It was a happy brooding, although tinged with regret at -being separated for an indefinite time from her gentle aunt and dear -cousin. As she thought of the delight of filling the important post of -only daughter in Helstone parsonage, pieces of the conversation out of -the next room came upon her ears. Her aunt Shaw was talking to the five -or six ladies who had been dining there, and whose husbands were still -in the dining-room. They were the familiar acquaintances of the house; -neighbours whom Mrs. Shaw called friends, because she happened to dine -with them more frequently than with any other people, and because if she -or Edith wanted anything from them, or they from her, they did not -scruple to make a call at each other's houses before luncheon. These -ladies and their husbands were invited, in their capacity of friends, to -eat a farewell dinner in honour of Edith's approaching marriage. Edith -had rather objected to this arrangement, for Captain Lennox was expected -to arrive by a late train this very evening; but, although she was a -spoiled child, she was too careless and idle to have a very strong will -of her own, and gave way when she found that her mother had absolutely -ordered those extra delicacies of the season which are always supposed -to be efficacious against immoderate grief at farewell dinners. She -contented herself by leaning back in her chair, merely playing with the -food on her plate, and looking grave and absent; while all around her -were enjoying the mots of Mr. Grey, the gentleman who always took the -bottom of the table at Mrs. Shaw's dinner parties, and asked Edith to -give them some music in the drawing-room. Mr. Grey was particularly -agreeable over this farewell dinner, and the gentlemen staid down stairs -longer than usual. It was very well they did—to judge from the -fragments of conversation which Margaret overheard.</p> - -<p>'I suffered too much myself; not that I was not extremely happy with the -poor dear General, but still disparity of age is a drawback; one that I -was resolved Edith should not have to encounter. Of course, without any -maternal partiality, I foresaw that the dear child was likely to marry -early; indeed, I had often said that I was sure she would be married -before she was nineteen. I had quite a prophetic feeling when Captain -Lennox'—and here the voice dropped into a whisper, but Margaret could -easily supply the blank. The course of true love in Edith's case had run -remarkably smooth. Mrs. Shaw had given way to the presentiment, as she -expressed it; and had rather urged on the marriage, although it was -below the expectations which many of Edith's acquaintances had formed -for her, a young and pretty heiress. But Mrs. Shaw said that her only -child should marry for love,—and sighed emphatically, as if love had -not been her motive for marrying the General. Mrs. Shaw enjoyed the -romance of the present engagement rather more than her daughter. Not but -that Edith was very thoroughly and properly in love; still she would -certainly have preferred a good house in Belgravia, to all the -picturesqueness of the life which Captain Lennox described at Corfu. The -very parts which made Margaret glow as she listened, Edith pretended to -shiver and shudder at; partly for the pleasure she had in being coaxed -out of her dislike by her fond lover, and partly because anything of a -gipsy or make-shift life was really distasteful to her. Yet had any one -come with a fine house, and a fine estate, and a fine title to boot, -Edith would still have clung to Captain Lennox while the temptation -lasted; when it was over, it is possible she might have had little -qualms of ill-concealed regret that Captain Lennox could not have united -in his person everything that was desirable. In this she was but her -mother's child; who, after deliberately marrying General Shaw with no -warmer feeling than respect for his character and establishment, was -constantly, though quietly, bemoaning her hard lot in being united to -one whom she could not love.</p> - -<p>'I have spared no expense in her trousseau,' were the next words -Margaret heard.</p> - -<p>'She has all the beautiful Indian shawls and scarfs the General gave to -me, but which I shall never wear again.'</p> - -<p>'She is a lucky girl,' replied another voice, which Margaret knew to be -that of Mrs. Gibson, a lady who was taking a double interest in the -conversation, from the fact of one of her daughters having been married -within the last few weeks.</p> - -<p>'Helen had set her heart upon an Indian shawl, but really when I found -what an extravagant price was asked, I was obliged to refuse her. She -will be quite envious when she hears of Edith having Indian shawls. What -kind are they? Delhi? with the lovely little borders?'</p> - -<p>Margaret heard her aunt's voice again, but this time it was as if she -had raised herself up from her half-recumbent position, and were looking -into the more dimly lighted back drawing-room. 'Edith! Edith!' cried -she; and then she sank as if wearied by the exertion. Margaret stepped -forward.</p> - -<p>'Edith is asleep, Aunt Shaw. Is it anything I can do?'</p> - -<p>All the ladies said 'Poor child!' on receiving this distressing -intelligence about Edith; and the minute lap-dog in Mrs. Shaw's arms -began to bark, as if excited by the burst of pity.</p> - -<p>'Hush, Tiny! you naughty little girl! you will waken your mistress. It -was only to ask Edith if she would tell Newton to bring down her shawls: -perhaps you would go, Margaret dear?'</p> - -<p>Margaret went up into the old nursery at the very top of the house, -where Newton was busy getting up some laces which were required for the -wedding. While Newton went (not without a muttered grumbling) to undo -the shawls, which had already been exhibited four or five times that -day, Margaret looked round upon the nursery; the first room in that -house with which she had become familiar nine years ago, when she was -brought, all untamed from the forest, to share the home, the play, and -the lessons of her cousin Edith. She remembered the dark, dim look of -the London nursery, presided over by an austere and ceremonious nurse, -who was terribly particular about clean hands and torn frocks. She -recollected the first tea up there—separate from her father and aunt, -who were dining somewhere down below an infinite depth of stairs; for -unless she were up in the sky (the child thought), they must be deep -down in the bowels of the earth. At home—before she came to live in -Harley Street—her mother's dressing-room had been her nursery; and, as -they kept early hours in the country parsonage, Margaret had always had -her meals with her father and mother. Oh! well did the tall stately girl -of eighteen remember the tears shed with such wild passion of grief by -the little girl of nine, as she hid her face under the bed-clothes, in -that first night; and how she was bidden not to cry by the nurse, -because it would disturb Miss Edith; and how she had cried as bitterly, -but more quietly, till her newly-seen, grand, pretty aunt had come -softly upstairs with Mr. Hale to show him his little sleeping daughter. -Then the little Margaret had hushed her sobs, and tried to lie quiet as -if asleep, for fear of making her father unhappy by her grief, which she -dared not express before her aunt, and which she rather thought it was -wrong to feel at all after the long hoping, and planning, and contriving -they had gone through at home, before her wardrobe could be arranged so -as to suit her grander circumstances, and before papa could leave his -parish to come up to London, even for a few days.</p> - -<p>Now she had got to love the old nursery, though it was but a dismantled -place; and she looked all round, with a kind of cat-like regret, at the -idea of leaving it for ever in three days.</p> - -<p>'Ah Newton!' said she, 'I think we shall all be sorry to leave this dear -old room.'</p> - -<p>'Indeed, miss, I shan't for one. My eyes are not so good as they were, -and the light here is so bad that I can't see to mend laces except just -at the window, where there's always a shocking draught—enough to give -one one's death of cold.'</p> - -<p>'Well, I dare say you will have both good light and plenty of warmth at -Naples. You must keep as much of your darning as you can till then. -Thank you, Newton, I can take them down—you're busy.'</p> - -<p>So Margaret went down laden with shawls, and snuffing up their spicy -Eastern smell. Her aunt asked her to stand as a sort of lay figure on -which to display them, as Edith was still asleep. No one thought about -it; but Margaret's tall, finely made figure, in the black silk dress -which she was wearing as mourning for some distant relative of her -father's, set off the long beautiful folds of the gorgeous shawls that -would have half-smothered Edith. Margaret stood right under the -chandelier, quite silent and passive, while her aunt adjusted the -draperies. Occasionally, as she was turned round, she caught a glimpse -of herself in the mirror over the chimney-piece, and smiled at her own -appearance there—the familiar features in the usual garb of a princess. -She touched the shawls gently as they hung around her, and took a -pleasure in their soft feel and their brilliant colours, and rather -liked to be dressed in such splendour—enjoying it much as a child would -do, with a quiet pleased smile on her lips. Just then the door opened, -and Mr. Henry Lennox was suddenly announced. Some of the ladies started -back, as if half-ashamed of their feminine interest in dress. Mrs. Shaw -held out her hand to the new-comer; Margaret stood perfectly still, -thinking she might be yet wanted as a sort of block for the shawls; but -looking at Mr. Lennox with a bright, amused face, as if sure of his -sympathy in her sense of the ludicrousness at being thus surprised.</p> - -<p>Her aunt was so much absorbed in asking Mr. Henry Lennox—who had not -been able to come to dinner—all sorts of questions about his brother -the bridegroom, his sister the bridesmaid (coming with the Captain from -Scotland for the occasion), and various other members of the Lennox -family, that Margaret saw she was no more wanted as shawl-bearer, and -devoted herself to the amusement of the other visitors, whom her aunt -had for the moment forgotten. Almost immediately, Edith came in from the -back drawing-room, winking and blinking her eyes at the stronger light, -shaking back her slightly-ruffled curls, and altogether looking like the -Sleeping Beauty just startled from her dreams. Even in her slumber she -had instinctively felt that a Lennox was worth rousing herself for; and -she had a multitude of questions to ask about dear Janet, the future, -unseen sister-in-law, for whom she professed so much affection, that if -Margaret had not been very proud she might have almost felt jealous of -the mushroom rival. As Margaret sank rather more into the background on -her aunt's joining the conversation, she saw Henry Lennox directing his -look towards a vacant seat near her; and she knew perfectly well that as -soon as Edith released him from her questioning, he would take -possession of that chair. She had not been quite sure, from her aunt's -rather confused account of his engagements, whether he would come that -night; it was almost a surprise to see him; and now she was sure of a -pleasant evening. He liked and disliked pretty nearly the same things -that she did. Margaret's face was lightened up into an honest, open -brightness. By-and-by he came. She received him with a smile which had -not a tinge of shyness or self-consciousness in it.</p> - -<p>'Well, I suppose you are all in the depths of business—ladies' -business, I mean. Very different to my business, which is the real true -law business. Playing with shawls is very different work to drawing up -settlements.'</p> - -<p>'Ah, I knew how you would be amused to find us all so occupied in -admiring finery. But really Indian shawls are very perfect things of -their kind.'</p> - -<p>'I have no doubt they are. Their prices are very perfect, too. Nothing -wanting.' The gentlemen came dropping in one by one, and the buzz and -noise deepened in tone.</p> - -<p>'This is your last dinner-party, is it not? There are no more before -Thursday?'</p> - -<p>'No. I think after this evening we shall feel at rest, which I am sure I -have not done for many weeks; at least, that kind of rest when the hands -have nothing more to do, and all the arrangements are complete for an -event which must occupy one's head and heart. I shall be glad to have -time to think, and I am sure Edith will.'</p> - -<p>'I am not so sure about her; but I can fancy that you will. Whenever I -have seen you lately, you have been carried away by a whirlwind of some -other person's making.'</p> - -<p>'Yes,' said Margaret, rather sadly, remembering the never-ending -commotion about trifles that had been going on for more than a month -past: 'I wonder if a marriage must always be preceded by what you call a -whirlwind, or whether in some cases there might not rather be a calm and -peaceful time just before it.'</p> - -<p>'Cinderella's godmother ordering the trousseau, the wedding-breakfast, -writing the notes of invitation, for instance,' said Mr. Lennox, -laughing.</p> - -<p>'But are all these quite necessary troubles?' asked Margaret, looking up -straight at him for an answer. A sense of indescribable weariness of all -the arrangements for a pretty effect, in which Edith had been busied as -supreme authority for the last six weeks, oppressed her just now; and -she really wanted some one to help her to a few pleasant, quiet ideas -connected with a marriage.</p> - -<p>'Oh, of course,' he replied with a change to gravity in his tone. 'There -are forms and ceremonies to be gone through, not so much to satisfy -oneself, as to stop the world's mouth, without which stoppage there -would be very little satisfaction in life. But how would you have a -wedding arranged?'</p> - -<p>'Oh, I have never thought much about it; only I should like it to be a -very fine summer morning; and I should like to walk to church through -the shade of trees; and not to have so many bridesmaids, and to have no -wedding-breakfast. I dare say I am resolving against the very things -that have given me the most trouble just now.'</p> - -<p>'No, I don't think you are. The idea of stately simplicity accords well -with your character.'</p> - -<p>Margaret did not quite like this speech; she winced away from it more, -from remembering former occasions on which he had tried to lead her into -a discussion (in which he took the complimentary part) about her own -character and ways of going on. She cut his speech rather short by -saying:</p> - -<p>'It is natural for me to think of Helstone church, and the walk to it, -rather than of driving up to a London church in the middle of a paved -street.'</p> - -<p>'Tell me about Helstone. You have never described it to me. I should -like to have some idea of the place you will be living in, when -ninety-six Harley Street will be looking dingy and dirty, and dull, and -shut up. Is Helstone a village, or a town, in the first place?'</p> - -<p>'Oh, only a hamlet; I don't think I could call it a village at all. -There is the church and a few houses near it on the green—cottages, -rather—with roses growing all over them.'</p> - -<p>'And flowering all the year round, especially at Christmas—make your -picture complete,' said he.</p> - -<p>'No,' replied Margaret, somewhat annoyed, 'I am not making a picture. I -am trying to describe Helstone as it really is. You should not have said -that.'</p> - -<p>'I am penitent,' he answered. 'Only it really sounded like a village in -a tale rather than in real life.'</p> - -<p>'And so it is,' replied Margaret, eagerly. 'All the other places in -England that I have seen seem so hard and prosaic-looking, after the New -Forest. Helstone is like a village in a poem—in one of Tennyson's -poems. But I won't try and describe it any more. You would only laugh at -me if I told you what I think of it—what it really is.'</p> - -<p>'Indeed, I would not. But I see you are going to be very resolved. Well, -then, tell me that which I should like still better to know what the -parsonage is like.'</p> - -<p>'Oh, I can't describe my home. It is home, and I can't put its charm -into words.'</p> - -<p>'I submit. You are rather severe to-night, Margaret.'</p> - -<p>'How?' said she, turning her large soft eyes round full upon him. 'I did -not know I was.'</p> - -<p>'Why, because I made an unlucky remark, you will neither tell me what -Helstone is like, nor will you say anything about your home, though I -have told you how much I want to hear about both, the latter -especially.'</p> - -<p>'But indeed I cannot tell you about my own home. I don't quite think it -is a thing to be talked about, unless you knew it.'</p> - -<p>'Well, then'—pausing for a moment—'tell me what you do there. Here you -read, or have lessons, or otherwise improve your mind, till the middle -of the day; take a walk before lunch, go a drive with your aunt after, -and have some kind of engagement in the evening. There, now fill up your -day at Helstone. Shall you ride, drive, or walk?'</p> - -<p>'Walk, decidedly. We have no horse, not even for papa. He walks to the -very extremity of his parish. The walks are so beautiful, it would be a -shame to drive—almost a shame to ride.'</p> - -<p>'Shall you garden much? That, I believe, is a proper employment for -young ladies in the country.'</p> - -<p>'I don't know. I am afraid I shan't like such hard work.'</p> - -<p>'Archery parties—pic-nics—race-balls—hunt-balls?'</p> - -<p>'Oh no!' said she, laughing. 'Papa's living is very small; and even if -we were near such things, I doubt if I should go to them.'</p> - -<p>'I see, you won't tell me anything. You will only tell me that you are -not going to do this and that. Before the vacation ends, I think I shall -pay you a call, and see what you really do employ yourself in.'</p> - -<p>'I hope you will. Then you will see for yourself how beautiful Helstone -is. Now I must go. Edith is sitting down to play, and I just know enough -of music to turn over the leaves for her; and besides, Aunt Shaw won't -like us to talk.' -<p> - - -</p> -Edith played brilliantly. In the middle of the piece -the door half-opened, and Edith saw Captain Lennox hesitating whether to -come in. She threw down her music, and rushed out of the room, leaving -Margaret standing confused and blushing to explain to the astonished -guests what vision had shown itself to cause Edith's sudden flight. -Captain Lennox had come earlier than was expected; or was it really so -late? They looked at their watches, were duly shocked, and took their -leave.</p> - -<p>Then Edith came back, glowing with pleasure, half-shyly, half-proudly -leading in her tall handsome Captain. His brother shook hands with him, -and Mrs. Shaw welcomed him in her gentle kindly way, which had always -something plaintive in it, arising from the long habit of considering -herself a victim to an uncongenial marriage. Now that, the General being -gone, she had every good of life, with as few drawbacks as possible, she -had been rather perplexed to find an anxiety, if not a sorrow. She had, -however, of late settled upon her own health as a source of -apprehension; she had a nervous little cough whenever she thought about -it; and some complaisant doctor ordered her just what she desired,—a -winter in Italy. Mrs. Shaw had as strong wishes as most people, but she -never liked to do anything from the open and acknowledged motive of her -own good will and pleasure; she preferred being compelled to gratify -herself by some other person's command or desire. She really did -persuade herself that she was submitting to some hard external -necessity; and thus she was able to moan and complain in her soft -manner, all the time she was in reality doing just what she liked.</p> - -<p>It was in this way she began to speak of her own journey to Captain -Lennox, who assented, as in duty bound, to all his future mother-in-law -said, while his eyes sought Edith, who was busying herself in -rearranging the tea-table, and ordering up all sorts of good things, in -spite of his assurances that he had dined within the last two hours.</p> - -<p>Mr. Henry Lennox stood leaning against the chimney-piece, amused with -the family scene. He was close by his handsome brother; he was the plain -one in a singularly good-looking family; but his face was intelligent, -keen, and mobile; and now and then Margaret wondered what it was that he -could be thinking about, while he kept silence, but was evidently -observing, with an interest that was slightly sarcastic, all that Edith -and she were doing. The sarcastic feeling was called out by Mrs. Shaw's -conversation with his brother; it was separate from the interest which -was excited by what he saw. He thought it a pretty sight to see the two -cousins so busy in their little arrangements about the table. Edith -chose to do most herself. She was in a humour to enjoy showing her lover -how well she could behave as a soldier's wife. She found out that the -water in the urn was cold, and ordered up the great kitchen tea-kettle; -the only consequence of which was that when she met it at the door, and -tried to carry it in, it was too heavy for her, and she came in pouting, -with a black mark on her muslin gown, and a little round white hand -indented by the handle, which she took to show to Captain Lennox, just -like a hurt child, and, of course, the remedy was the same in both -cases. Margaret's quickly-adjusted spirit-lamp was the most efficacious -contrivance, though not so like the gypsy-encampment which Edith, in -some of her moods, chose to consider the nearest resemblance to a -barrack-life.</p> - -<p> After this evening all was bustle till the wedding was -over.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_II_ROSES_AND_THORNS" id="CHAPTER_II_ROSES_AND_THORNS"></a>CHAPTER II—ROSES AND THORNS</h2> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">'By the soft green light in the woody glade,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">On the banks of moss where thy childhood played;<br /></span> -<span class="i1">By the household tree, thro' which thine eye<br /></span> -<span class="i1">First looked in love to the summer sky.'<br /></span> -<span class="i12">MRS. HEMANS.<br /></span> -</div></div> - -<p>Margaret was once more in her morning dress, travelling quietly home -with her father, who had come up to assist at the wedding. Her mother -had been detained at home by a multitude of half-reasons, none of which -anybody fully understood, except Mr. Hale, who was perfectly aware that -all his arguments in favour of a grey satin gown, which was midway -between oldness and newness, had proved unavailing; and that, as he had -not the money to equip his wife afresh, from top to toe, she would not -show herself at her only sister's only child's wedding. If Mrs. Shaw had -guessed at the real reason why Mrs. Hale did not accompany her husband, -she would have showered down gowns upon her; but it was nearly twenty -years since Mrs. Shaw had been the poor, pretty Miss Beresford, and she -had really forgotten all grievances except that of the unhappiness -arising from disparity of age in married life, on which she could -descant by the half-hour. Dearest Maria had married the man of her -heart, only eight years older than herself, with the sweetest temper, -and that blue-black hair one so seldom sees. Mr. Hale was one of the -most delightful preachers she had ever heard, and a perfect model of a -parish priest. Perhaps it was not quite a logical deduction from all -these premises, but it was still Mrs. Shaw's characteristic conclusion, -as she thought over her sister's lot: 'Married for love, what can -dearest Maria have to wish for in this world?' Mrs. Hale, if she spoke -truth, might have answered with a ready-made list, 'a silver-grey glace -silk, a white chip bonnet, oh! dozens of things for the wedding, and -hundreds of things for the house.' - -Margaret only knew that her mother -had not found it convenient to come, and she was not sorry to think that -their meeting and greeting would take place at Helstone parsonage, -rather than, during the confusion of the last two or three days, in the -house in Harley Street, where she herself had had to play the part of -Figaro, and was wanted everywhere at one and the same time. Her mind and -body ached now with the recollection of all she had done and said within -the last forty-eight hours. The farewells so hurriedly taken, amongst -all the other good-byes, of those she had lived with so long, oppressed -her now with a sad regret for the times that were no more; it did not -signify what those times had been, they were gone never to return. -Margaret's heart felt more heavy than she could ever have thought it -possible in going to her own dear home, the place and the life she had -longed for for years—at that time of all times for yearning and -longing, just before the sharp senses lose their outlines in sleep. She -took her mind away with a wrench from the recollection of the past to -the bright serene contemplation of the hopeful future. Her eyes began to -see, not visions of what had been, but the sight actually before her; -her dear father leaning back asleep in the railway carriage. His -blue-black hair was grey now, and lay thinly over his brows. The bones -of his face were plainly to be seen—too plainly for beauty, if his -features had been less finely cut; as it was, they had a grace if not a -comeliness of their own. The face was in repose; but it was rather rest -after weariness, than the serene calm of the countenance of one who led -a placid, contented life. Margaret was painfully struck by the worn, -anxious expression; and she went back over the open and avowed -circumstances of her father's life, to find the cause for the lines that -spoke so plainly of habitual distress and depression.</p> - -<p>'Poor Frederick!' thought she, sighing. 'Oh! if Frederick had but been a -clergyman, instead of going into the navy, and being lost to us all! I -wish I knew all about it. I never understood it from Aunt Shaw; I only -knew he could not come back to England because of that terrible affair. -Poor dear papa! how sad he looks! I am so glad I am going home, to be at -hand to comfort him and mamma.</p> - -<p>She was ready with a bright smile, in which there was not a trace of -fatigue, to greet her father when he awakened. He smiled back again, but -faintly, as if it were an unusual exertion. His face returned into its -lines of habitual anxiety. He had a trick of half-opening his mouth as -if to speak, which constantly unsettled the form of the lips, and gave -the face an undecided expression. But he had the same large, soft eyes -as his daughter,—eyes which moved slowly and almost grandly round in -their orbits, and were well veiled by their transparent white eyelids. -Margaret was more like him than like her mother. Sometimes people -wondered that parents so handsome should have a daughter who was so far -from regularly beautiful; not beautiful at all, was occasionally said. -Her mouth was wide; no rosebud that could only open just enough to let -out a 'yes' and 'no,' and 'an't please you, sir.' But the wide mouth was -one soft curve of rich red lips; and the skin, if not white and fair, -was of an ivory smoothness and delicacy. If the look on her face was, in -general, too dignified and reserved for one so young, now, talking to -her father, it was bright as the morning,—full of dimples, and glances -that spoke of childish gladness, and boundless hope in the future.</p> - -<p>It was the latter part of July when Margaret returned home. The forest -trees were all one dark, full, dusky green; the fern below them caught -all the slanting sunbeams; the weather was sultry and broodingly still. -Margaret used to tramp along by her father's side, crushing down the -fern with a cruel glee, as she felt it yield under her light foot, and -send up the fragrance peculiar to it,—out on the broad commons into the -warm scented light, seeing multitudes of wild, free, living creatures, -revelling in the sunshine, and the herbs and flowers it called forth. -This life—at least these walks—realised all Margaret's anticipations. -She took a pride in her forest. Its people were her people. She made -hearty friends with them; learned and delighted in using their peculiar -words; took up her freedom amongst them; nursed their babies; talked or -read with slow distinctness to their old people; carried dainty messes -to their sick; resolved before long to teach at the school, where her -father went every day as to an appointed task, but she was continually -tempted off to go and see some individual friend—man, woman, or -child—in some cottage in the green shade of the forest. Her -out-of-doors life was perfect. Her in-doors life had its drawbacks. With -the healthy shame of a child, she blamed herself for her keenness of -sight, in perceiving that all was not as it should be there. Her -mother—her mother always so kind and tender towards her—seemed now and -then so much discontented with their situation; thought that the bishop -strangely neglected his episcopal duties, in not giving Mr. Hale a -better living; and almost reproached her husband because he could not -bring himself to say that he wished to leave the parish, and undertake -the charge of a larger. He would sigh aloud as he answered, that if he -could do what he ought in little Helstone, he should be thankful; but -every day he was more overpowered; the world became more bewildering. At -each repeated urgency of his wife, that he would put himself in the way -of seeking some preferment, Margaret saw that her father shrank more and -more; and she strove at such times to reconcile her mother to Helstone. -Mrs. Hale said that the near neighbourhood of so many trees affected her -health; and Margaret would try to tempt her forth on to the beautiful, -broad, upland, sun-streaked, cloud-shadowed common; for she was sure -that her mother had accustomed herself too much to an in-doors life, -seldom extending her walks beyond the church, the school, and the -neighbouring cottages. This did good for a time; but when the autumn -drew on, and the weather became more changeable, her mother's idea of -the unhealthiness of the place increased; and she repined even more -frequently that her husband, who was more learned than Mr. Hume, a -better parish priest than Mr. Houldsworth, should not have met with the -preferment that these two former neighbours of theirs had done.</p> - -<p>This marring of the peace of home, by long hours of discontent, was what -Margaret was unprepared for. She knew, and had rather revelled in the -idea, that she should have to give up many luxuries, which had only been -troubles and trammels to her freedom in Harley Street. Her keen -enjoyment of every sensuous pleasure, was balanced finely, if not -overbalanced, by her conscious pride in being able to do without them -all, if need were. But the cloud never comes in that quarter of the -horizon from which we watch for it. There had been slight complaints and -passing regrets on her mother's part, over some trifle connected with -Helstone, and her father's position there, when Margaret had been -spending her holidays at home before; but in the general happiness of -the recollection of those times, she had forgotten the small details -which were not so pleasant. -</p> -<p> -In the latter half of September, the -autumnal rains and storms came on, and Margaret was obliged to remain -more in the house than she had hitherto done. Helstone was at some -distance from any neighbours of their own standard of cultivation.</p> - -<p>'It is undoubtedly one of the most out-of-the-way places in England,' -said Mrs. Hale, in one of her plaintive moods. 'I can't help regretting -constantly that papa has really no one to associate with here; he is so -thrown away; seeing no one but farmers and labourers from week's end to -week's end. If we only lived at the other side of the parish, it would -be something; there we should be almost within walking distance of the -Stansfields; certainly the Gormans would be within a walk.'</p> - -<p>'Gormans,' said Margaret. 'Are those the Gormans who made their fortunes -in trade at Southampton? Oh! I'm glad we don't visit them. I don't like -shoppy people. I think we are far better off, knowing only cottagers and -labourers, and people without pretence.'</p> - -<p>'You must not be so fastidious, Margaret, dear!' said her mother, -secretly thinking of a young and handsome Mr. Gorman whom she had once -met at Mr. Hume's.</p> - -<p>'No! I call mine a very comprehensive taste; I like all people whose -occupations have to do with land; I like soldiers and sailors, and the -three learned professions, as they call them. I'm sure you don't want me -to admire butchers and bakers, and candlestick-makers, do you, mamma?'</p> - -<p>'But the Gormans were neither butchers nor bakers, but very respectable -coach-builders.'</p> - -<p>'Very well. Coach-building is a trade all the same, and I think a much -more useless one than that of butchers or bakers. Oh! how tired I used -to be of the drives every day in Aunt Shaw's carriage, and how I longed -to walk!'</p> - -<p>And walk Margaret did, in spite of the weather. She was so happy out of -doors, at her father's side, that she almost danced; and with the soft -violence of the west wind behind her, as she crossed some heath, she -seemed to be borne onwards, as lightly and easily as the fallen leaf -that was wafted along by the autumnal breeze. But the evenings were -rather difficult to fill up agreeably. Immediately after tea her father -withdrew into his small library, and she and her mother were left alone. -Mrs. Hale had never cared much for books, and had discouraged her -husband, very early in their married life, in his desire of reading -aloud to her, while she worked. At one time they had tried backgammon as -a resource; but as Mr. Hale grew to take an increasing interest in his -school and his parishioners, he found that the interruptions which arose -out of these duties were regarded as hardships by his wife, not to be -accepted as the natural conditions of his profession, but to be -regretted and struggled against by her as they severally arose. So he -withdrew, while the children were yet young, into his library, to spend -his evenings (if he were at home), in reading the speculative and -metaphysical books which were his delight.</p> - -<p>When Margaret had been here before, she had brought down with her a -great box of books, recommended by masters or governess, and had found -the summer's day all too short to get through the reading she had to do -before her return to town. Now there were only the well-bound -little-read English Classics, which were weeded out of her father's -library to fill up the small book-shelves in the drawing-room. Thomson's -Seasons, Hayley's Cowper, Middleton's Cicero, were by far the lightest, -newest, and most amusing. The book-shelves did not afford much resource. -Margaret told her mother every particular of her London life, to all of -which Mrs. Hale listened with interest, sometimes amused and -questioning, at others a little inclined to compare her sister's -circumstances of ease and comfort with the narrower means at Helstone -vicarage. On such evenings Margaret was apt to stop talking rather -abruptly, and listen to the drip-drip of the rain upon the leads of the -little bow-window. Once or twice Margaret found herself mechanically -counting the repetition of the monotonous sound, while she wondered if -she might venture to put a question on a subject very near to her heart, -and ask where Frederick was now; what he was doing; how long it was -since they had heard from him. But a consciousness that her mother's -delicate health, and positive dislike to Helstone, all dated from the -time of the mutiny in which Frederick had been engaged,—the full -account of which Margaret had never heard, and which now seemed doomed -to be buried in sad oblivion,—made her pause and turn away from the -subject each time she approached it. When she was with her mother, her -father seemed the best person to apply to for information; and when with -him, she thought that she could speak more easily to her mother. -Probably there was nothing much to be heard that was new. In one of the -letters she had received before leaving Harley Street, her father had -told her that they had heard from Frederick; he was still at Rio, and -very well in health, and sent his best love to her; which was dry bones, -but not the living intelligence she longed for. Frederick was always -spoken of, in the rare times when his name was mentioned, as 'Poor -Frederick.' His room was kept exactly as he had left it; and was -regularly dusted, and put into order by Dixon, Mrs. Hale's maid, who -touched no other part of the household work, but always remembered the -day when she had been engaged by Lady Beresford as ladies' maid to Sir -John's wards, the pretty Miss Beresfords, the belles of Rutlandshire. -Dixon had always considered Mr. Hale as the blight which had fallen upon -her young lady's prospects in life. If Miss Beresford had not been in -such a hurry to marry a poor country clergyman, there was no knowing -what she might not have become. But Dixon was too loyal to desert her in -her affliction and downfall (alias her married life). She remained with -her, and was devoted to her interests; always considering herself as the -good and protecting fairy, whose duty it was to baffle the malignant -giant, Mr. Hale. Master Frederick had been her favorite and pride; and -it was with a little softening of her dignified look and manner, that -she went in weekly to arrange the chamber as carefully as if he might be -coming home that very evening. -</p> -<p> -Margaret could not help believing that -there had been some late intelligence of Frederick, unknown to her -mother, which was making her father anxious and uneasy. Mrs. Hale did -not seem to perceive any alteration in her husband's looks or ways. His -spirits were always tender and gentle, readily affected by any small -piece of intelligence concerning the welfare of others. He would be -depressed for many days after witnessing a death-bed, or hearing of any -crime. But now Margaret noticed an absence of mind, as if his thoughts -were pre-occupied by some subject, the oppression of which could not be -relieved by any daily action, such as comforting the survivors, or -teaching at the school in hope of lessening the evils in the generation -to come. Mr. Hale did not go out among his parishioners as much as -usual; he was more shut up in his study; was anxious for the village -postman, whose summons to the house-hold was a rap on the back-kitchen -window-shutter—a signal which at one time had often to be repeated -before any one was sufficiently alive to the hour of the day to -understand what it was, and attend to him. Now Mr. Hale loitered about -the garden if the morning was fine, and if not, stood dreamily by the -study window until the postman had called, or gone down the lane, giving -a half-respectful, half-confidential shake of the head to the parson, -who watched him away beyond the sweet-briar hedge, and past the great -arbutus, before he turned into the room to begin his day's work, with -all the signs of a heavy heart and an occupied mind.</p> - -<p>But Margaret was at an age when any apprehension, not absolutely based -on a knowledge of facts, is easily banished for a time by a bright sunny -day, or some happy outward circumstance. And when the brilliant fourteen -fine days of October came on, her cares were all blown away as lightly -as thistledown, and she thought of nothing but the glories of the -forest. The fern-harvest was over, and now that the rain was gone, many -a deep glade was accessible, into which Margaret had only peeped in July -and August weather. She had learnt drawing with Edith; and she had -sufficiently regretted, during the gloom of the bad weather, her idle -revelling in the beauty of the woodlands while it had yet been fine, to -make her determined to sketch what she could before winter fairly set -in. Accordingly, she was busy preparing her board one morning, when -Sarah, the housemaid, threw wide open the drawing-room door and -announced, 'Mr. Henry Lennox.'</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_III_THE_MORE_HASTE_THE_WORSE_SPEED" id="CHAPTER_III_THE_MORE_HASTE_THE_WORSE_SPEED"></a>CHAPTER III—'THE MORE HASTE THE WORSE SPEED'</h2> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">'Learn to win a lady's faith<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Nobly, as the thing is high;<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Bravely, as for life and death—<br /></span> -<span class="i1">With a loyal gravity.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i1">Lead her from the festive boards,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Point her to the starry skies,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Guard her, by your truthful words,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Pure from courtship's flatteries.'<br /></span> -<span class="i9">M<small>RS</small>. B<small>ROWNING</small>.<br /></span> -</div></div> - -<p>'Mr. Henry Lennox.' Margaret had been thinking of him only a moment -before, and remembering his inquiry into her probable occupations at -home. It was 'parler du soleil et l'on en voit les rayons;' and the -brightness of the sun came over Margaret's face as she put down her -board, and went forward to shake hands with him. 'Tell mamma, Sarah,' -said she. 'Mamma and I want to ask you so many questions about Edith; I -am so much obliged to you for coming.'</p> - -<p>'Did not I say that I should?' asked he, in a lower tone than that in -which she had spoken.</p> - -<p>'But I heard of you so far away in the Highlands that I never thought -Hampshire could come in.'</p> - -<p>'Oh!' said he, more lightly, 'our young couple were playing such foolish -pranks, running all sorts of risks, climbing this mountain, sailing on -that lake, that I really thought they needed a Mentor to take care of -them. And indeed they did; they were quite beyond my uncle's management, -and kept the old gentleman in a panic for sixteen hours out of the -twenty-four. Indeed, when I once saw how unfit they were to be trusted -alone, I thought it my duty not to leave them till I had seen them -safely embarked at Plymouth.'</p> - -<p>'Have you been at Plymouth? Oh! Edith never named that. To be sure, she -has written in such a hurry lately. Did they really sail on Tuesday?'</p> - -<p>'Really sailed, and relieved me from many responsibilities. Edith gave -me all sorts of messages for you. I believe I have a little diminutive -note somewhere; yes, here it is.'</p> - -<p>'Oh! thank you,' exclaimed Margaret; and then, half wishing to read it -alone and unwatched, she made the excuse of going to tell her mother -again (Sarah surely had made some mistake) that Mr. Lennox was there.</p> - -<p>When she had left the room, he began in his scrutinising way to look -about him. The little drawing-room was looking its best in the streaming -light of the morning sun. The middle window in the bow was opened, and -clustering roses and the scarlet honeysuckle came peeping round the -corner; the small lawn was gorgeous with verbenas and geraniums of all -bright colours. But the very brightness outside made the colours within -seem poor and faded. The carpet was far from new; the chintz had been -often washed; the whole apartment was smaller and shabbier than he had -expected, as back-ground and frame-work for Margaret, herself so -queenly. He took up one of the books lying on the table; it was the -Paradiso of Dante, in the proper old Italian binding of white vellum and -gold; by it lay a dictionary, and some words copied out in Margaret's -hand-writing. They were a dull list of words, but somehow he liked -looking at them. He put them down with a sigh.</p> - -<p>'The living is evidently as small as she said. It seems strange, for the -Beresfords belong to a good family.'</p> - -<p>Margaret meanwhile had found her mother. It was one of Mrs. Hale's -fitful days, when everything was a difficulty and a hardship; and Mr. -Lennox's appearance took this shape, although secretly she felt -complimented by his thinking it worth while to call.</p> - -<p>'It is most unfortunate! We are dining early to-day, and having nothing -but cold meat, in order that the servants may get on with their ironing; -and yet, of course, we must ask him to dinner—Edith's brother-in-law -and all. And your papa is in such low spirits this morning about -something—I don't know what. I went into the study just now, and he had -his face on the table, covering it with his hands. I told him I was sure -Helstone air did not agree with him any more than with me, and he -suddenly lifted up his head, and begged me not to speak a word more -against Helstone, he could not bear it; if there was one place he loved -on earth it was Helstone. But I am sure, for all that, it is the damp -and relaxing air.'</p> - -<p>Margaret felt as if a thin cold cloud had come between her and the sun. -She had listened patiently, in hopes that it might be some relief to her -mother to unburden herself; but now it was time to draw her back to Mr. -Lennox.</p> - -<p>'Papa likes Mr. Lennox; they got on together famously at the wedding -breakfast. I dare say his coming will do papa good. And never mind the -dinner, dear mamma. Cold meat will do capitally for a lunch, which is -the light in which Mr. Lennox will most likely look upon a two o'clock -dinner.'</p> - -<p>'But what are we to do with him till then? It is only half-past ten -now.'</p> - -<p>'I'll ask him to go out sketching with me. I know he draws, and that -will take him out of your way, mamma. Only do come in now; he will think -it so strange if you don't.'</p> - -<p>Mrs. Hale took off her black silk apron, and smoothed her face. She -looked a very pretty lady-like woman, as she greeted Mr. Lennox with the -cordiality due to one who was almost a relation. He evidently expected -to be asked to spend the day, and accepted the invitation with a glad -readiness that made Mrs. Hale wish she could add something to the cold -beef. He was pleased with everything; delighted with Margaret's idea of -going out sketching together; would not have Mr. Hale disturbed for the -world, with the prospect of so soon meeting him at dinner. Margaret -brought out her drawing materials for him to choose from; and after the -paper and brushes had been duly selected, the two set out in the -merriest spirits in the world.</p> - -<p>'Now, please, just stop here for a minute or two,' said Margaret. 'These -are the cottages that haunted me so during the rainy fortnight, -reproaching me for not having sketched them.'</p> - -<p>'Before they tumbled down and were no more seen. Truly, if they are to -be sketched—and they are very picturesque—we had better not put it off -till next year. But where shall we sit?'</p> - -<p>'Oh! You might have come straight from chambers in the Temple,' instead -of having been two months in the Highlands! Look at this beautiful trunk -of a tree, which the wood-cutters have left just in the right place for -the light. I will put my plaid over it, and it will be a regular forest -throne.'</p> - -<p>'With your feet in that puddle for a regal footstool! Stay, I will move, -and then you can come nearer this way. Who lives in these cottages?'</p> - -<p>'They were built by squatters fifty or sixty years ago. One is -uninhabited; the foresters are going to take it down, as soon as the old -man who lives in the other is dead, poor old fellow! Look—there he -is—I must go and speak to him. He is so deaf you will hear all our -secrets.'</p> - -<p>The old man stood bareheaded in the sun, leaning on his stick at the -front of his cottage. His stiff features relaxed into a slow smile as -Margaret went up and spoke to him. Mr. Lennox hastily introduced the two -figures into his sketch, and finished up the landscape with a -subordinate reference to them—as Margaret perceived, when the time came -for getting up, putting away water, and scraps of paper, and exhibiting -to each other their sketches. She laughed and blushed: Mr. Lennox -watched her countenance.</p> - -<p>'Now, I call that treacherous,' said she. 'I little thought you were -making old Isaac and me into subjects, when you told me to ask him the -history of these cottages.'</p> - -<p>'It was irresistible. You can't know how strong a temptation it was. I -hardly dare tell you how much I shall like this sketch.'</p> - -<p>He was not quite sure whether she heard this latter sentence before she -went to the brook to wash her palette. She came back rather flushed, but -looking perfectly innocent and unconscious. He was glad of it, for the -speech had slipped from him unawares—a rare thing in the case of a man -who premeditated his actions so much as Henry Lennox.</p> - -<p>The aspect of home was all right and bright when they reached it. The -clouds on her mother's brow had cleared off under the propitious -influence of a brace of carp, most opportunely presented by a neighbour. -Mr. Hale had returned from his morning's round, and was awaiting his -visitor just outside the wicket gate that led into the garden. He looked -a complete gentleman in his rather threadbare coat and well-worn hat.</p> - -<p>Margaret was proud of her father; she had always a fresh and tender -pride in seeing how favourably he impressed every stranger; still her -quick eye sought over his face and found there traces of some unusual -disturbance, which was only put aside, not cleared away.</p> - -<p>Mr. Hale asked to look at their sketches.</p> - -<p>'I think you have made the tints on the thatch too dark, have you not?' -as he returned Margaret's to her, and held out his hand for Mr. -Lennox's, which was withheld from him one moment, no more.</p> - -<p>'No, papa! I don't think I have. The house-leek and stone-crop have -grown so much darker in the rain. Is it not like, papa?' said she, -peeping over his shoulder, as he looked at the figures in Mr. Lennox's -drawing.</p> - -<p>'Yes, very like. Your figure and way of holding yourself is capital. And -it is just poor old Isaac's stiff way of stooping his long rheumatic -back. What is this hanging from the branch of the tree? Not a bird's -nest, surely.'</p> - -<p>'Oh no! that is my bonnet. I never can draw with my bonnet on; it makes -my head so hot. I wonder if I could manage figures. There are so many -people about here whom I should like to sketch.'</p> - -<p>'I should say that a likeness you very much wish to take you would -always succeed in,' said Mr. Lennox. 'I have great faith in the power of -will. I think myself I have succeeded pretty well in yours.' Mr. Hale -had preceded them into the house, while Margaret was lingering to pluck -some roses, with which to adorn her morning gown for dinner.</p> - -<p>'A regular London girl would understand the implied meaning of that -speech,' thought Mr. Lennox. 'She would be up to looking through every -speech that a young man made her for the <i>arriere-pensée</i> of a compliment. -But I don't believe Margaret,—Stay!' exclaimed he, 'Let me help you;' -and he gathered for her some velvety cramoisy roses that were above her -reach, and then dividing the spoil he placed two in his button-hole, and -sent her in, pleased and happy, to arrange her flowers.</p> - -<p>The conversation at dinner flowed on quietly and agreeably. There were -plenty of questions to be asked on both sides—the latest intelligence -which each could give of Mrs. Shaw's movements in Italy to be exchanged; -and in the interest of what was said, the unpretending simplicity of the -parsonage-ways—above all, in the neighbourhood of Margaret, Mr. Lennox -forgot the little feeling of disappointment with which he had at first -perceived that she had spoken but the simple truth when she had -described her father's living as very small.</p> - -<p>'Margaret, my child, you might have gathered us some pears for our -dessert,' said Mr. Hale, as the hospitable luxury of a freshly-decanted -bottle of wine was placed on the table.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Hale was hurried. It seemed as if desserts were impromptu and -unusual things at the parsonage; whereas, if Mr. Hale would only have -looked behind him, he would have seen biscuits and marmalade, and what -not, all arranged in formal order on the sideboard. But the idea of -pears had taken possession of Mr. Hale's mind, and was not to be got rid -of.</p> - -<p>'There are a few brown beurres against the south wall which are worth -all foreign fruits and preserves. Run, Margaret, and gather us some.'</p> - -<p>'I propose that we adjourn into the garden, and eat them there' said Mr. -Lennox.</p> - -<p>'Nothing is so delicious as to set one's teeth into the crisp, juicy -fruit, warm and scented by the sun. The worst is, the wasps are impudent -enough to dispute it with one, even at the very crisis and summit of -enjoyment.'</p> - -<p>He rose, as if to follow Margaret, who had disappeared through the -window he only awaited Mrs. Hale's permission. She would rather have -wound up the dinner in the proper way, and with all the ceremonies which -had gone on so smoothly hitherto, especially as she and Dixon had got -out the finger-glasses from the store-room on purpose to be as correct -as became General Shaw's widow's sister, but as Mr. Hale got up -directly, and prepared to accompany his guest, she could only submit.</p> - -<p>'I shall arm myself with a knife,' said Mr. Hale: 'the days of eating -fruit so primitively as you describe are over with me. I must pare it -and quarter it before I can enjoy it.'</p> - -<p>Margaret made a plate for the pears out of a beetroot leaf, which threw -up their brown gold colour admirably. Mr. Lennox looked more at her than -at the pears; but her father, inclined to cull fastidiously the very -zest and perfection of the hour he had stolen from his anxiety, chose -daintily the ripest fruit, and sat down on the garden bench to enjoy it -at his leisure. Margaret and Mr. Lennox strolled along the little -terrace-walk under the south wall, where the bees still hummed and -worked busily in their hives.</p> - -<p>'What a perfect life you seem to live here! I have always felt rather -contemptuously towards the poets before, with their wishes, "Mine be a -cot beside a hill," and that sort of thing: but now I am afraid that the -truth is, I have been nothing better than a cockney. Just now I feel as -if twenty years' hard study of law would be amply rewarded by one year -of such an exquisite serene life as this—such skies!' looking up—'such -crimson and amber foliage, so perfectly motionless as that!' pointing to -some of the great forest trees which shut in the garden as if it were a -nest.</p> - -<p>'You must please to remember that our skies are not always as deep a -blue as they are now. We have rain, and our leaves do fall, and get -sodden: though I think Helstone is about as perfect a place as any in -the world. Recollect how you rather scorned my description of it one -evening in Harley Street: "a village in a tale."'</p> - -<p>'Scorned, Margaret! That is rather a hard word.'</p> - -<p>'Perhaps it is. Only I know I should have liked to have talked to you of -what I was very full at the time, and you—what must I call it, -then?—spoke disrespectfully of Helstone as a mere village in a tale.'</p> - -<p>'I will never do so again,' said he, warmly. They turned the corner of -the walk.</p> - -<p>'I could almost wish, Margaret—— ' he stopped and hesitated. It was so -unusual for the fluent lawyer to hesitate that Margaret looked up at -him, in a little state of questioning wonder; but in an instant—from -what about him she could not tell—she wished herself back with her -mother—her father—anywhere away from him, for she was sure he was -going to say something to which she should not know what to reply. In -another moment the strong pride that was in her came to conquer her -sudden agitation, which she hoped he had not perceived. Of course she -could answer, and answer the right thing; and it was poor and despicable -of her to shrink from hearing any speech, as if she had not power to put -an end to it with her high maidenly dignity.</p> - -<p>'Margaret,' said he, taking her by surprise, and getting sudden -possession of her hand, so that she was forced to stand still and -listen, despising herself for the fluttering at her heart all the time; -'Margaret, I wish you did not like Helstone so much—did not seem so -perfectly calm and happy here. I have been hoping for these three months -past to find you regretting London—and London friends, a little—enough -to make you listen more kindly' (for she was quietly, but firmly, -striving to extricate her hand from his grasp) 'to one who has not much -to offer, it is true—nothing but prospects in the future—but who does -love you, Margaret, almost in spite of himself. Margaret, have I -startled you too much? Speak!' For he saw her lips quivering almost as -if she were going to cry. She made a strong effort to be calm; she would -not speak till she had succeeded in mastering her voice, and then she -said:</p> - -<p>'I was startled. I did not know that you cared for me in that way. I -have always thought of you as a friend; and, please, I would rather go -on thinking of you so. I don't like to be spoken to as you have been -doing. I cannot answer you as you want me to do, and yet I should feel -so sorry if I vexed you.'</p> - -<p>'Margaret,' said he, looking into her eyes, which met his with their -open, straight look, expressive of the utmost good faith and reluctance -to give pain.</p> - -<p>'Do you'—he was going to say—'love any one else?' But it seemed as if -this question would be an insult to the pure serenity of those eyes. -'Forgive me I have been too abrupt. I am punished. Only let me hope. -Give me the poor comfort of telling me you have never seen any one whom -you could—— ' Again a pause. He could not end his sentence. Margaret -reproached herself acutely as the cause of his distress.</p> - -<p>'Ah! if you had but never got this fancy into your head! It was such a -pleasure to think of you as a friend.'</p> - -<p>'But I may hope, may I not, Margaret, that some time you will think of -me as a lover? Not yet, I see—there is no hurry—but some time—— ' -She was silent for a minute or two, trying to discover the truth as it -was in her own heart, before replying; then she said:</p> - -<p>'I have never thought of—you, but as a friend. I like to think of you -so; but I am sure I could never think of you as anything else. Pray, let -us both forget that all this' ('disagreeable,' she was going to say, but -stopped short) 'conversation has taken place.'</p> - -<p>He paused before he replied. Then, in his habitual coldness of tone, he -answered:</p> - -<p>'Of course, as your feelings are so decided, and as this conversation -has been so evidently unpleasant to you, it had better not be -remembered. That is all very fine in theory, that plan of forgetting -whatever is painful, but it will be somewhat difficult for me, at least, -to carry it into execution.'</p> - -<p>'You are vexed,' said she, sadly; 'yet how can I help it?'</p> - -<p>She looked so truly grieved as she said this, that he struggled for a -moment with his real disappointment, and then answered more cheerfully, -but still with a little hardness in his tone:</p> - -<p>'You should make allowances for the mortification, not only of a lover, -Margaret, but of a man not given to romance in general—prudent, -worldly, as some people call me—who has been carried out of his usual -habits by the force of a passion—well, we will say no more of that; but -in the one outlet which he has formed for the deeper and better feelings -of his nature, he meets with rejection and repulse. I shall have to -console myself with scorning my own folly. A struggling barrister to -think of matrimony!'</p> - -<p>Margaret could not answer this. The whole tone of it annoyed her. It -seemed to touch on and call out all the points of difference which had -often repelled her in him; while yet he was the pleasantest man, the -most sympathising friend, the person of all others who understood her -best in Harley Street. She felt a tinge of contempt mingle itself with -her pain at having refused him. Her beautiful lip curled in a slight -disdain. It was well that, having made the round of the garden, they -came suddenly upon Mr. Hale, whose whereabouts had been quite forgotten -by them. He had not yet finished the pear, which he had delicately -peeled in one long strip of silver-paper thinness, and which he was -enjoying in a deliberate manner. It was like the story of the eastern -king, who dipped his head into a basin of water, at the magician's -command, and ere he instantly took it out went through the experience of -a lifetime. Margaret felt stunned, and unable to recover her -self-possession enough to join in the trivial conversation that ensued -between her father and Mr. Lennox. She was grave, and little disposed to -speak; full of wonder when Mr. Lennox would go, and allow her to relax -into thought on the events of the last quarter of an hour. He was almost -as anxious to take his departure as she was for him to leave; but a few -minutes light and careless talking, carried on at whatever effort, was a -sacrifice which he owed to his mortified vanity, or his self-respect. He -glanced from time to time at her sad and pensive face.</p> - -<p>'I am not so indifferent to her as she believes,' thought he to himself. -'I do not give up hope.'</p> - -<p>Before a quarter of an hour was over, he had fallen into a way of -conversing with quiet sarcasm; speaking of life in London and life in -the country, as if he were conscious of his second mocking self, and -afraid of his own satire. Mr. Hale was puzzled. His visitor was a -different man to what he had seen him before at the wedding-breakfast, -and at dinner to-day; a lighter, cleverer, more worldly man, and, as -such, dissonant to Mr. Hale. It was a relief to all three when Mr. -Lennox said that he must go directly if he meant to catch the five -o'clock train. They proceeded to the house to find Mrs. Hale, and wish -her good-bye. At the last moment, Henry Lennox's real self broke through -the crust.</p> - -<p>'Margaret, don't despise me; I have a heart, notwithstanding all this -good-for-nothing way of talking. As a proof of it, I believe I love you -more than ever—if I do not hate you—for the disdain with which you -have listened to me during this last half-hour. Good-bye, -Margaret—Margaret!'</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IV_DOUBTS_AND_DIFFICULTIES" id="CHAPTER_IV_DOUBTS_AND_DIFFICULTIES"></a>CHAPTER IV—DOUBTS AND DIFFICULTIES</h2> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">'Cast me upon some naked shore,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Where I may tracke<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Only the print of some sad wracke,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">If thou be there, though the seas roare,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">I shall no gentler calm implore.'<br /></span> -<span class="i9">H<small>ABINGTON</small>.<br /></span> -</div></div> - -<p>He was gone. The house was shut up for the evening. No more deep blue -skies or crimson and amber tints. Margaret went up to dress for the -early tea, finding Dixon in a pretty temper from the interruption which -a visitor had naturally occasioned on a busy day. She showed it by -brushing away viciously at Margaret's hair, under pretence of being in a -great hurry to go to Mrs. Hale. Yet, after all, Margaret had to wait a -long time in the drawing-room before her mother came down. She sat by -herself at the fire, with unlighted candles on the table behind her, -thinking over the day, the happy walk, happy sketching, cheerful -pleasant dinner, and the uncomfortable, miserable walk in the garden.</p> - -<p>How different men were to women! Here was she disturbed and unhappy, -because her instinct had made anything but a refusal impossible; while -he, not many minutes after he had met with a rejection of what ought to -have been the deepest, holiest proposal of his life, could speak as if -briefs, success, and all its superficial consequences of a good house, -clever and agreeable society, were the sole avowed objects of his -desires. Oh dear! how she could have loved him if he had but been -different, with a difference which she felt, on reflection, to be one -that went low—deep down. Then she took it into her head that, after -all, his lightness might be but assumed, to cover a bitterness of -disappointment which would have been stamped on her own heart if she had -loved and been rejected.</p> - -<p>Her mother came into the room before this whirl of thoughts was adjusted -into anything like order. Margaret had to shake off the recollections of -what had been done and said through the day, and turn a sympathising -listener to the account of how Dixon had complained that the -ironing-blanket had been burnt again; and how Susan Lightfoot had been -seen with artificial flowers in her bonnet, thereby giving evidence of a -vain and giddy character. Mr. Hale sipped his tea in abstracted silence; -Margaret had the responses all to herself. She wondered how her father -and mother could be so forgetful, so regardless of their companion -through the day, as never to mention his name. She forgot that he had -not made them an offer.</p> - -<p>After tea Mr. Hale got up, and stood with his elbow on the -chimney-piece, leaning his head on his hand, musing over something, and -from time to time sighing deeply. Mrs. Hale went out to consult with -Dixon about some winter clothing for the poor. Margaret was preparing -her mother's worsted work, and rather shrinking from the thought of the -long evening, and wishing bed-time were come that she might go over the -events of the day again.</p> - -<p>'Margaret!' said Mr. Hale, at last, in a sort of sudden desperate way, -that made her start. 'Is that tapestry thing of immediate consequence? I -mean, can you leave it and come into my study? I want to speak to you -about something very serious to us all.'</p> - -<p>'Very serious to us all.' Mr. Lennox had never had the opportunity of -having any private conversation with her father after her refusal, or -else that would indeed be a very serious affair. In the first place, -Margaret felt guilty and ashamed of having grown so much into a woman as -to be thought of in marriage; and secondly, she did not know if her -father might not be displeased that she had taken upon herself to -decline Mr. Lennox's proposal. But she soon felt it was not about -anything, which having only lately and suddenly occurred, could have -given rise to any complicated thoughts, that her father wished to speak -to her. He made her take a chair by him; he stirred the fire, snuffed -the candles, and sighed once or twice before he could make up his mind -to say—and it came out with a jerk after all—'Margaret! I am going to -leave Helstone.'</p> - -<p>'Leave Helstone, papa! But why?'</p> - -<p>Mr. Hale did not answer for a minute or two. He played with some papers -on the table in a nervous and confused manner, opening his lips to speak -several times, but closing them again without having the courage to -utter a word. Margaret could not bear the sight of the suspense, which -was even more distressing to her father than to herself.</p> - -<p>'But why, dear papa? Do tell me!'</p> - -<p>He looked up at her suddenly, and then said with a slow and enforced -calmness:</p> - -<p>'Because I must no longer be a minister in the Church of England.'</p> - -<p>Margaret had imagined nothing less than that some of the preferments -which her mother so much desired had befallen her father at -last—something that would force him to leave beautiful, beloved -Helstone, and perhaps compel him to go and live in some of the stately -and silent Closes which Margaret had seen from time to time in cathedral -towns. They were grand and imposing places, but if, to go there, it was -necessary to leave Helstone as a home for ever, that would have been a -sad, long, lingering pain. But nothing to the shock she received from -Mr. Hale's last speech. What could he mean? It was all the worse for -being so mysterious. The aspect of piteous distress on his face, almost -as imploring a merciful and kind judgment from his child, gave her a -sudden sickening. Could he have become implicated in anything Frederick -had done? Frederick was an outlaw. Had her father, out of a natural love -for his son, connived at any—</p> - -<p>'Oh! what is it? do speak, papa! tell me all! Why can you no longer be a -clergyman? Surely, if the bishop were told all we know about Frederick, -and the hard, unjust—'</p> - -<p>'It is nothing about Frederick; the bishop would have nothing to do with -that. It is all myself. Margaret, I will tell you about it. I will -answer any questions this once, but after to-night let us never speak of -it again. I can meet the consequences of my painful, miserable doubts; -but it is an effort beyond me to speak of what has caused me so much -suffering.'</p> - -<p>'Doubts, papa! Doubts as to religion?' asked Margaret, more shocked than -ever.</p> - -<p>'No! not doubts as to religion; not the slightest injury to that.' He -paused. Margaret sighed, as if standing on the verge of some new horror. -He began again, speaking rapidly, as if to get over a set task:</p> - -<p>'You could not understand it all, if I told you—my anxiety, for years -past, to know whether I had any right to hold my living—my efforts to -quench my smouldering doubts by the authority of the Church. Oh! -Margaret, how I love the holy Church from which I am to be shut out!' He -could not go on for a moment or two. Margaret could not tell what to -say; it seemed to her as terribly mysterious as if her father were about -to turn Mahometan.</p> - -<p>'I have been reading to-day of the two thousand who were ejected from -their churches,'—continued Mr. Hale, smiling faintly,—'trying to steal -some of their bravery; but it is of no use—no use—I cannot help -feeling it acutely.'</p> - -<p>'But, papa, have you well considered? Oh! it seems so terrible, so -shocking,' said Margaret, suddenly bursting into tears. The one staid -foundation of her home, of her idea of her beloved father, seemed -reeling and rocking. What could she say? What was to be done? The sight -of her distress made Mr. Hale nerve himself, in order to try and comfort -her. He swallowed down the dry choking sobs which had been heaving up -from his heart hitherto, and going to his bookcase he took down a -volume, which he had often been reading lately, and from which he -thought he had derived strength to enter upon the course in which he was -now embarked.</p> - -<p>'Listen, dear Margaret,' said he, putting one arm round her waist. She -took his hand in hers and grasped it tight, but she could not lift up -her head; nor indeed could she attend to what he read, so great was her -internal agitation.</p> - -<p>'This is the soliloquy of one who was once a clergyman in a country -parish, like me; it was written by a Mr. Oldfield, minister of -Carsington, in Derbyshire, a hundred and sixty years ago, or more. His -trials are over. He fought the good fight.' These last two sentences he -spoke low, as if to himself. Then he read aloud,—</p> - -<p>'When thou canst no longer continue in thy work without dishonour to -God, discredit to religion, foregoing thy integrity, wounding -conscience, spoiling thy peace, and hazarding the loss of thy salvation; -in a word, when the conditions upon which thou must continue (if thou -wilt continue) in thy employments are sinful, and unwarranted by the -word of God, thou mayest, yea, thou must believe that God will turn thy -very silence, suspension, deprivation, and laying aside, to His glory, -and the advancement of the Gospel's interest. When God will not use thee -in one kind, yet He will in another. A soul that desires to serve and -honour Him shall never want opportunity to do it; nor must thou so limit -the Holy One of Israel as to think He hath but one way in which He can -glorify Himself by thee. He can do it by thy silence as well as by thy -preaching; thy laying aside as well as thy continuance in thy work. It -is not pretence of doing God the greatest service, or performing the -weightiest duty, that will excuse the least sin, though that sin -capacitated or gave us the opportunity for doing that duty. Thou wilt -have little thanks, O my soul! if, when thou art charged with corrupting -God's worship, falsifying thy vows, thou pretendest a necessity for it -in order to a continuance in the ministry. As he read this, and glanced -at much more which he did not read, he gained resolution for himself, -and felt as if he too could be brave and firm in doing what he believed -to be right; but as he ceased he heard Margaret's low convulsive sob; -and his courage sank down under the keen sense of suffering.</p> - -<p>'Margaret, dear!' said he, drawing her closer, 'think of the early -martyrs; think of the thousands who have suffered.'</p> - -<p>'But, father,' said she, suddenly lifting up her flushed, tear-wet face, -'the early martyrs suffered for the truth, while you—oh! dear, dear -papa!'</p> - -<p>'I suffer for conscience' sake, my child,' said he, with a dignity that -was only tremulous from the acute sensitiveness of his character; 'I -must do what my conscience bids. I have borne long with self-reproach -that would have roused any mind less torpid and cowardly than mine.' He -shook his head as he went on. 'Your poor mother's fond wish, gratified -at last in the mocking way in which over-fond wishes are too often -fulfilled—Sodom apples as they are—has brought on this crisis, for -which I ought to be, and I hope I am thankful. It is not a month since -the bishop offered me another living; if I had accepted it, I should -have had to make a fresh declaration of conformity to the Liturgy at my -institution. Margaret, I tried to do it; I tried to content myself with -simply refusing the additional preferment, and stopping quietly -here,—strangling my conscience now, as I had strained it before. God -forgive me!'</p> - -<p>He rose and walked up and down the room, speaking low words of -self-reproach and humiliation, of which Margaret was thankful to hear -but few. At last he said,</p> - -<p>'Margaret, I return to the old sad burden we must leave Helstone.'</p> - -<p>'Yes! I see. But when?'</p> - -<p>'I have written to the bishop—I dare say I have told you so, but I -forget things just now,' said Mr. Hale, collapsing into his depressed -manner as soon as he came to talk of hard matter-of-fact details, -'informing him of my intention to resign this vicarage. He has been most -kind; he has used arguments and expostulations, all in vain—in vain. -They are but what I have tried upon myself, without avail. I shall have -to take my deed of resignation, and wait upon the bishop myself, to bid -him farewell. That will be a trial, but worse, far worse, will be the -parting from my dear people. There is a curate appointed to read -prayers—a Mr. Brown. He will come to stay with us to-morrow. Next -Sunday I preach my farewell sermon.'</p> - -<p>Was it to be so sudden then? thought Margaret; and yet perhaps it was as -well. Lingering would only add stings to the pain; it was better to be -stunned into numbness by hearing of all these arrangements, which seemed -to be nearly completed before she had been told. 'What does mamma say?' -asked she, with a deep sigh.</p> - -<p>To her surprise, her father began to walk about again before he -answered. At length he stopped and replied:</p> - -<p>'Margaret, I am a poor coward after all. I cannot bear to give pain. I -know so well your mother's married life has not been all she hoped—all -she had a right to expect—and this will be such a blow to her, that I -have never had the heart, the power to tell her. She must be told -though, now,' said he, looking wistfully at his daughter. Margaret was -almost overpowered with the idea that her mother knew nothing of it all, -and yet the affair was so far advanced!</p> - -<p>'Yes, indeed she must,' said Margaret. 'Perhaps, after all, she may -not—Oh yes! she will, she must be shocked'—as the force of the blow -returned upon herself in trying to realise how another would take it. -'Where are we to go to?' said she at last, struck with a fresh wonder as -to their future plans, if plans indeed her father had.</p> - -<p>'To Milton-Northern,' he answered, with a dull indifference, for he had -perceived that, although his daughter's love had made her cling to him, -and for a moment strive to soothe him with her love, yet the keenness of -the pain was as fresh as ever in her mind.</p> - -<p>'Milton-Northern! The manufacturing town in Darkshire?'</p> - -<p>'Yes,' said he, in the same despondent, indifferent way.</p> - -<p>'Why there, papa?' asked she.</p> - -<p>'Because there I can earn bread for my family. Because I know no one -there, and no one knows Helstone, or can ever talk to me about it.'</p> - -<p>'Bread for your family! I thought you and mamma had'—and then she -stopped, checking her natural interest regarding their future life, as -she saw the gathering gloom on her father's brow. But he, with his quick -intuitive sympathy, read in her face, as in a mirror, the reflections of -his own moody depression, and turned it off with an effort.</p> - -<p>'You shall be told all, Margaret. Only help me to tell your mother. I -think I could do anything but that: the idea of her distress turns me -sick with dread. If I tell you all, perhaps you could break it to her -to-morrow. I am going out for the day, to bid Farmer Dobson and the poor -people on Bracy Common good-bye. Would you dislike breaking it to her -very much, Margaret?'</p> - -<p>Margaret did dislike it, did shrink from it more than from anything she -had ever had to do in her life before. She could not speak, all at once. -Her father said, 'You dislike it very much, don't you, Margaret?' Then -she conquered herself, and said, with a bright strong look on her face:</p> - -<p>'It is a painful thing, but it must be done, and I will do it as well as -ever I can. You must have many painful things to do.'</p> - -<p>Mr. Hale shook his head despondingly: he pressed her hand in token of -gratitude. Margaret was nearly upset again into a burst of crying. To -turn her thoughts, she said: 'Now tell me, papa, what our plans are. You -and mamma have some money, independent of the income from the living, -have not you? Aunt Shaw has, I know.'</p> - -<p>'Yes. I suppose we have about a hundred and seventy pounds a year of our -own. Seventy of that has always gone to Frederick, since he has been -abroad. I don't know if he wants it all,' he continued in a hesitating -manner. 'He must have some pay for serving with the Spanish army.'</p> - -<p>'Frederick must not suffer,' said Margaret, decidedly; 'in a foreign -country; so unjustly treated by his own. A hundred is left. Could not -you, and I, and mamma live on a hundred a year in some very cheap—very -quiet part of England? Oh! I think we could.'</p> - -<p>'No!' said Mr. Hale. 'That would not answer. I must do something. I must -make myself busy, to keep off morbid thoughts. Besides, in a country -parish I should be so painfully reminded of Helstone, and my duties -here. I could not bear it, Margaret. And a hundred a year would go a -very little way, after the necessary wants of housekeeping are met, -towards providing your mother with all the comforts she has been -accustomed to, and ought to have. No: we must go to Milton. That is -settled. I can always decide better by myself, and not influenced by -those whom I love,' said he, as a half apology for having arranged so -much before he had told any one of his family of his intentions. 'I -cannot stand objections. They make me so undecided.'</p> - -<p>Margaret resolved to keep silence. After all, what did it signify where -they went, compared to the one terrible change?</p> - -<p>Mr. Hale continued: 'A few months ago, when my misery of doubt became -more than I could bear without speaking, I wrote to Mr. Bell—you -remember Mr. Bell, Margaret?'</p> - -<p>'No; I never saw him, I think. But I know who he is. Frederick's -godfather—your old tutor at Oxford, don't you mean?'</p> - -<p>'Yes. He is a Fellow of Plymouth College there. He is a native of -Milton-Northern, I believe. At any rate, he has property there, which -has very much increased in value since Milton has become such a large -manufacturing town. Well, I had reason to suspect—to imagine—I had -better say nothing about it, however. But I felt sure of sympathy from -Mr. Bell. I don't know that he gave me much strength. He has lived an -easy life in his college all his days. But he has been as kind as can -be. And it is owing to him we are going to Milton.'</p> - -<p>'How?' said Margaret.</p> - -<p>'Why he has tenants, and houses, and mills there; so, though he dislikes -the place—too bustling for one of his habits—he is obliged to keep up -some sort of connection; and he tells me that he hears there is a good -opening for a private tutor there.'</p> - -<p>'A private tutor!' said Margaret, looking scornful: 'What in the world -do manufacturers want with the classics, or literature, or the -accomplishments of a gentleman?'</p> - -<p>'Oh,' said her father, 'some of them really seem to be fine fellows, -conscious of their own deficiencies, which is more than many a man at -Oxford is. Some want resolutely to learn, though they have come to man's -estate. Some want their children to be better instructed than they -themselves have been. At any rate, there is an opening, as I have said, -for a private tutor. Mr. Bell has recommended me to a Mr. Thornton, a -tenant of his, and a very intelligent man, as far as I can judge from -his letters. And in Milton, Margaret, I shall find a busy life, if not a -happy one, and people and scenes so different that I shall never be -reminded of Helstone.'</p> - -<p>There was the secret motive, as Margaret knew from her own feelings. It -would be different. Discordant as it was—with almost a detestation for -all she had ever heard of the North of England, the manufacturers, the -people, the wild and bleak country—there was this one -recommendation—it would be different from Helstone, and could never -remind them of that beloved place.</p> - -<p>'When do we go?' asked Margaret, after a short silence.</p> - -<p>'I do not know exactly. I wanted to talk it over with you. You see, your -mother knows nothing about it yet: but I think, in a fortnight;—after -my deed of resignation is sent in, I shall have no right to remain.'</p> - -<p>Margaret was almost stunned.</p> - -<p>'In a fortnight!'</p> - -<p>'No—no, not exactly to a day. Nothing is fixed,' said her father, with -anxious hesitation, as he noticed the filmy sorrow that came over her -eyes, and the sudden change in her complexion. But she recovered herself -immediately.</p> - -<p>'Yes, papa, it had better be fixed soon and decidedly, as you say. Only -mamma to know nothing about it! It is that that is the great -perplexity.'</p> - -<p>'Poor Maria!' replied Mr. Hale, tenderly. 'Poor, poor Maria! Oh, if I -were not married—if I were but myself in the world, how easy it would -be! As it is—Margaret, I dare not tell her!'</p> - -<p>'No,' said Margaret, sadly, 'I will do it. Give me till to-morrow -evening to choose my time Oh, papa,' cried she, with sudden passionate -entreaty, 'say—tell me it is a night-mare—a horrid dream—not the real -waking truth! You cannot mean that you are really going to leave the -Church—to give up Helstone—to be for ever separate from me, from -mamma—led away by some delusion—some temptation! You do not really -mean it!'</p> - -<p>Mr. Hale sat in rigid stillness while she spoke.</p> - -<p>Then he looked her in the face, and said in a slow, hoarse, measured -way—'I do mean it, Margaret. You must not deceive yourself into -doubting the reality of my words—my fixed intention and resolve.' He -looked at her in the same steady, stony manner, for some moments after -he had done speaking. She, too, gazed back with pleading eyes before she -would believe that it was irrevocable. Then she arose and went, without -another word or look, towards the door. As her fingers were on the -handle he called her back. He was standing by the fireplace, shrunk and -stooping; but as she came near he drew himself up to his full height, -and, placing his hands on her head, he said, solemnly:</p> - -<p>'The blessing of God be upon thee, my child!'</p> - -<p>'And may He restore you to His Church,' responded she, out of the -fulness of her heart. The next moment she feared lest this answer to his -blessing might be irreverent, wrong—might hurt him as coming from his -daughter, and she threw her arms round his neck. He held her to him for -a minute or two. She heard him murmur to himself, 'The martyrs and -confessors had even more pain to bear—I will not shrink.'</p> - -<p>They were startled by hearing Mrs. Hale inquiring for her daughter. They -started asunder in the full consciousness of all that was before them. -Mr. Hale hurriedly said—'Go, Margaret, go. I shall be out all -to-morrow. Before night you will have told your mother.'</p> - -<p>'Yes,' she replied, and she returned to the drawing-room in a stunned -and dizzy state.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_V_DECISION" id="CHAPTER_V_DECISION"></a>CHAPTER V—DECISION</h2> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">'I ask Thee for a thoughtful love,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Through constant watching wise,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">To meet the glad with joyful smiles,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">And to wipe the weeping eyes;<br /></span> -<span class="i1">And a heart at leisure from itself<br /></span> -<span class="i5">To soothe and sympathise.'<br /></span> -<span class="i9">A<small>NON</small>.<br /></span> -</div></div> - -<p>Margaret made a good listener to all her mother's little plans for -adding some small comforts to the lot of the poorer parishioners. She -could not help listening, though each new project was a stab to her -heart. By the time the frost had set in, they should be far away from -Helstone. Old Simon's rheumatism might be bad and his eyesight worse; -there would be no one to go and read to him, and comfort him with little -porringers of broth and good red flannel: or if there was, it would be a -stranger, and the old man would watch in vain for her. Mary Domville's -little crippled boy would crawl in vain to the door and look for her -coming through the forest. These poor friends would never understand why -she had forsaken them; and there were many others besides. 'Papa has -always spent the income he derived from his living in the parish. I am, -perhaps, encroaching upon the next dues, but the winter is likely to be -severe, and our poor old people must be helped.'</p> - -<p>'Oh, mamma, let us do all we can,' said Margaret eagerly, not seeing the -prudential side of the question, only grasping at the idea that they -were rendering such help for the last time; 'we may not be here long.'</p> - -<p>'Do you feel ill, my darling?' asked Mrs. Hale, anxiously, -misunderstanding Margaret's hint of the uncertainty of their stay at -Helstone. 'You look pale and tired. It is this soft, damp, unhealthy -air.'</p> - -<p>'No—no, mamma, it is not that: it is delicious air. It smells of the -freshest, purest fragrance, after the smokiness of Harley Street. But I -am tired: it surely must be near bedtime.'</p> - -<p>'Not far off—it is half-past nine. You had better go to bed at once dear. -Ask Dixon for some gruel. I will come and see you as soon as you are in -bed. I am afraid you have taken cold; or the bad air from some of the -stagnant ponds—'</p> - -<p>'Oh, mamma,' said Margaret, faintly smiling as she kissed her mother, 'I -am quite well—don't alarm yourself about me; I am only tired.'</p> - -<p>Margaret went upstairs. To soothe her mother's anxiety she submitted to -a basin of gruel. She was lying languidly in bed when Mrs. Hale came up -to make some last inquiries and kiss her before going to her own room -for the night. But the instant she heard her mother's door locked, she -sprang out of bed, and throwing her dressing-gown on, she began to pace -up and down the room, until the creaking of one of the boards reminded -her that she must make no noise. She went and curled herself up on the -window-seat in the small, deeply-recessed window. That morning when she -had looked out, her heart had danced at seeing the bright clear lights -on the church tower, which foretold a fine and sunny day. This -evening—sixteen hours at most had past by—she sat down, too full of -sorrow to cry, but with a dull cold pain, which seemed to have pressed -the youth and buoyancy out of her heart, never to return. Mr. Henry -Lennox's visit—his offer—was like a dream, a thing beside her actual -life. The hard reality was, that her father had so admitted tempting -doubts into his mind as to become a schismatic—an outcast; all the -changes consequent upon this grouped themselves around that one great -blighting fact.</p> - -<p>She looked out upon the dark-gray lines of the church tower, square and -straight in the centre of the view, cutting against the deep blue -transparent depths beyond, into which she gazed, and felt that she might -gaze for ever, seeing at every moment some farther distance, and yet no -sign of God! It seemed to her at the moment, as if the earth was more -utterly desolate than if girt in by an iron dome, behind which there -might be the ineffaceable peace and glory of the Almighty: those -never-ending depths of space, in their still serenity, were more mocking -to her than any material bounds could be—shutting in the cries of -earth's sufferers, which now might ascend into that infinite splendour -of vastness and be lost—lost for ever, before they reached His throne. -In this mood her father came in unheard. The moonlight was strong enough -to let him see his daughter in her unusual place and attitude. He came -to her and touched her shoulder before she was aware that he was there.</p> - -<p>'Margaret, I heard you were up. I could not help coming in to ask you to -pray with me—to say the Lord's Prayer; that will do good to both of -us.'</p> - -<p>Mr. Hale and Margaret knelt by the window-seat—he looking up, she bowed -down in humble shame. God was there, close around them, hearing her -father's whispered words. Her father might be a heretic; but had not -she, in her despairing doubts not five minutes before, shown herself a -far more utter sceptic? She spoke not a word, but stole to bed after her -father had left her, like a child ashamed of its fault. If the world was -full of perplexing problems she would trust, and only ask to see the one -step needful for the hour. Mr. Lennox—his visit, his proposal—the -remembrance of which had been so rudely pushed aside by the subsequent -events of the day—haunted her dreams that night. He was climbing up -some tree of fabulous height to reach the branch whereon was slung her -bonnet: he was falling, and she was struggling to save him, but held -back by some invisible powerful hand. He was dead. And yet, with a -shifting of the scene, she was once more in the Harley Street -drawing-room, talking to him as of old, and still with a consciousness -all the time that she had seen him killed by that terrible fall.</p> - -<p>Miserable, unresting night! Ill preparation for the coming day! She -awoke with a start, unrefreshed, and conscious of some reality worse -even than her feverish dreams. It all came back upon her; not merely the -sorrow, but the terrible discord in the sorrow. Where, to what distance -apart, had her father wandered, led by doubts which were to her -temptations of the Evil One? She longed to ask, and yet would not have -heard for all the world.</p> - -<p>The fine crisp morning made her mother feel particularly well and happy -at breakfast-time. She talked on, planning village kindnesses, unheeding -the silence of her husband and the monosyllabic answers of Margaret. -Before the things were cleared away, Mr. Hale got up; he leaned one hand -on the table, as if to support himself:</p> - -<p>'I shall not be at home till evening. I am going to Bracy Common, and -will ask Farmer Dobson to give me something for dinner. I shall be back -to tea at seven.' He did not look at either of them, but Margaret knew -what he meant. By seven the announcement must be made to her mother. Mr. -Hale would have delayed making it till half-past six, but Margaret was -of different stuff. She could not bear the impending weight on her mind -all the day long: better get the worst over; the day would be too short -to comfort her mother. But while she stood by the window, thinking how -to begin, and waiting for the servant to have left the room, her mother -had gone up-stairs to put on her things to go to the school. She came -down ready equipped, in a brisker mood than usual.</p> - -<p>'Mother, come round the garden with me this morning; just one turn,' -said Margaret, putting her arm round Mrs. Hale's waist.</p> - -<p>They passed through the open window. Mrs. Hale spoke—said -something—Margaret could not tell what. Her eye caught on a bee -entering a deep-belled flower: when that bee flew forth with his spoil -she would begin—that should be the sign. Out he came.</p> - -<p>'Mamma! Papa is going to leave Helstone!' she blurted forth. 'He's going -to leave the Church, and live in Milton-Northern.' There were the three -hard facts hardly spoken.</p> - -<p>'What makes you say so?' asked Mrs. Hale, in a surprised incredulous -voice. 'Who has been telling you such nonsense?'</p> - -<p>'Papa himself,' said Margaret, longing to say something gentle and -consoling, but literally not knowing how. They were close to a -garden-bench. Mrs. Hale sat down, and began to cry.</p> - -<p>'I don't understand you,' she said. 'Either you have made some great -mistake, or I don't quite understand you.'</p> - -<p>'No, mother, I have made no mistake. Papa has written to the bishop, -saying that he has such doubts that he cannot conscientiously remain a -priest of the Church of England, and that he must give up Helstone. He -has also consulted Mr. Bell—Frederick's godfather, you know, mamma; and -it is arranged that we go to live in Milton-Northern.' Mrs. Hale looked -up in Margaret's face all the time she was speaking these words: the -shadow on her countenance told that she, at least, believed in the truth -of what she said.</p> - -<p>'I don't think it can be true,' said Mrs. Hale, at length. 'He would -surely have told me before it came to this.'</p> - -<p>It came strongly upon Margaret's mind that her mother ought to have been -told: that whatever her faults of discontent and repining might have -been, it was an error in her father to have left her to learn his change -of opinion, and his approaching change of life, from her better-informed -child. Margaret sat down by her mother, and took her unresisting head on -her breast, bending her own soft cheeks down caressingly to touch her -face.</p> - -<p>'Dear, darling mamma! we were so afraid of giving you pain. Papa felt so -acutely—you know you are not strong, and there must have been such -terrible suspense to go through.'</p> - -<p>'When did he tell you, Margaret?'</p> - -<p>'Yesterday, only yesterday,' replied Margaret, detecting the jealousy -which prompted the inquiry. 'Poor papa!'—trying to divert her mother's -thoughts into compassionate sympathy for all her father had gone -through. Mrs. Hale raised her head.</p> - -<p>'What does he mean by having doubts?' she asked. 'Surely, he does not -mean that he thinks differently—that he knows better than the Church.' -Margaret shook her head, and the tears came into her eyes, as her mother -touched the bare nerve of her own regret.</p> - -<p>'Can't the bishop set him right?' asked Mrs. Hale, half impatiently.</p> - -<p>'I'm afraid not,' said Margaret. 'But I did not ask. I could not bear to -hear what he might answer. It is all settled at any rate. He is going to -leave Helstone in a fortnight. I am not sure if he did not say he had -sent in his deed of resignation.'</p> - -<p>'In a fortnight!' exclaimed Mrs. Hale, 'I do think this is very -strange—not at all right. I call it very unfeeling,' said she, -beginning to take relief in tears. 'He has doubts, you say, and gives up -his living, and all without consulting me. I dare say, if he had told me -his doubts at the first I could have nipped them in the bud.'</p> - -<p>Mistaken as Margaret felt her father's conduct to have been, she could -not bear to hear it blamed by her mother. She knew that his very reserve -had originated in a tenderness for her, which might be cowardly, but was -not unfeeling.</p> - -<p>'I almost hoped you might have been glad to leave Helstone, mamma,' said -she, after a pause. 'You have never been well in this air, you know.'</p> - -<p>'You can't think the smoky air of a manufacturing town, all chimneys and -dirt like Milton-Northern, would be better than this air, which is pure -and sweet, if it is too soft and relaxing. Fancy living in the middle of -factories, and factory people! Though, of course, if your father leaves -the Church, we shall not be admitted into society anywhere. It will be -such a disgrace to us! Poor dear Sir John! It is well he is not alive to -see what your father has come to! Every day after dinner, when I was a -girl, living with your aunt Shaw, at Beresford Court, Sir John used to -give for the first toast—"Church and King, and down with the Rump."'</p> - -<p>Margaret was glad that her mother's thoughts were turned away from the -fact of her husband's silence to her on the point which must have been -so near his heart. Next to the serious vital anxiety as to the nature of -her father's doubts, this was the one circumstance of the case that gave -Margaret the most pain.</p> - -<p>'You know, we have very little society here, mamma. The Gormans, who are -our nearest neighbours (to call society—and we hardly ever see them), -have been in trade just as much as these Milton-Northern people.'</p> - -<p>'Yes,' said Mrs. Hale, almost indignantly, 'but, at any rate, the -Gormans made carriages for half the gentry of the county, and were -brought into some kind of intercourse with them; but these factory -people, who on earth wears cotton that can afford linen?'</p> - -<p>'Well, mamma, I give up the cotton-spinners; I am not standing up for -them, any more than for any other trades-people. Only we shall have -little enough to do with them.'</p> - -<p>'Why on earth has your father fixed on Milton-Northern to live in?'</p> - -<p>'Partly,' said Margaret, sighing, 'because it is so very different from -Helstone—partly because Mr. Bell says there is an opening there for a -private tutor.'</p> - -<p>'Private tutor in Milton! Why can't he go to Oxford, and be a tutor to -gentlemen?'</p> - -<p>'You forget, mamma! He is leaving the Church on account of his -opinions—his doubts would do him no good at Oxford.'</p> - -<p>Mrs. Hale was silent for some time, quietly crying. At last she said:—</p> - -<p>'And the furniture—How in the world are we to manage the removal? I -never removed in my life, and only a fortnight to think about it!'</p> - -<p>Margaret was inexpressibly relieved to find that her mother's anxiety -and distress was lowered to this point, so insignificant to herself, and -on which she could do so much to help. She planned and promised, and led -her mother on to arrange fully as much as could be fixed before they -knew somewhat more definitively what Mr. Hale intended to do. Throughout -the day Margaret never left her mother; bending her whole soul to -sympathise in all the various turns her feelings took; towards evening -especially, as she became more and more anxious that her father should -find a soothing welcome home awaiting him, after his return from his day -of fatigue and distress. She dwelt upon what he must have borne in -secret for long; her mother only replied coldly that he ought to have -told her, and that then at any rate he would have had an adviser to give -him counsel; and Margaret turned faint at heart when she heard her -father's step in the hall. She dared not go to meet him, and tell him -what she had done all day, for fear of her mother's jealous annoyance. -She heard him linger, as if awaiting her, or some sign of her; and she -dared not stir; she saw by her mother's twitching lips, and changing -colour, that she too was aware that her husband had returned. Presently -he opened the room-door, and stood there uncertain whether to come in. -His face was gray and pale; he had a timid, fearful look in his eyes; -something almost pitiful to see in a man's face; but that look of -despondent uncertainty, of mental and bodily languor, touched his wife's -heart. She went to him, and threw herself on his breast, crying out—</p> - -<p>'Oh! Richard, Richard, you should have told me sooner!'</p> - -<p>And then, in tears, Margaret left her, as she rushed up-stairs to throw -herself on her bed, and hide her face in the pillows to stifle the -hysteric sobs that would force their way at last, after the rigid -self-control of the whole day. How long she lay thus she could not tell. -She heard no noise, though the housemaid came in to arrange the room. -The affrighted girl stole out again on tip-toe, and went and told Mrs. -Dixon that Miss Hale was crying as if her heart would break: she was -sure she would make herself deadly ill if she went on at that rate. In -consequence of this, Margaret felt herself touched, and started up into -a sitting posture; she saw the accustomed room, the figure of Dixon in -shadow, as the latter stood holding the candle a little behind her, for -fear of the effect on Miss Hale's startled eyes, swollen and blinded as -they were.</p> - -<p>'Oh, Dixon! I did not hear you come into the room!' said Margaret, -resuming her trembling self-restraint. 'Is it very late?' continued she, -lifting herself languidly off the bed, yet letting her feet touch the -ground without fairly standing down, as she shaded her wet ruffled hair -off her face, and tried to look as though nothing were the matter; as if -she had only been asleep.</p> - -<p>'I hardly can tell what time it is,' replied Dixon, in an aggrieved tone -of voice. 'Since your mamma told me this terrible news, when I dressed -her for tea, I've lost all count of time. I'm sure I don't know what is -to become of us all. When Charlotte told me just now you were sobbing, -Miss Hale, I thought, no wonder, poor thing! And master thinking of -turning Dissenter at his time of life, when, if it is not to be said -he's done well in the Church, he's not done badly after all. I had a -cousin, miss, who turned Methodist preacher after he was fifty years of -age, and a tailor all his life; but then he had never been able to make -a pair of trousers to fit, for as long as he had been in the trade, so -it was no wonder; but for master! as I said to missus, "What would poor -Sir John have said? he never liked your marrying Mr. Hale, but if he -could have known it would have come to this, he would have sworn worse -oaths than ever, if that was possible!"'</p> - -<p>Dixon had been so much accustomed to comment upon Mr. Hale's proceedings -to her mistress (who listened to her, or not, as she was in the humour), -that she never noticed Margaret's flashing eye and dilating nostril. To -hear her father talked of in this way by a servant to her face!</p> - -<p>'Dixon,' she said, in the low tone she always used when much excited, -which had a sound in it as of some distant turmoil, or threatening storm -breaking far away. 'Dixon! you forget to whom you are speaking.' She -stood upright and firm on her feet now, confronting the waiting-maid, -and fixing her with her steady discerning eye. 'I am Mr. Hale's -daughter. Go! You have made a strange mistake, and one that I am sure -your own good feeling will make you sorry for when you think about it.'</p> - -<p>Dixon hung irresolutely about the room for a minute or two. Margaret -repeated, 'You may leave me, Dixon. I wish you to go.' Dixon did not -know whether to resent these decided words or to cry; either course -would have done with her mistress: but, as she said to herself, 'Miss -Margaret has a touch of the old gentleman about her, as well as poor -Master Frederick; I wonder where they get it from?' and she, who would -have resented such words from any one less haughty and determined in -manner, was subdued enough to say, in a half humble, half injured tone:</p> - -<p>'Mayn't I unfasten your gown, miss, and do your hair?'</p> - -<p>'No! not to-night, thank you.' And Margaret gravely lighted her out of -the room, and bolted the door. From henceforth Dixon obeyed and admired -Margaret. She said it was because she was so like poor Master Frederick; -but the truth was, that Dixon, as do many others, liked to feel herself -ruled by a powerful and decided nature.</p> - -<p>Margaret needed all Dixon's help in action, and silence in words; for, -for some time, the latter thought it her duty to show her sense of -affront by saying as little as possible to her young lady; so the energy -came out in doing rather than in speaking. A fortnight was a very short -time to make arrangements for so serious a removal; as Dixon said, 'Any -one but a gentleman—indeed almost any other gentleman—' but catching a -look at Margaret's straight, stern brow just here, she coughed the -remainder of the sentence away, and meekly took the horehound drop that -Margaret offered her, to stop the 'little tickling at my chest, miss.' -But almost any one but Mr. Hale would have had practical knowledge -enough to see, that in so short a time it would be difficult to fix on -any house in Milton-Northern, or indeed elsewhere, to which they could -remove the furniture that had of necessity to be taken out of Helstone -vicarage. Mrs. Hale, overpowered by all the troubles and necessities for -immediate household decisions that seemed to come upon her at once, -became really ill, and Margaret almost felt it as a relief when her -mother fairly took to her bed, and left the management of affairs to -her. Dixon, true to her post of body-guard, attended most faithfully to -her mistress, and only emerged from Mrs. Hale's bed-room to shake her -head, and murmur to herself in a manner which Margaret did not choose to -hear. For, the one thing clear and straight before her, was the -necessity for leaving Helstone. Mr. Hale's successor in the living was -appointed; and, at any rate, after her father's decision; there must be -no lingering now, for his sake, as well as from every other -consideration. For he came home every evening more and more depressed, -after the necessary leave-taking which he had resolved to have with -every individual parishioner. Margaret, inexperienced as she was in all -the necessary matter-of-fact business to be got through, did not know to -whom to apply for advice. The cook and Charlotte worked away with -willing arms and stout hearts at all the moving and packing; and as far -as that went, Margaret's admirable sense enabled her to see what was -best, and to direct how it should be done. But where were they to go to? -In a week they must be gone. Straight to Milton, or where? So many -arrangements depended on this decision that Margaret resolved to ask her -father one evening, in spite of his evident fatigue and low spirits. He -answered:</p> - -<p>'My dear! I have really had too much to think about to settle this. What -does your mother say? What does she wish? Poor Maria!'</p> - -<p>He met with an echo even louder than his sigh. Dixon had just come into -the room for another cup of tea for Mrs. Hale, and catching Mr. Hale's -last words, and protected by his presence from Margaret's upbraiding -eyes, made bold to say, 'My poor mistress!'</p> - -<p>'You don't think her worse to-day,' said Mr. Hale, turning hastily.</p> - -<p>'I'm sure I can't say, sir. It's not for me to judge. The illness seems -so much more on the mind than on the body.'</p> - -<p>Mr. Hale looked infinitely distressed.</p> - -<p>'You had better take mamma her tea while it is hot, Dixon,' said -Margaret, in a tone of quiet authority.</p> - -<p>'Oh! I beg your pardon, miss! My thoughts was otherwise occupied in -thinking of my poor—— of Mrs. Hale.'</p> - -<p>'Papa!' said Margaret, 'it is this suspense that is bad for you both. Of -course, mamma must feel your change of opinions: we can't help that,' -she continued, softly; 'but now the course is clear, at least to a -certain point. And I think, papa, that I could get mamma to help me in -planning, if you could tell me what to plan for. She has never expressed -any wish in any way, and only thinks of what can't be helped. Are we to -go straight to Milton? Have you taken a house there?'</p> - -<p>'No,' he replied. 'I suppose we must go into lodgings, and look about -for a house.</p> - -<p>'And pack up the furniture so that it can be left at the railway -station, till we have met with one?'</p> - -<p>'I suppose so. Do what you think best. Only remember, we shall have much -less money to spend.'</p> - -<p>They had never had much superfluity, as Margaret knew. She felt that it -was a great weight suddenly thrown upon her shoulders. Four months ago, -all the decisions she needed to make were what dress she would wear for -dinner, and to help Edith to draw out the lists of who should take down -whom in the dinner parties at home. Nor was the household in which she -lived one that called for much decision. Except in the one grand case of -Captain Lennox's offer, everything went on with the regularity of -clockwork. Once a year, there was a long discussion between her aunt and -Edith as to whether they should go to the Isle of Wight, abroad, or to -Scotland; but at such times Margaret herself was secure of drifting, -without any exertion of her own, into the quiet harbour of home. Now, -since that day when Mr. Lennox came, and startled her into a decision, -every day brought some question, momentous to her, and to those whom she -loved, to be settled.</p> - -<p>Her father went up after tea to sit with his wife. Margaret remained -alone in the drawing-room. Suddenly she took a candle and went into her -father's study for a great atlas, and lugging it back into the -drawing-room, she began to pore over the map of England. She was ready -to look up brightly when her father came down stairs.</p> - -<p>'I have hit upon such a beautiful plan. Look here—in Darkshire, hardly -the breadth of my finger from Milton, is Heston, which I have often -heard of from people living in the north as such a pleasant little -bathing-place. Now, don't you think we could get mamma there with Dixon, -while you and I go and look at houses, and get one all ready for her in -Milton? She would get a breath of sea air to set her up for the winter, -and be spared all the fatigue, and Dixon would enjoy taking care of -her.'</p> - -<p>'Is Dixon to go with us?' asked Mr. Hale, in a kind of helpless dismay.</p> - -<p>'Oh, yes!' said Margaret. 'Dixon quite intends it, and I don't know what -mamma would do without her.'</p> - -<p>'But we shall have to put up with a very different way of living, I am -afraid. Everything is so much dearer in a town. I doubt if Dixon can -make herself comfortable. To tell you the truth Margaret, I sometimes -feel as if that woman gave herself airs.'</p> - -<p>'To be sure she does, papa,' replied Margaret; 'and if she has to put up -with a different style of living, we shall have to put up with her airs, -which will be worse. But she really loves us all, and would be miserable -to leave us, I am sure—especially in this change; so, for mamma's sake, -and for the sake of her faithfulness, I do think she must go.'</p> - -<p>'Very well, my dear. Go on. I am resigned. How far is Heston from -Milton? The breadth of one of your fingers does not give me a very clear -idea of distance.'</p> - -<p>'Well, then, I suppose it is thirty miles; that is not much!'</p> - -<p>'Not in distance, but in—. Never mind! If you really think it will do -your mother good, let it be fixed so.'</p> - -<p>This was a great step. Now Margaret could work, and act, and plan in -good earnest. And now Mrs. Hale could rouse herself from her languor, -and forget her real suffering in thinking of the pleasure and the -delight of going to the sea-side. Her only regret was that Mr. Hale -could not be with her all the fortnight she was to be there, as he had -been for a whole fortnight once, when they were engaged, and she was -staying with Sir John and Lady Beresford at Torquay.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VI_FAREWELL" id="CHAPTER_VI_FAREWELL"></a>CHAPTER VI—FAREWELL</h2> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">'Unwatch'd the garden bough shall sway,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">The tender blossom flutter down,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Unloved that beech will gather brown,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">The maple burn itself away;<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i1">Unloved, the sun-flower, shining fair,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Ray round with flames her disk of seed,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">And many a rose-carnation feed<br /></span> -<span class="i1">With summer spice the humming air;<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i4">* * * * * *<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i1">Till from the garden and the wild<br /></span> -<span class="i1">A fresh association blow,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">And year by year the landscape grow<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Familiar to the stranger's child;<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i1">As year by year the labourer tills<br /></span> -<span class="i1">His wonted glebe, or lops the glades;<br /></span> -<span class="i1">And year by year our memory fades<br /></span> -<span class="i1">From all the circle of the hills.'<br /></span> -<span class="i9">T<small>ENNYSON</small>.<br /></span> -</div></div> - -<p>The last day came; the house was full of packing-cases, which were being -carted off at the front door, to the nearest railway station. Even the -pretty lawn at the side of the house was made unsightly and untidy by -the straw that had been wafted upon it through the open door and -windows. The rooms had a strange echoing sound in them,—and the light -came harshly and strongly in through the uncurtained windows,—seeming -already unfamiliar and strange. Mrs. Hale's dressing-room was left -untouched to the last; and there she and Dixon were packing up clothes, -and interrupting each other every now and then to exclaim at, and turn -over with fond regard, some forgotten treasure, in the shape of some -relic of the children while they were yet little. They did not make much -progress with their work. Down-stairs, Margaret stood calm and -collected, ready to counsel or advise the men who had been called in to -help the cook and Charlotte. These two last, crying between whiles, -wondered how the young lady could keep up so this last day, and settled -it between them that she was not likely to care much for Helstone, -having been so long in London. There she stood, very pale and quiet, -with her large grave eyes observing everything,—up to every present -circumstance, however small. They could not understand how her heart was -aching all the time, with a heavy pressure that no sighs could lift off -or relieve, and how constant exertion for her perceptive faculties was -the only way to keep herself from crying out with pain. Moreover, if she -gave way, who was to act? Her father was examining papers, books, -registers, what not, in the vestry with the clerk; and when he came in, -there were his own books to pack up, which no one but himself could do -to his satisfaction. Besides, was Margaret one to give way before -strange men, or even household friends like the cook and Charlotte! Not -she. But at last the four packers went into the kitchen to their tea; -and Margaret moved stiffly and slowly away from the place in the hall -where she had been standing so long, out through the bare echoing -drawing-room, into the twilight of an early November evening. There was -a filmy veil of soft dull mist obscuring, but not hiding, all objects, -giving them a lilac hue, for the sun had not yet fully set; a robin was -singing,—perhaps, Margaret thought, the very robin that her father had -so often talked of as his winter pet, and for which he had made, with -his own hands, a kind of robin-house by his study-window. The leaves -were more gorgeous than ever; the first touch of frost would lay them -all low on the ground. Already one or two kept constantly floating down, -amber and golden in the low slanting sun-rays.</p> - -<p>Margaret went along the walk under the pear-tree wall. She had never -been along it since she paced it at Henry Lennox's side. Here, at this -bed of thyme, he began to speak of what she must not think of now. Her -eyes were on that late-blowing rose as she was trying to answer; and she -had caught the idea of the vivid beauty of the feathery leaves of the -carrots in the very middle of his last sentence. Only a fortnight ago! -And all so changed! Where was he now? In London,—going through the old -round; dining with the old Harley Street set, or with gayer young -friends of his own. Even now, while she walked sadly through that damp -and drear garden in the dusk, with everything falling and fading, and -turning to decay around her, he might be gladly putting away his -law-books after a day of satisfactory toil, and freshening himself up, -as he had told her he often did, by a run in the Temple Gardens, taking -in the while the grand inarticulate mighty roar of tens of thousands of -busy men, nigh at hand, but not seen, and catching ever, at his quick -turns, glimpses of the lights of the city coming up out of the depths of -the river. He had often spoken to Margaret of these hasty walks, -snatched in the intervals between study and dinner. At his best times -and in his best moods had he spoken of them; and the thought of them had -struck upon her fancy. Here there was no sound. The robin had gone away -into the vast stillness of night. Now and then, a cottage door in the -distance was opened and shut, as if to admit the tired labourer to his -home; but that sounded very far away. A stealthy, creeping, cranching -sound among the crisp fallen leaves of the forest, beyond the garden, -seemed almost close at hand. Margaret knew it was some poacher. Sitting -up in her bed-room this past autumn, with the light of her candle -extinguished, and purely revelling in the solemn beauty of the heavens -and the earth, she had many a time seen the light noiseless leap of the -poachers over the garden-fence, their quick tramp across the dewy -moonlit lawn, their disappearance in the black still shadow beyond. The -wild adventurous freedom of their life had taken her fancy; she felt -inclined to wish them success; she had no fear of them. But to-night she -was afraid, she knew not why. She heard Charlotte shutting the windows, -and fastening up for the night, unconscious that any one had gone out -into the garden. A small branch—it might be of rotten wood, or it might -be broken by force—came heavily down in the nearest part of the forest, -Margaret ran, swift as Camilla, down to the window, and rapped at it -with a hurried tremulousness which startled Charlotte within.</p> - -<p>'Let me in! Let me in! It is only me, Charlotte!' Her heart did not -still its fluttering till she was safe in the drawing-room, with the -windows fastened and bolted, and the familiar walls hemming her round, -and shutting her in. She had sate down upon a packing case; cheerless, -Chill was the dreary and dismantled room—no fire nor other light, but -Charlotte's long unsnuffed candle. Charlotte looked at Margaret with -surprise; and Margaret, feeling it rather than seeing it, rose up.</p> - -<p>'I was afraid you were shutting me out altogether, Charlotte,' said she, -half-smiling. 'And then you would never have heard me in the kitchen, -and the doors into the lane and churchyard are locked long ago.'</p> - -<p>'Oh, miss, I should have been sure to have missed you soon. The men -would have wanted you to tell them how to go on. And I have put tea in -master's study, as being the most comfortable room, so to speak.'</p> - -<p>'Thank you, Charlotte. You are a kind girl. I shall be sorry to leave -you. You must try and write to me, if I can ever give you any little -help or good advice. I shall always be glad to get a letter from -Helstone, you know. I shall be sure and send you my address when I know -it.'</p> - -<p>The study was all ready for tea. There was a good blazing fire, and -unlighted candles on the table. Margaret sat down on the rug, partly to -warm herself, for the dampness of the evening hung about her dress, and -over-fatigue had made her chilly. She kept herself balanced by clasping -her hands together round her knees; her head dropped a little towards -her chest; the attitude was one of despondency, whatever her frame of -mind might be. But when she heard her father's step on the gravel -outside, she started up, and hastily shaking her heavy black hair back, -and wiping a few tears away that had come on her cheeks she knew not -how, she went out to open the door for him. He showed far more -depression than she did. She could hardly get him to talk, although she -tried to speak on subjects that would interest him, at the cost of an -effort every time which she thought would be her last.</p> - -<p>'Have you been a very long walk to-day?' asked she, on seeing his -refusal to touch food of any kind.</p> - -<p>'As far as Fordham Beeches. I went to see Widow Maltby; she is sadly -grieved at not having wished you good-bye. She says little Susan has -kept watch down the lane for days past.—Nay, Margaret, what is the -matter, dear?' The thought of the little child watching for her, and -continually disappointed—from no forgetfulness on her part, but from -sheer inability to leave home—was the last drop in poor Margaret's cup, -and she was sobbing away as if her heart would break. Mr. Hale was -distressingly perplexed. He rose, and walked nervously up and down the -room. Margaret tried to check herself, but would not speak until she -could do so with firmness. She heard him talking, as if to himself.</p> - -<p>'I cannot bear it. I cannot bear to see the sufferings of others. I -think I could go through my own with patience. Oh, is there no going -back?'</p> - -<p>'No, father,' said Margaret, looking straight at him, and speaking low -and steadily. 'It is bad to believe you in error. It would be infinitely -worse to have known you a hypocrite.' She dropped her voice at the last -few words, as if entertaining the idea of hypocrisy for a moment in -connection with her father savoured of irreverence.</p> - -<p>'Besides,' she went on, 'it is only that I am tired to-night; don't -think that I am suffering from what you have done, dear papa. We can't -either of us talk about it to-night, I believe,' said she, finding that -tears and sobs would come in spite of herself. 'I had better go and take -mamma up this cup of tea. She had hers very early, when I was too busy -to go to her, and I am sure she will be glad of another now.'</p> - -<p>Railroad time inexorably wrenched them away from lovely, beloved -Helstone, the next morning. They were gone; they had seen the last of -the long low parsonage home, half-covered with China-roses and -pyracanthus—more homelike than ever in the morning sun that glittered -on its windows, each belonging to some well-loved room. Almost before -they had settled themselves into the car, sent from Southampton to fetch -them to the station, they were gone away to return no more. A sting at -Margaret's heart made her strive to look out to catch the last glimpse -of the old church tower at the turn where she knew it might be seen -above a wave of the forest trees; but her father remembered this too, -and she silently acknowledged his greater right to the one window from -which it could be seen. She leant back and shut her eyes, and the tears -welled forth, and hung glittering for an instant on the shadowing -eye-lashes before rolling slowly down her cheeks, and dropping, -unheeded, on her dress.</p> - -<p>They were to stop in London all night at some quiet hotel. Poor Mrs. -Hale had cried in her way nearly all day long; and Dixon showed her -sorrow by extreme crossness, and a continual irritable attempt to keep -her petticoats from even touching the unconscious Mr. Hale, whom she -regarded as the origin of all this suffering.</p> - -<p>They went through the well-known streets, past houses which they had -often visited, past shops in which she had lounged, impatient, by her -aunt's side, while that lady was making some important and interminable -decision-nay, absolutely past acquaintances in the streets; for though -the morning had been of an incalculable length to them, and they felt as -if it ought long ago to have closed in for the repose of darkness, it -was the very busiest time of a London afternoon in November when they -arrived there. It was long since Mrs. Hale had been in London; and she -roused up, almost like a child, to look about her at the different -streets, and to gaze after and exclaim at the shops and carriages.</p> - -<p>'Oh, there's Harrison's, where I bought so many of my wedding-things. -Dear! how altered! They've got immense plate-glass windows, larger than -Crawford's in Southampton. Oh, and there, I declare—no, it is not—yes, -it is—Margaret, we have just passed Mr. Henry Lennox. Where can he be -going, among all these shops?'</p> - -<p>Margaret started forwards, and as quickly fell back, half-smiling at -herself for the sudden motion. They were a hundred yards away by this -time; but he seemed like a relic of Helstone—he was associated with a -bright morning, an eventful day, and she should have liked to have seen -him, without his seeing her,—without the chance of their speaking.</p> - -<p>The evening, without employment, passed in a room high up in an hotel, -was long and heavy. Mr. Hale went out to his bookseller's, and to call -on a friend or two. Every one they saw, either in the house or out in -the streets, appeared hurrying to some appointment, expected by, or -expecting somebody. They alone seemed strange and friendless, and -desolate. Yet within a mile, Margaret knew of house after house, where -she for her own sake, and her mother for her aunt Shaw's, would be -welcomed, if they came in gladness, or even in peace of mind. If they -came sorrowing, and wanting sympathy in a complicated trouble like the -present, then they would be felt as a shadow in all these houses of -intimate acquaintances, not friends. London life is too whirling and -full to admit of even an hour of that deep silence of feeling which the -friends of Job showed, when 'they sat with him on the ground seven days -and seven nights, and none spake a word unto him; for they saw that his -grief was very great.'</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VII_NEW_SCENES_AND_FACES" id="CHAPTER_VII_NEW_SCENES_AND_FACES"></a>CHAPTER VII—NEW SCENES AND FACES</h2> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">'Mist clogs the sunshine,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Smoky dwarf houses<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Have we round on every side.'<br /></span> -<span class="i9">M<small>ATTHEW</small> A<small>RNOLD</small>.<br /></span> -</div></div> - -<p>The next afternoon, about twenty miles from Milton-Northern, they -entered on the little branch railway that led to Heston. Heston itself -was one long straggling street, running parallel to the seashore. It had -a character of its own, as different from the little bathing-places in -the south of England as they again from those of the continent. To use a -Scotch word, every thing looked more 'purposelike.' The country carts -had more iron, and less wood and leather about the horse-gear; the -people in the streets, although on pleasure bent, had yet a busy mind. -The colours looked grayer—more enduring, not so gay and pretty. There -were no smock-frocks, even among the country folk; they retarded motion, -and were apt to catch on machinery, and so the habit of wearing them had -died out. In such towns in the south of England, Margaret had seen the -shopmen, when not employed in their business, lounging a little at their -doors, enjoying the fresh air, and the look up and down the street. -Here, if they had any leisure from customers, they made themselves -business in the shop—even, Margaret fancied, to the unnecessary -unrolling and rerolling of ribbons. All these differences struck upon -her mind, as she and her mother went out next morning to look for -lodgings.</p> - -<p>Their two nights at hotels had cost more than Mr. Hale had anticipated, -and they were glad to take the first clean, cheerful rooms they met with -that were at liberty to receive them. There, for the first time for many -days, did Margaret feel at rest. There was a dreaminess in the rest, -too, which made it still more perfect and luxurious to repose in. The -distant sea, lapping the sandy shore with measured sound; the nearer -cries of the donkey-boys; the unusual scenes moving before her like -pictures, which she cared not in her laziness to have fully explained -before they passed away; the stroll down to the beach to breathe the -sea-air, soft and warm on that sandy shore even to the end of November; -the great long misty sea-line touching the tender-coloured sky; the -white sail of a distant boat turning silver in some pale sunbeam:—it -seemed as if she could dream her life away in such luxury of -pensiveness, in which she made her present all in all, from not daring -to think of the past, or wishing to contemplate the future.</p> - -<p>But the future must be met, however stern and iron it be. One evening it -was arranged that Margaret and her father should go the next day to -Milton-Northern, and look out for a house. Mr. Hale had received several -letters from Mr. Bell, and one or two from Mr. Thornton, and he was -anxious to ascertain at once a good many particulars respecting his -position and chances of success there, which he could only do by an -interview with the latter gentleman. Margaret knew that they ought to be -removing; but she had a repugnance to the idea of a manufacturing town, -and believed that her mother was receiving benefit from Heston air, so -she would willingly have deferred the expedition to Milton.</p> - -<p>For several miles before they reached Milton, they saw a deep -lead-coloured cloud hanging over the horizon in the direction in which -it lay. It was all the darker from contrast with the pale gray-blue of -the wintry sky; for in Heston there had been the earliest signs of -frost. Nearer to the town, the air had a faint taste and smell of smoke; -perhaps, after all, more a loss of the fragrance of grass and herbage -than any positive taste or smell. Quick they were whirled over long, -straight, hopeless streets of regularly-built houses, all small and of -brick. Here and there a great oblong many-windowed factory stood up, -like a hen among her chickens, puffing out black 'unparliamentary' -smoke, and sufficiently accounting for the cloud which Margaret had -taken to foretell rain. As they drove through the larger and wider -streets, from the station to the hotel, they had to stop constantly; -great loaded lorries blocked up the not over-wide thoroughfares. -Margaret had now and then been into the city in her drives with her -aunt. But there the heavy lumbering vehicles seemed various in their -purposes and intent; here every van, every waggon and truck, bore -cotton, either in the raw shape in bags, or the woven shape in bales of -calico. People thronged the footpaths, most of them well-dressed as -regarded the material, but with a slovenly looseness which struck -Margaret as different from the shabby, threadbare smartness of a similar -class in London.</p> - -<p>'New Street,' said Mr. Hale. 'This, I believe, is the principal street -in Milton. Bell has often spoken to me about it. It was the opening of -this street from a lane into a great thoroughfare, thirty years ago, -which has caused his property to rise so much in value. Mr. Thornton's -mill must be somewhere not very far off, for he is Mr. Bell's tenant. -But I fancy he dates from his warehouse.'</p> - -<p>'Where is our hotel, papa?'</p> - -<p>'Close to the end of this street, I believe. Shall we have lunch before -or after we have looked at the houses we marked in the Milton Times?'</p> - -<p>'Oh, let us get our work done first.'</p> - -<p>'Very well. Then I will only see if there is any note or letter for me -from Mr. Thornton, who said he would let me know anything he might hear -about these houses, and then we will set off. We will keep the cab; it -will be safer than losing ourselves, and being too late for the train -this afternoon.'</p> - -<p>There were no letters awaiting him. They set out on their house-hunting. -Thirty pounds a-year was all they could afford to give, but in Hampshire -they could have met with a roomy house and pleasant garden for the -money. Here, even the necessary accommodation of two sitting-rooms and -four bed-rooms seemed unattainable. They went through their list, -rejecting each as they visited it. Then they looked at each other in -dismay.</p> - -<p>'We must go back to the second, I think. That one,—in Crampton, don't -they call the suburb? There were three sitting-rooms; don't you remember -how we laughed at the number compared with the three bed-rooms? But I -have planned it all. The front room down-stairs is to be your study and -our dining-room (poor papa!), for, you know, we settled mamma is to have -as cheerful a sitting-room as we can get; and that front room up-stairs, -with the atrocious blue and pink paper and heavy cornice, had really a -pretty view over the plain, with a great bend of river, or canal, or -whatever it is, down below. Then I could have the little bed-room -behind, in that projection at the head of the first flight of -stairs—over the kitchen, you know—and you and mamma the room behind -the drawing-room, and that closet in the roof will make you a splendid -dressing-room.'</p> - -<p>'But Dixon, and the girl we are to have to help?'</p> - -<p>'Oh, wait a minute. I am overpowered by the discovery of my own genius -for management. Dixon is to have—let me see, I had it once—the back -sitting-room. I think she will like that. She grumbles so much about the -stairs at Heston; and the girl is to have that sloping attic over your -room and mamma's. Won't that do?'</p> - -<p>'I dare say it will. But the papers. What taste! And the overloading -such a house with colour and such heavy cornices!'</p> - -<p>'Never mind, papa! Surely, you can charm the landlord into re-papering -one or two of the rooms—the drawing-room and your bed-room—for mamma -will come most in contact with them; and your book-shelves will hide a -great deal of that gaudy pattern in the dining-room.'</p> - -<p>'Then you think it the best? If so, I had better go at once and call on -this Mr. Donkin, to whom the advertisement refers me. I will take you -back to the hotel, where you can order lunch, and rest, and by the time -it is ready, I shall be with you. I hope I shall be able to get new -papers.'</p> - -<p>Margaret hoped so too, though she said nothing. She had never come -fairly in contact with the taste that loves ornament, however bad, more -than the plainness and simplicity which are of themselves the framework -of elegance. Her father took her through the entrance of the hotel, and -leaving her at the foot of the staircase, went to the address of the -landlord of the house they had fixed upon. Just as Margaret had her hand -on the door of their sitting-room, she was followed by a quick-stepping -waiter:</p> - -<p>'I beg your pardon, ma'am. The gentleman was gone so quickly, I had no -time to tell him. Mr. Thornton called almost directly after you left; -and, as I understood from what the gentleman said, you would be back in -an hour, I told him so, and he came again about five minutes ago, and -said he would wait for Mr. Hale. He is in your room now, ma'am.'</p> - -<p>'Thank you. My father will return soon, and then you can tell him.' -Margaret opened the door and went in with the straight, fearless, -dignified presence habitual to her. She felt no awkwardness; she had too -much the habits of society for that. Here was a person come on business -to her father; and, as he was one who had shown himself obliging, she -was disposed to treat him with a full measure of civility. Mr. Thornton -was a good deal more surprised and discomfited than she. Instead of a -quiet, middle-aged clergyman, a young lady came forward with frank -dignity,—a young lady of a different type to most of those he was in -the habit of seeing. Her dress was very plain: a close straw bonnet of -the best material and shape, trimmed with white ribbon; a dark silk -gown, without any trimming or flounce; a large Indian shawl, which hung -about her in long heavy folds, and which she wore as an empress wears -her drapery. He did not understand who she was, as he caught the simple, -straight, unabashed look, which showed that his being there was of no -concern to the beautiful countenance, and called up no flush of surprise -to the pale ivory of the complexion. He had heard that Mr. Hale had a -daughter, but he had imagined that she was a little girl.</p> - -<p>'Mr. Thornton, I believe!' said Margaret, after a half-instant's pause, -during which his unready words would not come. 'Will you sit down. My -father brought me to the door, not a minute ago, but unfortunately he -was not told that you were here, and he has gone away on some business. -But he will come back almost directly. I am sorry you have had the -trouble of calling twice.'</p> - -<p>Mr. Thornton was in habits of authority himself, but she seemed to -assume some kind of rule over him at once. He had been getting impatient -at the loss of his time on a market-day, the moment before she appeared, -yet now he calmly took a seat at her bidding.</p> - -<p>'Do you know where it is that Mr. Hale has gone to? Perhaps I might be -able to find him.'</p> - -<p>'He has gone to a Mr. Donkin's in Canute Street. He is the land-lord of -the house my father wishes to take in Crampton.'</p> - -<p>Mr. Thornton knew the house. He had seen the advertisement, and been to -look at it, in compliance with a request of Mr. Bell's that he would -assist Mr. Hale to the best of his power: and also instigated by his own -interest in the case of a clergyman who had given up his living under -circumstances such as those of Mr. Hale. Mr. Thornton had thought that -the house in Crampton was really just the thing; but now that he saw -Margaret, with her superb ways of moving and looking, he began to feel -ashamed of having imagined that it would do very well for the Hales, in -spite of a certain vulgarity in it which had struck him at the time of -his looking it over.</p> - -<p>Margaret could not help her looks; but the short curled upper lip, the -round, massive up-turned chin, the manner of carrying her head, her -movements, full of a soft feminine defiance, always gave strangers the -impression of haughtiness. She was tired now, and would rather have -remained silent, and taken the rest her father had planned for her; but, -of course, she owed it to herself to be a gentlewoman, and to speak -courteously from time to time to this stranger; not over-brushed, nor -over-polished, it must be confessed, after his rough encounter with -Milton streets and crowds. She wished that he would go, as he had once -spoken of doing, instead of sitting there, answering with curt sentences -all the remarks she made. She had taken off her shawl, and hung it over -the back of her chair. She sat facing him and facing the light; her full -beauty met his eye; her round white flexile throat rising out of the -full, yet lithe figure; her lips, moving so slightly as she spoke, not -breaking the cold serene look of her face with any variation from the -one lovely haughty curve; her eyes, with their soft gloom, meeting his -with quiet maiden freedom. He almost said to himself that he did not -like her, before their conversation ended; he tried so to compensate -himself for the mortified feeling, that while he looked upon her with an -admiration he could not repress, she looked at him with proud -indifference, taking him, he thought, for what, in his irritation, he -told himself he was—a great rough fellow, with not a grace or a -refinement about him. Her quiet coldness of demeanour he interpreted -into contemptuousness, and resented it in his heart to the pitch of -almost inclining him to get up and go away, and have nothing more to do -with these Hales, and their superciliousness.</p> - -<p>Just as Margaret had exhausted her last subject of conversation—and yet -conversation that could hardly be called which consisted of so few and -such short speeches—her father came in, and with his pleasant -gentlemanly courteousness of apology, reinstated his name and family in -Mr. Thornton's good opinion.</p> - -<p>Mr. Hale and his visitor had a good deal to say respecting their mutual -friend, Mr. Bell; and Margaret, glad that her part of entertaining the -visitor was over, went to the window to try and make herself more -familiar with the strange aspect of the street. She got so much absorbed -in watching what was going on outside that she hardly heard her father -when he spoke to her, and he had to repeat what he said:</p> - -<p>'Margaret! the landlord will persist in admiring that hideous paper, and -I am afraid we must let it remain.'</p> - -<p>'Oh dear! I am sorry!' she replied, and began to turn over in her mind -the possibility of hiding part of it, at least, by some of her sketches, -but gave up the idea at last, as likely only to make bad worse. Her -father, meanwhile, with his kindly country hospitality, was pressing Mr. -Thornton to stay to luncheon with them. It would have been very -inconvenient to him to do so, yet he felt that he should have yielded, -if Margaret by word or look had seconded her father's invitation; he was -glad she did not, and yet he was irritated at her for not doing it. She -gave him a low, grave bow when he left, and he felt more awkward and -self-conscious in every limb than he had ever done in all his life -before.</p> - -<p>'Well, Margaret, now to luncheon, as fast we can. Have you ordered it?'</p> - -<p>'No, papa; that man was here when I came home, and I have never had an -opportunity.'</p> - -<p>'Then we must take anything we can get. He must have been waiting a long -time, I'm afraid.'</p> - -<p>'It seemed exceedingly long to me. I was just at the last gasp when you -came in. He never went on with any subject, but gave little, short, -abrupt answers.'</p> - -<p>'Very much to the point though, I should think. He is a clearheaded -fellow. He said (did you hear?) that Crampton is on gravelly soil, and -by far the most healthy suburb in the neighbourhood of Milton.'</p> - -<p>When they returned to Heston, there was the day's account to be given to -Mrs. Hale, who was full of questions which they answered in the -intervals of tea-drinking.</p> - -<p>'And what is your correspondent, Mr. Thornton, like?'</p> - -<p>'Ask Margaret,' said her husband. 'She and he had a long attempt at -conversation, while I was away speaking to the landlord.'</p> - -<p>'Oh! I hardly know what he is like,' said Margaret, lazily; too tired to -tax her powers of description much. And then rousing herself, she said, -'He is a tall, broad-shouldered man, about—how old, papa?'</p> - -<p>'I should guess about thirty.'</p> - -<p>'About thirty—with a face that is neither exactly plain, nor yet -handsome, nothing remarkable—not quite a gentleman; but that was hardly -to be expected.'</p> - -<p>'Not vulgar, or common though,' put in her father, rather jealous of any -disparagement of the sole friend he had in Milton.</p> - -<p>'Oh no!' said Margaret. 'With such an expression of resolution and -power, no face, however plain in feature, could be either vulgar or -common. I should not like to have to bargain with him; he looks very -inflexible. Altogether a man who seems made for his niche, mamma; -sagacious, and strong, as becomes a great tradesman.'</p> - -<p>'Don't call the Milton manufacturers tradesmen, Margaret,' said her -father. 'They are very different.'</p> - -<p>'Are they? I apply the word to all who have something tangible to sell; -but if you think the term is not correct, papa, I won't use it. But, oh -mamma! speaking of vulgarity and commonness, you must prepare yourself -for our drawing-room paper. Pink and blue roses, with yellow leaves! And -such a heavy cornice round the room!'</p> - -<p>But when they removed to their new house in Milton, the obnoxious papers -were gone. The landlord received their thanks very composedly; and let -them think, if they liked, that he had relented from his expressed -determination not to repaper. There was no particular need to tell them, -that what he did not care to do for a Reverend Mr. Hale, unknown in -Milton, he was only too glad to do at the one short sharp remonstrance -of Mr. Thornton, the wealthy manufacturer.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIII_HOME_SICKNESS" id="CHAPTER_VIII_HOME_SICKNESS"></a>CHAPTER VIII—HOME SICKNESS</h2> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">'And it's hame, hame; hame,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Hame fain wad I be.'<br /></span> -</div></div> - -<p>It needed the pretty light papering of the rooms to reconcile them to -Milton. It needed more—more that could not be had. The thick yellow -November fogs had come on; and the view of the plain in the valley, made -by the sweeping bend of the river, was all shut out when Mrs. Hale -arrived at her new home.</p> - -<p>Margaret and Dixon had been at work for two days, unpacking and -arranging, but everything inside the house still looked in disorder; and -outside a thick fog crept up to the very windows, and was driven in to -every open door in choking white wreaths of unwholesome mist.</p> - -<p>'Oh, Margaret! are we to live here?' asked Mrs. Hale in blank dismay. -Margaret's heart echoed the dreariness of the tone in which this -question was put. She could scarcely command herself enough to say, 'Oh, -the fogs in London are sometimes far worse!'</p> - -<p>'But then you knew that London itself, and friends lay behind it. -Here—well! we are desolate. Oh Dixon, what a place this is!'</p> - -<p>'Indeed, ma'am, I'm sure it will be your death before long, and then I -know who'll—stay! Miss Hale, that's far too heavy for you to lift.'</p> - -<p>'Not at all, thank you, Dixon,' replied Margaret, coldly. 'The best -thing we can do for mamma is to get her room quite ready for her to go -to bed, while I go and bring her a cup of coffee.'</p> - -<p>Mr. Hale was equally out of spirits, and equally came upon Margaret for -sympathy.</p> - -<p>'Margaret, I do believe this is an unhealthy place. Only suppose that -your mother's health or yours should suffer. I wish I had gone into some -country place in Wales; this is really terrible,' said he, going up to -the window. There was no comfort to be given. They were settled in -Milton, and must endure smoke and fogs for a season; indeed, all other -life seemed shut out from them by as thick a fog of circumstance. Only -the day before, Mr. Hale had been reckoning up with dismay how much -their removal and fortnight at Heston had cost, and he found it had -absorbed nearly all his little stock of ready money. No! here they were, -and here they must remain.</p> - -<p>At night when Margaret realised this, she felt inclined to sit down in a -stupor of despair. The heavy smoky air hung about her bedroom, which -occupied the long narrow projection at the back of the house. The -window, placed at the side of the oblong, looked to the blank wall of a -similar projection, not above ten feet distant. It loomed through the -fog like a great barrier to hope. Inside the room everything was in -confusion. All their efforts had been directed to make her mother's room -comfortable. Margaret sat down on a box, the direction card upon which -struck her as having been written at Helstone—beautiful, beloved -Helstone! She lost herself in dismal thought: but at last she determined -to take her mind away from the present; and suddenly remembered that she -had a letter from Edith which she had only half read in the bustle of -the morning. It was to tell of their arrival at Corfu; their voyage -along the Mediterranean—their music, and dancing on board ship; the gay -new life opening upon her; her house with its trellised balcony, and its -views over white cliffs and deep blue sea. Edith wrote fluently and -well, if not graphically. She could not only seize the salient and -characteristic points of a scene, but she could enumerate enough of -indiscriminate particulars for Margaret to make it out for herself. -Captain Lennox and another lately married officer shared a villa, high -up on the beautiful precipitous rocks overhanging the sea. Their days, -late as it was in the year, seemed spent in boating or land pic-nics; -all out-of-doors, pleasure-seeking and glad, Edith's life seemed like -the deep vault of blue sky above her, free—utterly free from fleck or -cloud. Her husband had to attend drill, and she, the most musical -officer's wife there, had to copy the new and popular tunes out of the -most recent English music, for the benefit of the bandmaster; those -seemed their most severe and arduous duties. She expressed an -affectionate hope that, if the regiment stopped another year at Corfu, -Margaret might come out and pay her a long visit. She asked Margaret if -she remembered the day twelve-month on which she, Edith, wrote—how it -rained all day long in Harley Street; and how she would not put on her -new gown to go to a stupid dinner, and get it all wet and splashed in -going to the carriage; and how at that very dinner they had first met -Captain Lennox.</p> - -<p>Yes! Margaret remembered it well. Edith and Mrs. Shaw had gone to -dinner. Margaret had joined the party in the evening. The recollection -of the plentiful luxury of all the arrangements, the stately -handsomeness of the furniture, the size of the house, the peaceful, -untroubled ease of the visitors—all came vividly before her, in strange -contrast to the present time. The smooth sea of that old life closed up, -without a mark left to tell where they had all been. The habitual -dinners, the calls, the shopping, the dancing evenings, were all going -on, going on for ever, though her Aunt Shaw and Edith were no longer -there; and she, of course, was even less missed. She doubted if any one -of that old set ever thought of her, except Henry Lennox. He too, she -knew, would strive to forget her, because of the pain she had caused -him. She had heard him often boast of his power of putting any -disagreeable thought far away from him. Then she penetrated farther into -what might have been. If she had cared for him as a lover, and had -accepted him, and this change in her father's opinions and consequent -station had taken place, she could not doubt but that it would have been -impatiently received by Mr. Lennox. It was a bitter mortification to her -in one sense; but she could bear it patiently, because she knew her -father's purity of purpose, and that strengthened her to endure his -errors, grave and serious though in her estimation they were. But the -fact of the world esteeming her father degraded, in its rough wholesale -judgment, would have oppressed and irritated Mr. Lennox. As she realised -what might have been, she grew to be thankful for what was. They were at -the lowest now; they could not be worse. Edith's astonishment and her -aunt Shaw's dismay would have to be met bravely, when their letters -came. So Margaret rose up and began slowly to undress herself, feeling -the full luxury of acting leisurely, late as it was, after all the past -hurry of the day. She fell asleep, hoping for some brightness, either -internal or external. But if she had known how long it would be before -the brightness came, her heart would have sunk low down. The time of the -year was most unpropitious to health as well as to spirits. Her mother -caught a severe cold, and Dixon herself was evidently not well, although -Margaret could not insult her more than by trying to save her, or by -taking any care of her. They could hear of no girl to assist her; all -were at work in the factories; at least, those who applied were well -scolded by Dixon, for thinking that such as they could ever be trusted -to work in a gentleman's house. So they had to keep a charwoman in -almost constant employ. Margaret longed to send for Charlotte; but -besides the objection of her being a better servant than they could now -afford to keep, the distance was too great.</p> - -<p>Mr. Hale met with several pupils, recommended to him by Mr. Bell, or by -the more immediate influence of Mr. Thornton. They were mostly of the -age when many boys would be still at school, but, according to the -prevalent, and apparently well-founded notions of Milton, to make a lad -into a good tradesman he must be caught young, and acclimated to the -life of the mill, or office, or warehouse. If he were sent to even the -Scotch Universities, he came back unsettled for commercial pursuits; how -much more so if he went to Oxford or Cambridge, where he could not be -entered till he was eighteen? So most of the manufacturers placed their -sons in sucking situations' at fourteen or fifteen years of age, -unsparingly cutting away all off-shoots in the direction of literature -or high mental cultivation, in hopes of throwing the whole strength and -vigour of the plant into commerce. Still there were some wiser parents; -and some young men, who had sense enough to perceive their own -deficiencies, and strive to remedy them. Nay, there were a few no longer -youths, but men in the prime of life, who had the stern wisdom to -acknowledge their own ignorance, and to learn late what they should have -learnt early. Mr. Thornton was perhaps the oldest of Mr. Hale's pupils. -He was certainly the favourite. Mr. Hale got into the habit of quoting -his opinions so frequently, and with such regard, that it became a -little domestic joke to wonder what time, during the hour appointed for -instruction, could be given to absolute learning, so much of it appeared -to have been spent in conversation.</p> - -<p>Margaret rather encouraged this light, merry way of viewing her father's -acquaintance with Mr. Thornton, because she felt that her mother was -inclined to look upon this new friendship of her husband's with jealous -eyes. As long as his time had been solely occupied with his books and -his parishioners, as at Helstone, she had appeared to care little -whether she saw much of him or not; but now that he looked eagerly -forward to each renewal of his intercourse with Mr. Thornton, she seemed -hurt and annoyed, as if he were slighting her companionship for the -first time. Mr. Hale's over-praise had the usual effect of over-praise -upon his auditors; they were a little inclined to rebel against -Aristides being always called the Just.</p> - -<p>After a quiet life in a country parsonage for more than twenty years, -there was something dazzling to Mr. Hale in the energy which conquered -immense difficulties with ease; the power of the machinery of Milton, -the power of the men of Milton, impressed him with a sense of grandeur, -which he yielded to without caring to inquire into the details of its -exercise. But Margaret went less abroad, among machinery and men; saw -less of power in its public effect, and, as it happened, she was thrown -with one or two of those who, in all measures affecting masses of -people, must be acute sufferers for the good of many. The question -always is, has everything been done to make the sufferings of these -exceptions as small as possible? Or, in the triumph of the crowded -procession, have the helpless been trampled on, instead of being gently -lifted aside out of the roadway of the conqueror, whom they have no -power to accompany on his march?</p> - -<p>It fell to Margaret's share to have to look out for a servant to assist -Dixon, who had at first undertaken to find just the person she wanted to -do all the rough work of the house. But Dixon's ideas of helpful girls -were founded on the recollection of tidy elder scholars at Helstone -school, who were only too proud to be allowed to come to the parsonage -on a busy day, and treated Mrs. Dixon with all the respect, and a good -deal more of fright, which they paid to Mr. and Mrs. Hale. Dixon was not -unconscious of this awed reverence which was given to her; nor did she -dislike it; it flattered her much as Louis the Fourteenth was flattered -by his courtiers shading their eyes from the dazzling light of his -presence. But nothing short of her faithful love for Mrs. Hale could -have made her endure the rough independent way in which all the Milton -girls, who made application for the servant's place, replied to her -inquiries respecting their qualifications. They even went the length of -questioning her back again; having doubts and fears of their own, as to -the solvency of a family who lived in a house of thirty pounds a-year, -and yet gave themselves airs, and kept two servants, one of them so very -high and mighty. Mr. Hale was no longer looked upon as Vicar of -Helstone, but as a man who only spent at a certain rate. Margaret was -weary and impatient of the accounts which Dixon perpetually brought to -Mrs. Hale of the behaviour of these would-be servants. Not but what -Margaret was repelled by the rough uncourteous manners of these people; -not but what she shrunk with fastidious pride from their hail-fellow -accost and severely resented their unconcealed curiosity as to the means -and position of any family who lived in Milton, and yet were not engaged -in trade of some kind. But the more Margaret felt impertinence, the more -likely she was to be silent on the subject; and, at any rate, if she -took upon herself to make inquiry for a servant, she could spare her -mother the recital of all her disappointments and fancied or real -insults.</p> - -<p>Margaret accordingly went up and down to butchers and grocers, seeking -for a nonpareil of a girl; and lowering her hopes and expectations every -week, as she found the difficulty of meeting with any one in a -manufacturing town who did not prefer the better wages and greater -independence of working in a mill. It was something of a trial to -Margaret to go out by herself in this busy bustling place. Mrs. Shaw's -ideas of propriety and her own helpless dependence on others, had always -made her insist that a footman should accompany Edith and Margaret, if -they went beyond Harley Street or the immediate neighbourhood. The -limits by which this rule of her aunt's had circumscribed Margaret's -independence had been silently rebelled against at the time: and she had -doubly enjoyed the free walks and rambles of her forest life, from the -contrast which they presented. She went along there with a bounding -fearless step, that occasionally broke out into a run, if she were in a -hurry, and occasionally was stilled into perfect repose, as she stood -listening to, or watching any of the wild creatures who sang in the -leafy courts, or glanced out with their keen bright eyes from the low -brushwood or tangled furze. It was a trial to come down from such motion -or such stillness, only guided by her own sweet will, to the even and -decorous pace necessary in streets. But she could have laughed at -herself for minding this change, if it had not been accompanied by what -was a more serious annoyance. The side of the town on which Crampton lay -was especially a thoroughfare for the factory people. In the back -streets around them there were many mills, out of which poured streams -of men and women two or three times a day. Until Margaret had learnt the -times of their ingress and egress, she was very unfortunate in -constantly falling in with them. They came rushing along, with bold, -fearless faces, and loud laughs and jests, particularly aimed at all -those who appeared to be above them in rank or station. The tones of -their unrestrained voices, and their carelessness of all common rules of -street politeness, frightened Margaret a little at first. The girls, -with their rough, but not unfriendly freedom, would comment on her -dress, even touch her shawl or gown to ascertain the exact material; -nay, once or twice she was asked questions relative to some article -which they particularly admired. There was such a simple reliance on her -womanly sympathy with their love of dress, and on her kindliness, that -she gladly replied to these inquiries, as soon as she understood them; -and half smiled back at their remarks. She did not mind meeting any -number of girls, loud spoken and boisterous though they might be. But -she alternately dreaded and fired up against the workmen, who commented -not on her dress, but on her looks, in the same open fearless manner. -She, who had hitherto felt that even the most refined remark on her -personal appearance was an impertinence, had to endure undisguised -admiration from these outspoken men. But the very out-spokenness marked -their innocence of any intention to hurt her delicacy, as she would have -perceived if she had been less frightened by the disorderly tumult. Out -of her fright came a flash of indignation which made her face scarlet, -and her dark eyes gather flame, as she heard some of their speeches. Yet -there were other sayings of theirs, which, when she reached the quiet -safety of home, amused her even while they irritated her.</p> - -<p>For instance, one day, after she had passed a number of men, several of -whom had paid her the not unusual compliment of wishing she was their -sweetheart, one of the lingerers added, 'Your bonny face, my lass, makes -the day look brighter.' And another day, as she was unconsciously -smiling at some passing thought, she was addressed by a poorly-dressed, -middle-aged workman, with 'You may well smile, my lass; many a one would -smile to have such a bonny face.' This man looked so careworn that -Margaret could not help giving him an answering smile, glad to think -that her looks, such as they were, should have had the power to call up -a pleasant thought. He seemed to understand her acknowledging glance, -and a silent recognition was established between them whenever the -chances of the day brought them across each other's paths. They had -never exchanged a word; nothing had been said but that first compliment; -yet somehow Margaret looked upon this man with more interest than upon -any one else in Milton. Once or twice, on Sundays, she saw him walking -with a girl, evidently his daughter, and, if possible, still more -unhealthy than he was himself.</p> - -<p>One day Margaret and her father had been as far as the fields that lay -around the town; it was early spring, and she had gathered some of the -hedge and ditch flowers, dog-violets, lesser celandines, and the like, -with an unspoken lament in her heart for the sweet profusion of the -South. Her father had left her to go into Milton upon some business; and -on the road home she met her humble friends. The girl looked wistfully -at the flowers, and, acting on a sudden impulse, Margaret offered them -to her. Her pale blue eyes lightened up as she took them, and her father -spoke for her.</p> - -<p>'Thank yo, Miss. Bessy'll think a deal o' them flowers; that hoo will; -and I shall think a deal o' yor kindness. Yo're not of this country, I -reckon?'</p> - -<p>'No!' said Margaret, half sighing. 'I come from the South—from -Hampshire,' she continued, a little afraid of wounding his consciousness -of ignorance, if she used a name which he did not understand.</p> - -<p>'That's beyond London, I reckon? And I come fro' Burnley-ways, and forty -mile to th' North. And yet, yo see, North and South has both met and -made kind o' friends in this big smoky place.'</p> - -<p>Margaret had slackened her pace to walk alongside of the man and his -daughter, whose steps were regulated by the feebleness of the latter. -She now spoke to the girl, and there was a sound of tender pity in the -tone of her voice as she did so that went right to the heart of the -father.</p> - -<p>'I'm afraid you are not very strong.'</p> - -<p>'No,' said the girl, 'nor never will be.'</p> - -<p>'Spring is coming,' said Margaret, as if to suggest pleasant, hopeful -thoughts.</p> - -<p>'Spring nor summer will do me good,' said the girl quietly.</p> - -<p>Margaret looked up at the man, almost expecting some contradiction from -him, or at least some remark that would modify his daughter's utter -hopelessness. But, instead, he added—</p> - -<p>'I'm afeared hoo speaks truth. I'm afeared hoo's too far gone in a -waste.'</p> - -<p>'I shall have a spring where I'm boun to, and flowers, and amaranths, -and shining robes besides.'</p> - -<p>'Poor lass, poor lass!' said her father in a low tone. 'I'm none so sure -o' that; but it's a comfort to thee, poor lass, poor lass. Poor father! -it'll be soon.'</p> - -<p>Margaret was shocked by his words—shocked but not repelled; rather -attracted and interested.</p> - -<p>'Where do you live? I think we must be neighbours, we meet so often on -this road.'</p> - -<p>'We put up at nine Frances Street, second turn to th' left at after -yo've past th' Goulden Dragon.'</p> - -<p>'And your name? I must not forget that.'</p> - -<p>'I'm none ashamed o' my name. It's Nicholas Higgins. Hoo's called Bessy -Higgins. Whatten yo' asking for?'</p> - -<p>Margaret was surprised at this last question, for at Helstone it would -have been an understood thing, after the inquiries she had made, that -she intended to come and call upon any poor neighbour whose name and -habitation she had asked for.</p> - -<p>'I thought—I meant to come and see you.' She suddenly felt rather shy -of offering the visit, without having any reason to give for her wish to -make it, beyond a kindly interest in a stranger. It seemed all at once -to take the shape of an impertinence on her part; she read this meaning -too in the man's eyes.</p> - -<p>'I'm none so fond of having strange folk in my house.' But then -relenting, as he saw her heightened colour, he added, 'Yo're a -foreigner, as one may say, and maybe don't know many folk here, and -yo've given my wench here flowers out of yo'r own hand;—yo may come if -yo like.'</p> - -<p>Margaret was half-amused, half-nettled at this answer. She was not sure -if she would go where permission was given so like a favour conferred. -But when they came to the town into Frances Street, the girl stopped a -minute, and said,</p> - -<p>'Yo'll not forget yo're to come and see us.'</p> - -<p>'Aye, aye,' said the father, impatiently, 'hoo'll come. Hoo's a bit set -up now, because hoo thinks I might ha' spoken more civilly; but hoo'll -think better on it, and come. I can read her proud bonny face like a -book. Come along, Bess; there's the mill bell ringing.'</p> - -<p>Margaret went home, wondering at her new friends, and smiling at the -man's insight into what had been passing in her mind. From that day -Milton became a brighter place to her. It was not the long, bleak sunny -days of spring, nor yet was it that time was reconciling her to the town -of her habitation. It was that in it she had found a human interest.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IX_DRESSING_FOR_TEA" id="CHAPTER_IX_DRESSING_FOR_TEA"></a>CHAPTER IX—DRESSING FOR TEA</h2> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">'Let China's earth, enrich'd with colour'd stains,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Pencil'd with gold, and streak'd with azure veins,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">The grateful flavour of the Indian leaf,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Or Mocho's sunburnt berry glad receive.'<br /></span> -<span class="i9">MRS. BARBAULD.<br /></span> -</div></div> - -<p>The day after this meeting with Higgins and his daughter, Mr. Hale came -upstairs into the little drawing-room at an unusual hour. He went up to -different objects in the room, as if examining them, but Margaret saw -that it was merely a nervous trick—a way of putting off something he -wished, yet feared to say. Out it came at last—</p> - -<p>'My dear! I've asked Mr. Thornton to come to tea to-night.'</p> - -<p>Mrs. Hale was leaning back in her easy chair, with her eyes shut, and an -expression of pain on her face which had become habitual to her of late. -But she roused up into querulousness at this speech of her husband's.</p> - -<p>'Mr. Thornton!—and to-night! What in the world does the man want to -come here for? And Dixon is washing my muslins and laces, and there is -no soft water with these horrid east winds, which I suppose we shall -have all the year round in Milton.'</p> - -<p>'The wind is veering round, my dear,' said Mr. Hale, looking out at the -smoke, which drifted right from the east, only he did not yet understand -the points of the compass, and rather arranged them ad libitum, -according to circumstances.</p> - -<p>'Don't tell me!' said Mrs. Hale, shuddering up, and wrapping her shawl -about her still more closely. 'But, east or west wind, I suppose this -man comes.'</p> - -<p>'Oh, mamma, that shows you never saw Mr. Thornton. He looks like a -person who would enjoy battling with every adverse thing he could meet -with—enemies, winds, or circumstances. The more it rains and blows, the -more certain we are to have him. But I'll go and help Dixon. I'm getting -to be a famous clear-starcher. And he won't want any amusement beyond -talking to papa. Papa, I am really longing to see the Pythias to your -Damon. You know I never saw him but once, and then we were so puzzled to -know what to say to each other that we did not get on particularly -well.'</p> - -<p>'I don't know that you would ever like him, or think him agreeable, -Margaret. He is not a lady's man.'</p> - -<p>Margaret wreathed her throat in a scornful curve.</p> - -<p>'I don't particularly admire ladies' men, papa. But Mr. Thornton comes -here as your friend—as one who has appreciated you'—</p> - -<p>'The only person in Milton,' said Mrs. Hale.</p> - -<p>'So we will give him a welcome, and some cocoa-nut cakes. Dixon will be -flattered if we ask her to make some; and I will undertake to iron your -caps, mamma.'</p> - -<p>Many a time that morning did Margaret wish Mr. Thornton far enough away. -She had planned other employments for herself: a letter to Edith, a good -piece of Dante, a visit to the Higginses. But, instead, she ironed away, -listening to Dixon's complaints, and only hoping that by an excess of -sympathy she might prevent her from carrying the recital of her sorrows -to Mrs. Hale. Every now and then, Margaret had to remind herself of her -father's regard for Mr. Thornton, to subdue the irritation of weariness -that was stealing over her, and bringing on one of the bad headaches to -which she had lately become liable. She could hardly speak when she sat -down at last, and told her mother that she was no longer Peggy the -laundry-maid, but Margaret Hale the lady. She meant this speech for a -little joke, and was vexed enough with her busy tongue when she found -her mother taking it seriously.</p> - -<p>'Yes! if any one had told me, when I was Miss Beresford, and one of the -belles of the county, that a child of mine would have to stand half a -day, in a little poky kitchen, working away like any servant, that we -might prepare properly for the reception of a tradesman, and that this -tradesman should be the only'—'Oh, mamma!' said Margaret, lifting -herself up, 'don't punish me so for a careless speech. I don't mind -ironing, or any kind of work, for you and papa. I am myself a born and -bred lady through it all, even though it comes to scouring a floor, or -washing dishes. I am tired now, just for a little while; but in half an -hour I shall be ready to do the same over again. And as to Mr. -Thornton's being in trade, why he can't help that now, poor fellow. I -don't suppose his education would fit him for much else.' Margaret -lifted herself slowly up, and went to her own room; for just now she -could not bear much more.</p> - -<p>In Mr. Thornton's house, at this very same time, a similar, yet -different, scene was going on. A large-boned lady, long past middle age, -sat at work in a grim handsomely-furnished dining-room. Her features, -like her frame, were strong and massive, rather than heavy. Her face -moved slowly from one decided expression to another equally decided. -There was no great variety in her countenance; but those who looked at -it once, generally looked at it again; even the passers-by in the -street, half-turned their heads to gaze an instant longer at the firm, -severe, dignified woman, who never gave way in street-courtesy, or -paused in her straight-onward course to the clearly-defined end which -she proposed to herself. She was handsomely dressed in stout black silk, -of which not a thread was worn or discoloured. She was mending a large -long table-cloth of the finest texture, holding it up against the light -occasionally to discover thin places, which required her delicate care. -There was not a book about in the room, with the exception of Matthew -Henry's Bible Commentaries, six volumes of which lay in the centre of -the massive side-board, flanked by a tea-urn on one side, and a lamp on -the other. In some remote apartment, there was exercise upon the piano -going on. Some one was practising up a morceau de salon, playing it very -rapidly; every third note, on an average, being either indistinct, or -wholly missed out, and the loud chords at the end being half of them -false, but not the less satisfactory to the performer. Mrs. Thornton -heard a step, like her own in its decisive character, pass the -dining-room door.</p> - -<p>'John! Is that you?'</p> - -<p>Her son opened the door and showed himself.</p> - -<p>'What has brought you home so early? I thought you were going to tea -with that friend of Mr. Bell's; that Mr. Hale.'</p> - -<p>'So I am, mother; I am come home to dress!'</p> - -<p>'Dress! humph! When I was a girl, young men were satisfied with dressing -once in a day. Why should you dress to go and take a cup of tea with an -old parson?'</p> - -<p>'Mr. Hale is a gentleman, and his wife and daughter are ladies.'</p> - -<p>'Wife and daughter! Do they teach too? What do they do? You have never -mentioned them.'</p> - -<p>'No! mother, because I have never seen Mrs. Hale; I have only seen Miss -Hale for half an hour.'</p> - -<p>'Take care you don't get caught by a penniless girl, John.'</p> - -<p>'I am not easily caught, mother, as I think you know. But I must not -have Miss Hale spoken of in that way, which, you know, is offensive to -me. I never was aware of any young lady trying to catch me yet, nor do I -believe that any one has ever given themselves that useless trouble.'</p> - -<p>Mrs. Thornton did not choose to yield the point to her son; or else she -had, in general, pride enough for her sex.</p> - -<p>'Well! I only say, take care. Perhaps our Milton girls have too much -spirit and good feeling to go angling after husbands; but this Miss Hale -comes out of the aristocratic counties, where, if all tales be true, -rich husbands are reckoned prizes.'</p> - -<p>Mr. Thornton's brow contracted, and he came a step forward into the -room.</p> - -<p>'Mother' (with a short scornful laugh), 'you will make me confess. The -only time I saw Miss Hale, she treated me with a haughty civility which -had a strong flavour of contempt in it. She held herself aloof from me -as if she had been a queen, and I her humble, unwashed vassal. Be easy, -mother.'</p> - -<p>'No! I am not easy, nor content either. What business had she, a -renegade clergyman's daughter, to turn up her nose at you! I would dress -for none of them—a saucy set! if I were you.' As he was leaving the -room, he said:—</p> - -<p>'Mr. Hale is good, and gentle, and learned. He is not saucy. As for Mrs. -Hale, I will tell you what she is like to-night, if you care to hear.' -He shut the door and was gone.</p> - -<p>'Despise my son! treat him as her vassal, indeed! Humph! I should like -to know where she could find such another! Boy and man, he's the -noblest, stoutest heart I ever knew. I don't care if I am his mother; I -can see what's what, and not be blind. I know what Fanny is; and I know -what John is. Despise him! I hate her!'</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_X_WROUGHT_IRON_AND_GOLD" id="CHAPTER_X_WROUGHT_IRON_AND_GOLD"></a>CHAPTER X—WROUGHT IRON AND GOLD</h2> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">'We are the trees whom shaking fastens more.'<br /></span> -<span class="i9">G<small>EORGE</small> H<small>ERBERT</small>.<br /></span> -</div></div> - -<p>Mr. Thornton left the house without coming into the dining-room again. -He was rather late, and walked rapidly out to Crampton. He was anxious -not to slight his new friend by any disrespectful unpunctuality. The -church-clock struck half-past seven as he stood at the door awaiting -Dixon's slow movements; always doubly tardy when she had to degrade -herself by answering the door-bell. He was ushered into the little -drawing-room, and kindly greeted by Mr. Hale, who led him up to his -wife, whose pale face, and shawl-draped figure made a silent excuse for -the cold languor of her greeting. Margaret was lighting the lamp when he -entered, for the darkness was coming on. The lamp threw a pretty light -into the centre of the dusky room, from which, with country habits, they -did not exclude the night-skies, and the outer darkness of air. Somehow, -that room contrasted itself with the one he had lately left; handsome, -ponderous, with no sign of feminine habitation, except in the one spot -where his mother sate, and no convenience for any other employment than -eating and drinking. To be sure, it was a dining-room; his mother -preferred to sit in it; and her will was a household law. But the -drawing-room was not like this. It was twice—twenty times as fine; not -one quarter as comfortable. Here were no mirrors, not even a scrap of -glass to reflect the light, and answer the same purpose as water in a -landscape; no gilding; a warm, sober breadth of colouring, well relieved -by the dear old Helstone chintz-curtains and chair covers. An open -davenport stood in the window opposite the door; in the other there was -a stand, with a tall white china vase, from which drooped wreaths of -English ivy, pale-green birch, and copper-coloured beech-leaves. Pretty -baskets of work stood about in different places: and books, not cared -for on account of their binding solely, lay on one table, as if recently -put down. Behind the door was another table, decked out for tea, with a -white tablecloth, on which flourished the cocoa-nut cakes, and a basket -piled with oranges and ruddy American apples, heaped on leaves.</p> - -<p>It appeared to Mr. Thornton that all these graceful cares were habitual -to the family; and especially of a piece with Margaret. She stood by the -tea-table in a light-coloured muslin gown, which had a good deal of pink -about it. She looked as if she was not attending to the conversation, -but solely busy with the tea-cups, among which her round ivory hands -moved with pretty, noiseless, daintiness. She had a bracelet on one -taper arm, which would fall down over her round wrist. Mr. Thornton -watched the replacing of this troublesome ornament with far more -attention than he listened to her father. It seemed as if it fascinated -him to see her push it up impatiently, until it tightened her soft -flesh; and then to mark the loosening—the fall. He could almost have -exclaimed—'There it goes, again!' There was so little left to be done -after he arrived at the preparation for tea, that he was almost sorry -the obligation of eating and drinking came so soon to prevent his -watching Margaret. She handed him his cup of tea with the proud air of -an unwilling slave; but her eye caught the moment when he was ready for -another cup; and he almost longed to ask her to do for him what he saw -her compelled to do for her father, who took her little finger and thumb -in his masculine hand, and made them serve as sugar-tongs. Mr. Thornton -saw her beautiful eyes lifted to her father, full of light, -half-laughter and half-love, as this bit of pantomime went on between -the two, unobserved, as they fancied, by any. Margaret's head still -ached, as the paleness of her complexion, and her silence might have -testified; but she was resolved to throw herself into the breach, if -there was any long untoward pause, rather than that her father's friend, -pupil, and guest should have cause to think himself in any way -neglected. But the conversation went on; and Margaret drew into a -corner, near her mother, with her work, after the tea-things were taken -away; and felt that she might let her thoughts roam, without fear of -being suddenly wanted to fill up a gap.</p> - -<p>Mr. Thornton and Mr. Hale were both absorbed in the continuation of some -subject which had been started at their last meeting. Margaret was -recalled to a sense of the present by some trivial, low-spoken remark of -her mother's; and on suddenly looking up from her work, her eye was -caught by the difference of outward appearance between her father and -Mr. Thornton, as betokening such distinctly opposite natures. Her father -was of slight figure, which made him appear taller than he really was, -when not contrasted, as at this time, with the tall, massive frame of -another. The lines in her father's face were soft and waving, with a -frequent undulating kind of trembling movement passing over them, -showing every fluctuating emotion; the eyelids were large and arched, -giving to the eyes a peculiar languid beauty which was almost feminine. -The brows were finely arched, but were, by the very size of the dreamy -lids, raised to a considerable distance from the eyes. Now, in Mr. -Thornton's face the straight brows fell low over the clear, deep-set -earnest eyes, which, without being unpleasantly sharp, seemed intent -enough to penetrate into the very heart and core of what he was looking -at. The lines in the face were few but firm, as if they were carved in -marble, and lay principally about the lips, which were slightly -compressed over a set of teeth so faultless and beautiful as to give the -effect of sudden sunlight when the rare bright smile, coming in an -instant and shining out of the eyes, changed the whole look from the -severe and resolved expression of a man ready to do and dare everything, -to the keen honest enjoyment of the moment, which is seldom shown so -fearlessly and instantaneously except by children. Margaret liked this -smile; it was the first thing she had admired in this new friend of her -father's; and the opposition of character, shown in all these details of -appearance she had just been noticing, seemed to explain the attraction -they evidently felt towards each other.</p> - -<p>She rearranged her mother's worsted-work, and fell back into her own -thoughts—as completely forgotten by Mr. Thornton as if she had not been -in the room, so thoroughly was he occupied in explaining to Mr. Hale the -magnificent power, yet delicate adjustment of the might of the -steam-hammer, which was recalling to Mr. Hale some of the wonderful -stories of subservient genii in the Arabian Nights—one moment -stretching from earth to sky and filling all the width of the horizon, -at the next obediently compressed into a vase small enough to be borne -in the hand of a child.</p> - -<p>'And this imagination of power, this practical realisation of a gigantic -thought, came out of one man's brain in our good town. That very man has -it within him to mount, step by step, on each wonder he achieves to -higher marvels still. And I'll be bound to say, we have many among us -who, if he were gone, could spring into the breach and carry on the war -which compels, and shall compel, all material power to yield to -science.'</p> - -<p>'Your boast reminds me of the old lines—</p> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">"I've a hundred<br /></span> -<span class="i0">captains in England," he said,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">"As good as ever was he."'<br /></span> -</div></div> - -<p>At her father's quotation Margaret looked suddenly up, with inquiring -wonder in her eyes. How in the world had they got from cog-wheels to -Chevy Chace?</p> - -<p>'It is no boast of mine,' replied Mr. Thornton; 'it is plain -matter-of-fact. I won't deny that I am proud of belonging to a town—or -perhaps I should rather say a district—the necessities of which give -birth to such grandeur of conception. I would rather be a man toiling, -suffering—nay, failing and successless—here, than lead a dull -prosperous life in the old worn grooves of what you call more -aristocratic society down in the South, with their slow days of careless -ease. One may be clogged with honey and unable to rise and fly.'</p> - -<p>'You are mistaken,' said Margaret, roused by the aspersion on her -beloved South to a fond vehemence of defence, that brought the colour -into her cheeks and the angry tears into her eyes. 'You do not know -anything about the South. If there is less adventure or less progress—I -suppose I must not say less excitement—from the gambling spirit of -trade, which seems requisite to force out these wonderful inventions, -there is less suffering also. I see men here going about in the streets -who look ground down by some pinching sorrow or care—who are not only -sufferers but haters. Now, in the South we have our poor, but there is -not that terrible expression in their countenances of a sullen sense of -injustice which I see here. You do not know the South, Mr. Thornton,' -she concluded, collapsing into a determined silence, and angry with -herself for having said so much.</p> - -<p>'And may I say you do not know the North?' asked he, with an -inexpressible gentleness in his tone, as he saw that he had really hurt -her. She continued resolutely silent; yearning after the lovely haunts -she had left far away in Hampshire, with a passionate longing that made -her feel her voice would be unsteady and trembling if she spoke.</p> - -<p>'At any rate, Mr. Thornton,' said Mrs. Hale, 'you will allow that Milton -is a much more smoky, dirty town than you will ever meet with in the -South.'</p> - -<p>'I'm afraid I must give up its cleanliness,' said Mr. Thornton, with the -quick gleaming smile. 'But we are bidden by parliament to burn our own -smoke; so I suppose, like good little children, we shall do as we are -bid—some time.'</p> - -<p>'But I think you told me you had altered your chimneys so as to consume -the smoke, did you not?' asked Mr. Hale.</p> - -<p>'Mine were altered by my own will, before parliament meddled with the -affair. It was an immediate outlay, but it repays me in the saving of -coal. I'm not sure whether I should have done it, if I had waited until -the act was passed. At any rate, I should have waited to be informed -against and fined, and given all the trouble in yielding that I legally -could. But all laws which depend for their enforcement upon informers -and fines, become inert from the odiousness of the machinery. I doubt if -there has been a chimney in Milton informed against for five years past, -although some are constantly sending out one-third of their coal in what -is called here unparliamentary smoke.'</p> - -<p>'I only know it is impossible to keep the muslin blinds clean here above -a week together; and at Helstone we have had them up for a month or -more, and they have not looked dirty at the end of that time. And as for -hands—Margaret, how many times did you say you had washed your hands -this morning before twelve o'clock? Three times, was it not?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, mamma.'</p> - -<p>'You seem to have a strong objection to acts of parliament and all -legislation affecting your mode of management down here at Milton,' said -Mr. Hale.</p> - -<p>'Yes, I have; and many others have as well. And with justice, I think. -The whole machinery—I don't mean the wood and iron machinery now—of -the cotton trade is so new that it is no wonder if it does not work well -in every part all at once. Seventy years ago what was it? And now what -is it not? Raw, crude materials came together; men of the same level, as -regarded education and station, took suddenly the different positions of -masters and men, owing to the motherwit, as regarded opportunities and -probabilities, which distinguished some, and made them far-seeing as to -what great future lay concealed in that rude model of Sir Richard -Arkwright's. The rapid development of what might be called a new trade, -gave those early masters enormous power of wealth and command. I don't -mean merely over the workmen; I mean over purchasers—over the whole -world's market. Why, I may give you, as an instance, an advertisement, -inserted not fifty years ago in a Milton paper, that so-and-so (one of -the half-dozen calico-printers of the time) would close his warehouse at -noon each day; therefore, that all purchasers must come before that -hour. Fancy a man dictating in this manner the time when he would sell -and when he would not sell. Now, I believe, if a good customer chose to -come at midnight, I should get up, and stand hat in hand to receive his -orders.'</p> - -<p>Margaret's lip curled, but somehow she was compelled to listen; she -could no longer abstract herself in her own thoughts.</p> - -<p>'I only name such things to show what almost unlimited power the -manufacturers had about the beginning of this century. The men were -rendered dizzy by it. Because a man was successful in his ventures, -there was no reason that in all other things his mind should be -well-balanced. On the contrary, his sense of justice, and his -simplicity, were often utterly smothered under the glut of wealth that -came down upon him; and they tell strange tales of the wild extravagance -of living indulged in on gala-days by those early cotton-lords. There -can be no doubt, too, of the tyranny they exercised over their -work-people. You know the proverb, Mr. Hale, "Set a beggar on horseback, -and he'll ride to the devil,"—well, some of these early manufacturers -did ride to the devil in a magnificent style—crushing human bone and -flesh under their horses' hoofs without remorse. But by-and-by came a -re-action, there were more factories, more masters; more men were -wanted. The power of masters and men became more evenly balanced; and -now the battle is pretty fairly waged between us. We will hardly submit -to the decision of an umpire, much less to the interference of a meddler -with only a smattering of the knowledge of the real facts of the case, -even though that meddler be called the High Court of Parliament.</p> - -<p>'Is there necessity for calling it a battle between the two classes?' -asked Mr. Hale. 'I know, from your using the term, it is one which gives -a true idea of the real state of things to your mind.'</p> - -<p>'It is true; and I believe it to be as much a necessity as that prudent -wisdom and good conduct are always opposed to, and doing battle with -ignorance and improvidence. It is one of the great beauties of our -system, that a working-man may raise himself into the power and position -of a master by his own exertions and behaviour; that, in fact, every one -who rules himself to decency and sobriety of conduct, and attention to -his duties, comes over to our ranks; it may not be always as a master, -but as an over-looker, a cashier, a book-keeper, a clerk, one on the -side of authority and order.'</p> - -<p>'You consider all who are unsuccessful in raising themselves in the -world, from whatever cause, as your enemies, then, if I under-stand you -rightly,' said Margaret in a clear, cold voice.</p> - -<p>'As their own enemies, certainly,' said he, quickly, not a little piqued -by the haughty disapproval her form of expression and tone of speaking -implied. But, in a moment, his straightforward honesty made him feel -that his words were but a poor and quibbling answer to what she had -said; and, be she as scornful as she liked, it was a duty he owed to -himself to explain, as truly as he could, what he did mean. Yet it was -very difficult to separate her interpretation, and keep it distinct from -his meaning. He could best have illustrated what he wanted to say by -telling them something of his own life; but was it not too personal a -subject to speak about to strangers? Still, it was the simple -straightforward way of explaining his meaning; so, putting aside the -touch of shyness that brought a momentary flush of colour into his dark -cheek, he said:</p> - -<p>'I am not speaking without book. Sixteen years ago, my father died under -very miserable circumstances. I was taken from school, and had to become -a man (as well as I could) in a few days. I had such a mother as few are -blest with; a woman of strong power, and firm resolve. We went into a -small country town, where living was cheaper than in Milton, and where I -got employment in a draper's shop (a capital place, by the way, for -obtaining a knowledge of goods). Week by week our income came to fifteen -shillings, out of which three people had to be kept. My mother managed -so that I put by three out of these fifteen shillings regularly. This -made the beginning; this taught me self-denial. Now that I am able to -afford my mother such comforts as her age, rather than her own wish, -requires, I thank her silently on each occasion for the early training -she gave me. Now when I feel that in my own case it is no good luck, nor -merit, nor talent,—but simply the habits of life which taught me to -despise indulgences not thoroughly earned,—indeed, never to think twice -about them,—I believe that this suffering, which Miss Hale says is -impressed on the countenances of the people of Milton, is but the -natural punishment of dishonestly-enjoyed pleasure, at some former -period of their lives. I do not look on self-indulgent, sensual people -as worthy of my hatred; I simply look upon them with contempt for their -poorness of character.'</p> - -<p>'But you have had the rudiments of a good education,' remarked Mr. Hale. -'The quick zest with which you are now reading Homer, shows me that you -do not come to it as an unknown book; you have read it before, and are -only recalling your old knowledge.'</p> - -<p>'That is true,—I had blundered along it at school; I dare say, I was -even considered a pretty fair classic in those days, though my Latin and -Greek have slipt away from me since. But I ask you, what preparation -they were for such a life as I had to lead? None at all. Utterly none at -all. On the point of education, any man who can read and write starts -fair with me in the amount of really useful knowledge that I had at that -time.'</p> - -<p>'Well! I don't agree with you. But there I am perhaps somewhat of a -pedant. Did not the recollection of the heroic simplicity of the Homeric -life nerve you up?'</p> - -<p>'Not one bit!' exclaimed Mr. Thornton, laughing. 'I was too busy to -think about any dead people, with the living pressing alongside of me, -neck to neck, in the struggle for bread. Now that I have my mother safe -in the quiet peace that becomes her age, and duly rewards her former -exertions, I can turn to all that old narration and thoroughly enjoy -it.'</p> - -<p>'I dare say, my remark came from the professional feeling of there being -nothing like leather,' replied Mr. Hale.</p> - -<p>When Mr. Thornton rose up to go away, after shaking hands with Mr. and -Mrs. Hale, he made an advance to Margaret to wish her good-bye in a -similar manner. It was the frank familiar custom of the place; but -Margaret was not prepared for it. She simply bowed her farewell; -although the instant she saw the hand, half put out, quickly drawn back, -she was sorry she had not been aware of the intention. Mr. Thornton, -however, knew nothing of her sorrow, and, drawing himself up to his full -height, walked off, muttering as he left the house—</p> - -<p>'A more proud, disagreeable girl I never saw. Even her great beauty is -blotted out of one's memory by her scornful ways.'</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XI_FIRST_IMPRESSIONS" id="CHAPTER_XI_FIRST_IMPRESSIONS"></a>CHAPTER XI—FIRST IMPRESSIONS</h2> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">'There's iron, they say, in all our blood,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">And a grain or two perhaps is good;<br /></span> -<span class="i1">But his, he makes me harshly feel,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Has got a little too much of steel.'<br /></span> -<span class="i9">A<small>NON</small>.<br /></span> -</div></div> - -<p>'Margaret!' said Mr. Hale, as he returned from showing his guest -downstairs; 'I could not help watching your face with some anxiety, when -Mr. Thornton made his confession of having been a shop-boy. I knew it -all along from Mr. Bell; so I was aware of what was coming; but I half -expected to see you get up and leave the room.'</p> - -<p>'Oh, papa! you don't mean that you thought me so silly? I really liked -that account of himself better than anything else he said. Everything -else revolted me, from its hardness; but he spoke about himself so -simply—with so little of the pretence that makes the vulgarity of -shop-people, and with such tender respect for his mother, that I was -less likely to leave the room then than when he was boasting about -Milton, as if there was not such another place in the world; or quietly -professing to despise people for careless, wasteful improvidence, -without ever seeming to think it his duty to try to make them -different,—to give them anything of the training which his mother gave -him, and to which he evidently owes his position, whatever that may be. -No! his statement of having been a shop-boy was the thing I liked best -of all.'</p> - -<p>'I am surprised at you, Margaret,' said her mother. 'You who were always -accusing people of being shoppy at Helstone! I don't think, Mr. Hale, -you have done quite right in introducing such a person to us without -telling us what he had been. I really was very much afraid of showing -him how much shocked I was at some parts of what he said. His father -"dying in miserable circumstances." Why it might have been in the -workhouse.'</p> - -<p>'I am not sure if it was not worse than being in the workhouse,' replied -her husband. 'I heard a good deal of his previous life from Mr. Bell -before we came here; and as he has told you a part, I will fill up what -he left out. His father speculated wildly, failed, and then killed -himself, because he could not bear the disgrace. All his former friends -shrunk from the disclosures that had to be made of his dishonest -gambling—wild, hopeless struggles, made with other people's money, to -regain his own moderate portion of wealth. No one came forwards to help -the mother and this boy. There was another child, I believe, a girl; too -young to earn money, but of course she had to be kept. At least, no -friend came forwards immediately, and Mrs. Thornton is not one, I fancy, -to wait till tardy kindness comes to find her out. So they left Milton. -I knew he had gone into a shop, and that his earnings, with some -fragment of property secured to his mother, had been made to keep them -for a long time. Mr. Bell said they absolutely lived upon water-porridge -for years—how, he did not know; but long after the creditors had given -up hope of any payment of old Mr. Thornton's debts (if, indeed, they -ever had hoped at all about it, after his suicide,) this young man -returned to Milton, and went quietly round to each creditor, paying him -the first instalment of the money owing to him. No noise—no gathering -together of creditors—it was done very silently and quietly, but all -was paid at last; helped on materially by the circumstance of one of the -creditors, a crabbed old fellow (Mr. Bell says), taking in Mr. Thornton -as a kind of partner.'</p> - -<p>'That really is fine,' said Margaret. 'What a pity such a nature should -be tainted by his position as a Milton manufacturer.'</p> - -<p>'How tainted?' asked her father.</p> - -<p>'Oh, papa, by that testing everything by the standard of wealth. When he -spoke of the mechanical powers, he evidently looked upon them only as -new ways of extending trade and making money. And the poor men around -him—they were poor because they were vicious—out of the pale of his -sympathies because they had not his iron nature, and the capabilities -that it gives him for being rich.'</p> - -<p>'Not vicious; he never said that. Improvident and self-indulgent were -his words.'</p> - -<p>Margaret was collecting her mother's working materials, and preparing to -go to bed. Just as she was leaving the room, she hesitated—she was -inclined to make an acknowledgment which she thought would please her -father, but which to be full and true must include a little annoyance. -However, out it came.</p> - -<p>'Papa, I do think Mr. Thornton a very remarkable man; but personally I -don't like him at all.'</p> - -<p>'And I do!' said her father laughing. 'Personally, as you call it, and -all. I don't set him up for a hero, or anything of that kind. But good -night, child. Your mother looks sadly tired to-night, Margaret.'</p> - -<p>Margaret had noticed her mother's jaded appearance with anxiety for some -time past, and this remark of her father's sent her up to bed with a dim -fear lying like a weight on her heart. The life in Milton was so -different from what Mrs. Hale had been accustomed to live in Helstone, -in and out perpetually into the fresh and open air; the air itself was -so different, deprived of all revivifying principle as it seemed to be -here; the domestic worries pressed so very closely, and in so new and -sordid a form, upon all the women in the family, that there was good -reason to fear that her mother's health might be becoming seriously -affected. There were several other signs of something wrong about Mrs. -Hale. She and Dixon held mysterious consultations in her bedroom, from -which Dixon would come out crying and cross, as was her custom when any -distress of her mistress called upon her sympathy. Once Margaret had -gone into the chamber soon after Dixon left it, and found her mother on -her knees, and as Margaret stole out she caught a few words, which were -evidently a prayer for strength and patience to endure severe bodily -suffering. Margaret yearned to re-unite the bond of intimate confidence -which had been broken by her long residence at her aunt Shaw's, and -strove by gentle caresses and softened words to creep into the warmest -place in her mother's heart. But though she received caresses and fond -words back again, in such profusion as would have gladdened her -formerly, yet she felt that there was a secret withheld from her, and -she believed it bore serious reference to her mother's health. She lay -awake very long this night, planning how to lessen the evil influence of -their Milton life on her mother. A servant to give Dixon permanent -assistance should be got, if she gave up her whole time to the search; -and then, at any rate, her mother might have all the personal attention -she required, and had been accustomed to her whole life. Visiting -register offices, seeing all manner of unlikely people, and very few in -the least likely, absorbed Margaret's time and thoughts for several -days. One afternoon she met Bessy Higgins in the street, and stopped to -speak to her.</p> - -<p>'Well, Bessy, how are you? Better, I hope, now the wind has changed.'</p> - -<p>'Better and not better, if yo' know what that means.'</p> - -<p>'Not exactly,' replied Margaret, smiling.</p> - -<p>'I'm better in not being torn to pieces by coughing o'nights, but I'm -weary and tired o' Milton, and longing to get away to the land o' -Beulah; and when I think I'm farther and farther off, my heart sinks, -and I'm no better; I'm worse.' Margaret turned round to walk alongside -of the girl in her feeble progress homeward. But for a minute or two she -did not speak. At last she said in a low voice,</p> - -<p>'Bessy, do you wish to die?' For she shrank from death herself, with all -the clinging to life so natural to the young and healthy.</p> - -<p>Bessy was silent in her turn for a minute or two. Then she replied,</p> - -<p>'If yo'd led the life I have, and getten as weary of it as I have, and -thought at times, "maybe it'll last for fifty or sixty years—it does -wi' some,"—and got dizzy and dazed, and sick, as each of them sixty -years seemed to spin about me, and mock me with its length of hours and -minutes, and endless bits o' time—oh, wench! I tell thee thou'd been -glad enough when th' doctor said he feared thou'd never see another -winter.'</p> - -<p>'Why, Bessy, what kind of a life has yours been?'</p> - -<p>'Nought worse than many others, I reckon. Only I fretted again it, and -they didn't.'</p> - -<p>'But what was it? You know, I'm a stranger here, so perhaps I'm not so -quick at understanding what you mean as if I'd lived all my life at -Milton.'</p> - -<p>'If yo'd ha' come to our house when yo' said yo' would, I could maybe -ha' told you. But father says yo're just like th' rest on 'em; it's out -o' sight out o' mind wi' you.'</p> - -<p>'I don't know who the rest are; and I've been very busy; and, to tell -the truth, I had forgotten my promise—'</p> - -<p>'Yo' offered it! we asked none of it.'</p> - -<p>'I had forgotten what I said for the time,' continued Margaret quietly. -'I should have thought of it again when I was less busy. May I go with -you now?' Bessy gave a quick glance at Margaret's face, to see if the -wish expressed was really felt. The sharpness in her eye turned to a -wistful longing as she met Margaret's soft and friendly gaze.</p> - -<p>'I ha' none so many to care for me; if yo' care yo' may come.</p> - -<p>So they walked on together in silence. As they turned up into a small -court, opening out of a squalid street, Bessy said,</p> - -<p>'Yo'll not be daunted if father's at home, and speaks a bit gruffish at -first. He took a mind to ye, yo' see, and he thought a deal o' your -coming to see us; and just because he liked yo' he were vexed and put -about.'</p> - -<p>'Don't fear, Bessy.'</p> - -<p>But Nicholas was not at home when they entered. A great slatternly girl, -not so old as Bessy, but taller and stronger, was busy at the wash-tub, -knocking about the furniture in a rough capable way, but altogether -making so much noise that Margaret shrunk, out of sympathy with poor -Bessy, who had sat down on the first chair, as if completely tired out -with her walk. Margaret asked the sister for a cup of water, and while -she ran to fetch it (knocking down the fire-irons, and tumbling over a -chair in her way), she unloosed Bessy's bonnet strings, to relieve her -catching breath.</p> - -<p>'Do you think such life as this is worth caring for?' gasped Bessy, at -last. Margaret did not speak, but held the water to her lips. Bessy took -a long and feverish draught, and then fell back and shut her eyes. -Margaret heard her murmur to herself: 'They shall hunger no more, -neither thirst any more; neither shall the sun light on them, nor any -heat.'</p> - -<p>Margaret bent over and said, 'Bessy, don't be impatient with your life, -whatever it is—or may have been. Remember who gave it you, and made it -what it is!' She was startled by hearing Nicholas speak behind her; he -had come in without her noticing him.</p> - -<p>'Now, I'll not have my wench preached to. She's bad enough as it is, -with her dreams and her methodee fancies, and her visions of cities with -goulden gates and precious stones. But if it amuses her I let it a be, -but I'm none going to have more stuff poured into her.'</p> - -<p>'But surely,' said Margaret, facing round, 'you believe in what I said, -that God gave her life, and ordered what kind of life it was to be?'</p> - -<p>'I believe what I see, and no more. That's what I believe, young woman. -I don't believe all I hear—no! not by a big deal. I did hear a young -lass make an ado about knowing where we lived, and coming to see us. And -my wench here thought a deal about it, and flushed up many a time, when -hoo little knew as I was looking at her, at the sound of a strange step. -But hoo's come at last,—and hoo's welcome, as long as hoo'll keep from -preaching on what hoo knows nought about.' Bessy had been watching -Margaret's face; she half sate up to speak now, laying her hand on -Margaret's arm with a gesture of entreaty. 'Don't be vexed wi' -him—there's many a one thinks like him; many and many a one here. If -yo' could hear them speak, yo'd not be shocked at him; he's a rare good -man, is father—but oh!' said she, falling back in despair, 'what he -says at times makes me long to die more than ever, for I want to know so -many things, and am so tossed about wi' wonder.'</p> - -<p>'Poor wench—poor old wench,—I'm loth to vex thee, I am; but a man mun -speak out for the truth, and when I see the world going all wrong at -this time o' day, bothering itself wi' things it knows nought about, and -leaving undone all the things that lie in disorder close at its -hand—why, I say, leave a' this talk about religion alone, and set to -work on what yo' see and know. That's my creed. It's simple, and not far -to fetch, nor hard to work.'</p> - -<p>But the girl only pleaded the more with Margaret.</p> - -<p>'Don't think hardly on him—he's a good man, he is. I sometimes think I -shall be moped wi' sorrow even in the City of God, if father is not -there.' The feverish colour came into her cheek, and the feverish flame -into her eye. 'But you will be there, father! you shall! Oh! my heart!' -She put her hand to it, and became ghastly pale.</p> - -<p>Margaret held her in her arms, and put the weary head to rest upon her -bosom. She lifted the thin soft hair from off the temples, and bathed -them with water. Nicholas understood all her signs for different -articles with the quickness of love, and even the round-eyed sister -moved with laborious gentleness at Margaret's 'hush!' Presently the -spasm that foreshadowed death had passed away, and Bessy roused herself -and said,—</p> - -<p>'I'll go to bed,—it's best place; but,' catching at Margaret's gown, -'yo'll come again,—I know yo' will—but just say it!'</p> - -<p>'I will come to-morrow,' said Margaret.</p> - -<p>Bessy leant back against her father, who prepared to carry her upstairs; -but as Margaret rose to go, he struggled to say something: 'I could wish -there were a God, if it were only to ask Him to bless thee.'</p> - -<p>Margaret went away very sad and thoughtful.</p> - -<p>She was late for tea at home. At Helstone unpunctuality at meal-times -was a great fault in her mother's eyes; but now this, as well as many -other little irregularities, seemed to have lost their power of -irritation, and Margaret almost longed for the old complainings.</p> - -<p>'Have you met with a servant, dear?'</p> - -<p>'No, mamma; that Anne Buckley would never have done.'</p> - -<p>'Suppose I try,' said Mr. Hale. 'Everybody else has had their turn at -this great difficulty. Now let me try. I may be the Cinderella to put on -the slipper after all.'</p> - -<p>Margaret could hardly smile at this little joke, so oppressed was she by -her visit to the Higginses.</p> - -<p>'What would you do, papa? How would you set about it?'</p> - -<p>'Why, I would apply to some good house-mother to recommend me one known -to herself or her servants.'</p> - -<p>'Very good. But we must first catch our house-mother.'</p> - -<p>'You have caught her. Or rather she is coming into the snare, and you -will catch her to-morrow, if you're skilful.'</p> - -<p>'What do you mean, Mr. Hale?' asked his wife, her curiosity aroused.</p> - -<p>'Why, my paragon pupil (as Margaret calls him), has told me that his -mother intends to call on Mrs. and Miss Hale to-morrow.'</p> - -<p>'Mrs. Thornton!' exclaimed Mrs. Hale.</p> - -<p>'The mother of whom he spoke to us?' said Margaret.</p> - -<p>'Mrs. Thornton; the only mother he has, I believe,' said Mr. Hale -quietly.</p> - -<p>'I shall like to see her. She must be an uncommon person,' her mother -added.</p> - -<p>'Perhaps she may have a relation who might suit us, and be glad of our -place. She sounded to be such a careful economical person, that I should -like any one out of the same family.'</p> - -<p>'My dear,' said Mr. Hale alarmed. 'Pray don't go off on that idea. I -fancy Mrs. Thornton is as haughty and proud in her way, as our little -Margaret here is in hers, and that she completely ignores that old time -of trial, and poverty, and economy, of which he speaks so openly. I am -sure, at any rate, she would not like strangers to know anything about -It.'</p> - -<p>'Take notice that is not my kind of haughtiness, papa, if I have any at -all; which I don't agree to, though you're always accusing me of it.'</p> - -<p>'I don't know positively that it is hers either; but from little things -I have gathered from him, I fancy so.'</p> - -<p>They cared too little to ask in what manner her son had spoken about -her. Margaret only wanted to know if she must stay in to receive this -call, as it would prevent her going to see how Bessy was, until late in -the day, since the early morning was always occupied in household -affairs; and then she recollected that her mother must not be left to -have the whole weight of entertaining her visitor.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XII_MORNING_CALLS" id="CHAPTER_XII_MORNING_CALLS"></a>CHAPTER XII—MORNING CALLS</h2> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">'Well—I suppose we must.'<br /></span> -<span class="i9">FRIENDS IN COUNCIL.<br /></span> -</div></div> - -<p>Mr. Thornton had had some difficulty in working up his mother to the -desired point of civility. She did not often make calls; and when she -did, it was in heavy state that she went through her duties. Her son had -given her a carriage; but she refused to let him keep horses for it; -they were hired for the solemn occasions, when she paid morning or -evening visits. She had had horses for three days, not a fortnight -before, and had comfortably 'killed off' all her acquaintances, who -might now put themselves to trouble and expense in their turn. Yet -Crampton was too far off for her to walk; and she had repeatedly -questioned her son as to whether his wish that she should call on the -Hales was strong enough to bear the expense of cab-hire. She would have -been thankful if it had not; for, as she said, 'she saw no use in making -up friendships and intimacies with all the teachers and masters in -Milton; why, he would be wanting her to call on Fanny's dancing-master's -wife, the next thing!'</p> - -<p>'And so I would, mother, if Mr. Mason and his wife were friendless in a -strange place, like the Hales.'</p> - -<p>'Oh! you need not speak so hastily. I am going to-morrow. I only wanted -you exactly to understand about it.'</p> - -<p>'If you are going to-morrow, I shall order horses.'</p> - -<p>'Nonsense, John. One would think you were made of money.'</p> - -<p>'Not quite, yet. But about the horses I'm determined. The last time you -were out in a cab, you came home with a headache from the jolting.'</p> - -<p>'I never complained of it, I'm sure.'</p> - -<p>'No. My mother is not given to complaints,' said he, a little proudly. -'But so much the more I have to watch over you. Now as for Fanny there, -a little hardship would do her good.'</p> - -<p>'She is not made of the same stuff as you are, John. She could not bear -it.' Mrs. Thornton was silent after this; for her last words bore -relation to a subject which mortified her. She had an unconscious -contempt for a weak character; and Fanny was weak in the very points in -which her mother and brother were strong. Mrs. Thornton was not a woman -much given to reasoning; her quick judgment and firm resolution served -her in good stead of any long arguments and discussions with herself; -she felt instinctively that nothing could strengthen Fanny to endure -hardships patiently, or face difficulties bravely; and though she winced -as she made this acknowledgment to herself about her daughter, it only -gave her a kind of pitying tenderness of manner towards her; much of the -same description of demeanour with which mothers are wont to treat their -weak and sickly children. A stranger, a careless observer might have -considered that Mrs. Thornton's manner to her children betokened far -more love to Fanny than to John. But such a one would have been deeply -mistaken. The very daringness with which mother and son spoke out -unpalatable truths, the one to the other, showed a reliance on the firm -centre of each other's souls, which the uneasy tenderness of Mrs. -Thornton's manner to her daughter, the shame with which she thought to -hide the poverty of her child in all the grand qualities which she -herself possessed unconsciously, and which she set so high a value upon -in others—this shame, I say, betrayed the want of a secure -resting-place for her affection. She never called her son by any name -but John; 'love,' and 'dear,' and such like terms, were reserved for -Fanny. But her heart gave thanks for him day and night; and she walked -proudly among women for his sake.</p> - -<p>'Fanny dear I shall have horses to the carriage to-day, to go and call -on these Hales. Should not you go and see nurse? It's in the same -direction, and she's always so glad to see you. You could go on there -while I am at Mrs. Hale's.'</p> - -<p>'Oh! mamma, it's such a long way, and I am so tired.'</p> - -<p>'With what?' asked Mrs. Thornton, her brow slightly contracting.</p> - -<p>'I don't know—the weather, I think. It is so relaxing. Couldn't you -bring nurse here, mamma? The carriage could fetch her, and she could -spend the rest of the day here, which I know she would like.'</p> - -<p>Mrs. Thornton did not speak; but she laid her work on the table, and -seemed to think.</p> - -<p>'It will be a long way for her to walk back at night!' she remarked, at -last.</p> - -<p>'Oh, but I will send her home in a cab. I never thought of her walking.' -At this point, Mr. Thornton came in, just before going to the mill.</p> - -<p>'Mother! I need hardly say, that if there is any little thing that could -serve Mrs. Hale as an invalid, you will offer it, I'm sure.'</p> - -<p>'If I can find it out, I will. But I have never been ill myself, so I am -not much up to invalids' fancies.'</p> - -<p>'Well! here is Fanny then, who is seldom without an ailment. She will be -able to suggest something, perhaps—won't you, Fan?'</p> - -<p>'I have not always an ailment,' said Fanny, pettishly; 'and I am not -going with mamma. I have a headache to-day, and I shan't go out.'</p> - -<p>Mr. Thornton looked annoyed. His mother's eyes were bent on her work, at -which she was now stitching away busily.</p> - -<p>'Fanny! I wish you to go,' said he, authoritatively. 'It will do you -good, instead of harm. You will oblige me by going, without my saying -anything more about it.'</p> - -<p>He went abruptly out of the room after saying this.</p> - -<p>If he had staid a minute longer, Fanny would have cried at his tone of -command, even when he used the words, 'You will oblige me.' As it was, -she grumbled.</p> - -<p>'John always speaks as if I fancied I was ill, and I am sure I never do -fancy any such thing. Who are these Hales that he makes such a fuss -about?'</p> - -<p>'Fanny, don't speak so of your brother. He has good reasons of some kind -or other, or he would not wish us to go. Make haste and put your things -on.'</p> - -<p>But the little altercation between her son and her daughter did not -incline Mrs. Thornton more favourably towards 'these Hales.' Her jealous -heart repeated her daughter's question, 'Who are they, that he is so -anxious we should pay them all this attention?' It came up like a burden -to a song, long after Fanny had forgotten all about it in the pleasant -excitement of seeing the effect of a new bonnet in the looking-glass.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Thornton was shy. It was only of late years that she had had -leisure enough in her life to go into society; and as society she did -not enjoy it. As dinner-giving, and as criticising other people's -dinners, she took satisfaction in it. But this going to make -acquaintance with strangers was a very different thing. She was ill at -ease, and looked more than usually stern and forbidding as she entered -the Hales' little drawing-room.</p> - -<p>Margaret was busy embroidering a small piece of cambric for some little -article of dress for Edith's expected baby—'Flimsy, useless work,' as -Mrs. Thornton observed to herself. She liked Mrs. Hale's double knitting -far better; that was sensible of its kind. The room altogether was full -of knick-knacks, which must take a long time to dust; and time to people -of limited income was money. She made all these reflections as she was -talking in her stately way to Mrs. Hale, and uttering all the -stereotyped commonplaces that most people can find to say with their -senses blindfolded. Mrs. Hale was making rather more exertion in her -answers, captivated by some real old lace which Mrs. Thornton wore; -'lace,' as she afterwards observed to Dixon, 'of that old English point -which has not been made for this seventy years, and which cannot be -bought. It must have been an heir-loom, and shows that she had -ancestors.' So the owner of the ancestral lace became worthy of -something more than the languid exertion to be agreeable to a visitor, -by which Mrs. Hale's efforts at conversation would have been otherwise -bounded. And presently, Margaret, racking her brain to talk to Fanny, -heard her mother and Mrs. Thornton plunge into the interminable subject -of servants.</p> - -<p>'I suppose you are not musical,' said Fanny, 'as I see no piano.'</p> - -<p>'I am fond of hearing good music; I cannot play well myself; and papa -and mamma don't care much about it; so we sold our old piano when we -came here.'</p> - -<p>'I wonder how you can exist without one. It almost seems to me a -necessary of life.'</p> - -<p>'Fifteen shillings a week, and three saved out of them!' thought -Margaret to herself 'But she must have been very young. She probably has -forgotten her own personal experience. But she must know of those days.' -Margaret's manner had an extra tinge of coldness in it when she next -spoke.</p> - -<p>'You have good concerts here, I believe.'</p> - -<p>'Oh, yes! Delicious! Too crowded, that is the worst. The directors admit -so indiscriminately. But one is sure to hear the newest music there. I -always have a large order to give to Johnson's, the day after a -concert.'</p> - -<p>'Do you like new music simply for its newness, then?'</p> - -<p>'Oh; one knows it is the fashion in London, or else the singers would -not bring it down here. You have been in London, of course.'</p> - -<p>'Yes,' said Margaret, 'I have lived there for several years.'</p> - -<p>'Oh! London and the Alhambra are the two places I long to see!'</p> - -<p>'London and the Alhambra!'</p> - -<p>'Yes! ever since I read the Tales of the Alhambra. Don't you know them?'</p> - -<p>'I don't think I do. But surely, it is a very easy journey to London.'</p> - -<p>'Yes; but somehow,' said Fanny, lowering her voice, 'mamma has never -been to London herself, and can't understand my longing. She is very -proud of Milton; dirty, smoky place, as I feel it to be. I believe she -admires it the more for those very qualities.'</p> - -<p>'If it has been Mrs. Thornton's home for some years, I can well -understand her loving it,' said Margaret, in her clear bell-like voice.</p> - -<p>'What are you saying about me, Miss Hale? May I inquire?'</p> - -<p>Margaret had not the words ready for an answer to this question, which -took her a little by surprise, so Miss Thornton replied:</p> - -<p>'Oh, mamma! we are only trying to account for your being so fond of -Milton.'</p> - -<p>'Thank you,' said Mrs. Thornton. 'I do not feel that my very natural -liking for the place where I was born and brought up,—and which has -since been my residence for some years, requires any accounting for.'</p> - -<p>Margaret was vexed. As Fanny had put it, it did seem as if they had been -impertinently discussing Mrs. Thornton's feelings; but she also rose up -against that lady's manner of showing that she was offended.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Thornton went on after a moment's pause:</p> - -<p>'Do you know anything of Milton, Miss Hale? Have you seen any of our -factories? our magnificent warehouses?'</p> - -<p>'No!' said Margaret. 'I have not seen anything of that description as -yet.' Then she felt that, by concealing her utter indifference to all -such places, she was hardly speaking with truth; so she went on:</p> - -<p>'I dare say, papa would have taken me before now if I had cared. But I -really do not find much pleasure in going over manufactories.'</p> - -<p>'They are very curious places,' said Mrs. Hale, 'but there is so much -noise and dirt always. I remember once going in a lilac silk to see -candles made, and my gown was utterly ruined.'</p> - -<p>'Very probably,' said Mrs. Thornton, in a short displeased manner. 'I -merely thought, that as strangers newly come to reside in a town which -has risen to eminence in the country, from the character and progress of -its peculiar business, you might have cared to visit some of the places -where it is carried on; places unique in the kingdom, I am informed. If -Miss Hale changes her mind and condescends to be curious as to the -manufactures of Milton, I can only say I shall be glad to procure her -admission to print-works, or reed-making, or the more simple operations -of spinning carried on in my son's mill. Every improvement of machinery -is, I believe, to be seen there, in its highest perfection.'</p> - -<p>'I am so glad you don't like mills and manufactories, and all those kind -of things,' said Fanny, in a half-whisper, as she rose to accompany her -mother, who was taking leave of Mrs. Hale with rustling dignity.</p> - -<p>'I think I should like to know all about them, if I were you,' replied -Margaret quietly.</p> - -<p>'Fanny!' said her mother, as they drove away, 'we will be civil to these -Hales: but don't form one of your hasty friendships with the daughter. -She will do you no good, I see. The mother looks very ill, and seems a -nice, quiet kind of person.'</p> - -<p>'I don't want to form any friendship with Miss Hale, mamma,' said Fanny, -pouting. 'I thought I was doing my duty by talking to her, and trying to -amuse her.'</p> - -<p>'Well! at any rate John must be satisfied now.'</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIII_A_SOFT_BREEZE_IN_A_SULTRY_PLACE" id="CHAPTER_XIII_A_SOFT_BREEZE_IN_A_SULTRY_PLACE"></a>CHAPTER XIII—A SOFT BREEZE IN A SULTRY PLACE</h2> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">'That doubt and trouble, fear and pain,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">And anguish, all, are shadows vain,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">That death itself shall not remain;<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i1">That weary deserts we may tread,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">A dreary labyrinth may thread,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Thro' dark ways underground be led;<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i1">Yet, if we will one Guide obey,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">The dreariest path, the darkest way<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Shall issue out in heavenly day;<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i1">And we, on divers shores now cast,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Shall meet, our perilous voyage past,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">All in our Father's house at last!'<br /></span> -<span class="i8">R. C. TRENCH.<br /></span> -</div></div> - -<p>Margaret flew upstairs as soon as their visitors were gone, and put on -her bonnet and shawl, to run and inquire how Bessy Higgins was, and sit -with her as long as she could before dinner. As she went along the -crowded narrow streets, she felt how much of interest they had gained by -the simple fact of her having learnt to care for a dweller in them.</p> - -<p>Mary Higgins, the slatternly younger sister, had endeavoured as well as -she could to tidy up the house for the expected visit. There had been -rough-stoning done in the middle of the floor, while the flags under the -chairs and table and round the walls retained their dark unwashed -appearance. Although the day was hot, there burnt a large fire in the -grate, making the whole place feel like an oven. Margaret did not -understand that the lavishness of coals was a sign of hospitable welcome -to her on Mary's part, and thought that perhaps the oppressive heat was -necessary for Bessy. Bessy herself lay on a squab, or short sofa, placed -under the window. She was very much more feeble than on the previous -day, and tired with raising herself at every step to look out and see if -it was Margaret coming. And now that Margaret was there, and had taken a -chair by her, Bessy lay back silent, and content to look at Margaret's -face, and touch her articles of dress, with a childish admiration of -their fineness of texture.</p> - -<p>'I never knew why folk in the Bible cared for soft raiment afore. But it -must be nice to go dressed as yo' do. It's different fro' common. Most -fine folk tire my eyes out wi' their colours; but some how yours rest -me. Where did ye get this frock?'</p> - -<p>'In London,' said Margaret, much amused.</p> - -<p>'London! Have yo' been in London?'</p> - -<p>'Yes! I lived there for some years. But my home was in a forest; in the -country.</p> - -<p>'Tell me about it,' said Bessy. 'I like to hear speak of the country and -trees, and such like things.' She leant back, and shut her eye and -crossed her hands over her breast, lying at perfect rest, as if to -receive all the ideas Margaret could suggest.</p> - -<p>Margaret had never spoken of Helstone since she left it, except just -naming the place incidentally. She saw it in dreams more vivid than -life, and as she fell away to slumber at nights her memory wandered in -all its pleasant places. But her heart was opened to this girl; 'Oh, -Bessy, I loved the home we have left so dearly! I wish you could see it. -I cannot tell you half its beauty. There are great trees standing all -about it, with their branches stretching long and level, and making a -deep shade of rest even at noonday. And yet, though every leaf may seem -still, there is a continual rushing sound of movement all around—not -close at hand. Then sometimes the turf is as soft and fine as velvet; -and sometimes quite lush with the perpetual moisture of a little, -hidden, tinkling brook near at hand. And then in other parts there are -billowy ferns—whole stretches of fern; some in the green shadow; some -with long streaks of golden sunlight lying on them—just like the sea.'</p> - -<p>'I have never seen the sea,' murmured Bessy. 'But go on.'</p> - -<p>'Then, here and there, there are wide commons, high up as if above the -very tops of the trees—'</p> - -<p>'I'm glad of that. I felt smothered like down below. When I have gone -for an out, I've always wanted to get high up and see far away, and take -a deep breath o' fulness in that air. I get smothered enough in Milton, -and I think the sound yo' speak of among the trees, going on for ever -and ever, would send me dazed; it's that made my head ache so in the -mill. Now on these commons I reckon there is but little noise?'</p> - -<p>'No,' said Margaret; 'nothing but here and there a lark high in the air. -Sometimes I used to hear a farmer speaking sharp and loud to his -servants; but it was so far away that it only reminded me pleasantly -that other people were hard at work in some distant place, while I just -sat on the heather and did nothing.'</p> - -<p>'I used to think once that if I could have a day of doing nothing, to -rest me—a day in some quiet place like that yo' speak on—it would -maybe set me up. But now I've had many days o' idleness, and I'm just as -weary o' them as I was o' my work. Sometimes I'm so tired out I think I -cannot enjoy heaven without a piece of rest first. I'm rather afeard o' -going straight there without getting a good sleep in the grave to set me -up.'</p> - -<p>'Don't be afraid, Bessy,' said Margaret, laying her hand on the girl's; -'God can give you more perfect rest than even idleness on earth, or the -dead sleep of the grave can do.'</p> - -<p>Bessy moved uneasily; then she said:</p> - -<p>'I wish father would not speak as he does. He means well, as I telled -yo' yesterday, and tell yo' again and again. But yo' see, though I don't -believe him a bit by day, yet by night—when I'm in a fever, half-asleep -and half-awake—it comes back upon me—oh! so bad! And I think, if this -should be th' end of all, and if all I've been born for is just to work -my heart and my life away, and to sicken i' this dree place, wi' them -mill-noises in my ears for ever, until I could scream out for them to -stop, and let me have a little piece o' quiet—and wi' the fluff filling -my lungs, until I thirst to death for one long deep breath o' the clear -air yo' speak on—and my mother gone, and I never able to tell her again -how I loved her, and o' all my troubles—I think if this life is th' -end, and that there's no God to wipe away all tears from all eyes—yo' -wench, yo'!' said she, sitting up, and clutching violently, almost -fiercely, at Margaret's hand, 'I could go mad, and kill yo', I could.' -She fell back completely worn out with her passion. Margaret knelt down -by her.</p> - -<p>'Bessy—we have a Father in Heaven.'</p> - -<p>'I know it! I know it,' moaned she, turning her head uneasily from side -to side.</p> - -<p>'I'm very wicked. I've spoken very wickedly. Oh! don't be frightened by -me and never come again. I would not harm a hair of your head. And,' -opening her eyes, and looking earnestly at Margaret, 'I believe, -perhaps, more than yo' do o' what's to come. I read the book o' -Revelations until I know it off by heart, and I never doubt when I'm -waking, and in my senses, of all the glory I'm to come to.'</p> - -<p>'Don't let us talk of what fancies come into your head when you are -feverish. I would rather hear something about what you used to do when -you were well.'</p> - -<p>'I think I was well when mother died, but I have never been rightly -strong sin' somewhere about that time. I began to work in a carding-room -soon after, and the fluff got into my lungs and poisoned me.'</p> - -<p>'Fluff?' said Margaret, inquiringly.</p> - -<p>'Fluff,' repeated Bessy. 'Little bits, as fly off fro' the cotton, when -they're carding it, and fill the air till it looks all fine white dust. -They say it winds round the lungs, and tightens them up. Anyhow, there's -many a one as works in a carding-room, that falls into a waste, coughing -and spitting blood, because they're just poisoned by the fluff.'</p> - -<p>'But can't it be helped?' asked Margaret.</p> - -<p>'I dunno. Some folk have a great wheel at one end o' their carding-rooms -to make a draught, and carry off th' dust; but that wheel costs a deal -o' money—five or six hundred pound, maybe, and brings in no profit; so -it's but a few of th' masters as will put 'em up; and I've heard tell o' -men who didn't like working places where there was a wheel, because they -said as how it mad 'em hungry, at after they'd been long used to -swallowing fluff, to go without it, and that their wage ought to be -raised if they were to work in such places. So between masters and men -th' wheels fall through. I know I wish there'd been a wheel in our -place, though.'</p> - -<p>'Did not your father know about it?' asked Margaret.</p> - -<p>'Yes! And he were sorry. But our factory were a good one on the whole; -and a steady likely set o' people; and father was afeard of letting me -go to a strange place, for though yo' would na think it now, many a one -then used to call me a gradely lass enough. And I did na like to be -reckoned nesh and soft, and Mary's schooling were to be kept up, mother -said, and father he were always liking to buy books, and go to lectures -o' one kind or another—all which took money—so I just worked on till I -shall ne'er get the whirr out o' my ears, or the fluff out o' my throat -i' this world. That's all.'</p> - -<p>'How old are you?' asked Margaret.</p> - -<p>'Nineteen, come July.'</p> - -<p>'And I too am nineteen.' She thought, more sorrowfully than Bessy did, -of the contrast between them. She could not speak for a moment or two -for the emotion she was trying to keep down.</p> - -<p>'About Mary,' said Bessy. 'I wanted to ask yo' to be a friend to her. -She's seventeen, but she's th' last on us. And I don't want her to go to -th' mill, and yet I dunno what she's fit for.'</p> - -<p>'She could not do'—Margaret glanced unconsciously at the uncleaned -corners of the room—'She could hardly undertake a servant's place, -could she? We have an old faithful servant, almost a friend, who wants -help, but who is very particular; and it would not be right to plague -her with giving her any assistance that would really be an annoyance and -an irritation.'</p> - -<p>'No, I see. I reckon yo're right. Our Mary's a good wench; but who has -she had to teach her what to do about a house? No mother, and me at the -mill till I were good for nothing but scolding her for doing badly what -I didn't know how to do a bit. But I wish she could ha' lived wi' yo', -for all that.'</p> - -<p>'But even though she may not be exactly fitted to come and live with us -as a servant—and I don't know about that—I will always try and be a -friend to her for your sake, Bessy. And now I must go. I will come again -as soon as I can; but if it should not be to-morrow, or the next day, or -even a week or a fortnight hence, don't think I've forgotten you. I may -be busy.'</p> - -<p>'I'll know yo' won't forget me again. I'll not mistrust yo' no more. But -remember, in a week or a fortnight I may be dead and buried!'</p> - -<p>'I'll come as soon as I can, Bessy,' said Margaret, squeezing her hand -tight. 'But you'll let me know if you are worse.'</p> - -<p>'Ay, that will I,' said Bessy, returning the pressure.</p> - -<p>From that day forwards Mrs. Hale became more and more of a suffering -invalid. It was now drawing near to the anniversary of Edith's marriage, -and looking back upon the year's accumulated heap of troubles, Margaret -wondered how they had been borne. If she could have anticipated them, -how she would have shrunk away and hid herself from the coming time! And -yet day by day had, of itself, and by itself, been very -endurable—small, keen, bright little spots of positive enjoyment having -come sparkling into the very middle of sorrows. A year ago, or when she -first went to Helstone, and first became silently conscious of the -querulousness in her mother's temper, she would have groaned bitterly -over the idea of a long illness to be borne in a strange, desolate, -noisy, busy place, with diminished comforts on every side of the home -life. But with the increase of serious and just ground of complaint, a -new kind of patience had sprung up in her mother's mind. She was gentle -and quiet in intense bodily suffering, almost in proportion as she had -been restless and depressed when there had been no real cause for grief. -Mr. Hale was in exactly that stage of apprehension which, in men of his -stamp, takes the shape of wilful blindness. He was more irritated than -Margaret had ever known him at his daughter's expressed anxiety.</p> - -<p>'Indeed, Margaret, you are growing fanciful! God knows I should be the -first to take the alarm if your mother were really ill; we always saw -when she had her headaches at Helstone, even without her telling us. She -looks quite pale and white when she is ill; and now she has a bright -healthy colour in her cheeks, just as she used to have when I first knew -her.'</p> - -<p>'But, papa,' said Margaret, with hesitation, 'do you know, I think that -is the flush of pain.'</p> - -<p>'Nonsense, Margaret. I tell you, you are too fanciful. You are the -person not well, I think. Send for the doctor to-morrow for yourself; -and then, if it will make your mind easier, he can see your mother.'</p> - -<p>'Thank you, dear papa. It will make me happier, indeed.' And she went up -to him to kiss him. But he pushed her away—gently enough, but still as -if she had suggested unpleasant ideas, which he should be glad to get -rid of as readily as he could of her presence. He walked uneasily up and -down the room.</p> - -<p>'Poor Maria!' said he, half soliloquising, 'I wish one could do right -without sacrificing others. I shall hate this town, and myself too, if -she—— Pray, Margaret, does your mother often talk to you of the old -places of Helstone, I mean?'</p> - -<p>'No, papa,' said Margaret, sadly.</p> - -<p>'Then, you see, she can't be fretting after them, eh? It has always been -a comfort to me to think that your mother was so simple and open that I -knew every little grievance she had. She never would conceal anything -seriously affecting her health from me: would she, eh, Margaret? I am -quite sure she would not. So don't let me hear of these foolish morbid -ideas. Come, give me a kiss, and run off to bed.'</p> - -<p>But she heard him pacing about (racooning, as she and Edith used to call -it) long after her slow and languid undressing was finished—long after -she began to listen as she lay in bed.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIV_THE_MUTINY" id="CHAPTER_XIV_THE_MUTINY"></a>CHAPTER XIV—THE MUTINY</h2> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">'I was used<br /></span> -<span class="i1">To sleep at nights as sweetly as a child,—<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Now if the wind blew rough, it made me start,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">And think of my poor boy tossing about<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Upon the roaring seas. And then I seemed<br /></span> -<span class="i1">To feel that it was hard to take him from me<br /></span> -<span class="i1">For such a little fault.'<br /></span> -<span class="i9">S<small>OUTHEY</small>.<br /></span> -</div></div> - -<p>It was a comfort to Margaret about this time, to find that her mother -drew more tenderly and intimately towards her than she had ever done -since the days of her childhood. She took her to her heart as a -confidential friend—the post Margaret had always longed to fill, and -had envied Dixon for being preferred to. Margaret took pains to respond -to every call made upon her for sympathy—and they were many—even when -they bore relation to trifles, which she would no more have noticed or -regarded herself than the elephant would perceive the little pin at his -feet, which yet he lifts carefully up at the bidding of his keeper. All -unconsciously Margaret drew near to a reward.</p> - -<p>One evening, Mr. Hale being absent, her mother began to talk to her -about her brother Frederick, the very subject on which Margaret had -longed to ask questions, and almost the only one on which her timidity -overcame her natural openness. The more she wanted to hear about him, -the less likely she was to speak.</p> - -<p>'Oh, Margaret, it was so windy last night! It came howling down the -chimney in our room! I could not sleep. I never can when there is such a -terrible wind. I got into a wakeful habit when poor Frederick was at -sea; and now, even if I don't waken all at once, I dream of him in some -stormy sea, with great, clear, glass-green walls of waves on either side -his ship, but far higher than her very masts, curling over her with that -cruel, terrible white foam, like some gigantic crested serpent. It is an -old dream, but it always comes back on windy nights, till I am thankful -to waken, sitting straight and stiff up in bed with my terror. Poor -Frederick! He is on land now, so wind can do him no harm. Though I did -think it might shake down some of those tall chimneys.'</p> - -<p>'Where is Frederick now, mamma? Our letters are directed to the care of -Messrs. Barbour, at Cadiz, I know; but where is he himself?'</p> - -<p>'I can't remember the name of the place, but he is not called Hale; you -must remember that, Margaret. Notice the F. D. in every corner of the -letters. He has taken the name of Dickenson. I wanted him to have been -called Beresford, to which he had a kind of right, but your father -thought he had better not. He might be recognised, you know, if he were -called by my name.'</p> - -<p>'Mamma,' said Margaret, 'I was at Aunt Shaw's when it all happened; and -I suppose I was not old enough to be told plainly about it. But I should -like to know now, if I may—if it does not give you too much pain to -speak about it.'</p> - -<p>'Pain! No,' replied Mrs. Hale, her cheek flushing. 'Yet it is pain to -think that perhaps I may never see my darling boy again. Or else he did -right, Margaret. They may say what they like, but I have his own letters -to show, and I'll believe him, though he is my son, sooner than any -court-martial on earth. Go to my little japan cabinet, dear, and in the -second left-hand drawer you will find a packet of letters.'</p> - -<p>Margaret went. There were the yellow, sea-stained letters, with the -peculiar fragrance which ocean letters have: Margaret carried them back -to her mother, who untied the silken string with trembling fingers, and, -examining their dates, she gave them to Margaret to read, making her -hurried, anxious remarks on their contents, almost before her daughter -could have understood what they were.</p> - -<p>'You see, Margaret, how from the very first he disliked Captain Reid. He -was second lieutenant in the ship—the <i>Orion</i>—in which Frederick sailed -the very first time. Poor little fellow, how well he looked in his -midshipman's dress, with his dirk in his hand, cutting open all the -newspapers with it as if it were a paper-knife! But this Mr. Reid, as he -was then, seemed to take a dislike to Frederick from the very beginning. -And then—stay! these are the letters he wrote on board the <i>Russell</i>. -When he was appointed to her, and found his old enemy Captain Reid in -command, he did mean to bear all his tyranny patiently. Look! this is -the letter. Just read it, Margaret. Where is it he says—Stop—'my -father may rely upon me, that I will bear with all proper patience -everything that one officer and gentleman can take from another. But -from my former knowledge of my present captain, I confess I look forward -with apprehension to a long course of tyranny on board the <i>Russell</i>.' You -see, he promises to bear patiently, and I am sure he did, for he was the -sweetest-tempered boy, when he was not vexed, that could possibly be. Is -that the letter in which he speaks of Captain Reid's impatience with the -men, for not going through the ship's manœuvres as quickly as the -<i>Avenger</i>? You see, he says that they had many new hands on board the -<i>Russell</i>, while the <i>Avenger</i> had been nearly three years on the station, -with nothing to do but to keep slavers off, and work her men, till they -ran up and down the rigging like rats or monkeys.'</p> - -<p>Margaret slowly read the letter, half illegible through the fading of -the ink. It might be—it probably was—a statement of Captain Reid's -imperiousness in trifles, very much exaggerated by the narrator, who had -written it while fresh and warm from the scene of altercation. Some -sailors being aloft in the main-topsail rigging, the captain had ordered -them to race down, threatening the hindmost with the cat-of-nine-tails. -He who was the farthest on the spar, feeling the impossibility of -passing his companions, and yet passionately dreading the disgrace of -the flogging, threw himself desperately down to catch a rope -considerably lower, failed, and fell senseless on deck. He only survived -for a few hours afterwards, and the indignation of the ship's crew was -at boiling point when young Hale wrote.</p> - -<p>'But we did not receive this letter till long, long after we heard of -the mutiny. Poor Fred! I dare say it was a comfort to him to write it -even though he could not have known how to send it, poor fellow! And -then we saw a report in the papers—that's to say, long before Fred's -letter reached us—of an atrocious mutiny having broken out on board the -<i>Russell</i>, and that the mutineers had remained in possession of the ship, -which had gone off, it was supposed, to be a pirate; and that Captain -Reid was sent adrift in a boat with some men—officers or -something—whose names were all given, for they were picked up by a -West-Indian steamer. Oh, Margaret! how your father and I turned sick -over that list, when there was no name of Frederick Hale. We thought it -must be some mistake; for poor Fred was such a fine fellow, only perhaps -rather too passionate; and we hoped that the name of Carr, which was in -the list, was a misprint for that of Hale—newspapers are so careless. -And towards post-time the next day, papa set off to walk to Southampton -to get the papers; and I could not stop at home, so I went to meet him. -He was very late—much later than I thought he would have been; and I -sat down under the hedge to wait for him. He came at last, his arms -hanging loose down, his head sunk, and walking heavily along, as if -every step was a labour and a trouble. Margaret, I see him now.'</p> - -<p>'Don't go on, mamma. I can understand it all,' said Margaret, leaning up -caressingly against her mother's side, and kissing her hand.</p> - -<p>'No, you can't, Margaret. No one can who did not see him then. I could -hardly lift myself up to go and meet him—everything seemed so to reel -around me all at once. And when I got to him, he did not speak, or seem -surprised to see me there, more than three miles from home, beside the -Oldham beech-tree; but he put my arm in his, and kept stroking my hand, -as if he wanted to soothe me to be very quiet under some great heavy -blow; and when I trembled so all over that I could not speak, he took me -in his arms, and stooped down his head on mine, and began to shake and -to cry in a strange muffled, groaning voice, till I, for very fright, -stood quite still, and only begged him to tell me what he had heard. And -then, with his hand jerking, as if some one else moved it against his -will, he gave me a wicked newspaper to read, calling our Frederick a -"traitor of the blackest dye," "a base, ungrateful disgrace to his -profession." Oh! I cannot tell what bad words they did not use. I took -the paper in my hands as soon as I had read it—I tore it up to little -bits—I tore it—oh! I believe Margaret, I tore it with my teeth. I did -not cry. I could not. My cheeks were as hot as fire, and my very eyes -burnt in my head. I saw your father looking grave at me. I said it was a -lie, and so it was. Months after, this letter came, and you see what -provocation Frederick had. It was not for himself, or his own injuries, -he rebelled; but he would speak his mind to Captain Reid, and so it went -on from bad to worse; and you see, most of the sailors stuck by -Frederick.</p> - -<p>'I think, Margaret,' she continued, after a pause, in a weak, trembling, -exhausted voice, 'I am glad of it—I am prouder of Frederick standing up -against injustice, than if he had been simply a good officer.'</p> - -<p>'I am sure I am,' said Margaret, in a firm, decided tone. 'Loyalty and -obedience to wisdom and justice are fine; but it is still finer to defy -arbitrary power, unjustly and cruelly used-not on behalf of ourselves, -but on behalf of others more helpless.'</p> - -<p>'For all that, I wish I could see Frederick once more—just once. He was -my first baby, Margaret.' Mrs. Hale spoke wistfully, and almost as if -apologising for the yearning, craving wish, as though it were a -depreciation of her remaining child. But such an idea never crossed -Margaret's mind. She was thinking how her mother's desire could be -fulfilled.</p> - -<p>'It is six or seven years ago—would they still prosecute him, mother? -If he came and stood his trial, what would be the punishment? Surely, he -might bring evidence of his great provocation.'</p> - -<p>'It would do no good,' replied Mrs. Hale. 'Some of the sailors who -accompanied Frederick were taken, and there was a court-martial held on -them on board the Amicia; I believed all they said in their defence, -poor fellows, because it just agreed with Frederick's story—but it was -of no use,—' and for the first time during the conversation Mrs. Hale -began to cry; yet something possessed Margaret to force the information -she foresaw, yet dreaded, from her mother.</p> - -<p>'What happened to them, mamma?' asked she.</p> - -<p>'They were hung at the yard-arm,' said Mrs. Hale, solemnly. 'And the -worst was that the court, in condemning them to death, said they had -suffered themselves to be led astray from their duty by their superior -officers.'</p> - -<p>They were silent for a long time.</p> - -<p>'And Frederick was in South America for several years, was he not?'</p> - -<p>'Yes. And now he is in Spain. At Cadiz, or somewhere near it. If he -comes to England he will be hung. I shall never see his face again—for -if he comes to England he will be hung.'</p> - -<p>There was no comfort to be given. Mrs. Hale turned her face to the wall, -and lay perfectly still in her mother's despair. Nothing could be said -to console her. She took her hand out of Margaret's with a little -impatient movement, as if she would fain be left alone with the -recollection of her son. When Mr. Hale came in, Margaret went out, -oppressed with gloom, and seeing no promise of brightness on any side of -the horizon.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XV_MASTERS_AND_MEN" id="CHAPTER_XV_MASTERS_AND_MEN"></a>CHAPTER XV—MASTERS AND MEN</h2> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">'Thought fights with thought;<br /></span> -<span class="i1">out springs a spark of truth<br /></span> -<span class="i1">From the collision of the sword and shield.'<br /></span> -<span class="i7">W. S. LANDOR.<br /></span> -</div></div> - -<p>'Margaret,' said her father, the next day, 'we must return Mrs. -Thornton's call. Your mother is not very well, and thinks she cannot -walk so far; but you and I will go this afternoon.'</p> - -<p>As they went, Mr. Hale began about his wife's health, with a kind of -veiled anxiety, which Margaret was glad to see awakened at last.</p> - -<p>'Did you consult the doctor, Margaret? Did you send for him?'</p> - -<p>'No, papa, you spoke of his coming to see me. Now I was well. But if I -only knew of some good doctor, I would go this afternoon, and ask him to -come, for I am sure mamma is seriously indisposed.'</p> - -<p>She put the truth thus plainly and strongly because her father had so -completely shut his mind against the idea, when she had last named her -fears. But now the case was changed. He answered in a despondent tone:</p> - -<p>'Do you think she has any hidden complaint? Do you think she is really -very ill? Has Dixon said anything? Oh, Margaret! I am haunted by the -fear that our coming to Milton has killed her. My poor Maria!'</p> - -<p>'Oh, papa! don't imagine such things,' said Margaret, shocked. 'She is -not well, that is all. Many a one is not well for a time; and with good -advice gets better and stronger than ever.'</p> - -<p>'But has Dixon said anything about her?'</p> - -<p>'No! You know Dixon enjoys making a mystery out of trifles; and she has -been a little mysterious about mamma's health, which has alarmed me -rather, that is all. Without any reason, I dare say. You know, papa, you -said the other day I was getting fanciful.'</p> - -<p>'I hope and trust you are. But don't think of what I said then. I like -you to be fanciful about your mother's health. Don't be afraid of -telling me your fancies. I like to hear them, though, I dare say, I -spoke as if I was annoyed. But we will ask Mrs. Thornton if she can tell -us of a good doctor. We won't throw away our money on any but some one -first-rate. Stay, we turn up this street.' The street did not look as if -it could contain any house large enough for Mrs. Thornton's habitation. -Her son's presence never gave any impression as to the kind of house he -lived in; but, unconsciously, Margaret had imagined that tall, massive, -handsomely dressed Mrs. Thornton must live in a house of the same -character as herself. Now Marlborough Street consisted of long rows of -small houses, with a blank wall here and there; at least that was all -they could see from the point at which they entered it.</p> - -<p>'He told me he lived in Marlborough Street, I'm sure,' said Mr. Hale, -with a much perplexed air.</p> - -<p>'Perhaps it is one of the economies he still practises, to live in a -very small house. But here are plenty of people about; let me ask.'</p> - -<p>She accordingly inquired of a passer-by, and was informed that Mr. -Thornton lived close to the mill, and had the factory lodge-door pointed -out to her, at the end of the long dead wall they had noticed.</p> - -<p>The lodge-door was like a common garden-door; on one side of it were -great closed gates for the ingress and egress of lorries and wagons. The -lodge-keeper admitted them into a great oblong yard, on one side of -which were offices for the transaction of business; on the opposite, an -immense many-windowed mill, whence proceeded the continual clank of -machinery and the long groaning roar of the steam-engine, enough to -deafen those who lived within the enclosure. Opposite to the wall, along -which the street ran, on one of the narrow sides of the oblong, was a -handsome stone-coped house,—blackened, to be sure, by the smoke, but -with paint, windows, and steps kept scrupulously clean. It was evidently -a house which had been built some fifty or sixty years. The stone -facings—the long, narrow windows, and the number of them—the flights -of steps up to the front door, ascending from either side, and guarded -by railing—all witnessed to its age. Margaret only wondered why people -who could afford to live in so good a house, and keep it in such perfect -order, did not prefer a much smaller dwelling in the country, or even -some suburb; not in the continual whirl and din of the factory. Her -unaccustomed ears could hardly catch her father's voice, as they stood -on the steps awaiting the opening of the door. The yard, too, with the -great doors in the dead wall as a boundary, was but a dismal look-out -for the sitting-rooms of the house—as Margaret found when they had -mounted the old-fashioned stairs, and been ushered into the -drawing-room, the three windows of which went over the front door and -the room on the right-hand side of the entrance. There was no one in the -drawing-room. It seemed as though no one had been in it since the day -when the furniture was bagged up with as much care as if the house was -to be overwhelmed with lava, and discovered a thousand years hence. The -walls were pink and gold; the pattern on the carpet represented bunches -of flowers on a light ground, but it was carefully covered up in the -centre by a linen drugget, glazed and colourless. The window-curtains -were lace; each chair and sofa had its own particular veil of netting, -or knitting. Great alabaster groups occupied every flat surface, safe -from dust under their glass shades. In the middle of the room, right -under the bagged-up chandelier, was a large circular table, with -smartly-bound books arranged at regular intervals round the -circumference of its polished surface, like gaily-coloured spokes of a -wheel. Everything reflected light, nothing absorbed it. The whole room -had a painfully spotted, spangled, speckled look about it, which -impressed Margaret so unpleasantly that she was hardly conscious of the -peculiar cleanliness required to keep everything so white and pure in -such an atmosphere, or of the trouble that must be willingly expended to -secure that effect of icy, snowy discomfort. Wherever she looked there -was evidence of care and labour, but not care and labour to procure -ease, to help on habits of tranquil home employment; solely to ornament, -and then to preserve ornament from dirt or destruction.</p> - -<p>They had leisure to observe, and to speak to each other in low voices, -before Mrs. Thornton appeared. They were talking of what all the world -might hear; but it is a common effect of such a room as this to make -people speak low, as if unwilling to awaken the unused echoes.</p> - -<p>At last Mrs. Thornton came in, rustling in handsome black silk, as was -her wont; her muslins and laces rivalling, not excelling, the pure -whiteness of the muslins and netting of the room. Margaret explained how -it was that her mother could not accompany them to return Mrs. -Thornton's call; but in her anxiety not to bring back her father's fears -too vividly, she gave but a bungling account, and left the impression on -Mrs. Thornton's mind that Mrs. Hale's was some temporary or fanciful -fine-ladyish indisposition, which might have been put aside had there -been a strong enough motive; or that if it was too severe to allow her -to come out that day, the call might have been deferred. Remembering, -too, the horses to her carriage, hired for her own visit to the Hales, -and how Fanny had been ordered to go by Mr. Thornton, in order to pay -every respect to them, Mrs. Thornton drew up slightly offended, and gave -Margaret no sympathy—indeed, hardly any credit for the statement of her -mother's indisposition.</p> - -<p>'How is Mr. Thornton?' asked Mr. Hale. 'I was afraid he was not well, -from his hurried note yesterday.'</p> - -<p>'My son is rarely ill; and when he is, he never speaks about it, or -makes it an excuse for not doing anything. He told me he could not get -leisure to read with you last night, sir. He regretted it, I am sure; he -values the hours spent with you.'</p> - -<p>'I am sure they are equally agreeable to me,' said Mr. Hale. 'It makes -me feel young again to see his enjoyment and appreciation of all that is -fine in classical literature.'</p> - -<p>'I have no doubt the classics are very desirable for people who have -leisure. But, I confess, it was against my judgment that my son renewed -his study of them. The time and place in which he lives, seem to me to -require all his energy and attention. Classics may do very well for men -who loiter away their lives in the country or in colleges; but Milton -men ought to have their thoughts and powers absorbed in the work of -to-day. At least, that is my opinion.' This last clause she gave out -with 'the pride that apes humility.'</p> - -<p>'But, surely, if the mind is too long directed to one object only, it -will get stiff and rigid, and unable to take in many interests,' said -Margaret.</p> - -<p>'I do not quite understand what you mean by a mind getting stiff and -rigid. Nor do I admire those whirligig characters that are full of this -thing to-day, to be utterly forgetful of it in their new interest -to-morrow. Having many interests does not suit the life of a Milton -manufacturer. It is, or ought to be, enough for him to have one great -desire, and to bring all the purposes of his life to bear on the -fulfilment of that.'</p> - -<p>'And that is—?' asked Mr. Hale.</p> - -<p>Her sallow cheek flushed, and her eye lightened, as she answered:</p> - -<p>'To hold and maintain a high, honourable place among the merchants of -his country—the men of his town. Such a place my son has earned for -himself. Go where you will—I don't say in England only, but in -Europe—the name of John Thornton of Milton is known and respected -amongst all men of business. Of course, it is unknown in the fashionable -circles,' she continued, scornfully. 'Idle gentlemen and ladies are not likely to know much of a Milton -manufacturer, unless he gets into parliament, or marries a lord's -daughter.'</p> - -<p>Both Mr. Hale and Margaret had an uneasy, ludicrous -consciousness that they had never heard of this great name, until Mr. -Bell had written them word that Mr. Thornton would be a good friend to -have in Milton. The proud mother's world was not their world of Harley -Street gentilities on the one hand, or country clergymen and Hampshire -squires on the other. Margaret's face, in spite of all her endeavours to -keep it simply listening in its expression told the sensitive Mrs. -Thornton this feeling of hers.</p> - -<p>'You think you never heard of this wonderful son of mine, Miss Hale. You -think I'm an old woman whose ideas are bounded by Milton, and whose own -crow is the whitest ever seen.'</p> - -<p>'No,' said Margaret, with some spirit. 'It may be true, that I was -thinking I had hardly heard Mr. Thornton's name before I came to Milton. -But since I have come here, I have heard enough to make me respect and -admire him, and to feel how much justice and truth there is in what you -have said of him.'</p> - -<p>'Who spoke to you of him?' asked Mrs. Thornton, a little mollified, yet -jealous lest any one else's words should not have done him full justice. -Margaret hesitated before she replied. She did not like this -authoritative questioning. Mr. Hale came in, as he thought, to the -rescue.</p> - -<p>'It was what Mr. Thornton said himself, that made us know the kind of -man he was. Was it not, Margaret?'</p> - -<p>Mrs. Thornton drew herself up, and said—</p> - -<p>'My son is not the one to tell of his own doings. May I again ask you, -Miss Hale, from whose account you formed your favourable opinion of him? -A mother is curious and greedy of commendation of her children, you -know.'</p> - -<p>Margaret replied, 'It was as much from what Mr. Thornton withheld of -that which we had been told of his previous life by Mr. Bell,—it was -more that than what he said, that made us all feel what reason you have -to be proud of him.'</p> - -<p>'Mr. Bell! What can he know of John? He, living a lazy life in a drowsy -college. But I'm obliged to you, Miss Hale. Many a missy young lady -would have shrunk from giving an old woman the pleasure of hearing that -her son was well spoken of.'</p> - -<p>'Why?' asked Margaret, looking straight at Mrs. Thornton, in -bewilderment.</p> - -<p>'Why! because I suppose they might have consciences that told them how -surely they were making the old mother into an advocate for them, in -case they had any plans on the son's heart.'</p> - -<p>She smiled a grim smile, for she had been pleased by Margaret's -frankness; and perhaps she felt that she had been asking questions too -much as if she had a right to catechise. Margaret laughed outright at -the notion presented to her; laughed so merrily that it grated on Mrs. -Thornton's ear, as if the words that called forth that laugh, must have -been utterly and entirely ludicrous. Margaret stopped her merriment as -soon as she saw Mrs. Thornton's annoyed look.</p> - -<p>'I beg your pardon, madam. But I really am very much obliged to you for -exonerating me from making any plans on Mr. Thornton's heart.'</p> - -<p>'Young ladies have, before now,' said Mrs. Thornton, stiffly.</p> - -<p>'I hope Miss Thornton is well,' put in Mr. Hale, desirous of changing -the current of the conversation.</p> - -<p>'She is as well as she ever is. She is not strong,' replied Mrs. -Thornton, shortly.</p> - -<p>'And Mr. Thornton? I suppose I may hope to see him on Thursday?'</p> - -<p>'I cannot answer for my son's engagements. There is some uncomfortable -work going on in the town; a threatening of a strike. If so, his -experience and judgment will make him much consulted by his friends. But -I should think he could come on Thursday. At any rate, I am sure he will -let you know if he cannot.'</p> - -<p>'A strike!' asked Margaret. 'What for? What are they going to strike -for?'</p> - -<p>'For the mastership and ownership of other people's property,' said Mrs. -Thornton, with a fierce snort. 'That is what they always strike for. If -my son's work-people strike, I will only say they are a pack of -ungrateful hounds. But I have no doubt they will.'</p> - -<p>'They are wanting higher wages, I suppose?' asked Mr. Hale.</p> - -<p>'That is the face of the thing. But the truth is, they want to be -masters, and make the masters into slaves on their own ground. They are -always trying at it; they always have it in their minds and every five -or six years, there comes a struggle between masters and men. They'll -find themselves mistaken this time, I fancy,—a little out of their -reckoning. If they turn out, they mayn't find it so easy to go in again. -I believe, the masters have a thing or two in their heads which will -teach the men not to strike again in a hurry, if they try it this time.'</p> - -<p>'Does it not make the town very rough?' asked Margaret.</p> - -<p>'Of course it does. But surely you are not a coward, are you? Milton is -not the place for cowards. I have known the time when I have had to -thread my way through a crowd of white, angry men, all swearing they -would have Makinson's blood as soon as he ventured to show his nose out -of his factory; and he, knowing nothing of it, some one had to go and -tell him, or he was a dead man, and it needed to be a woman,—so I went. -And when I had got in, I could not get out. It was as much as my life -was worth. So I went up to the roof, where there were stones piled ready -to drop on the heads of the crowd, if they tried to force the factory -doors. And I would have lifted those heavy stones, and dropped them with -as good an aim as the best man there, but that I fainted with the heat I -had gone through. If you live in Milton, you must learn to have a brave -heart, Miss Hale.'</p> - -<p>'I would do my best,' said Margaret rather pale. 'I do not know whether -I am brave or not till I am tried; but I am afraid I should be a -coward.'</p> - -<p>'South country people are often frightened by what our Darkshire men and -women only call living and struggling. But when you've been ten years -among a people who are always owing their betters a grudge, and only -waiting for an opportunity to pay it off, you'll know whether you are a -coward or not, take my word for it.'</p> - -<p>Mr. Thornton came that evening to Mr. Hale's. He was shown up into the -drawing-room, where Mr. Hale was reading aloud to his wife and daughter.</p> - -<p>'I am come partly to bring you a note from my mother, and partly to -apologise for not keeping to my time yesterday. The note contains the -address you asked for; Dr. Donaldson.'</p> - -<p>'Thank you!' said Margaret, hastily, holding out her hand to take the -note, for she did not wish her mother to hear that they had been making -any inquiry about a doctor. She was pleased that Mr. Thornton seemed -immediately to understand her feeling; he gave her the note without -another word of explanation. Mr. Hale began to talk about the strike. -Mr. Thornton's face assumed a likeness to his mother's worst expression, -which immediately repelled the watching Margaret.</p> - -<p>'Yes; the fools will have a strike. Let them. It suits us well enough. -But we gave them a chance. They think trade is flourishing as it was -last year. We see the storm on the horizon and draw in our sails. But -because we don't explain our reasons, they won't believe we're acting -reasonably. We must give them line and letter for the way we choose to -spend or save our money. Henderson tried a dodge with his men, out at -Ashley, and failed. He rather wanted a strike; it would have suited his -book well enough. So when the men came to ask for the five per cent. -they are claiming, he told 'em he'd think about it, and give them his -answer on the pay day; knowing all the while what his answer would be, -of course, but thinking he'd strengthen their conceit of their own way. -However, they were too deep for him, and heard something about the bad -prospects of trade. So in they came on the Friday, and drew back their -claim, and now he's obliged to go on working. But we Milton masters have -to-day sent in our decision. We won't advance a penny. We tell them we -may have to lower wages; but can't afford to raise. So here we stand, -waiting for their next attack.'</p> - -<p>'And what will that be?' asked Mr. Hale.</p> - -<p>'I conjecture, a simultaneous strike. You will see Milton without smoke -in a few days, I imagine, Miss Hale.'</p> - -<p>'But why,' asked she, 'could you not explain what good reason you have -for expecting a bad trade? I don't know whether I use the right words, -but you will understand what I mean.'</p> - -<p>'Do you give your servants reasons for your expenditure, or your economy -in the use of your own money? We, the owners of capital, have a right to -choose what we will do with it.'</p> - -<p>'A human right,' said Margaret, very low.</p> - -<p>'I beg your pardon, I did not hear what you said.'</p> - -<p>'I would rather not repeat it,' said she; 'it related to a feeling which -I do not think you would share.'</p> - -<p>'Won't you try me?' pleaded he; his thoughts suddenly bent upon learning -what she had said. She was displeased with his pertinacity, but did not -choose to affix too much importance to her words.</p> - -<p>'I said you had a human right. I meant that there seemed no reason but -religious ones, why you should not do what you like with your own.</p> - -<p>'I know we differ in our religious opinions; but don't you give me -credit for having some, though not the same as yours?'</p> - -<p>He was speaking in a subdued voice, as if to her alone. She did not wish -to be so exclusively addressed. She replied out in her usual tone:</p> - -<p>'I do not think that I have any occasion to consider your special -religious opinions in the affair. All I meant to say is, that there is -no human law to prevent the employers from utterly wasting or throwing -away all their money, if they choose; but that there are passages in the -Bible which would rather imply—to me at least—that they neglected -their duty as stewards if they did so. However I know so little about -strikes, and rate of wages, and capital, and labour, that I had better -not talk to a political economist like you.'</p> - -<p>'Nay, the more reason,' said he, eagerly. 'I shall only be too glad to -explain to you all that may seem anomalous or mysterious to a stranger; -especially at a time like this, when our doings are sure to be canvassed -by every scribbler who can hold a pen.'</p> - -<p>'Thank you,' she answered, coldly. 'Of course, I shall apply to my -father in the first instance for any information he can give me, if I -get puzzled with living here amongst this strange society.'</p> - -<p>'You think it strange. Why?'</p> - -<p>'I don't know—I suppose because, on the very face of it, I see two -classes dependent on each other in every possible way, yet each -evidently regarding the interests of the other as opposed to their own; -I never lived in a place before where there were two sets of people -always running each other down.'</p> - -<p>'Who have you heard running the masters down? I don't ask who you have -heard abusing the men; for I see you persist in misunderstanding what I -said the other day. But who have you heard abusing the masters?'</p> - -<p>Margaret reddened; then smiled as she said,</p> - -<p>'I am not fond of being catechised. I refuse to answer your question. -Besides, it has nothing to do with the fact. You must take my word for -it, that I have heard some people, or, it may be, only someone of the -workpeople, speak as though it were the interest of the employers to -keep them from acquiring money—that it would make them too independent -if they had a sum in the savings' bank.'</p> - -<p>'I dare say it was that man Higgins who told you all this,' said Mrs -Hale. Mr. Thornton did not appear to hear what Margaret evidently did -not wish him to know. But he caught it, nevertheless.</p> - -<p>'I heard, moreover, that it was considered to the advantage of the -masters to have ignorant workmen—not hedge-lawyers, as Captain Lennox -used to call those men in his company who questioned and would know the -reason for every order.' This latter part of her sentence she addressed -rather to her father than to Mr. Thornton. Who is Captain Lennox? asked -Mr. Thornton of himself, with a strange kind of displeasure, that -prevented him for the moment from replying to her! Her father took up -the conversation.</p> - -<p>'You never were fond of schools, Margaret, or you would have seen and -known before this, how much is being done for education in Milton.'</p> - -<p>'No!' said she, with sudden meekness. 'I know I do not care enough about -schools. But the knowledge and the ignorance of which I was speaking, -did not relate to reading and writing,—the teaching or information one -can give to a child. I am sure, that what was meant was ignorance of the -wisdom that shall guide men and women. I hardly know what that is. But -he—that is, my informant—spoke as if the masters would like their -hands to be merely tall, large children—living in the present -moment—with a blind unreasoning kind of obedience.'</p> - -<p>'In short, Miss Hale, it is very evident that your informant found a -pretty ready listener to all the slander he chose to utter against the -masters,' said Mr. Thornton, in an offended tone.</p> - -<p>Margaret did not reply. She was displeased at the personal character Mr. -Thornton affixed to what she had said.</p> - -<p>Mr. Hale spoke next:</p> - -<p>'I must confess that, although I have not become so intimately -acquainted with any workmen as Margaret has, I am very much struck by -the antagonism between the employer and the employed, on the very -surface of things. I even gather this impression from what you yourself -have from time to time said.'</p> - -<p>Mr. Thornton paused awhile before he spoke. Margaret had just left the -room, and he was vexed at the state of feeling between himself and her. -However, the little annoyance, by making him cooler and more thoughtful, -gave a greater dignity to what he said:</p> - -<p>'My theory is, that my interests are identical with those of my -workpeople and vice-versa. Miss Hale, I know, does not like to hear men -called 'hands,' so I won't use that word, though it comes most readily -to my lips as the technical term, whose origin, whatever it was, dates -before my time. On some future day—in some millennium—in Utopia, this -unity may be brought into practice—just as I can fancy a republic the -most perfect form of government.'</p> - -<p>'We will read Plato's Republic as soon as we have finished Homer.'</p> - -<p>'Well, in the Platonic year, it may fall out that we are all—men women, -and children—fit for a republic: but give me a constitutional monarchy -in our present state of morals and intelligence. In our infancy we -require a wise despotism to govern us. Indeed, long past infancy, -children and young people are the happiest under the unfailing laws of a -discreet, firm authority. I agree with Miss Hale so far as to consider -our people in the condition of children, while I deny that we, the -masters, have anything to do with the making or keeping them so. I -maintain that despotism is the best kind of government for them; so that -in the hours in which I come in contact with them I must necessarily be -an autocrat. I will use my best discretion—from no humbug or -philanthropic feeling, of which we have had rather too much in the -North—to make wise laws and come to just decisions in the conduct of my -business—laws and decisions which work for my own good in the first -instance—for theirs in the second; but I will neither be forced to give -my reasons, nor flinch from what I have once declared to be my -resolution. Let them turn out! I shall suffer as well as they: but at -the end they will find I have not bated nor altered one jot.'</p> - -<p>Margaret had re-entered the room and was sitting at her work; but she -did not speak. Mr. Hale answered—</p> - -<p>'I dare say I am talking in great ignorance; but from the little I know, -I should say that the masses were already passing rapidly into the -troublesome stage which intervenes between childhood and manhood, in the -life of the multitude as well as that of the individual. Now, the error -which many parents commit in the treatment of the individual at this -time is, insisting on the same unreasoning obedience as when all he had -to do in the way of duty was, to obey the simple laws of "Come when -you're called" and "Do as you're bid!" But a wise parent humours the -desire for independent action, so as to become the friend and adviser -when his absolute rule shall cease. If I get wrong in my reasoning, -recollect, it is you who adopted the analogy.'</p> - -<p>'Very lately,' said Margaret, 'I heard a story of what happened in -Nuremberg only three or four years ago. A rich man there lived alone in -one of the immense mansions which were formerly both dwellings and -warehouses. It was reported that he had a child, but no one knew of it -for certain. For forty years this rumour kept rising and falling—never -utterly dying away. After his death it was found to be true. He had a -son—an overgrown man with the unexercised intellect of a child, whom he -had kept up in that strange way, in order to save him from temptation -and error. But, of course, when this great old child was turned loose -into the world, every bad counsellor had power over him. He did not know -good from evil. His father had made the blunder of bringing him up in -ignorance and taking it for innocence; and after fourteen months of -riotous living, the city authorities had to take charge of him, in order -to save him from starvation. He could not even use words effectively -enough to be a successful beggar.'</p> - -<p>'I used the comparison (suggested by Miss Hale) of the position of the -master to that of a parent; so I ought not to complain of your turning -the simile into a weapon against me. But, Mr. Hale, when you were -setting up a wise parent as a model for us, you said he humoured his -children in their desire for independent action. Now certainly, the time -is not come for the hands to have any independent action during business -hours; I hardly know what you would mean by it then. And I say, that the -masters would be trenching on the independence of their hands, in a way -that I, for one, should not feel justified in doing, if we interfered -too much with the life they lead out of the mills. Because they labour -ten hours a-day for us, I do not see that we have any right to impose -leading-strings upon them for the rest of their time. I value my own -independence so highly that I can fancy no degradation greater than that -of having another man perpetually directing and advising and lecturing -me, or even planning too closely in any way about my actions. He might -be the wisest of men, or the most powerful—I should equally rebel and -resent his interference I imagine this is a stronger feeling in the -North of England that in the South.'</p> - -<p>'I beg your pardon, but is not that because there has been none of the -equality of friendship between the adviser and advised classes? Because -every man has had to stand in an unchristian and isolated position, -apart from and jealous of his brother-man: constantly afraid of his -rights being trenched upon?'</p> - -<p>'I only state the fact. I am sorry to say, I have an appointment at -eight o'clock, and I must just take facts as I find them to-night, -without trying to account for them; which, indeed, would make no -difference in determining how to act as things stand—the facts must be -granted.'</p> - -<p>'But,' said Margaret in a low voice, 'it seems to me that it makes all -the difference in the world—.' Her father made a sign to her to be -silent, and allow Mr. Thornton to finish what he had to say. He was -already standing up and preparing to go.</p> - -<p>'You must grant me this one point. Given a strong feeling of -independence in every Darkshire man, have I any right to obtrude my -views, of the manner in which he shall act, upon another (hating it as I -should do most vehemently myself), merely because he has labour to sell -and I capital to buy?'</p> - -<p>'Not in the least,' said Margaret, determined just to say this one -thing; 'not in the least because of your labour and capital positions, -whatever they are, but because you are a man, dealing with a set of men -over whom you have, whether you reject the use of it or not, immense -power, just because your lives and your welfare are so constantly and -intimately interwoven. God has made us so that we must be mutually -dependent. We may ignore our own dependence, or refuse to acknowledge -that others depend upon us in more respects than the payment of weekly -wages; but the thing must be, nevertheless. Neither you nor any other -master can help yourselves. The most proudly independent man depends on -those around him for their insensible influence on his character—his -life. And the most isolated of all your Darkshire Egos has dependants -clinging to him on all sides; he cannot shake them off, any more than -the great rock he resembles can shake off—'</p> - -<p>'Pray don't go into similes, Margaret; you have led us off once -already,' said her father, smiling, yet uneasy at the thought that they -were detaining Mr. Thornton against his will, which was a mistake; for -he rather liked it, as long as Margaret would talk, although what she -said only irritated him.</p> - -<p>'Just tell me, Miss Hale, are you yourself ever influenced—no, that is -not a fair way of putting it;—but if you are ever conscious of being -influenced by others, and not by circumstances, have those others been -working directly or indirectly? Have they been labouring to exhort, to -enjoin, to act rightly for the sake of example, or have they been -simple, true men, taking up their duty, and doing it unflinchingly, -without a thought of how their actions were to make this man -industrious, that man saving? Why, if I were a workman, I should be -twenty times more impressed by the knowledge that my master was honest, -punctual, quick, resolute in all his doings (and hands are keener spies -even than valets), than by any amount of interference, however kindly -meant, with my ways of going on out of work-hours. I do not choose to -think too closely on what I am myself; but, I believe, I rely on the -straightforward honesty of my hands, and the open nature of their -opposition, in contra-distinction to the way in which the turnout will -be managed in some mills, just because they know I scorn to take a -single dishonourable advantage, or do an underhand thing myself. It goes -farther than a whole course of lectures on "Honesty is the Best -Policy"—life diluted into words. No, no! What the master is, that will -the men be, without over-much taking thought on his part.'</p> - -<p>'That is a great admission,' said Margaret, laughing. 'When I see men -violent and obstinate in pursuit of their rights, I may safely infer -that the master is the same that he is a little ignorant of that spirit -which suffereth long, and is kind, and seeketh not her own.'</p> - -<p>'You are just like all strangers who don't understand the working of our -system, Miss Hale,' said he, hastily. 'You suppose that our men are -puppets of dough, ready to be moulded into any amiable form we please. -You forget we have only to do with them for less than a third of their -lives; and you seem not to perceive that the duties of a manufacturer -are far larger and wider than those merely of an employer of labour: we -have a wide commercial character to maintain, which makes us into the -great pioneers of civilisation.'</p> - -<p>'It strikes me,' said Mr. Hale, smiling, 'that you might pioneer a -little at home. They are a rough, heathenish set of fellows, these -Milton men of yours.'</p> - -<p>'They are that,' replied Mr. Thornton. 'Rosewater surgery won't do for -them. Cromwell would have made a capital mill-owner, Miss Hale. I wish -we had him to put down this strike for us.'</p> - -<p>'Cromwell is no hero of mine,' said she, coldly. 'But I am trying to -reconcile your admiration of despotism with your respect for other men's -independence of character.'</p> - -<p>He reddened at her tone. 'I choose to be the unquestioned and -irresponsible master of my hands, during the hours that they labour for -me. But those hours past, our relation ceases; and then comes in the -same respect for their independence that I myself exact.'</p> - -<p>He did not speak again for a minute, he was too much vexed. But he shook -it off, and bade Mr. and Mrs. Hale good night. Then, drawing near to -Margaret, he said in a lower voice—</p> - -<p>'I spoke hastily to you once this evening, and I am afraid, rather -rudely. But you know I am but an uncouth Milton manufacturer; will you -forgive me?'</p> - -<p>'Certainly,' said she, smiling up in his face, the expression of which -was somewhat anxious and oppressed, and hardly cleared away as he met -her sweet sunny countenance, out of which all the north-wind effect of -their discussion had entirely vanished. But she did not put out her hand -to him, and again he felt the omission, and set it down to pride.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVI_THE_SHADOW_OF_DEATH" id="CHAPTER_XVI_THE_SHADOW_OF_DEATH"></a>CHAPTER XVI—THE SHADOW OF DEATH</h2> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">'Trust in that veiled hand, which leads<br /></span> -<span class="i1">None by the path that he would go;<br /></span> -<span class="i1">And always be for change prepared,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">For the world's law is ebb and flow.'<br /></span> -<span class="i9">FROM THE ARABIC.<br /></span> -</div></div> - -<p>The next afternoon Dr. Donaldson came to pay his first visit to Mrs. -Hale. The mystery that Margaret hoped their late habits of intimacy had -broken through, was resumed. She was excluded from the room, while Dixon -was admitted. Margaret was not a ready lover, but where she loved she -loved passionately, and with no small degree of jealousy.</p> - -<p>She went into her mother's bed-room, just behind the drawing-room, and -paced it up and down, while awaiting the doctor's coming out. Every now -and then she stopped to listen; she fancied she heard a moan. She -clenched her hands tight, and held her breath. She was sure she heard a -moan. Then all was still for a few minutes more; and then there was the -moving of chairs, the raised voices, all the little disturbances of -leave-taking.</p> - -<p>When she heard the door open, she went quickly out of the bed-room.</p> - -<p>'My father is from home, Dr. Donaldson; he has to attend a pupil at this -hour. May I trouble you to come into his room down stairs?'</p> - -<p>She saw, and triumphed over all the obstacles which Dixon threw in her -way; assuming her rightful position as daughter of the house in -something of the spirit of the Elder Brother, which quelled the old -servant's officiousness very effectually. Margaret's conscious -assumption of this unusual dignity of demeanour towards Dixon, gave her -an instant's amusement in the midst of her anxiety. She knew, from the -surprised expression on Dixon's face, how ridiculously grand she herself -must be looking; and the idea carried her down stairs into the room; it -gave her that length of oblivion from the keen sharpness of the -recollection of the actual business in hand. Now, that came back, and -seemed to take away her breath. It was a moment or two before she could -utter a word.</p> - -<p>But she spoke with an air of command, as she asked:—'</p> - -<p>'What is the matter with mamma? You will oblige me by telling the simple -truth.' Then, seeing a slight hesitation on the doctor's part, she -added—</p> - -<p>'I am the only child she has—here, I mean. My father is not -sufficiently alarmed, I fear; and, therefore, if there is any serious -apprehension, it must be broken to him gently. I can do this. I can -nurse my mother. Pray, speak, sir; to see your face, and not be able to -read it, gives me a worse dread than I trust any words of yours will -justify.'</p> - -<p>'My dear young lady, your mother seems to have a most attentive and -efficient servant, who is more like her friend—'</p> - -<p>'I am her daughter, sir.'</p> - -<p>'But when I tell you she expressly desired that you might not be told—'</p> - -<p>'I am not good or patient enough to submit to the prohibition. Besides, -I am sure you are too wise—too experienced to have promised to keep the -secret.'</p> - -<p>'Well,' said he, half-smiling, though sadly enough, 'there you are -right. I did not promise. In fact, I fear, the secret will be known soon -enough without my revealing it.'</p> - -<p>He paused. Margaret went very white, and compressed her lips a little -more. Otherwise not a feature moved. With the quick insight into -character, without which no medical man can rise to the eminence of Dr. -Donaldson, he saw that she would exact the full truth; that she would -know if one iota was withheld; and that the withholding would be torture -more acute than the knowledge of it. He spoke two short sentences in a -low voice, watching her all the time; for the pupils of her eyes dilated -into a black horror and the whiteness of her complexion became livid. He -ceased speaking. He waited for that look to go off,—for her gasping -breath to come. Then she said:—</p> - -<p>'I thank you most truly, sir, for your confidence. That dread has -haunted me for many weeks. It is a true, real agony. My poor, poor -mother!' her lips began to quiver, and he let her have the relief of -tears, sure of her power of self-control to check them.</p> - -<p>A few tears—those were all she shed, before she recollected the many -questions she longed to ask.</p> - -<p>'Will there be much suffering?'</p> - -<p>He shook his head. 'That we cannot tell. It depends on constitution; on -a thousand things. But the late discoveries of medical science have -given us large power of alleviation.'</p> - -<p>'My father!' said Margaret, trembling all over.</p> - -<p>'I do not know Mr. Hale. I mean, it is difficult to give advice. But I -should say, bear on, with the knowledge you have forced me to give you -so abruptly, till the fact which I could not with-hold has become in -some degree familiar to you, so that you may, without too great an -effort, be able to give what comfort you can to your father. Before -then,—my visits, which, of course, I shall repeat from time to time, -although I fear I can do nothing but alleviate,—a thousand little -circumstances will have occurred to awaken his alarm, to deepen it—so -that he will be all the better prepared.—Nay, my dear young lady—nay, -my dear—I saw Mr. Thornton, and I honour your father for the sacrifice -he has made, however mistaken I may believe him to be.—Well, this once, -if it will please you, my dear. Only remember, when I come again, I come -as a friend. And you must learn to look upon me as such, because seeing -each other—getting to know each other at such times as these, is worth -years of morning calls.' Margaret could not speak for crying: but she -wrung his hand at parting.</p> - -<p>'That's what I call a fine girl!' thought Dr. Donaldson, when he was -seated in his carriage, and had time to examine his ringed hand, which -had slightly suffered from her pressure. 'Who would have thought that -little hand could have given such a squeeze? But the bones were well put -together, and that gives immense power. What a queen she is! With her -head thrown back at first, to force me into speaking the truth; and then -bent so eagerly forward to listen. Poor thing! I must see she does not -overstrain herself. Though it's astonishing how much those thorough-bred -creatures can do and suffer. That girl's game to the back-bone. Another, -who had gone that deadly colour, could never have come round without -either fainting or hysterics. But she wouldn't do either—not she! And -the very force of her will brought her round. Such a girl as that would -win my heart, if I were thirty years younger. It's too late now. Ah! -here we are at the Archers'.' So out he jumped, with thought, wisdom, -experience, sympathy, and ready to attend to the calls made upon them by -this family, just as if there were none other in the world.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile, Margaret had returned into her father's study for a moment, -to recover strength before going upstairs into her mother's presence.</p> - -<p>'Oh, my God, my God! but this is terrible. How shall I bear it? Such a -deadly disease! no hope! Oh, mamma, mamma, I wish I had never gone to -aunt Shaw's, and been all those precious years away from you! Poor -mamma! how much she must have borne! Oh, I pray thee, my God, that her -sufferings may not be too acute, too dreadful. How shall I bear to see -them? How can I bear papa's agony? He must not be told yet; not all at -once. It would kill him. But I won't lose another moment of my own dear, -precious mother.'</p> - -<p>She ran upstairs. Dixon was not in the room. Mrs. Hale lay back in an -easy chair, with a soft white shawl wrapped around her, and a becoming -cap put on, in expectation of the doctor's visit. Her face had a little -faint colour in it, and the very exhaustion after the examination gave -it a peaceful look. Margaret was surprised to see her look so calm.</p> - -<p>'Why, Margaret, how strange you look! What is the matter?' And then, as -the idea stole into her mind of what was indeed the real state of the -case, she added, as if a little displeased: 'you have not been seeing -Dr. Donaldson, and asking him any questions—have you, child?' Margaret -did not reply—only looked wistfully towards her. Mrs. Hale became more -displeased. 'He would not, surely, break his word to me, and'—</p> - -<p>'Oh yes, mamma, he did. I made him. It was I—blame me.' She knelt down -by her mother's side, and caught her hand—she would not let it go, -though Mrs. Hale tried to pull it away. She kept kissing it, and the hot -tears she shed bathed it.</p> - -<p>'Margaret, it was very wrong of you. You knew I did not wish you to -know.' But, as if tired with the contest, she left her hand in -Margaret's clasp, and by-and-by she returned the pressure faintly. That -encouraged Margaret to speak.</p> - -<p>'Oh, mamma! let me be your nurse. I will learn anything Dixon can teach -me. But you know I am your child, and I do think I have a right to do -everything for you.'</p> - -<p>'You don't know what you are asking,' said Mrs. Hale, with a shudder.</p> - -<p>'Yes, I do. I know a great deal more than you are aware of. Let me be -your nurse. Let me try, at any rate. No one has ever, shall ever try so -hard as I will do. It will be such a comfort, mamma.'</p> - -<p>'My poor child! Well, you shall try. Do you know, Margaret, Dixon and I -thought you would quite shrink from me if you knew—'</p> - -<p>'Dixon thought!' said Margaret, her lip curling. 'Dixon could not give -me credit for enough true love—for as much as herself! She thought, I -suppose, that I was one of those poor sickly women who like to lie on -rose leaves, and be fanned all day. Don't let Dixon's fancies come any -more between you and me, mamma. Don't, please!' implored she.</p> - -<p>'Don't be angry with Dixon,' said Mrs. Hale, anxiously. Margaret -recovered herself.</p> - -<p>'No! I won't. I will try and be humble, and learn her ways, if you will -only let me do all I can for you. Let me be in the first place, -mother—I am greedy of that. I used to fancy you would forget me while I -was away at aunt Shaw's, and cry myself to sleep at nights with that -notion in my head.'</p> - -<p>'And I used to think, how will Margaret bear our makeshift poverty after -the thorough comfort and luxury in Harley Street, till I have many a -time been more ashamed of your seeing our contrivances at Helstone than -of any stranger finding them out.'</p> - -<p>'Oh, mamma! and I did so enjoy them. They were so much more amusing than -all the jog-trot Harley Street ways. The wardrobe shelf with handles, -that served as a supper-tray on grand occasions! And the old tea-chests -stuffed and covered for ottomans! I think what you call the makeshift -contrivances at dear Helstone were a charming part of the life there.'</p> - -<p>'I shall never see Helstone again, Margaret,' said Mrs. Hale, the tears -welling up into her eyes. Margaret could not reply. Mrs. Hale went on. -'While I was there, I was for ever wanting to leave it. Every place -seemed pleasanter. And now I shall die far away from it. I am rightly -punished.'</p> - -<p>'You must not talk so,' said Margaret, impatiently. 'He said you might -live for years. Oh, mother! we will have you back at Helstone yet.'</p> - -<p>'No never! That I must take as a just penance. But, -Margaret—Frederick!' At the mention of that one word, she suddenly -cried out loud, as in some sharp agony. It seemed as if the thought of -him upset all her composure, destroyed the calm, overcame the -exhaustion. Wild passionate cry succeeded to cry—'Frederick! Frederick! -Come to me. I am dying. Little first-born child, come to me once again!'</p> - -<p>She was in violent hysterics. Margaret went and called Dixon in terror. -Dixon came in a huff, and accused Margaret of having over-excited her -mother. Margaret bore all meekly, only trusting that her father might -not return. In spite of her alarm, which was even greater than the -occasion warranted, she obeyed all Dixon's directions promptly and well, -without a word of self-justification. By so doing she mollified her -accuser. They put her mother to bed, and Margaret sate by her till she -fell asleep, and afterwards till Dixon beckoned her out of the room, -and, with a sour face, as if doing something against the grain, she bade -her drink a cup of coffee which she had prepared for her in the -drawing-room, and stood over her in a commanding attitude as she did so.</p> - -<p>'You shouldn't have been so curious, Miss, and then you wouldn't have -needed to fret before your time. It would have come soon enough. And -now, I suppose, you'll tell master, and a pretty household I shall have -of you!'</p> - -<p>'No, Dixon,' said Margaret, sorrowfully, 'I will not tell papa. He could -not bear it as I can.' And by way of proving how well she bore it, she -burst into tears.</p> - -<p>'Ay! I knew how it would be. Now you'll waken your mamma, just after -she's gone to sleep so quietly. Miss Margaret my dear, I've had to keep -it down this many a week; and though I don't pretend I can love her as -you do, yet I loved her better than any other man, woman, or child—no -one but Master Frederick ever came near her in my mind. Ever since Lady -Beresford's maid first took me in to see her dressed out in white crape, -and corn-ears, and scarlet poppies, and I ran a needle down into my -finger, and broke it in, and she tore up her worked pocket-handkerchief, -after they'd cut it out, and came in to wet the bandages again with -lotion when she returned from the ball—where she'd been the prettiest -young lady of all—I've never loved any one like her. I little thought -then that I should live to see her brought so low. I don't mean no -reproach to nobody. Many a one calls you pretty and handsome, and what -not. Even in this smoky place, enough to blind one's eyes, the owls can -see that. But you'll never be like your mother for beauty—never; not if -you live to be a hundred.'</p> - -<p>'Mamma is very pretty still. Poor mamma!'</p> - -<p>'Now don't ye set off again, or I shall give way at last' (whimpering). -'You'll never stand master's coming home, and questioning, at this rate. -Go out and take a walk, and come in something like. Many's the time I've -longed to walk it off—the thought of what was the matter with her, and -how it must all end.'</p> - -<p>'Oh, Dixon!' said Margaret, 'how often I've been cross with you, not -knowing what a terrible secret you had to bear!'</p> - -<p>'Bless you, child! I like to see you showing a bit of a spirit. It's the -good old Beresford blood. Why, the last Sir John but two shot his -steward down, there where he stood, for just telling him that he'd -racked the tenants, and he'd racked the tenants till he could get no -more money off them than he could get skin off a flint.'</p> - -<p>'Well, Dixon, I won't shoot you, and I'll try not to be cross again.'</p> - -<p>'You never have. If I've said it at times, it has always been to myself, -just in private, by way of making a little agreeable conversation, for -there's no one here fit to talk to. And when you fire up, you're the -very image of Master Frederick. I could find in my heart to put you in a -passion any day, just to see his stormy look coming like a great cloud -over your face. But now you go out, Miss. I'll watch over missus; and as -for master, his books are company enough for him, if he should come in.'</p> - -<p>'I will go,' said Margaret. She hung about Dixon for a minute or so, as -if afraid and irresolute; then suddenly kissing her, she went quickly -out of the room.</p> - -<p>'Bless her!' said Dixon. 'She's as sweet as a nut. There are three -people I love: it's missus, Master Frederick, and her. Just them three. -That's all. The rest be hanged, for I don't know what they're in the -world for. Master was born, I suppose, for to marry missus. If I thought -he loved her properly, I might get to love him in time. But he should -ha' made a deal more on her, and not been always reading, reading, -thinking, thinking. See what it has brought him to! Many a one who never -reads nor thinks either, gets to be Rector, and Dean, and what not; and -I dare say master might, if he'd just minded missus, and let the weary -reading and thinking alone.—There she goes' (looking out of the window -as she heard the front door shut). 'Poor young lady! her clothes look -shabby to what they did when she came to Helstone a year ago. Then she -hadn't so much as a darned stocking or a cleaned pair of gloves in all -her wardrobe. And now—!'</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVII_WHAT_IS_A_STRIKE" id="CHAPTER_XVII_WHAT_IS_A_STRIKE"></a>CHAPTER XVII—WHAT IS A STRIKE?</h2> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">'There are briars besetting every path,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Which call for patient care;<br /></span> -<span class="i1">There is a cross in every lot,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">And an earnest need for prayer.'<br /></span> -<span class="i9">A<small>NON</small>.<br /></span> -</div></div> - -<p>Margaret went out heavily and unwillingly enough. But the length of a -street—yes, the air of a Milton Street—cheered her young blood before -she reached her first turning. Her step grew lighter, her lip redder. -She began to take notice, instead of having her thoughts turned so -exclusively inward. She saw unusual loiterers in the streets: men with -their hands in their pockets sauntering along; loud-laughing and -loud-spoken girls clustered together, apparently excited to high -spirits, and a boisterous independence of temper and behaviour. The more -ill-looking of the men—the discreditable minority—hung about on the -steps of the beer-houses and gin-shops, smoking, and commenting pretty -freely on every passer-by. Margaret disliked the prospect of the long -walk through these streets, before she came to the fields which she had -planned to reach. Instead, she would go and see Bessy Higgins. It would -not be so refreshing as a quiet country walk, but still it would perhaps -be doing the kinder thing.</p> - -<p>Nicholas Higgins was sitting by the fire smoking, as she went in. Bessy -was rocking herself on the other side.</p> - -<p>Nicholas took the pipe out of his mouth, and standing up, pushed his -chair towards Margaret; he leant against the chimney piece in a lounging -attitude, while she asked Bessy how she was.</p> - -<p>'Hoo's rather down i' th' mouth in regard to spirits, but hoo's better -in health. Hoo doesn't like this strike. Hoo's a deal too much set on -peace and quietness at any price.'</p> - -<p>'This is th' third strike I've seen,' said she, sighing, as if that was -answer and explanation enough.</p> - -<p>'Well, third time pays for all. See if we don't dang th' masters this -time. See if they don't come, and beg us to come back at our own price. -That's all. We've missed it afore time, I grant yo'; but this time we'n -laid our plans desperate deep.'</p> - -<p>'Why do you strike?' asked Margaret. 'Striking is leaving off work till -you get your own rate of wages, is it not? You must not wonder at my -ignorance; where I come from I never heard of a strike.'</p> - -<p>'I wish I were there,' said Bessy, wearily. 'But it's not for me to get -sick and tired o' strikes. This is the last I'll see. Before it's ended -I shall be in the Great City—the Holy Jerusalem.'</p> - -<p>'Hoo's so full of th' life to come, hoo cannot think of th' present. Now -I, yo' see, am bound to do the best I can here. I think a bird i' th' -hand is worth two i' th' bush. So them's the different views we take on -th' strike question.'</p> - -<p>'But,' said Margaret, 'if the people struck, as you call it, where I -come from, as they are mostly all field labourers, the seed would not be -sown, the hay got in, the corn reaped.'</p> - -<p>'Well?' said he. He had resumed his pipe, and put his 'well' in the form -of an interrogation.</p> - -<p>'Why,' she went on, 'what would become of the farmers.'</p> - -<p>He puffed away. 'I reckon they'd have either to give up their farms, or -to give fair rate of wage.'</p> - -<p>'Suppose they could not, or would not do the last; they could not give -up their farms all in a minute, however much they might wish to do so; -but they would have no hay, nor corn to sell that year; and where would -the money come from to pay the labourers' wages the next?'</p> - -<p>Still puffing away. At last he said:</p> - -<p>'I know nought of your ways down South. I have heerd they're a pack of -spiritless, down-trodden men; welly clemmed to death; too much dazed wi' -clemming to know when they're put upon. Now, it's not so here. We known -when we're put upon; and we'en too much blood in us to stand it. We just -take our hands fro' our looms, and say, "Yo' may clem us, but yo'll not -put upon us, my masters!" And be danged to 'em, they shan't this time!'</p> - -<p>'I wish I lived down South,' said Bessy.</p> - -<p>'There's a deal to bear there,' said Margaret. 'There are sorrows to -bear everywhere. There is very hard bodily labour to be gone through, -with very little food to give strength.'</p> - -<p>'But it's out of doors,' said Bessy. 'And away from the endless, endless -noise, and sickening heat.'</p> - -<p>'It's sometimes in heavy rain, and sometimes in bitter cold. A young -person can stand it; but an old man gets racked with rheumatism, and -bent and withered before his time; yet he must just work on the same, or -else go to the workhouse.'</p> - -<p>'I thought yo' were so taken wi' the ways of the South country.'</p> - -<p>'So I am,' said Margaret, smiling a little, as she found herself thus -caught. 'I only mean, Bessy, there's good and bad in everything in this -world; and as you felt the bad up here, I thought it was but fair you -should know the bad down there.'</p> - -<p>'And yo' say they never strike down there?' asked Nicholas, abruptly.</p> - -<p>'No!' said Margaret; 'I think they have too much sense.'</p> - -<p>'An' I think,' replied he, dashing the ashes out of his pipe with so -much vehemence that it broke, 'it's not that they've too much sense, but -that they've too little spirit.'</p> - -<p>'O, father!' said Bessy, 'what have ye gained by striking? Think of that -first strike when mother died—how we all had to clem—you the worst of -all; and yet many a one went in every week at the same wage, till all -were gone in that there was work for; and some went beggars all their -lives at after.'</p> - -<p>'Ay,' said he. 'That there strike was badly managed. Folk got into th' -management of it, as were either fools or not true men. Yo'll see, it'll -be different this time.'</p> - -<p>'But all this time you've not told me what you're striking for,' said -Margaret, again.</p> - -<p>'Why, yo' see, there's five or six masters who have set themselves again -paying the wages they've been paying these two years past, and -flourishing upon, and getting richer upon. And now they come to us, and -say we're to take less. And we won't. We'll just clem them to death -first; and see who'll work for 'em then. They'll have killed the goose -that laid 'em the golden eggs, I reckon.'</p> - -<p>'And so you plan dying, in order to be revenged upon them!'</p> - -<p>'No,' said he, 'I dunnot. I just look forward to the chance of dying at -my post sooner than yield. That's what folk call fine and honourable in -a soldier, and why not in a poor weaver-chap?'</p> - -<p>'But,' said Margaret, 'a soldier dies in the cause of the Nation—in the -cause of others.'</p> - -<p>He laughed grimly. 'My lass,' said he, 'yo're but a young wench, but -don't yo' think I can keep three people—that's Bessy, and Mary, and -me—on sixteen shilling a week? Dun yo' think it's for mysel' I'm -striking work at this time? It's just as much in the cause of others as -yon soldier—only m'appen, the cause he dies for is just that of -somebody he never clapt eyes on, nor heerd on all his born days, while I -take up John Boucher's cause, as lives next door but one, wi' a sickly -wife, and eight childer, none on 'em factory age; and I don't take up -his cause only, though he's a poor good-for-nought, as can only manage -two looms at a time, but I take up th' cause o' justice. Why are we to -have less wage now, I ask, than two year ago?'</p> - -<p>'Don't ask me,' said Margaret; 'I am very ignorant. Ask some of your -masters. Surely they will give you a reason for it. It is not merely an -arbitrary decision of theirs, come to without reason.'</p> - -<p>'Yo're just a foreigner, and nothing more,' said he, contemptuously. -'Much yo' know about it. Ask th' masters! They'd tell us to mind our own -business, and they'd mind theirs. Our business being, yo' understand, to -take the bated' wage, and be thankful, and their business to bate us -down to clemming point, to swell their profits. That's what it is.'</p> - -<p>'But said Margaret, determined not to give way, although she saw she was -irritating him, 'the state of trade may be such as not to enable them to -give you the same remuneration.</p> - -<p>'State o' trade! That's just a piece o' masters' humbug. It's rate o' -wages I was talking of. Th' masters keep th' state o' trade in their own -hands; and just walk it forward like a black bug-a-boo, to frighten -naughty children with into being good. I'll tell yo' it's their -part,—their cue, as some folks call it,—to beat us down, to swell -their fortunes; and it's ours to stand up and fight hard,—not for -ourselves alone, but for them round about us—for justice and fair play. -We help to make their profits, and we ought to help spend 'em. It's not -that we want their brass so much this time, as we've done many a time -afore. We'n getten money laid by; and we're resolved to stand and fall -together; not a man on us will go in for less wage than th' Union says -is our due. So I say, "hooray for the strike," and let Thornton, and -Slickson, and Hamper, and their set look to it!'</p> - -<p>'Thornton!' said Margaret. 'Mr. Thornton of Marlborough Street?'</p> - -<p>'Aye! Thornton o' Marlborough Mill, as we call him.'</p> - -<p>'He is one of the masters you are striving with, is he not? What sort of -a master is he?'</p> - -<p>'Did yo' ever see a bulldog? Set a bulldog on hind legs, and dress him -up in coat and breeches, and yo'n just getten John Thornton.'</p> - -<p>'Nay,' said Margaret, laughing, 'I deny that. Mr. Thornton is plain -enough, but he's not like a bulldog, with its short broad nose, and -snarling upper lip.'</p> - -<p>'No! not in look, I grant yo'. But let John Thornton get hold on a -notion, and he'll stick to it like a bulldog; yo' might pull him away -wi' a pitch-fork ere he'd leave go. He's worth fighting wi', is John -Thornton. As for Slickson, I take it, some o' these days he'll wheedle -his men back wi' fair promises; that they'll just get cheated out of as -soon as they're in his power again. He'll work his fines well out on -'em, I'll warrant. He's as slippery as an eel, he is. He's like a -cat,—as sleek, and cunning, and fierce. It'll never be an honest up and -down fight wi' him, as it will be wi' Thornton. Thornton's as dour as a -door-nail; an obstinate chap, every inch on him,—th' oud bulldog!'</p> - -<p>'Poor Bessy!' said Margaret, turning round to her. 'You sigh over it -all. You don't like struggling and fighting as your father does, do -you?'</p> - -<p>'No!' said she, heavily. 'I'm sick on it. I could have wished to have -had other talk about me in my latter days, than just the clashing and -clanging and clattering that has wearied a' my life long, about work and -wages, and masters, and hands, and knobsticks.'</p> - -<p>'Poor wench! latter days be farred! Thou'rt looking a sight better -already for a little stir and change. Beside, I shall be a deal here to -make it more lively for thee.'</p> - -<p>'Tobacco-smoke chokes me!' said she, querulously.</p> - -<p>'Then I'll never smoke no more i' th' house!' he replied, tenderly. 'But -why didst thou not tell me afore, thou foolish wench?'</p> - -<p>She did not speak for a while, and then so low that only Margaret heard -her:</p> - -<p>'I reckon, he'll want a' the comfort he can get out o' either pipe or -drink afore he's done.'</p> - -<p>Her father went out of doors, evidently to finish his pipe.</p> - -<p>Bessy said passionately,</p> - -<p>'Now am not I a fool,—am I not, Miss?—there, I knew I ought for to -keep father at home, and away fro' the folk that are always ready for to -tempt a man, in time o' strike, to go drink,—and there my tongue must -needs quarrel with this pipe o' his'n,—and he'll go off, I know he -will,—as often as he wants to smoke—and nobody knows where it'll end. -I wish I'd letten myself be choked first.'</p> - -<p>'But does your father drink?' asked Margaret.</p> - -<p>'No—not to say drink,' replied she, still in the same wild excited -tone. 'But what win ye have? There are days wi' you, as wi' other folk, -I suppose, when yo' get up and go through th' hours, just longing for a -bit of a change—a bit of a fillip, as it were. I know I ha' gone and -bought a four-pounder out o' another baker's shop to common on such -days, just because I sickened at the thought of going on for ever wi' -the same sight in my eyes, and the same sound in my ears, and the same -taste i' my mouth, and the same thought (or no thought, for that matter) -in my head, day after day, for ever. I've longed for to be a man to go -spreeing, even it were only a tramp to some new place in search o' work. -And father—all men—have it stronger in 'em than me to get tired o' -sameness and work for ever. And what is 'em to do? It's little blame to -them if they do go into th' gin-shop for to make their blood flow -quicker, and more lively, and see things they never see at no other -time—pictures, and looking-glass, and such like. But father never was a -drunkard, though maybe, he's got worse for drink, now and then. Only yo' -see,' and now her voice took a mournful, pleading tone, 'at times o' -strike there's much to knock a man down, for all they start so -hopefully; and where's the comfort to come fro'? He'll get angry and -mad—they all do—and then they get tired out wi' being angry and mad, -and maybe ha' done things in their passion they'd be glad to forget. -Bless yo'r sweet pitiful face! but yo' dunnot know what a strike is -yet.'</p> - -<p>'Come, Bessy,' said Margaret, 'I won't say you're exaggerating, because -I don't know enough about it: but, perhaps, as you're not well, you're -only looking on one side, and there is another and a brighter to be -looked to.'</p> - -<p>'It's all well enough for yo' to say so, who have lived in pleasant -green places all your life long, and never known want or care, or -wickedness either, for that matter.'</p> - -<p>'Take care,' said Margaret, her cheek flushing, and her eye lightening, -'how you judge, Bessy. I shall go home to my mother, who is so ill—so -ill, Bessy, that there's no outlet but death for her out of the prison -of her great suffering; and yet I must speak cheerfully to my father, -who has no notion of her real state, and to whom the knowledge must come -gradually. The only person—the only one who could sympathise with me -and help me—whose presence could comfort my mother more than any other -earthly thing—is falsely accused—would run the risk of death if he -came to see his dying mother. This I tell you—only you, Bessy. You must -not mention it. No other person in Milton—hardly any other person in -England knows. Have I not care? Do I not know anxiety, though I go about -well-dressed, and have food enough? Oh, Bessy, God is just, and our lots -are well portioned out by Him, although none but He knows the bitterness -of our souls.'</p> - -<p>'I ask your pardon,' replied Bessy, humbly. 'Sometimes, when I've -thought o' my life, and the little pleasure I've had in it, I've -believed that, maybe, I was one of those doomed to die by the falling of -a star from heaven; "And the name of the star is called Wormwood;" and -the third part of the waters became wormwood; and men died of the -waters, because they were made bitter." One can bear pain and sorrow -better if one thinks it has been prophesied long before for one: -somehow, then it seems as if my pain was needed for the fulfilment; -otherways it seems all sent for nothing.'</p> - -<p>'Nay, Bessy—think!' said Margaret. 'God does not willingly afflict. -Don't dwell so much on the prophecies, but read the clearer parts of the -Bible.'</p> - -<p>'I dare say it would be wiser; but where would I hear such grand words -of promise—hear tell o' anything so far different fro' this dreary -world, and this town above a', as in Revelations? Many's the time I've -repeated the verses in the seventh chapter to myself, just for the -sound. It's as good as an organ, and as different from every day, too. -No, I cannot give up Revelations. It gives me more comfort than any -other book i' the Bible.'</p> - -<p>'Let me come and read you some of my favourite chapters.'</p> - -<p>'Ay,' said she, greedily, 'come. Father will maybe hear yo'. He's deaved -wi' my talking; he says it's all nought to do with the things o' to-day, -and that's his business.'</p> - -<p>'Where is your sister?'</p> - -<p>'Gone fustian-cutting. I were loth to let her go; but somehow we must -live; and th' Union can't afford us much.'</p> - -<p>'Now I must go. You have done me good, Bessy.'</p> - -<p>'I done you good!'</p> - -<p>'Yes. I came here very sad, and rather too apt to think my own cause for -grief was the only one in the world. And now I hear how you have had to -bear for years, and that makes me stronger.'</p> - -<p>'Bless yo'! I thought a' the good-doing was on the side of gentle folk. -I shall get proud if I think I can do good to yo'.'</p> - -<p>'You won't do it if you think about it. But you'll only puzzle yourself -if you do, that's one comfort.'</p> - -<p>'Yo're not like no one I ever seed. I dunno what to make of yo'.'</p> - -<p>'Nor I of myself. Good-bye!'</p> - -<p>Bessy stilled her rocking to gaze after her.</p> - -<p>'I wonder if there are many folk like her down South. She's like a -breath of country air, somehow. She freshens me up above a bit. Who'd -ha' thought that face—as bright and as strong as the angel I dream -of—could have known the sorrow she speaks on? I wonder how she'll sin. -All on us must sin. I think a deal on her, for sure. But father does the -like, I see. And Mary even. It's not often hoo's stirred up to notice -much.'</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVIII_LIKES_AND_DISLIKES" id="CHAPTER_XVIII_LIKES_AND_DISLIKES"></a>CHAPTER XVIII—LIKES AND DISLIKES</h2> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">'My heart revolts within me, and two voices<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Make themselves audible within my bosom.'<br /></span> -<span class="i9">W<small>ALLENSTEIN</small>.<br /></span> -</div></div> - -<p>On Margaret's return home she found two letters on the table: one was a -note for her mother,—the other, which had come by the post, was -evidently from her Aunt Shaw—covered with foreign post-marks—thin, -silvery, and rustling. She took up the other, and was examining it, when -her father came in suddenly:</p> - -<p>'So your mother is tired, and gone to bed early! I'm afraid, such a -thundery day was not the best in the world for the doctor to see her. -What did he say? Dixon tells me he spoke to you about her.'</p> - -<p>Margaret hesitated. Her father's looks became more grave and anxious:</p> - -<p>'He does not think her seriously ill?'</p> - -<p>'Not at present; she needs care, he says; he was very kind, and said he -would call again, and see how his medicines worked.'</p> - -<p>'Only care—he did not recommend change of air?—he did not say this -smoky town was doing her any harm, did he, Margaret?'</p> - -<p>'No! not a word,' she replied, gravely. 'He was anxious, I think.'</p> - -<p>'Doctors have that anxious manner; it's professional,' said he.</p> - -<p>Margaret saw, in her father's nervous ways, that the first impression of -possible danger was made upon his mind, in spite of all his making light -of what she told him. He could not forget the subject,—could not pass -from it to other things; he kept recurring to it through the evening, -with an unwillingness to receive even the slightest unfavourable idea, -which made Margaret inexpressibly sad.</p> - -<p>'This letter is from Aunt Shaw, papa. She has got to Naples, and finds -it too hot, so she has taken apartments at Sorrento. But I don't think -she likes Italy.'</p> - -<p>'He did not say anything about diet, did he?'</p> - -<p>'It was to be nourishing, and digestible. Mamma's appetite is pretty -good, I think.'</p> - -<p>'Yes! and that makes it all the more strange he should have thought of -speaking about diet.'</p> - -<p>'I asked him, papa.' Another pause. Then Margaret went on: 'Aunt Shaw -says, she has sent me some coral ornaments, papa; but,' added Margaret, -half smiling, 'she's afraid the Milton Dissenters won't appreciate them. -She has got all her ideas of Dissenters from the Quakers, has not she?'</p> - -<p>'If ever you hear or notice that your mother wishes for anything, be -sure you let me know. I am so afraid she does not tell me always what -she would like. Pray, see after that girl Mrs. Thornton named. If we had -a good, efficient house-servant, Dixon could be constantly with her, and -I'd answer for it we'd soon set her up amongst us, if care will do it. -She's been very much tired of late, with the hot weather, and the -difficulty of getting a servant. A little rest will put her quite to -rights—eh, Margaret?'</p> - -<p>'I hope so,' said Margaret,—but so sadly, that her father took notice -of it. He pinched her cheek.</p> - -<p>'Come; if you look so pale as this, I must rouge you up a little. Take -care of yourself, child, or you'll be wanting the doctor next.'</p> - -<p>But he could not settle to anything that evening. He was continually -going backwards and forwards, on laborious tiptoe, to see if his wife -was still asleep. Margaret's heart ached at his restlessness—his trying -to stifle and strangle the hideous fear that was looming out of the dark -places of his heart. He came back at last, somewhat comforted.</p> - -<p>'She's awake now, Margaret. She quite smiled as she saw me standing by -her. Just her old smile. And she says she feels refreshed, and ready for -tea. Where's the note for her? She wants to see it. I'll read it to her -while you make tea.'</p> - -<p>The note proved to be a formal invitation from Mrs. Thornton, to Mr., -Mrs., and Miss Hale to dinner, on the twenty-first instant. Margaret was -surprised to find an acceptance contemplated, after all she had learnt -of sad probabilities during the day. But so it was. The idea of her -husband's and daughter's going to this dinner had quite captivated Mrs. -Hale's fancy, even before Margaret had heard the contents of the note. -It was an event to diversify the monotony of the invalid's life; and she -clung to the idea of their going, with even fretful pertinacity when -Margaret objected.</p> - -<p>'Nay, Margaret? if she wishes it, I'm sure we'll both go willingly. She -never would wish it unless she felt herself really stronger—really -better than we thought she was, eh, Margaret?' said Mr. Hale, anxiously, -as she prepared to write the note of acceptance, the next day.</p> - -<p>'Eh! Margaret?' questioned he, with a nervous motion of his hands. It -seemed cruel to refuse him the comfort he craved for. And besides, his -passionate refusal to admit the existence of fear, almost inspired -Margaret herself with hope.</p> - -<p>'I do think she is better since last night,' said she. 'Her eyes look -brighter, and her complexion clearer.'</p> - -<p>'God bless you,' said her father, earnestly. 'But is it true? Yesterday -was so sultry every one felt ill. It was a most unlucky day for Mr. -Donaldson to see her on.'</p> - -<p>So he went away to his day's duties, now increased by the preparation of -some lectures he had promised to deliver to the working people at a -neighbouring Lyceum. He had chosen Ecclesiastical Architecture as his -subject, rather more in accordance with his own taste and knowledge than -as falling in with the character of the place or the desire for -particular kinds of information among those to whom he was to lecture. -And the institution itself, being in debt, was only too glad to get a -gratis course from an educated and accomplished man like Mr. Hale, let -the subject be what it might.</p> - -<p>'Well, mother,' asked Mr. Thornton that night, 'who have accepted your -invitations for the twenty-first?'</p> - -<p>'Fanny, where are the notes? The Slicksons accept, Collingbrooks accept, -Stephenses accept, Browns decline. Hales—father and daughter -come,—mother too great an invalid—Macphersons come, and Mr. Horsfall, -and Mr. Young. I was thinking of asking the Porters, as the Browns can't -come.'</p> - -<p>'Very good. Do you know, I'm really afraid Mrs. Hale is very far from -well, from what Dr. Donaldson says.'</p> - -<p>'It's strange of them to accept a dinner-invitation if she's very ill,' -said Fanny.</p> - -<p>'I didn't say very ill,' said her brother, rather sharply. 'I only said -very far from well. They may not know it either.' And then he suddenly -remembered that, from what Dr. Donaldson had told him, Margaret, at any -rate, must be aware of the exact state of the case.</p> - -<p>'Very probably they are quite aware of what you said yesterday, John—of -the great advantage it would be to them—to Mr. Hale, I mean, to be -introduced to such people as the Stephenses and the Collingbrooks.'</p> - -<p>'I'm sure that motive would not influence them. No! I think I understand -how it is.'</p> - -<p>'John!' said Fanny, laughing in her little, weak, nervous way. 'How you -profess to understand these Hales, and how you never will allow that we -can know anything about them. Are they really so very different to most -people one meets with?'</p> - -<p>She did not mean to vex him; but if she had intended it, she could not -have done it more thoroughly. He chafed in silence, however, not -deigning to reply to her question.</p> - -<p>'They do not seem to me out of the common way,' said Mrs. Thornton. 'He -appears a worthy kind of man enough; rather too simple for trade—so -it's perhaps as well he should have been a clergyman first, and now a -teacher. She's a bit of a fine lady, with her invalidism; and as for the -girl—she's the only one who puzzles me when I think about her,—which I -don't often do. She seems to have a great notion of giving herself airs; -and I can't make out why. I could almost fancy she thinks herself too -good for her company at times. And yet they're not rich, from all I can -hear they never have been.'</p> - -<p>'And she's not accomplished, mamma. She can't play.'</p> - -<p>'Go on, Fanny. What else does she want to bring her up to your -standard?'</p> - -<p>'Nay! John,' said his mother, 'that speech of Fanny's did no harm. I -myself heard Miss Hale say she could not play. If you would let us -alone, we could perhaps like her, and see her merits.'</p> - -<p>'I'm sure I never could!' murmured Fanny, protected by her mother. Mr. -Thornton heard, but did not care to reply. He was walking up and down -the dining-room, wishing that his mother would order candles, and allow -him to set to work at either reading or writing, and so put a stop to -the conversation. But he never thought of interfering in any of the -small domestic regulations that Mrs. Thornton observed, in habitual -remembrance of her old economies.</p> - -<p>'Mother,' said he, stopping, and bravely speaking out the truth, 'I wish -you would like Miss Hale.'</p> - -<p>'Why?' asked she, startled by his earnest, yet tender manner. 'You're -never thinking of marrying her?—a girl without a penny.'</p> - -<p>'She would never have me,' said he, with a short laugh.</p> - -<p>'No, I don't think she would,' answered his mother. 'She laughed in my -face, when I praised her for speaking out something Mr. Bell had said in -your favour. I liked the girl for doing it so frankly, for it made me -sure she had no thought of you; and the next minute she vexed me so by -seeming to think—— Well, never mind! Only you're right in saying she's -too good an opinion of herself to think of you. The saucy jade! I should -like to know where she'd find a better!' If these words hurt her son, -the dusky light prevented him from betraying any emotion. In a minute he -came up quite cheerfully to his mother, and putting one hand lightly on -her shoulder, said:</p> - -<p>'Well, as I'm just as much convinced of the truth of what you have been -saying as you can be; and as I have no thought or expectation of ever -asking her to be my wife, you'll believe me for the future that I'm -quite disinterested in speaking about her. I foresee trouble for that -girl—perhaps want of motherly care—and I only wish you to be ready to -be a friend to her, in case she needs one. Now, Fanny,' said he, 'I -trust you have delicacy enough to understand, that it is as great an -injury to Miss Hale as to me—in fact, she would think it a greater—to -suppose that I have any reason, more than I now give, for begging you -and my mother to show her every kindly attention.'</p> - -<p>'I cannot forgive her her pride,' said his mother; 'I will befriend her, -if there is need, for your asking, John. I would befriend Jezebel -herself if you asked me. But this girl, who turns up her nose at us -all—who turns up her nose at you—— '</p> - -<p>'Nay, mother; I have never yet put myself, and I mean never to put -myself, within reach of her contempt.'</p> - -<p>'Contempt, indeed!'—(One of Mrs. Thornton's expressive snorts.)—'Don't -go on speaking of Miss Hale, John, if I've to be kind to her. When I'm -with her, I don't know if I like or dislike her most; but when I think -of her, and hear you talk of her, I hate her. I can see she's given -herself airs to you as well as if you'd told me out.'</p> - -<p>'And if she has,' said he—and then he paused for a moment—then went -on: 'I'm not a lad, to be cowed by a proud look from a woman, or to care -for her misunderstanding me and my position. I can laugh at it!'</p> - -<p>'To be sure! and at her too, with her fine notions and haughty tosses!'</p> - -<p>'I only wonder why you talk so much about her, then,' said Fanny. 'I'm -sure, I'm tired enough of the subject.'</p> - -<p>'Well!' said her brother, with a shade of bitterness. 'Suppose we find -some more agreeable subject. What do you say to a strike, by way of -something pleasant to talk about?'</p> - -<p>'Have the hands actually turned out?' asked Mrs. Thornton, with vivid -interest.</p> - -<p>'Hamper's men are actually out. Mine are working out their week, through -fear of being prosecuted for breach of contract. I'd have had every one -of them up and punished for it, that left his work before his time was -out.'</p> - -<p>'The law expenses would have been more than the hands them selves were -worth—a set of ungrateful naughts!' said his mother.</p> - -<p>'To be sure. But I'd have shown them how I keep my word, and how I mean -them to keep theirs. They know me by this time. Slickson's men are -off—pretty certain he won't spend money in getting them punished. We're -in for a turn-out, mother.'</p> - -<p>'I hope there are not many orders in hand?'</p> - -<p>'Of course there are. They know that well enough. But they don't quite -understand all, though they think they do.'</p> - -<p>'What do you mean, John?'</p> - -<p>Candles had been brought, and Fanny had taken up her interminable piece -of worsted-work, over which she was yawning; throwing herself back in -her chair, from time to time, to gaze at vacancy, and think of nothing -at her ease.</p> - -<p>'Why,' said he, 'the Americans are getting their yarns so into the -general market, that our only chance is producing them at a lower rate. -If we can't, we may shut up shop at once, and hands and masters go alike -on tramp. Yet these fools go back to the prices paid three years -ago—nay, some of their leaders quote Dickinson's prices now—though -they know as well as we do that, what with fines pressed out of their -wages as no honourable man would extort them, and other ways which I for -one would scorn to use, the real rate of wage paid at Dickinson's is -less than at ours. Upon my word, mother, I wish the old combination-laws -were in force. It is too bad to find out that fools—ignorant wayward -men like these—just by uniting their weak silly heads, are to rule over -the fortunes of those who bring all the wisdom that knowledge and -experience, and often painful thought and anxiety, can give. The next -thing will be—indeed, we're all but come to it now—that we shall have -to go and ask—stand hat in hand—and humbly ask the secretary of the -Spinner' Union to be so kind as to furnish us with labour at their own -price. That's what they want—they, who haven't the sense to see that, -if we don't get a fair share of the profits to compensate us for our -wear and tear here in England, we can move off to some other country; -and that, what with home and foreign competition, we are none of us -likely to make above a fair share, and may be thankful enough if we can -get that, in an average number of years.'</p> - -<p>'Can't you get hands from Ireland? I wouldn't keep these fellows a day. -I'd teach them that I was master, and could employ what servants I -liked.'</p> - -<p>'Yes! to be sure, I can; and I will, too, if they go on long. It will be -trouble and expense, and I fear there will be some danger; but I will do -it, rather than give in.'</p> - -<p>'If there is to be all this extra expense, I'm sorry we're giving a -dinner just now.'</p> - -<p>'So am I,—not because of the expense, but because I shall have much to -think about, and many unexpected calls on my time. But we must have had -Mr. Horsfall, and he does not stay in Milton long. And as for the -others, we owe them dinners, and it's all one trouble.'</p> - -<p>He kept on with his restless walk—not speaking any more, but drawing a -deep breath from time to time, as if endeavouring to throw off some -annoying thought. Fanny asked her mother numerous small questions, all -having nothing to do with the subject, which a wiser person would have -perceived was occupying her attention. Consequently, she received many -short answers. She was not sorry when, at ten o'clock, the servants -filed in to prayers. These her mother always read,—first reading a -chapter. They were now working steadily through the Old Testament. When -prayers were ended, and his mother had wished him goodnight, with that -long steady look of hers which conveyed no expression of the tenderness -that was in her heart, but yet had the intensity of a blessing, Mr. -Thornton continued his walk. All his business plans had received a -check, a sudden pull-up, from this approaching turn-out. The forethought -of many anxious hours was thrown away, utterly wasted by their insane -folly, which would injure themselves even more than him, though no one -could set any limit to the mischief they were doing. And these were the -men who thought themselves fitted to direct the masters in the disposal -of their capital! Hamper had said, only this very day, that if he were -ruined by the strike, he would start life again, comforted by the -conviction that those who brought it on were in a worse predicament than -he himself,—for he had head as well as hands, while they had only -hands; and if they drove away their market, they could not follow it, -nor turn to anything else. But this thought was no consolation to Mr. -Thornton. It might be that revenge gave him no pleasure; it might be -that he valued the position he had earned with the sweat of his brow, so -much that he keenly felt its being endangered by the ignorance or folly -of others,—so keenly that he had no thoughts to spare for what would be -the consequences of their conduct to themselves. He paced up and down, -setting his teeth a little now and then. At last it struck two. The -candles were flickering in their sockets. He lighted his own, muttering -to himself:</p> - -<p>'Once for all, they shall know whom they have got to deal with. I can -give them a fortnight,—no more. If they don't see their madness before -the end of that time, I must have hands from Ireland. I believe it's -Slickson's doing,—confound him and his dodges! He thought he was -overstocked; so he seemed to yield at first, when the deputation came to -him,—and of course, he only confirmed them in their folly, as he meant -to do. That's where it spread from.'</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIX_ANGEL_VISITS" id="CHAPTER_XIX_ANGEL_VISITS"></a>CHAPTER XIX—ANGEL VISITS</h2> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">'As angels in some brighter dreams<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Call to the soul when man doth sleep,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">And into glory peep.'<br /></span> -<span class="i9">H<small>ENRY</small> V<small>AUGHAN</small>.<br /></span> -</div></div> - -<p>Mrs. Hale was curiously amused and interested by the idea of the -Thornton dinner party. She kept wondering about the details, with -something of the simplicity of a little child, who wants to have all its -anticipated pleasures described beforehand. But the monotonous life led -by invalids often makes them like children, inasmuch as they have -neither of them any sense of proportion in events, and seem each to -believe that the walls and curtains which shut in their world, and shut -out everything else, must of necessity be larger than anything hidden -beyond. Besides, Mrs. Hale had had her vanities as a girl; had perhaps -unduly felt their mortification when she became a poor clergyman's -wife;—they had been smothered and kept down; but they were not extinct; -and she liked to think of seeing Margaret dressed for a party, and -discussed what she should wear, with an unsettled anxiety that amused -Margaret, who had been more accustomed to society in her one in Harley -Street than her mother in five and twenty years of Helstone.</p> - -<p>'Then you think you shall wear your white silk. Are you sure it will -fit? It's nearly a year since Edith was married!'</p> - -<p>'Oh yes, mamma! Mrs. Murray made it, and it's sure to be right; it may -be a straw's breadth shorter or longer-waisted, according to my having -grown fat or thin. But I don't think I've altered in the least.'</p> - -<p>'Hadn't you better let Dixon see it? It may have gone yellow with lying -by.'</p> - -<p>'If you like, mamma. But if the worst comes to the worst, I've a very -nice pink gauze which aunt Shaw gave me, only two or three months before -Edith was married. That can't have gone yellow.'</p> - -<p>'No! but it may have faded.'</p> - -<p>'Well! then I've a green silk. I feel more as if it was the -embarrassment of riches.'</p> - -<p>'I wish I knew what you ought to wear,' said Mrs. Hale, nervously. -Margaret's manner changed instantly. 'Shall I go and put them on one -after another, mamma, and then you could see which you liked best?'</p> - -<p>'But—yes! perhaps that will be best.'</p> - -<p>So off Margaret went. She was very much inclined to play some pranks -when she was dressed up at such an unusual hour; to make her rich white -silk balloon out into a cheese, to retreat backwards from her mother as -if she were the queen; but when she found that these freaks of hers were -regarded as interruptions to the serious business, and as such annoyed -her mother, she became grave and sedate. What had possessed the world -(her world) to fidget so about her dress, she could not understand; but -that very after noon, on naming her engagement to Bessy Higgins (apropos -of the servant that Mrs. Thornton had promised to inquire about), Bessy -quite roused up at the intelligence.</p> - -<p>'Dear! and are you going to dine at Thornton's at Marlborough Mills?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, Bessy. Why are you so surprised?'</p> - -<p>'Oh, I dunno. But they visit wi' a' th' first folk in Milton.'</p> - -<p>'And you don't think we're quite the first folk in Milton, eh, Bessy?' -Bessy's cheeks flushed a little at her thought being thus easily read.</p> - -<p>'Well,' said she, 'yo' see, they thinken a deal o' money here and I -reckon yo've not getten much.'</p> - -<p>'No,' said Margaret, 'that's very true. But we are educated people, and -have lived amongst educated people. Is there anything so wonderful, in -our being asked out to dinner by a man who owns himself inferior to my -father by coming to him to be instructed? I don't mean to blame Mr. -Thornton. Few drapers' assistants, as he was once, could have made -themselves what he is.'</p> - -<p>'But can yo' give dinners back, in yo'r small house? Thornton's house is -three times as big.'</p> - -<p>'Well, I think we could manage to give Mr. Thornton a dinner back, as -you call it. Perhaps not in such a large room, nor with so many people. -But I don't think we've thought about it at all in that way.'</p> - -<p>'I never thought yo'd be dining with Thorntons,' repeated Bessy. 'Why, -the mayor hissel' dines there; and the members of Parliament and all.'</p> - -<p>'I think I could support the honour of meeting the mayor of Milton.'</p> - -<p>'But them ladies dress so grand!' said Bessy, with an anxious look at -Margaret's print gown, which her Milton eyes appraised at sevenpence a -yard. Margaret's face dimpled up into a merry laugh. -</p> -<p> -'Thank You, Bessy, -for thinking so kindly about my looking nice among all the smart people. -But I've plenty of grand gowns,—a week ago, I should have said they -were far too grand for anything I should ever want again. But as I'm to -dine at Mr. Thornton's, and perhaps to meet the mayor, I shall put on my -very best gown, you may be sure.'</p> - -<p>'What win yo' wear?' asked Bessy, somewhat relieved.</p> - -<p>'White silk,' said Margaret. 'A gown I had for a cousin's wedding, a -year ago.'</p> - -<p>'That'll do!' said Bessy, falling back in her chair. 'I should be loth -to have yo' looked down upon.'</p> - -<p>'Oh! I'll be fine enough, if that will save me from being looked down -upon in Milton.'</p> - -<p>'I wish I could see you dressed up,' said Bessy. 'I reckon, yo're not -what folk would ca' pretty; yo've not red and white enough for that. But -dun yo' know, I ha' dreamt of yo', long afore ever I seed yo'.'</p> - -<p>'Nonsense, Bessy!'</p> - -<p>'Ay, but I did. Yo'r very face,—looking wi' yo'r clear steadfast eyes -out o' th' darkness, wi' yo'r hair blown off from yo'r brow, and going -out like rays round yo'r forehead, which was just as smooth and as -straight as it is now,—and yo' always came to give me strength, which I -seemed to gather out o' yo'r deep comforting eyes,—and yo' were drest -in shining raiment—just as yo'r going to be drest. So, yo' see, it was -yo'!'</p> - -<p>'Nay, Bessy,' said Margaret, gently, 'it was but a dream.'</p> - -<p>'And why might na I dream a dream in my affliction as well as others? -Did not many a one i' the Bible? Ay, and see visions too! Why, even my -father thinks a deal o' dreams! I tell yo' again, I saw yo' as plainly, -coming swiftly towards me, wi' yo'r hair blown back wi' the very -swiftness o' the motion, just like the way it grows, a little standing -off like; and the white shining dress on yo've getten to wear. Let me -come and see yo' in it. I want to see yo' and touch yo' as in very deed -yo' were in my dream.'</p> - -<p>'My dear Bessy, it is quite a fancy of yours.'</p> - -<p>'Fancy or no fancy,—yo've come, as I knew yo' would, when I saw yo'r -movement in my dream,—and when yo're here about me, I reckon I feel -easier in my mind, and comforted, just as a fire comforts one on a dree -day. Yo' said it were on th' twenty-first; please God, I'll come and see -yo'.'</p> - -<p>'Oh Bessy! you may come and welcome; but don't talk so—it really makes -me sorry. It does indeed.'</p> - -<p>'Then I'll keep it to mysel', if I bite my tongue out. Not but what it's -true for all that.'</p> - -<p>Margaret was silent. At last she said,</p> - -<p>'Let us talk about it sometimes, if you think it true. But not now. Tell -me, has your father turned out?'</p> - -<p>'Ay!' said Bessy, heavily—in a manner very different from that she had -spoken in but a minute or two before. 'He and many another,—all -Hamper's men,—and many a one besides. Th' women are as bad as th' men, -in their savageness, this time. Food is high,—and they mun have food -for their childer, I reckon. Suppose Thorntons sent 'em their dinner -out,—th' same money, spent on potatoes and meal, would keep many a -crying babby quiet, and hush up its mother's heart for a bit!'</p> - -<p>'Don't speak so!' said Margaret. 'You'll make me feel wicked and guilty -in going to this dinner.'</p> - -<p>'No!' said Bessy. 'Some's pre-elected to sumptuous feasts, and purple -and fine linen,—may be yo're one on 'em. Others toil and moil all their -lives long—and the very dogs are not pitiful in our days, as they were -in the days of Lazarus. But if yo' ask me to cool yo'r tongue wi' th' -tip of my finger, I'll come across the great gulf to yo' just for th' -thought o' what yo've been to me here.'</p> - -<p>'Bessy! you're very feverish! I can tell it in the touch of your hand, -as well as in what you're saying. It won't be division enough, in that -awful day, that some of us have been beggars here, and some of us have -been rich,—we shall not be judged by that poor accident, but by our -faithful following of Christ.' Margaret got up, and found some water and -soaking her pocket-handkerchief in it, she laid the cool wetness on -Bessy's forehead, and began to chafe the stone-cold feet. Bessy shut her -eyes, and allowed herself to be soothed. At last she said,</p> - -<p>'Yo'd ha' been deaved out o' yo'r five wits, as well as me, if yo'd had -one body after another coming in to ask for father, and staying to tell -me each one their tale. Some spoke o' deadly hatred, and made my blood -run cold wi' the terrible things they said o' th' masters,—but more, -being women, kept plaining, plaining (wi' the tears running down their -cheeks, and never wiped away, nor heeded), of the price o' meat, and how -their childer could na sleep at nights for th' hunger.'</p> - -<p>'And do they think the strike will mend this?' asked Margaret.</p> - -<p>'They say so,' replied Bessy. 'They do say trade has been good for long, -and the masters has made no end o' money; how much father doesn't know, -but, in course, th' Union does; and, as is natural, they wanten their -share o' th' profits, now that food is getting dear; and th' Union says -they'll not be doing their duty if they don't make the masters give 'em -their share. But masters has getten th' upper hand somehow; and I'm -feared they'll keep it now and evermore. It's like th' great battle o' -Armageddon, the way they keep on, grinning and fighting at each other, -till even while they fight, they are picked off into the pit.' Just -then, Nicholas Higgins came in. He caught his daughter's last words.</p> - -<p>'Ay! and I'll fight on too; and I'll get it this time. It'll not take -long for to make 'em give in, for they've getten a pretty lot of orders, -all under contract; and they'll soon find out they'd better give us our -five per cent than lose the profit they'll gain; let alone the fine for -not fulfilling the contract. Aha, my masters! I know who'll win.'</p> - -<p>Margaret fancied from his manner that he must have been drinking, not so -much from what he said, as from the excited way in which he spoke; and -she was rather confirmed in this idea by the evident anxiety Bessy -showed to hasten her departure. Bessy said to her,—</p> - -<p>'The twenty-first—that's Thursday week. I may come and see yo' dressed -for Thornton's, I reckon. What time is yo'r dinner?'</p> - -<p>Before Margaret could answer, Higgins broke out,</p> - -<p>'Thornton's! Ar' t' going to dine at Thornton's? Ask him to give yo' a -bumper to the success of his orders. By th' twenty-first, I reckon, -he'll be pottered in his brains how to get 'em done in time. Tell him, -there's seven hundred'll come marching into Marlborough Mills, the -morning after he gives the five per cent, and will help him through his -contract in no time. You'll have 'em all there. My master, Hamper. He's -one o' th' oud-fashioned sort. Ne'er meets a man bout an oath or a -curse; I should think he were going to die if he spoke me civil; but -arter all, his bark's waur than his bite, and yo' may tell him one o' -his turn-outs said so, if yo' like. Eh! but yo'll have a lot of prize -mill-owners at Thornton's! I should like to get speech o' them, when -they're a bit inclined to sit still after dinner, and could na run for -the life on 'em. I'd tell 'em my mind. I'd speak up again th' hard way -they're driving on us!'</p> - -<p>'Good-bye!' said Margaret, hastily. 'Good-bye, Bessy! I shall look to -see you on the twenty-first, if you're well enough.'</p> - -<p>The medicines and treatment which Dr. Donaldson had ordered for Mrs. -Hale, did her so much good at first that not only she herself, but -Margaret, began to hope that he might have been mistaken, and that she -could recover permanently. As for Mr. Hale, although he had never had an -idea of the serious nature of their apprehensions, he triumphed over -their fears with an evident relief, which proved how much his glimpse -into the nature of them had affected him. Only Dixon croaked for ever -into Margaret's ear. However, Margaret defied the raven, and would hope.</p> - -<p>They needed this gleam of brightness in-doors, for out-of-doors, even to -their uninstructed eyes, there was a gloomy brooding appearance of -discontent. Mr. Hale had his own acquaintances among the working men, -and was depressed with their earnestly told tales of suffering and -long-endurance. They would have scorned to speak of what they had to -bear to any one who might, from his position, have understood it without -their words. But here was this man, from a distant county, who was -perplexed by the workings of the system into the midst of which he was -thrown, and each was eager to make him a judge, and to bring witness of -his own causes for irritation. Then Mr. Hale brought all his budget of -grievances, and laid it before Mr. Thornton, for him, with his -experience as a master, to arrange them, and explain their origin; which -he always did, on sound economical principles; showing that, as trade -was conducted, there must always be a waxing and waning of commercial -prosperity; and that in the waning a certain number of masters, as well -as of men, must go down into ruin, and be no more seen among the ranks -of the happy and prosperous. He spoke as if this consequence were so -entirely logical, that neither employers nor employed had any right to -complain if it became their fate: the employer to turn aside from the -race he could no longer run, with a bitter sense of incompetency and -failure—wounded in the struggle—trampled down by his fellows in their -haste to get rich—slighted where he once was honoured—humbly asking -for, instead of bestowing, employment with a lordly hand. Of course, -speaking so of the fate that, as a master, might be his own in the -fluctuations of commerce, he was not likely to have more sympathy with -that of the workmen, who were passed by in the swift merciless -improvement or alteration who would fain lie down and quietly die out of -the world that needed them not, but felt as if they could never rest in -their graves for the clinging cries of the beloved and helpless they -would leave behind; who envied the power of the wild bird, that can feed -her young with her very heart's blood. Margaret's whole soul rose up -against him while he reasoned in this way—as if commerce were -everything and humanity nothing. She could hardly, thank him for the -individual kindness, which brought him that very evening to offer -her—for the delicacy which made him understand that he must offer her -privately—every convenience for illness that his own wealth or his -mother's foresight had caused them to accumulate in their household, and -which, as he learnt from Dr. Donaldson, Mrs. Hale might possibly -require. His presence, after the way he had spoken—his bringing before -her the doom, which she was vainly trying to persuade herself might yet -be averted from her mother—all conspired to set Margaret's teeth on -edge, as she looked at him, and listened to him. What business had he to -be the only person, except Dr. Donaldson and Dixon, admitted to the -awful secret, which she held shut up in the most dark and sacred recess -of her heart—not daring to look at it, unless she invoked heavenly -strength to bear the sight—that, some day soon, she should cry aloud -for her mother, and no answer would come out of the blank, dumb -darkness? Yet he knew all. She saw it in his pitying eyes. She heard it -in his grave and tremulous voice. How reconcile those eyes, that voice, -with the hard-reasoning, dry, merciless way in which he laid down axioms -of trade, and serenely followed them out to their full consequences? The -discord jarred upon her inexpressibly. The more because of the gathering -woe of which she heard from Bessy. To be sure, Nicholas Higgins, the -father, spoke differently. He had been appointed a committee-man, and -said that he knew secrets of which the exoteric knew nothing. He said -this more expressly and particularly, on the very day before Mrs. -Thornton's dinner-party, when Margaret, going in to speak to Bessy, -found him arguing the point with Boucher, the neighbour of whom she had -frequently heard mention, as by turns exciting Higgins's compassion, as -an unskilful workman with a large family depending upon him for support, -and at other times enraging his more energetic and sanguine neighbour by -his want of what the latter called spirit. It was very evident that -Higgins was in a passion when Margaret entered. Boucher stood, with both -hands on the rather high mantel-piece, swaying himself a little on the -support which his arms, thus placed, gave him, and looking wildly into -the fire, with a kind of despair that irritated Higgins, even while it -went to his heart. Bessy was rocking herself violently backwards and -forwards, as was her wont (Margaret knew by this time) when she was -agitated. Her sister Mary was tying on her bonnet (in great clumsy bows, -as suited her great clumsy fingers), to go to her fustian-cutting, -blubbering out loud the while, and evidently longing to be away from a -scene that distressed her. Margaret came in upon this scene. She stood -for a moment at the door—then, her finger on her lips, she stole to a -seat on the squab near Bessy. Nicholas saw her come in, and greeted her -with a gruff, but not unfriendly nod. Mary hurried out of the house -catching gladly at the open door, and crying aloud when she got away -from her father's presence. It was only John Boucher that took no notice -whatever who came in and who went out.</p> - -<p>'It's no use, Higgins. Hoo cannot live long a' this'n. Hoo's just -sinking away—not for want o' meat hersel'—but because hoo cannot stand -th' sight o' the little ones clemming. Ay, clemming! Five shilling a -week may do well enough for thee, wi' but two mouths to fill, and one on -'em a wench who can welly earn her own meat. But it's clemming to us. -An' I tell thee plain—if hoo dies as I'm 'feard hoo will afore we've -getten th' five per cent, I'll fling th' money back i' th' master's -face, and say, "Be domned to yo'; be domned to th' whole cruel world o' -yo'; that could na leave me th' best wife that ever bore childer to a -man!" An' look thee, lad, I'll hate thee, and th' whole pack o' th' -Union. Ay, an' chase yo' through heaven wi' my hatred,—I will, lad! I -will,—if yo're leading me astray i' this matter. Thou saidst, Nicholas, -on Wednesday sennight—and it's now Tuesday i' th' second week—that -afore a fortnight we'd ha' the masters coming a-begging to us to take -back our' work, at our own wage—and time's nearly up,—and there's our -lile Jack lying a-bed, too weak to cry, but just every now and then -sobbing up his heart for want o' food,—our lile Jack, I tell thee, lad! -Hoo's never looked up sin' he were born, and hoo loves him as if he were -her very life,—as he is,—for I reckon he'll ha' cost me that precious -price,—our lile Jack, who wakened me each morn wi' putting his sweet -little lips to my great rough fou' face, a-seeking a smooth place to -kiss,—an' he lies clemming.' Here the deep sobs choked the poor man, -and Nicholas looked up, with eyes brimful of tears, to Margaret, before -he could gain courage to speak.</p> - -<p>'Hou'd up, man. Thy lile Jack shall na' clem. I ha' getten brass, and -we'll go buy the chap a sup o' milk an' a good four-pounder this very -minute. What's mine's thine, sure enough, i' thou'st i' want. Only, -dunnot lose heart, man!' continued he, as he fumbled in a tea-pot for -what money he had. 'I lay yo' my heart and soul we'll win for a' this: -it's but bearing on one more week, and yo just see th' way th' masters -'ll come round, praying on us to come back to our mills. An' th' -Union,—that's to say, I—will take care yo've enough for th' childer -and th' missus. So dunnot turn faint-heart, and go to th' tyrants -a-seeking work.'</p> - -<p>The man turned round at these words,—turned round a face so white, and -gaunt, and tear-furrowed, and hopeless, that its very calm forced -Margaret to weep. 'Yo' know well, that a worser tyrant than e'er th' -masters were says "Clem to death, and see 'em a' clem to death, ere yo' -dare go again th' Union." Yo' know it well, Nicholas, for a' yo're one -on 'em. Yo' may be kind hearts, each separate; but once banded together, -yo've no more pity for a man than a wild hunger-maddened wolf.'</p> - -<p>Nicholas had his hand on the lock of the door—he stopped and turned -round on Boucher, close following:</p> - -<p>'So help me God! man alive—if I think not I'm doing best for thee, and -for all on us. If I'm going wrong when I think I'm going right, it's -their sin, who ha' left me where I am, in my ignorance. I ha' thought -till my brains ached,—Beli' me, John, I have. An' I say again, there's -no help for us but having faith i' th' Union. They'll win the day, see -if they dunnot!'</p> - -<p>Not one word had Margaret or Bessy spoken. They had hardly uttered the -sighing, that the eyes of each called to the other to bring up from the -depths of her heart. At last Bessy said,</p> - -<p>'I never thought to hear father call on God again. But yo' heard him -say, "So help me God!"'</p> - -<p>'Yes!' said Margaret. 'Let me bring you what money I can spare,—let me -bring you a little food for that poor man's children. Don't let them -know it comes from any one but your father. It will be but little.'</p> - -<p>Bessy lay back without taking any notice of what Margaret said. She did -not cry—she only quivered up her breath,</p> - -<p>'My heart's drained dry o' tears,' she said. 'Boucher's been in these -days past, a telling me of his fears and his troubles. He's but a weak -kind o' chap, I know, but he's a man for a' that; and tho' I've been -angry, many a time afore now, wi' him an' his wife, as knew no more nor -him how to manage, yet, yo' see, all folks isn't wise, yet God lets 'em -live—ay, an' gives 'em some one to love, and be loved by, just as good -as Solomon. An', if sorrow comes to them they love, it hurts 'em as sore -as e'er it did Solomon. I can't make it out. Perhaps it's as well such a -one as Boucher has th' Union to see after him. But I'd just like for to -see th' mean as make th' Union, and put 'em one by one face to face wi' -Boucher. I reckon, if they heard him, they'd tell him (if I cotched 'em -one by one), he might go back and get what he could for his work, even -if it weren't so much as they ordered.'</p> - -<p>Margaret sat utterly silent. How was she ever to go away into comfort -and forget that man's voice, with the tone of unutterable agony, telling -more by far than his words of what he had to suffer? She took out her -purse; she had not much in it of what she could call her own, but what -she had she put into Bessy's hand without speaking.</p> - -<p>'Thank yo'. There's many on 'em gets no more, and is not so bad -off,—leastways does not show it as he does. But father won't let 'em -want, now he knows. Yo' see, Boucher's been pulled down wi' his -childer,—and her being so cranky, and a' they could pawn has gone this -last twelvemonth. Yo're not to think we'd ha' letten 'em clem, for all -we're a bit pressed oursel'; if neighbours doesn't see after neighbours, -I dunno who will.' Bessy seemed almost afraid lest Margaret should think -they had not the will, and, to a certain degree, the power of helping -one whom she evidently regarded as having a claim upon them. 'Besides,' -she went on, 'father is sure and positive the masters must give in -within these next few days,—that they canna hould on much longer. But I -thank yo' all the same,—I thank yo' for mysel', as much as for Boucher, -for it just makes my heart warm to yo' more and more.'</p> - -<p>Bessy seemed much quieter to-day, but fearfully languid and exhausted. -As she finished speaking, she looked so faint and weary that Margaret -became alarmed.</p> - -<p>'It's nout,' said Bessy. 'It's not death yet. I had a fearfu' night wi' -dreams—or somewhat like dreams, for I were wide awake—and I'm all in a -swounding daze to-day,—only yon poor chap made me alive again. No! it's -not death yet, but death is not far off. Ay! Cover me up, and I'll may -be sleep, if th' cough will let me. Good night—good afternoon, m'appen -I should say—but th' light is dim an' misty to-day.'</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XX_MEN_AND_GENTLEMEN" id="CHAPTER_XX_MEN_AND_GENTLEMEN"></a>CHAPTER XX—MEN AND GENTLEMEN</h2> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">'Old and young, boy, let 'em all eat, I have it;<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Let 'em have ten tire of teeth a-piece, I care not.'<br /></span> -<span class="i9">ROLLO, DUKE OF NORMANDY.<br /></span> -</div></div> - -<p>Margaret went home so painfully occupied with what she had heard and -seen that she hardly knew how to rouse herself up to the duties which -awaited her; the necessity for keeping up a constant flow of cheerful -conversation for her mother, who, now that she was unable to go out, -always looked to Margaret's return from the shortest walk as bringing in -some news.</p> - -<p>'And can your factory friend come on Thursday to see you dressed?'</p> - -<p>'She was so ill I never thought of asking her,' said Margaret, -dolefully.</p> - -<p>'Dear! Everybody is ill now, I think,' said Mrs. Hale, with a little of -the jealousy which one invalid is apt to feel of another. 'But it must -be very sad to be ill in one of those little back streets.' (Her kindly -nature prevailing, and the old Helstone habits of thought returning.) -'It's bad enough here. What could you do for her, Margaret? Mr. Thornton -has sent me some of his old port wine since you went out. Would a bottle -of that do her good, think you?'</p> - -<p>'No, mamma! I don't believe they are very poor,—at least, they don't -speak as if they were; and, at any rate, Bessy's illness is -consumption—she won't want wine. Perhaps, I might take her a little -preserve, made of our dear Helstone fruit. No! there's another family to -whom I should like to give—Oh mamma, mamma! how am I to dress up in my -finery, and go off and away to smart parties, after the sorrow I have -seen to-day?' exclaimed Margaret, bursting the bounds she had -preordained for herself before she came in, and telling her mother of -what she had seen and heard at Higgins's cottage.</p> - -<p>It distressed Mrs. Hale excessively. It made her restlessly irritated -till she could do something. She directed Margaret to pack up a basket -in the very drawing-room, to be sent there and then to the family; and -was almost angry with her for saying, that it would not signify if it -did not go till morning, as she knew Higgins had provided for their -immediate wants, and she herself had left money with Bessy. Mrs. Hale -called her unfeeling for saying this; and never gave herself -breathing-time till the basket was sent out of the house. Then she said:</p> - -<p>'After all, we may have been doing wrong. It was only the last time Mr. -Thornton was here that he said, those were no true friends who helped to -prolong the struggle by assisting the turn outs. And this Boucher-man -was a turn-out, was he not?'</p> - -<p>The question was referred to Mr. Hale by his wife, when he came -up-stairs, fresh from giving a lesson to Mr. Thornton, which had ended -in conversation, as was their wont. Margaret did not care if their gifts -had prolonged the strike; she did not think far enough for that, in her -present excited state.</p> - -<p>Mr. Hale listened, and tried to be as calm as a judge; he recalled all -that had seemed so clear not half-an-hour before, as it came out of Mr. -Thornton's lips; and then he made an unsatisfactory compromise. His wife -and daughter had not only done quite right in this instance, but he did -not see for a moment how they could have done otherwise. Nevertheless, -as a general rule, it was very true what Mr. Thornton said, that as the -strike, if prolonged, must end in the masters' bringing hands from a -distance (if, indeed, the final result were not, as it had often been -before, the invention of some machine which would diminish the need of -hands at all), why, it was clear enough that the kindest thing was to -refuse all help which might bolster them up in their folly. But, as to -this Boucher, he would go and see him the first thing in the morning, -and try and find out what could be done for him.</p> - -<p>Mr. Hale went the next morning, as he proposed. He did not find Boucher -at home, but he had a long talk with his wife; promised to ask for an -Infirmary order for her; and, seeing the plenty provided by Mrs. Hale, -and somewhat lavishly used by the children, who were masters down-stairs -in their father's absence, he came back with a more consoling and -cheerful account than Margaret had dared to hope for; indeed, what she -had said the night before had prepared her father for so much worse a -state of things that, by a reaction of his imagination, he described all -as better than it really was.</p> - -<p>'But I will go again, and see the man himself,' said Mr. Hale. 'I hardly -know as yet how to compare one of these houses with our Helstone -cottages. I see furniture here which our labourers would never have -thought of buying, and food commonly used which they would consider -luxuries; yet for these very families there seems no other resource, now -that their weekly wages are stopped, but the pawn-shop. One had need to -learn a different language, and measure by a different standard, up here -in Milton.'</p> - -<p>Bessy, too, was rather better this day. Still she was so weak that she -seemed to have entirely forgotten her wish to see Margaret dressed—if, -indeed, that had not been the feverish desire of a half-delirious state.</p> - -<p>Margaret could not help comparing this strange dressing of hers, to go -where she did not care to be—her heart heavy with various -anxieties—with the old, merry, girlish toilettes that she and Edith had -performed scarcely more than a year ago. Her only pleasure now in -decking herself out was in thinking that her mother would take delight -in seeing her dressed. She blushed when Dixon, throwing the drawing-room -door open, made an appeal for admiration.</p> - -<p>'Miss Hale looks well, ma'am,—doesn't she? Mrs. Shaw's coral couldn't -have come in better. It just gives the right touch of colour, ma'am. -Otherwise, Miss Margaret, you would have been too pale.'</p> - -<p>Margaret's black hair was too thick to be plaited; it needed rather to -be twisted round and round, and have its fine silkiness compressed into -massive coils, that encircled her head like a crown, and then were -gathered into a large spiral knot behind. She kept its weight together -by two large coral pins, like small arrows for length. Her white silk -sleeves were looped up with strings of the same material, and on her -neck, just below the base of her curved and milk-white throat, there lay -heavy coral beads.</p> - -<p>'Oh, Margaret! how I should like to be going with you to one of the old -Barrington assemblies,—taking you as Lady Beresford used to take me.' -Margaret kissed her mother for this little burst of maternal vanity; but -she could hardly smile at it, she felt so much out of spirits.</p> - -<p>'I would rather stay at home with you,—much rather, mamma.'</p> - -<p>'Nonsense, darling! Be sure you notice the dinner well. I shall like to -hear how they manage these things in Milton. Particularly the second -course, dear. Look what they have instead of game.'</p> - -<p>Mrs. Hale would have been more than interested,—she would have been -astonished, if she had seen the sumptuousness of the dinner-table and -its appointments. Margaret, with her London cultivated taste, felt the -number of delicacies to be oppressive; one half of the quantity would -have been enough, and the effect lighter and more elegant. But it was -one of Mrs. Thornton's rigorous laws of hospitality, that of each -separate dainty enough should be provided for all the guests to partake, -if they felt inclined. Careless to abstemiousness in her daily habits, -it was part of her pride to set a feast before such of her guests as -cared for it. Her son shared this feeling. He had never known—though he -might have imagined, and had the capability to relish—any kind of -society but that which depended on an exchange of superb meals and even -now, though he was denying himself the personal expenditure of an -unnecessary sixpence, and had more than once regretted that the -invitations for this dinner had been sent out, still, as it was to be, -he was glad to see the old magnificence of preparation.</p> - -<p>Margaret and her -father were the first to arrive. Mr. Hale was anxiously punctual to the -time specified. There was no one up-stairs in the drawing-room but Mrs. -Thornton and Fanny. Every cover was taken off, and the apartment blazed -forth in yellow silk damask and a brilliantly-flowered carpet. Every -corner seemed filled up with ornament, until it became a weariness to -the eye, and presented a strange contrast to the bald ugliness of the -look-out into the great mill-yard, where wide folding gates were thrown -open for the admission of carriages. The mill loomed high on the -left-hand side of the windows, casting a shadow down from its many -stories, which darkened the summer evening before its time.</p> - -<p>'My son was engaged up to the last moment on business. He will be here -directly, Mr. Hale. May I beg you to take a seat?'</p> - -<p>Mr. Hale was standing at one of the windows as Mrs. Thornton spoke. He -turned away, saying,</p> - -<p>'Don't you find such close neighbourhood to the mill rather unpleasant -at times?'</p> - -<p>She drew herself up:</p> - -<p>'Never. I am not become so fine as to desire to forget the source of my -son's wealth and power. Besides, there is not such another factory in -Milton. One room alone is two hundred and twenty square yards.'</p> - -<p>'I meant that the smoke and the noise—the constant going out and coming -in of the work-people, might be annoying!'</p> - -<p>'I agree with you, Mr. Hale!' said Fanny. 'There is a continual smell of -steam, and oily machinery—and the noise is perfectly deafening.'</p> - -<p>'I have heard noise that was called music far more deafening. The -engine-room is at the street-end of the factory; we hardly hear it, -except in summer weather, when all the windows are open; and as for the -continual murmur of the work-people, it disturbs me no more than the -humming of a hive of bees. If I think of it at all, I connect it with my -son, and feel how all belongs to him, and that his is the head that -directs it. Just now, there are no sounds to come from the mill; the -hands have been ungrateful enough to turn out, as perhaps you have -heard. But the very business (of which I spoke, when you entered), had -reference to the steps he is going to take to make them learn their -place.' The expression on her face, always stern, deepened into dark -anger, as she said this. Nor did it clear away when Mr. Thornton entered -the room; for she saw, in an instant, the weight of care and anxiety -which he could not shake off, although his guests received from him a -greeting that appeared both cheerful and cordial. He shook hands with -Margaret. He knew it was the first time their hands had met, though she -was perfectly unconscious of the fact. He inquired after Mrs. Hale, and -heard Mr. Hale's sanguine, hopeful account; and glancing at Margaret, to -understand how far she agreed with her father, he saw that no dissenting -shadow crossed her face. And as he looked with this intention, he was -struck anew with her great beauty. He had never seen her in such dress -before and yet now it appeared as if such elegance of attire was so -befitting her noble figure and lofty serenity of countenance, that she -ought to go always thus apparelled. She was talking to Fanny; about -what, he could not hear; but he saw his sister's restless way of -continually arranging some part of her gown, her wandering eyes, now -glancing here, now there, but without any purpose in her observation; -and he contrasted them uneasily with the large soft eyes that looked -forth steadily at one object, as if from out their light beamed some -gentle influence of repose: the curving lines of the red lips, just -parted in the interest of listening to what her companion said—the head -a little bent forwards, so as to make a long sweeping line from the -summit, where the light caught on the glossy raven hair, to the smooth -ivory tip of the shoulder; the round white arms, and taper hands, laid -lightly across each other, but perfectly motionless in their pretty -attitude. Mr. Thornton sighed as he took in all this with one of his -sudden comprehensive glances. And then he turned his back to the young -ladies, and threw himself, with an effort, but with all his heart and -soul, into a conversation with Mr. Hale.</p> - -<p>More people came—more and more. Fanny left Margaret's side, and helped -her mother to receive her guests. Mr. Thornton felt that in this influx -no one was speaking to Margaret, and was restless under this apparent -neglect. But he never went near her himself; he did not look at her. -Only, he knew what she was doing—or not doing—better than he knew the -movements of any one else in the room. Margaret was so unconscious of -herself, and so much amused by watching other people, that she never -thought whether she was left unnoticed or not. Somebody took her down to -dinner; she did not catch the name; nor did he seem much inclined to -talk to her. There was a very animated conversation going on among the -gentlemen; the ladies, for the most part, were silent, employing -themselves in taking notes of the dinner and criticising each other's -dresses. Margaret caught the clue to the general conversation, grew -interested and listened attentively. Mr. Horsfall, the stranger, whose -visit to the town was the original germ of the party, was asking -questions relative to the trade and manufactures of the place; and the -rest of the gentlemen—all Milton men,—were giving him answers and -explanations. Some dispute arose, which was warmly contested; it was -referred to Mr. Thornton, who had hardly spoken before; but who now gave -an opinion, the grounds of which were so clearly stated that even the -opponents yielded. Margaret's attention was thus called to her host; his -whole manner as master of the house, and entertainer of his friends, was -so straightforward, yet simple and modest, as to be thoroughly -dignified. Margaret thought she had never seen him to so much advantage. -When he had come to their house, there had been always something, either -of over-eagerness or of that kind of vexed annoyance which seemed ready -to pre-suppose that he was unjustly judged, and yet felt too proud to -try and make himself better understood. But now, among his fellows, -there was no uncertainty as to his position. He was regarded by them as -a man of great force of character; of power in many ways. There was no -need to struggle for their respect. He had it, and he knew it; and the -security of this gave a fine grand quietness to his voice and ways, -which Margaret had missed before.</p> - -<p>He was not in the habit of talking to ladies; and what he did say was a -little formal. To Margaret herself he hardly spoke at all. She was -surprised to think how much she enjoyed this dinner. She knew enough now -to understand many local interests—nay, even some of the technical -words employed by the eager mill-owners. She silently took a very -decided part in the question they were discussing. At any rate, they -talked in desperate earnest,—not in the used-up style that wearied her -so in the old London parties. She wondered that with all this dwelling -on the manufactures and trade of the place, no allusion was made to the -strike then pending. She did not yet know how coolly such things were -taken by the masters, as having only one possible end. To be sure, the -men were cutting their own throats, as they had done many a time before; -but if they would be fools, and put themselves into the hands of a -rascally set of paid delegates, they must take the consequence. One or -two thought Thornton looked out of spirits; and, of course, he must lose -by this turn-out. But it was an accident that might happen to themselves -any day; and Thornton was as good to manage a strike as any one; for he -was as iron a chap as any in Milton. The hands had mistaken their man in -trying that dodge on him. And they chuckled inwardly at the idea of the -workmen's discomfiture and defeat, in their attempt to alter one iota of -what Thornton had decreed. It was rather dull for Margaret after dinner. -She was glad when the gentlemen came, not merely because she caught her -father's eye to brighten her sleepiness up; but because she could listen -to something larger and grander than the petty interests which the -ladies had been talking about. She liked the exultation in the sense of -power which these Milton men had. It might be rather rampant in its -display, and savour of boasting; but still they seemed to defy the old -limits of possibility, in a kind of fine intoxication, caused by the -recollection of what had been achieved, and what yet should be. If in -her cooler moments she might not approve of their spirit in all things, -still there was much to admire in their forgetfulness of themselves and -the present, in their anticipated triumphs over all inanimate matter at -some future time which none of them should live to see. She was rather -startled when Mr. Thornton spoke to her, close at her elbow:</p> - -<p>'I could see you were on our side in our discussion at dinner,—were you -not, Miss Hale?'</p> - -<p>'Certainly. But then I know so little about it. I was surprised, -however, to find from what Mr. Horsfall said, that there were others who -thought in so diametrically opposite a manner, as the Mr. Morison he -spoke about. He cannot be a gentleman—is he?'</p> - -<p>'I am not quite the person to decide on another's gentlemanliness, Miss -Hale. I mean, I don't quite understand your application of the word. But -I should say that this Morison is no true man. I don't know who he is; I -merely judge him from Mr. Horsfall's account.'</p> - -<p>'I suspect my "gentleman" includes your "true man."'</p> - -<p>'And a great deal more, you would imply. I differ from you. A man is to -me a higher and a completer being than a gentleman.'</p> - -<p>'What do you mean?' asked Margaret. 'We must understand the words -differently.'</p> - -<p>'I take it that "gentleman" is a term that only describes a person in -his relation to others; but when we speak of him as "a man," we consider -him not merely with regard to his fellow-men, but in relation to -himself,—to life—to time—to eternity. A cast-away lonely as Robinson -Crusoe—a prisoner immured in a dungeon for life—nay, even a saint in -Patmos, has his endurance, his strength, his faith, best described by -being spoken of as "a man." I am rather weary of this word -"gentlemanly," which seems to me to be often inappropriately used, and -often, too, with such exaggerated distortion of meaning, while the full -simplicity of the noun "man," and the adjective "manly" are -unacknowledged—that I am induced to class it with the cant of the day.'</p> - -<p>Margaret thought a moment,—but before she could speak her slow -conviction, he was called away by some of the eager manufacturers, whose -speeches she could not hear, though she could guess at their import by -the short clear answers Mr. Thornton gave, which came steady and firm as -the boom of a distant minute gun. They were evidently talking of the -turn-out, and suggesting what course had best be pursued. She heard Mr. -Thornton say:</p> - -<p>'That has been done.' Then came a hurried murmur, in which two or three -joined.</p> - -<p>'All those arrangements have been made.'</p> - -<p>Some doubts were implied, some difficulties named by Mr. Slickson, who -took hold of Mr. Thornton's arm, the better to impress his words. Mr. -Thornton moved slightly away, lifted his eyebrows a very little, and -then replied:</p> - -<p>'I take the risk. You need not join in it unless you choose.' Still some -more fears were urged.</p> - -<p>'I'm not afraid of anything so dastardly as incendiarism. We are open -enemies; and I can protect myself from any violence that I apprehend. -And I will assuredly protect all others who come to me for work. They -know my determination by this time, as well and as fully as you do.'</p> - -<p>Mr. Horsfall took him a little on one side, as Margaret conjectured, to -ask him some other question about the strike; but, in truth, it was to -inquire who she herself was—so quiet, so stately, and so beautiful.</p> - -<p>'A Milton lady?' asked he, as the name was given.</p> - -<p>'No! from the south of England—Hampshire, I believe,' was the cold, -indifferent answer.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Slickson was catechising Fanny on the same subject.</p> - -<p>'Who is that fine distinguished-looking girl? a sister of Mr. -Horsfall's?'</p> - -<p>'Oh dear, no! That is Mr. Hale, her father, talking now to Mr. Stephens. -He gives lessons; that is to say, he reads with young men. My brother -John goes to him twice a week, and so he begged mamma to ask them here, -in hopes of getting him known. I believe, we have some of their -prospectuses, if you would like to have one.'</p> - -<p>'Mr. Thornton! Does he really find time to read with a tutor, in the -midst of all his business,—and this abominable strike in hand as well?'</p> - -<p>Fanny was not sure, from Mrs. Slickson's manner, whether she ought to be -proud or ashamed of her brother's conduct; and, like all people who try -and take other people's 'ought' for the rule of their feelings, she was -inclined to blush for any singularity of action. Her shame was -interrupted by the dispersion of the guests.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXI_THE_DARK_NIGHT" id="CHAPTER_XXI_THE_DARK_NIGHT"></a>CHAPTER XXI—THE DARK NIGHT</h2> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">'On earth is known to none<br /></span> -<span class="i1">The smile that is not sister to a tear.'<br /></span> -<span class="i9">E<small>LLIOTT</small>.<br /></span> -</div></div> - -<p>Margaret and her father walked home. The night was fine, the streets -clean, and with her pretty white silk, like Leezie Lindsay's gown o' -green satin, in the ballad, 'kilted up to her knee,' she was off with -her father—ready to dance along with the excitement of the cool, fresh -night air.</p> - -<p>'I rather think Thornton is not quite easy in his mind about this -strike. He seemed very anxious to-night.'</p> - -<p>'I should wonder if he were not. But he spoke with his usual coolness to -the others, when they suggested different things, just before we came -away.'</p> - -<p>'So he did after dinner as well. It would take a good deal to stir him -from his cool manner of speaking; but his face strikes me as anxious.'</p> - -<p>'I should be, if I were he. He must know of the growing anger and hardly -smothered hatred of his workpeople, who all look upon him as what the -Bible calls a "hard man,"—not so much unjust as unfeeling; clear in -judgment, standing upon his "rights" as no human being ought to stand, -considering what we and all our petty rights are in the sight of the -Almighty. I am glad you think he looks anxious. When I remember -Boucher's half mad words and ways, I cannot bear to think how coolly Mr. -Thornton spoke.'</p> - -<p>'In the first place, I am not so convinced as you are about that man -Boucher's utter distress; for the moment, he was badly off, I don't -doubt. But there is always a mysterious supply of money from these -Unions; and, from what you said, it was evident the man was of a -passionate, demonstrative nature, and gave strong expression to all he -felt.'</p> - -<p>'Oh, papa!'</p> - -<p>'Well! I only want you to do justice to Mr. Thornton, who is, I suspect, -of an exactly opposite nature,—a man who is far too proud to show his -feelings. Just the character I should have thought beforehand, you would -have admired, Margaret.'</p> - -<p>'So I do,—so I should; but I don't feel quite so sure as you do of the -existence of those feelings. He is a man of great strength of -character,—of unusual intellect, considering the few advantages he has -had.'</p> - -<p>'Not so few. He has led a practical life from a very early age; has been -called upon to exercise judgment and self-control. All that developes -one part of the intellect. To be sure, he needs some of the knowledge of -the past, which gives the truest basis for conjecture as to the future; -but he knows this need,—he perceives it, and that is something. You are -quite prejudiced against Mr. Thornton, Margaret.'</p> - -<p>'He is the first specimen of a manufacturer—of a person engaged in -trade—that I had ever the opportunity of studying, papa. He is my first -olive: let me make a face while I swallow it. I know he is good of his -kind, and by and by I shall like the kind. I rather think I am already -beginning to do so. I was very much interested by what the gentlemen -were talking about, although I did not understand half of it. I was -quite sorry when Miss Thornton came to take me to the other end of the -room, saying she was sure I should be uncomfortable at being the only -lady among so many gentlemen. I had never thought about it, I was so -busy listening; and the ladies were so dull, papa—oh, so dull! Yet I -think it was clever too. It reminded me of our old game of having each -so many nouns to introduce into a sentence.'</p> - -<p>'What do you mean, child?' asked Mr. Hale.</p> - -<p>'Why, they took nouns that were signs of things which gave evidence of -wealth,—housekeepers, under-gardeners, extent of glass, valuable lace, -diamonds, and all such things; and each one formed her speech so as to -bring them all in, in the prettiest accidental manner possible.'</p> - -<p>'You will be as proud of your one servant when you get her, if all is -true about her that Mrs. Thornton says.'</p> - -<p>'To be sure, I shall. I felt like a great hypocrite to-night, sitting -there in my white silk gown, with my idle hands before me, when I -remembered all the good, thorough, house-work they had done to-day. They -took me for a fine lady, I'm sure.'</p> - -<p>'Even I was mistaken enough to think you looked like a lady my dear,' -said Mr. Hale, quietly smiling.</p> - -<p>But smiles were changed to white and trembling looks, when they saw -Dixon's face, as she opened the door.</p> - -<p>'Oh, master!—Oh, Miss Margaret! Thank God you are come! Dr. Donaldson -is here. The servant next door went for him, for the charwoman is gone -home. She's better now; but, oh, sir! I thought she'd have died an hour -ago.'</p> - -<p>Mr. Hale caught Margaret's arm to steady himself from falling. He looked -at her face, and saw an expression upon it of surprise and extremest -sorrow, but not the agony of terror that contracted his own unprepared -heart. She knew more than he did, and yet she listened with that -hopeless expression of awed apprehension.</p> - -<p>'Oh! I should not have left her—wicked daughter that I am!' moaned -forth Margaret, as she supported her trembling father's hasty steps -up-stairs. Dr. Donaldson met them on the landing.</p> - -<p>'She is better now,' he whispered. 'The opiate has taken effect. The -spasms were very bad: no wonder they frightened your maid; but she'll -rally this time.'</p> - -<p>'This time! Let me go to her!' Half an hour ago, Mr. Hale was a -middle-aged man; now his sight was dim, his senses wavering, his walk -tottering, as if he were seventy years of age.</p> - -<p>Dr. Donaldson took his arm, and led him into the bedroom. Margaret -followed close. There lay her mother, with an unmistakable look on her -face. She might be better now; she was sleeping, but Death had signed -her for his own, and it was clear that ere long he would return to take -possession. Mr. Hale looked at her for some time without a word. Then he -began to shake all over, and, turning away from Dr. Donaldson's anxious -care, he groped to find the door; he could not see it, although several -candles, brought in the sudden affright, were burning and flaring there. -He staggered into the drawing-room, and felt about for a chair. Dr. -Donaldson wheeled one to him, and placed him in it. He felt his pulse.</p> - -<p>'Speak to him, Miss Hale. We must rouse him.'</p> - -<p>'Papa!' said Margaret, with a crying voice that was wild with pain. -'Papa! Speak to me!' The speculation came again into his eyes, and he -made a great effort.</p> - -<p>'Margaret, did you know of this? Oh, it was cruel of you!'</p> - -<p>'No, sir, it was not cruel!' replied Dr. Donaldson, with quick decision. -'Miss Hale acted under my directions. There may have been a mistake, but -it was not cruel. Your wife will be a different creature to-morrow, I -trust. She has had spasms, as I anticipated, though I did not tell Miss -Hale of my apprehensions. She has taken the opiate I brought with me; -she will have a good long sleep; and to-morrow, that look which has -alarmed you so much will have passed away.'</p> - -<p>'But not the disease?'</p> - -<p>Dr. Donaldson glanced at Margaret. Her bent head, her face raised with -no appeal for a temporary reprieve, showed that quick observer of human -nature that she thought it better that the whole truth should be told.</p> - -<p>'Not the disease. We cannot touch the disease, with all our poor vaunted -skill. We can only delay its progress—alleviate the pain it causes. Be -a man, sir—a Christian. Have faith in the immortality of the soul, -which no pain, no mortal disease, can assail or touch!'</p> - -<p>But all the reply he got, was in the choked words, 'You have never been -married, Dr. Donaldson; you do not know what it is,' and in the deep, -manly sobs, which went through the stillness of the night like heavy -pulses of agony. Margaret knelt by him, caressing him with tearful -caresses. No one, not even Dr. Donaldson, knew how the time went by. Mr. -Hale was the first to dare to speak of the necessities of the present -moment.</p> - -<p>'What must we do?' asked he. 'Tell us both. Margaret is my staff—my -right hand.'</p> - -<p>Dr. Donaldson gave his clear, sensible directions. No fear for -to-night—nay, even peace for to-morrow, and for many days yet. But no -enduring hope of recovery. He advised Mr. Hale to go to bed, and leave -only one to watch the slumber, which he hoped would be undisturbed. He -promised to come again early in the morning. And with a warm and kindly -shake of the hand, he left them. They spoke but few words; they were too -much exhausted by their terror to do more than decide upon the immediate -course of action. Mr. Hale was resolved to sit up through the night, and -all that Margaret could do was to prevail upon him to rest on the -drawing-room sofa. Dixon stoutly and bluntly refused to go to bed; and, -as for Margaret, it was simply impossible that she should leave her -mother, let all the doctors in the world speak of 'husbanding -resources,' and 'one watcher only being required.' So, Dixon sat, and -stared, and winked, and drooped, and picked herself up again with a -jerk, and finally gave up the battle, and fairly snored. Margaret had -taken off her gown and tossed it aside with a sort of impatient disgust, -and put on her dressing-gown. She felt as if she never could sleep -again; as if her whole senses were acutely vital, and all endued with -double keenness, for the purposes of watching. Every sight and -sound—nay, even every thought, touched some nerve to the very quick. -For more than two hours, she heard her father's restless movements in -the next room. He came perpetually to the door of her mother's chamber, -pausing there to listen, till she, not hearing his close unseen -presence, went and opened it to tell him how all went on, in reply to -the questions his baked lips could hardly form. At last he, too, fell -asleep, and all the house was still. Margaret sate behind the curtain -thinking. Far away in time, far away in space, seemed all the interests -of past days. Not more than thirty-six hours ago, she cared for Bessy -Higgins and her father, and her heart was wrung for Boucher; now, that -was all like a dreaming memory of some former life;—everything that had -passed out of doors seemed dissevered from her mother, and therefore -unreal. Even Harley Street appeared more distinct; there she remembered, -as if it were yesterday, how she had pleased herself with tracing out -her mother's features in her Aunt Shaw's face,—and how letters had -come, making her dwell on the thoughts of home with all the longing of -love. Helstone, itself, was in the dim past. The dull gray days of the -preceding winter and spring, so uneventless and monotonous, seemed more -associated with what she cared for now above all price. She would fain -have caught at the skirts of that departing time, and prayed it to -return, and give her back what she had too little valued while it was -yet in her possession. What a vain show Life seemed! How unsubstantial, -and flickering, and flitting! It was as if from some aerial belfry, high -up above the stir and jar of the earth, there was a bell continually -tolling, 'All are shadows!—all are passing!—all is past!' And when the -morning dawned, cool and gray, like many a happier morning before—when -Margaret looked one by one at the sleepers, it seemed as if the terrible -night were unreal as a dream; it, too, was a shadow. It, too, was past.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Hale herself was not aware when she awoke, how ill she had been the -night before. She was rather surprised at Dr. Donaldson's early visit, -and perplexed by the anxious faces of husband and child. She consented -to remain in bed that day, saying she certainly was tired; but, the -next, she insisted on getting up; and Dr. Donaldson gave his consent to -her returning into the drawing-room. She was restless and uncomfortable -in every position, and before night she became very feverish. Mr. Hale -was utterly listless, and incapable of deciding on anything.</p> - -<p>'What can we do to spare mamma such another night?' asked Margaret on -the third day.</p> - -<p>'It is, to a certain degree, the reaction after the powerful opiates I -have been obliged to use. It is more painful for you to see than for her -to bear, I believe. But, I think, if we could get a water-bed it might -be a good thing. Not but what she will be better to-morrow; pretty much -like herself as she was before this attack. Still, I should like her to -have a water-bed. Mrs. Thornton has one, I know. I'll try and call there -this afternoon. Stay,' said he, his eye catching on Margaret's face, -blanched with watching in a sick room, 'I'm not sure whether I can go; -I've a long round to take. It would do you no harm to have a brisk walk -to Marlborough Street, and ask Mrs. Thornton if she can spare it.'</p> - -<p>'Certainly,' said Margaret. 'I could go while mamma is asleep this -afternoon. I'm sure Mrs. Thornton would lend it to us.'</p> - -<p>Dr. Donaldson's experience told them rightly. Mrs. Hale seemed to shake -off the consequences of her attack, and looked brighter and better this -afternoon than Margaret had ever hoped to see her again. Her daughter -left her after dinner, sitting in her easy chair, with her hand lying in -her husband's, who looked more worn and suffering than she by far. -Still, he could smile now—rather slowly, rather faintly, it is true; -but a day or two before, Margaret never thought to see him smile again.</p> - -<p>It was about two miles from their house in Crampton Crescent to -Marlborough Street. It was too hot to walk very quickly. An August sun -beat straight down into the street at three o'clock in the afternoon. -Margaret went along, without noticing anything very different from usual -in the first mile and a half of her journey; she was absorbed in her own -thoughts, and had learnt by this time to thread her way through the -irregular stream of human beings that flowed through Milton streets. -But, by and by, she was struck with an unusual heaving among the mass of -people in the crowded road on which she was entering. They did not -appear to be moving on, so much as talking, and listening, and buzzing -with excitement, without much stirring from the spot where they might -happen to be. Still, as they made way for her, and, wrapt up in the -purpose of her errand, and the necessities that suggested it, she was -less quick of observation than she might have been, if her mind had been -at ease, she had got into Marlborough Street before the full conviction -forced itself upon her, that there was a restless, oppressive sense of -irritation abroad among the people; a thunderous atmosphere, morally as -well as physically, around her. From every narrow lane opening out on -Marlborough Street came up a low distant roar, as of myriads of fierce -indignant voices. The inhabitants of each poor squalid dwelling were -gathered round the doors and windows, if indeed they were not actually -standing in the middle of the narrow ways—all with looks intent towards -one point. Marlborough Street itself was the focus of all those human -eyes, that betrayed intensest interest of various kinds; some fierce -with anger, some lowering with relentless threats, some dilated with -fear, or imploring entreaty; and, as Margaret reached the small -side-entrance by the folding doors, in the great dead wall of -Marlborough mill-yard and waited the porter's answer to the bell, she -looked round and heard the first long far-off roll of the tempest;—saw -the first slow-surging wave of the dark crowd come, with its threatening -crest, tumble over, and retreat, at the far end of the street, which a -moment ago, seemed so full of repressed noise, but which now was -ominously still; all these circumstances forced themselves on Margaret's -notice, but did not sink down into her pre-occupied heart. She did not -know what they meant—what was their deep significance; while she did -know, did feel the keen sharp pressure of the knife that was soon to -stab her through and through by leaving her motherless. She was trying -to realise that, in order that, when it came, she might be ready to -comfort her father.</p> - -<p>The porter opened the door cautiously, not nearly wide enough to admit -her.</p> - -<p>'It's you, is it, ma'am?' said he, drawing a long breath, and widening -the entrance, but still not opening it fully. Margaret went in. He -hastily bolted it behind her.</p> - -<p>'Th' folk are all coming up here I reckon?' asked he.</p> - -<p>'I don't know. Something unusual seemed going on; but this street is -quite empty, I think.'</p> - -<p>She went across the yard and up the steps to the house door. There was -no near sound,—no steam-engine at work with beat and pant,—no click of -machinery, or mingling and clashing of many sharp voices; but far away, -the ominous gathering roar, deep-clamouring.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXII_A_BLOW_AND_ITS_CONSEQUENCES" id="CHAPTER_XXII_A_BLOW_AND_ITS_CONSEQUENCES"></a>CHAPTER XXII—A BLOW AND ITS CONSEQUENCES</h2> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">'But work grew scarce, while bread grew dear,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">And wages lessened, too;<br /></span> -<span class="i1">For Irish hordes were bidders here,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Our half-paid work to do.'<br /></span> -<span class="i9">CORN LAW RHYMES.<br /></span> -</div></div> - -<p>Margaret was shown into the drawing-room. It had returned into its -normal state of bag and covering. The windows were half open because of -the heat, and the Venetian blinds covered the glass,—so that a gray -grim light, reflected from the pavement below, threw all the shadows -wrong, and combined with the green-tinged upper light to make even -Margaret's own face, as she caught it in the mirrors, look ghastly and -wan. She sat and waited; no one came. Every now and then, the wind -seemed to bear the distant multitudinous sound nearer; and yet there was -no wind! It died away into profound stillness between whiles.</p> - -<p>Fanny came in at last.</p> - -<p>'Mamma will come directly, Miss Hale. She desired me to apologise to you -as it is. Perhaps you know my brother has imported hands from Ireland, -and it has irritated the Milton people excessively—as if he hadn't a -right to get labour where he could; and the stupid wretches here -wouldn't work for him; and now they've frightened these poor Irish -starvelings so with their threats, that we daren't let them out. You may -see them huddled in that top room in the mill,—and they're to sleep -there, to keep them safe from those brutes, who will neither work nor -let them work. And mamma is seeing about their food, and John is -speaking to them, for some of the women are crying to go back. Ah! -here's mamma!'</p> - -<p>Mrs. Thornton came in with a look of black sternness on her face, which -made Margaret feel she had arrived at a bad time to trouble her with her -request. However, it was only in compliance with Mrs. Thornton's -expressed desire, that she would ask for whatever they might want in the -progress of her mother's illness. Mrs. Thornton's brow contracted, and -her mouth grew set, while Margaret spoke with gentle modesty of her -mother's restlessness, and Dr. Donaldson's wish that she should have the -relief of a water-bed. She ceased. Mrs. Thornton did not reply -immediately. Then she started up and exclaimed—</p> - -<p>'They're at the gates! Call John, Fanny,—call him in from the mill! -They're at the gates! They'll batter them in! Call John, I say!'</p> - -<p>And simultaneously, the gathering tramp—to which she had been -listening, instead of heeding Margaret's words—was heard just right -outside the wall, and an increasing din of angry voices raged behind the -wooden barrier, which shook as if the unseen maddened crowd made -battering-rams of their bodies, and retreated a short space only to come -with more united steady impetus against it, till their great beats made -the strong gates quiver, like reeds before the wind. The women gathered -round the windows, fascinated to look on the scene which terrified them. -Mrs. Thornton, the women-servants, Margaret,—all were there. Fanny had -returned, screaming up-stairs as if pursued at every step, and had -thrown herself in hysterical sobbing on the sofa. Mrs. Thornton watched -for her son, who was still in the mill. He came out, looked up at -them—the pale cluster of faces—and smiled good courage to them, before -he locked the factory-door. Then he called to one of the women to come -down and undo his own door, which Fanny had fastened behind her in her -mad flight. Mrs. Thornton herself went. And the sound of his well-known -and commanding voice, seemed to have been like the taste of blood to the -infuriated multitude outside. Hitherto they had been voiceless, -wordless, needing all their breath for their hard-labouring efforts to -break down the gates. But now, hearing him speak inside, they set up -such a fierce unearthly groan, that even Mrs. Thornton was white with -fear as she preceded him into the room. He came in a little flushed, but -his eyes gleaming, as in answer to the trumpet-call of danger, and with -a proud look of defiance on his face, that made him a noble, if not a -handsome man. Margaret had always dreaded lest her courage should fail -her in any emergency, and she should be proved to be, what she dreaded -lest she was—a coward. But now, in this real great time of reasonable -fear and nearness of terror, she forgot herself, and felt only an -intense sympathy—intense to painfulness—in the interests of the -moment.</p> - -<p>Mr. Thornton came frankly forwards:</p> - -<p>'I'm sorry, Miss Hale, you have visited us at this unfortunate moment, -when, I fear, you may be involved in whatever risk we have to bear. -Mother! hadn't you better go into the back rooms? I'm not sure whether -they may not have made their way from Pinner's Lane into the -stable-yard; but if not, you will be safer there than here. Go Jane!' -continued he, addressing the upper-servant. And she went, followed by -the others.</p> - -<p>'I stop here!' said his mother. 'Where you are, there I stay.' And -indeed, retreat into the back rooms was of no avail; the crowd had -surrounded the outbuildings at the rear, and were sending forth their -awful threatening roar behind. The servants retreated into the garrets, -with many a cry and shriek. Mr. Thornton smiled scornfully as he heard -them. He glanced at Margaret, standing all by herself at the window -nearest the factory. Her eyes glittered, her colour was deepened on -cheek and lip. As if she felt his look, she turned to him and asked a -question that had been for some time in her mind:</p> - -<p>'Where are the poor imported work-people? In the factory there?'</p> - -<p>'Yes! I left them cowered up in a small room, at the head of a back -flight of stairs; bidding them run all risks, and escape down there, if -they heard any attack made on the mill-doors. But it is not them—it is -me they want.'</p> - -<p>'When can the soldiers be here?' asked his mother, in a low but not -unsteady voice.</p> - -<p>He took out his watch with the same measured composure with which he did -everything. He made some little calculation:</p> - -<p>'Supposing Williams got straight off when I told him, and hadn't to -dodge about amongst them—it must be twenty minutes yet.'</p> - -<p>'Twenty minutes!' said his mother, for the first time showing her terror -in the tones of her voice.</p> - -<p>'Shut down the windows instantly, mother,' exclaimed he: 'the gates -won't bear such another shock. Shut down that window, Miss Hale.'</p> - -<p>Margaret shut down her window, and then went to assist Mrs. Thornton's -trembling fingers.</p> - -<p>From some cause or other, there was a pause of several minutes in the -unseen street. Mrs. Thornton looked with wild anxiety at her son's -countenance, as if to gain the interpretation of the sudden stillness -from him. His face was set into rigid lines of contemptuous defiance; -neither hope nor fear could be read there.</p> - -<p>Fanny raised herself up:</p> - -<p>'Are they gone?' asked she, in a whisper.</p> - -<p>'Gone!' replied he. 'Listen!'</p> - -<p>She did listen; they all could hear the one great straining breath; the -creak of wood slowly yielding; the wrench of iron; the mighty fall of -the ponderous gates. Fanny stood up tottering—made a step or two -towards her mother, and fell forwards into her arms in a fainting fit. -Mrs. Thornton lifted her up with a strength that was as much that of the -will as of the body, and carried her away.</p> - -<p>'Thank God!' said Mr. Thornton, as he watched her out. 'Had you not -better go upstairs, Miss Hale?'</p> - -<p>Margaret's lips formed a 'No!'—but he could not hear her speak, for the -tramp of innumerable steps right under the very wall of the house, and -the fierce growl of low deep angry voices that had a ferocious murmur of -satisfaction in them, more dreadful than their baffled cries not many -minutes before.</p> - -<p>'Never mind!' said he, thinking to encourage her. 'I am very sorry you -should have been entrapped into all this alarm; but it cannot last long -now; a few minutes more, and the soldiers will be here.'</p> - -<p>'Oh, God!' cried Margaret, suddenly; 'there is Boucher. I know his face, -though he is livid with rage,—he is fighting to get to the front—look! -look!'</p> - -<p>'Who is Boucher?' asked Mr. Thornton, coolly, and coming close to the -window to discover the man in whom Margaret took such an interest. As -soon as they saw Mr. Thornton, they set up a yell,—to call it not human -is nothing,—it was as the demoniac desire of some terrible wild beast -for the food that is withheld from his ravening. Even he drew back for a -moment, dismayed at the intensity of hatred he had provoked.</p> - -<p>'Let them yell!' said he. 'In five minutes more—. I only hope my poor -Irishmen are not terrified out of their wits by such a fiendlike noise. -Keep up your courage for five minutes, Miss Hale.'</p> - -<p>'Don't be afraid for me,' she said hastily. 'But what in five minutes? -Can you do nothing to soothe these poor creatures? It is awful to see -them.'</p> - -<p>'The soldiers will be here directly, and that will bring them to -reason.'</p> - -<p>'To reason!' said Margaret, quickly. 'What kind of reason?'</p> - -<p>'The only reason that does with men that make themselves into wild -beasts. By heaven! they've turned to the mill-door!'</p> - -<p>'Mr. Thornton,' said Margaret, shaking all over with her passion, 'go -down this instant, if you are not a coward. Go down and face them like a -man. Save these poor strangers, whom you have decoyed here. Speak to -your workmen as if they were human beings. Speak to them kindly. Don't -let the soldiers come in and cut down poor creatures who are driven mad. -I see one there who is. If you have any courage or noble quality in you, -go out and speak to them, man to man.'</p> - -<p>He turned and looked at her while she spoke. A dark cloud came over his -face while he listened. He set his teeth as he heard her words.</p> - -<p>'I will go. Perhaps I may ask you to accompany me downstairs, and bar -the door behind me; my mother and sister will need that protection.'</p> - -<p>'Oh! Mr. Thornton! I do not know—I may be wrong—only—'</p> - -<p>But he was gone; he was downstairs in the hall; he had unbarred the -front door; all she could do, was to follow him quickly, and fasten it -behind him, and clamber up the stairs again with a sick heart and a -dizzy head. Again she took her place by the farthest window. He was on -the steps below; she saw that by the direction of a thousand angry eyes; -but she could neither see nor hear anything save the savage satisfaction -of the rolling angry murmur. She threw the window wide open. Many in the -crowd were mere boys; cruel and thoughtless,—cruel because they were -thoughtless; some were men, gaunt as wolves, and mad for prey. She knew -how it was; they were like Boucher, with starving children at -home—relying on ultimate success in their efforts to get higher wages, -and enraged beyond measure at discovering that Irishmen were to be -brought in to rob their little ones of bread. Margaret knew it all; she -read it in Boucher's face, forlornly desperate and livid with rage. If -Mr. Thornton would but say something to them—let them hear his voice -only—it seemed as if it would be better than this wild beating and -raging against the stony silence that vouchsafed them no word, even of -anger or reproach. But perhaps he was speaking now; there was a -momentary hush of their noise, inarticulate as that of a troop of -animals. She tore her bonnet off; and bent forwards to hear. She could -only see; for if Mr. Thornton had indeed made the attempt to speak, the -momentary instinct to listen to him was past and gone, and the people -were raging worse than ever. He stood with his arms folded; still as a -statue; his face pale with repressed excitement. They were trying to -intimidate him—to make him flinch; each was urging the other on to some -immediate act of personal violence. Margaret felt intuitively, that in -an instant all would be uproar; the first touch would cause an -explosion, in which, among such hundreds of infuriated men and reckless -boys, even Mr. Thornton's life would be unsafe,—that in another instant -the stormy passions would have passed their bounds, and swept away all -barriers of reason, or apprehension of consequence. Even while she -looked, she saw lads in the back-ground stooping to take off their heavy -wooden clogs—the readiest missile they could find; she saw it was the -spark to the gunpowder, and, with a cry, which no one heard, she rushed -out of the room, down stairs,—she had lifted the great iron bar of the -door with an imperious force—had thrown the door open wide—and was -there, in face of that angry sea of men, her eyes smiting them with -flaming arrows of reproach. The clogs were arrested in the hands that -held them—the countenances, so fell not a moment before, now looked -irresolute, and as if asking what this meant. For she stood between them -and their enemy. She could not speak, but held out her arms towards them -till she could recover breath.</p> - -<p>'Oh, do not use violence! He is one man, and you are many;' but her words -died away, for there was no tone in her voice; it was but a hoarse -whisper. Mr. Thornton stood a little on one side; he had moved away from -behind her, as if jealous of anything that should come between him and -danger.</p> - -<p>'Go!' said she, once more (and now her voice was like a cry). 'The -soldiers are sent for—are coming. Go peaceably. Go away. You shall have -relief from your complaints, whatever they are.'</p> - -<p>'Shall them Irish blackguards be packed back again?' asked one from out -the crowd, with fierce threatening in his voice.</p> - -<p>'Never, for your bidding!' exclaimed Mr. Thornton. And instantly the -storm broke. The hootings rose and filled the air,—but Margaret did not -hear them. Her eye was on the group of lads who had armed themselves -with their clogs some time before. She saw their gesture—she knew its -meaning,—she read their aim. Another moment, and Mr. Thornton might be -smitten down,—he whom she had urged and goaded to come to this perilous -place. She only thought how she could save him. She threw her arms -around him; she made her body into a shield from the fierce people -beyond. Still, with his arms folded, he shook her off.</p> - -<p>'Go away,' said he, in his deep voice. 'This is no place for you.'</p> - -<p>'It is!' said she. 'You did not see what I saw.' If she thought her sex -would be a protection,—if, with shrinking eyes she had turned away from -the terrible anger of these men, in any hope that ere she looked again -they would have paused and reflected, and slunk away, and vanished,—she -was wrong. Their reckless passion had carried them too far to stop—at -least had carried some of them too far; for it is always the savage -lads, with their love of cruel excitement, who head the riot—reckless -to what bloodshed it may lead. A clog whizzed through the air. -Margaret's fascinated eyes watched its progress; it missed its aim, and -she turned sick with affright, but changed not her position, only hid -her face on Mr. Thornton's arm. Then she turned and spoke again:</p> - -<p>'For God's sake! do not damage your cause by this violence. You do not -know what you are doing.' She strove to make her words distinct.</p> - -<p>A sharp pebble flew by her, grazing forehead and cheek, and drawing a -blinding sheet of light before her eyes. She lay like one dead on Mr. -Thornton's shoulder. Then he unfolded his arms, and held her encircled -in one for an instant:</p> - -<p>'You do well!' said he. 'You come to oust the innocent stranger. You -fall—you hundreds—on one man; and when a woman comes before you, to -ask you for your own sakes to be reasonable creatures, your cowardly -wrath falls upon her! You do well!' They were silent while he spoke. -They were watching, open-eyed and open-mouthed, the thread of dark-red -blood which wakened them up from their trance of passion. Those nearest -the gate stole out ashamed; there was a movement through all the -crowd—a retreating movement. Only one voice cried out:</p> - -<p>'Th' stone were meant for thee; but thou wert sheltered behind a woman!'</p> - -<p>Mr. Thornton quivered with rage. The blood-flowing had made Margaret -conscious—dimly, vaguely conscious. He placed her gently on the -door-step, her head leaning against the frame.</p> - -<p>'Can you rest there?' he asked. But without waiting for her answer, he -went slowly down the steps right into the middle of the crowd. 'Now kill -me, if it is your brutal will. There is no woman to shield me here. You -may beat me to death—you will never move me from what I have determined -upon—not you!' He stood amongst them, with his arms folded, in -precisely the same attitude as he had been in on the steps.</p> - -<p>But the retrograde movement towards the gate had begun—as -unreasoningly, perhaps as blindly, as the simultaneous anger. Or, -perhaps, the idea of the approach of the soldiers, and the sight of that -pale, upturned face, with closed eyes, still and sad as marble, though -the tears welled out of the long entanglement of eyelashes and dropped -down; and, heavier, slower plash than even tears, came the drip of blood -from her wound. Even the most desperate—Boucher himself—drew back, -faltered away, scowled, and finally went off, muttering curses on the -master, who stood in his unchanging attitude, looking after their -retreat with defiant eyes. The moment that retreat had changed into a -flight (as it was sure from its very character to do), he darted up the -steps to Margaret. She tried to rise without his help.</p> - -<p>'It is nothing,' she said, with a sickly smile. 'The skin is grazed, and -I was stunned at the moment. Oh, I am so thankful they are gone!' And -she cried without restraint.</p> - -<p>He could not sympathise with her. His anger had not abated; it was -rather rising the more as his sense of immediate danger was passing -away. The distant clank of the soldiers was heard just five minutes too -late to make this vanished mob feel the power of authority and order. He -hoped they would see the troops, and be quelled by the thought of their -narrow escape. While these thoughts crossed his mind, Margaret clung to -the doorpost to steady herself: but a film came over her eyes—he was -only just in time to catch her. 'Mother—mother!' cried he; 'Come -down—they are gone, and Miss Hale is hurt!' He bore her into the -dining-room, and laid her on the sofa there; laid her down softly, and -looking on her pure white face, the sense of what she was to him came -upon him so keenly that he spoke it out in his pain:</p> - -<p>'Oh, my Margaret—my Margaret! no one can tell what you are to me! -Dead—cold as you lie there, you are the only woman I ever loved! Oh, -Margaret—Margaret!' Inarticulately as he spoke, kneeling by her, and -rather moaning than saying the words, he started up, ashamed of himself, -as his mother came in. She saw nothing, but her son a little paler, a -little sterner than usual.</p> - -<p>'Miss Hale is hurt, mother. A stone has grazed her temple. She has lost -a good deal of blood, I'm afraid.'</p> - -<p>'She looks very seriously hurt,—I could almost fancy her dead,' said -Mrs. Thornton, a good deal alarmed.</p> - -<p>'It is only a fainting-fit. She has spoken to me since.' But all the -blood in his body seemed to rush inwards to his heart as he spoke, and -he absolutely trembled.</p> - -<p>'Go and call Jane,—she can find me the things I want; and do you go to -your Irish people, who are crying and shouting as if they were mad with -fright.' He went. He went away as if weights were tied to every limb -that bore him from her. He called Jane; he called his sister. She should -have all womanly care, all gentle tendance. But every pulse beat in him -as he remembered how she had come down and placed herself in foremost -danger,—could it be to save him? At the time, he had pushed her aside, -and spoken gruffly; he had seen nothing but the unnecessary danger she -had placed herself in. He went to his Irish people, with every nerve in -his body thrilling at the thought of her, and found it difficult to -understand enough of what they were saying to soothe and comfort away -their fears. There, they declared, they would not stop; they claimed to -be sent back. -</p> -<p> -And so he had to think, and talk, and reason.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Thornton bathed Margaret's temples with eau de Cologne. As the -spirit touched the wound, which till then neither Mrs. Thornton nor Jane -had perceived, Margaret opened her eyes; but it was evident she did not -know where she was, nor who they were. The dark circles deepened, the -lips quivered and contracted, and she became insensible once more.</p> - -<p>'She has had a terrible blow,' said Mrs. Thornton. 'Is there any one who -will go for a doctor?'</p> - -<p>'Not me, ma'am, if you please,' said Jane, shrinking back. 'Them rabble -may be all about; I don't think the cut is so deep, ma'am, as it looks.'</p> - -<p>'I will not run the chance. She was hurt in our house. If you are a -coward, Jane, I am not. I will go.'</p> - -<p>'Pray, ma'am, let me send one of the police. There's ever so many come -up, and soldiers too.'</p> - -<p>'And yet you're afraid to go! I will not have their time taken up with -our errands. They'll have enough to do to catch some of the mob. You -will not be afraid to stop in this house,' she asked contemptuously, -'and go on bathing Miss Hale's forehead, shall you? I shall not be ten -minutes away.'</p> - -<p>'Couldn't Hannah go, ma'am?'</p> - -<p>'Why Hannah? Why any but you? No, Jane, if you don't go, I do.'</p> - -<p>Mrs. Thornton went first to the room in which she had left Fanny -stretched on the bed. She started up as her mother entered.</p> - -<p>'Oh, mamma, how you terrified me! I thought you were a man that had got -into the house.'</p> - -<p>'Nonsense! The men are all gone away. There are soldiers all round the -place, seeking for their work now it is too late. Miss Hale is lying on -the dining-room sofa badly hurt. I am going for the doctor.'</p> - -<p>'Oh! don't, mamma! they'll murder you.' She clung to her mother's gown. -Mrs. Thornton wrenched it away with no gentle hand.</p> - -<p>'Find me some one else to go but that girl must not bleed to death.'</p> - -<p>'Bleed! oh, how horrid! How has she got hurt?'</p> - -<p>'I don't know,—I have no time to ask. Go down to her, Fanny, and do try -to make yourself of use. Jane is with her; and I trust it looks worse -than it is. Jane has refused to leave the house, cowardly woman! And I -won't put myself in the way of any more refusals from my servants, so I -am going myself.'</p> - -<p>'Oh, dear, dear!' said Fanny, crying, and preparing to go down rather -than be left alone, with the thought of wounds and bloodshed in the very -house.</p> - -<p>'Oh, Jane!' said she, creeping into the dining-room, 'what is the -matter? How white she looks! How did she get hurt? Did they throw stones -into the drawing-room?'</p> - -<p>Margaret did indeed look white and wan, although her senses were -beginning to return to her. But the sickly daze of the swoon made her -still miserably faint. She was conscious of movement around her, and of -refreshment from the eau de Cologne, and a craving for the bathing to go -on without intermission; but when they stopped to talk, she could no -more have opened her eyes, or spoken to ask for more bathing, than the -people who lie in death-like trance can move, or utter sound, to arrest -the awful preparations for their burial, while they are yet fully aware, -not merely of the actions of those around them, but of the idea that is -the motive for such actions.</p> - -<p>Jane paused in her bathing, to reply to Miss Thornton's question.</p> - -<p>'She'd have been safe enough, miss, if she'd stayed in the drawing-room, -or come up to us; we were in the front garret, and could see it all, out -of harm's way.'</p> - -<p>'Where was she, then?' said Fanny, drawing nearer by slow degrees, as -she became accustomed to the sight of Margaret's pale face.</p> - -<p>'Just before the front door—with master!' said Jane, significantly.</p> - -<p>'With John! with my brother! How did she get there?'</p> - -<p>'Nay, miss, that's not for me to say,' answered Jane, with a slight toss -of her head. 'Sarah did'——</p> - -<p>'Sarah what?' said Fanny, with impatient curiosity.</p> - -<p>Jane resumed her bathing, as if what Sarah did or said was not exactly -the thing she liked to repeat.</p> - -<p>'Sarah what?' asked Fanny, sharply. 'Don't speak in these half -sentences, or I can't understand you.'</p> - -<p>'Well, miss, since you will have it—Sarah, you see, was in the best -place for seeing, being at the right-hand window; and she says, and said -at the very time too, that she saw Miss Hale with her arms about -master's neck, hugging him before all the people.'</p> - -<p>'I don't believe it,' said Fanny. 'I know she cares for my brother; any -one can see that; and I dare say, she'd give her eyes if he'd marry -her,—which he never will, I can tell her. But I don't believe she'd be -so bold and forward as to put her arms round his neck.'</p> - -<p>'Poor young lady! she's paid for it dearly if she did. It's my belief, -that the blow has given her such an ascendency of blood to the head as -she'll never get the better from. She looks like a corpse now.'</p> - -<p>'Oh, I wish mamma would come!' said Fanny, wringing her hands. 'I never -was in the room with a dead person before.'</p> - -<p>'Stay, miss! She's not dead: her eye-lids are quivering, and here's wet -tears a-coming down her cheeks. Speak to her, Miss Fanny!'</p> - -<p>'Are you better now?' asked Fanny, in a quavering voice.</p> - -<p>No answer; no sign of recognition; but a faint pink colour returned to -her lips, although the rest of her face was ashen pale.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Thornton came hurriedly in, with the nearest surgeon she could -find. 'How is she? Are you better, my dear?' as Margaret opened her -filmy eyes, and gazed dreamily at her. 'Here is Mr. Lowe come to see -you.'</p> - -<p>Mrs. Thornton spoke loudly and distinctly, as to a deaf person. Margaret -tried to rise, and drew her ruffled, luxuriant hair instinctly over the -cut. -</p> -<p> -'I am better now,' said she, in a very low, faint voice. I was a -little sick.' -</p> -<p> -She let him take her hand and feel her pulse. The bright -colour came for a moment into her face, when he asked to examine the -wound in her forehead; and she glanced up at Jane, as if shrinking from -her inspection more than from the doctor's.</p> - -<p>'It is not much, I think. I am better now. I must go home.'</p> - -<p>'Not until I have applied some strips of plaster; and you have rested a -little.'</p> - -<p>She sat down hastily, without another word, and allowed it to be bound -up.</p> - -<p>'Now, if you please,' said she, 'I must go. Mamma will not see it, I -think. It is under the hair, is it not?'</p> - -<p>'Quite; no one could tell.'</p> - -<p>'But you must not go,' said Mrs. Thornton, impatiently. 'You are not fit -to go.'</p> - -<p>'I must,' said Margaret, decidedly. 'Think of mamma. If they should -hear—— Besides, I must go,' said she, vehemently. 'I cannot stay here. -May I ask for a cab?'</p> - -<p>'You are quite flushed and feverish,' observed Mr. Lowe.</p> - -<p>'It is only with being here, when I do so want to go. The air—getting -away, would do me more good than anything,' pleaded she.</p> - -<p>'I really believe it is as she says,' Mr. Lowe replied. 'If her mother -is so ill as you told me on the way here, it may be very serious if she -hears of this riot, and does not see her daughter back at the time she -expects. The injury is not deep. I will fetch a cab, if your servants -are still afraid to go out.'</p> - -<p>'Oh, thank you!' said Margaret. 'It will do me more good than anything. -It is the air of this room that makes me feel so miserable.'</p> - -<p>She leant back on the sofa, and closed her eyes. Fanny beckoned her -mother out of the room, and told her something that made her equally -anxious with Margaret for the departure of the latter. Not that she -fully believed Fanny's statement; but she credited enough to make her -manner to Margaret appear very much constrained, at wishing her -good-bye.</p> - -<p>Mr. Lowe returned in the cab.</p> - -<p>'If you will allow me, I will see you home, Miss Hale. The streets are -not very quiet yet.'</p> - -<p>Margaret's thoughts were quite alive enough to the present to make her -desirous of getting rid of both Mr. Lowe and the cab before she reached -Crampton Crescent, for fear of alarming her father and mother. Beyond -that one aim she would not look. That ugly dream of insolent words -spoken about herself, could never be forgotten—but could be put aside -till she was stronger—for, oh! she was very weak; and her mind sought -for some present fact to steady itself upon, and keep it from utterly -losing consciousness in another hideous, sickly swoon.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIII_MISTAKES" id="CHAPTER_XXIII_MISTAKES"></a>CHAPTER XXIII—MISTAKES</h2> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">'Which when his mother saw, she in her mind<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Was troubled sore, ne wist well what to ween.'<br /></span> -<span class="i9">S<small>PENSER</small>.<br /></span> -</div></div> - -<p>Margaret had not been gone five minutes when Mr. Thornton came in, his -face all a-glow.</p> - -<p>'I could not come sooner: the superintendent would—— Where is she?' He -looked round the dining-room, and then almost fiercely at his mother, -who was quietly re-arranging the disturbed furniture, and did not -instantly reply. 'Where is Miss Hale?' asked he again.</p> - -<p>'Gone home,' said she, rather shortly.</p> - -<p>'Gone home!'</p> - -<p>'Yes. She was a great deal better. Indeed, I don't believe it was so -very much of a hurt; only some people faint at the least thing.'</p> - -<p>'I am sorry she is gone home,' said he, walking uneasily about. 'She -could not have been fit for it.'</p> - -<p>'She said she was; and Mr. Lowe said she was. I went for him myself.'</p> - -<p>'Thank you, mother.' He stopped, and partly held out his hand to give -her a grateful shake. But she did not notice the movement.</p> - -<p>'What have you done with your Irish people?'</p> - -<p>'Sent to the Dragon for a good meal for them, poor wretches. And then, -luckily, I caught Father Grady, and I've asked him in to speak to them, -and dissuade them from going off in a body. How did Miss Hale go home? -I'm sure she could not walk.'</p> - -<p>'She had a cab. Everything was done properly, even to the paying. Let us -talk of something else. She has caused disturbance enough.'</p> - -<p>'I don't know where I should have been but for her.'</p> - -<p>'Are you become so helpless as to have to be defended by a girl?' asked -Mrs. Thornton, scornfully.</p> - -<p>He reddened. 'Not many girls would have taken the blows on herself which -were meant for me;—meant with right down good-will, too.'</p> - -<p>'A girl in love will do a good deal,' replied Mrs. Thornton, shortly.</p> - -<p>'Mother!' He made a step forwards; stood still; heaved with passion.</p> - -<p>She was a little startled at the evident force he used to keep himself -calm. She was not sure of the nature of the emotions she had provoked. -It was only their violence that was clear. Was it anger? His eyes -glowed, his figure was dilated, his breath came thick and fast. It was a -mixture of joy, of anger, of pride, of glad surprise, of panting doubt; -but she could not read it. Still it made her uneasy,—as the presence of -all strong feeling, of which the cause is not fully understood or -sympathised in, always has this effect. She went to the side-board, -opened a drawer, and took out a duster, which she kept there for any -occasional purpose. She had seen a drop of eau de Cologne on the -polished arm of the sofa, and instinctively sought to wipe it off. But -she kept her back turned to her son much longer than was necessary; and -when she spoke, her voice seemed unusual and constrained.</p> - -<p>'You have taken some steps about the rioters, I suppose? You don't -apprehend any more violence, do you? Where were the police? Never at -hand when they're wanted!'</p> - -<p>'On the contrary, I saw three or four of them, when the gates gave way, -struggling and beating about in fine fashion; and more came running up -just when the yard was clearing. I might have given some of the fellows -in charge then, if I had had my wits about me. But there will be no -difficulty, plenty of people can identify them.'</p> - -<p>'But won't they come back to-night?'</p> - -<p>'I'm going to see about a sufficient guard for the premises. I have -appointed to meet Captain Hanbury in half an hour at the station.'</p> - -<p>'You must have some tea first.'</p> - -<p>'Tea! Yes, I suppose I must. It's half-past six, and I may be out for -some time. Don't sit up for me, mother.'</p> - -<p>'You expect me to go to bed before I have seen you safe, do you?'</p> - -<p>'Well, perhaps not.' He hesitated for a moment. 'But if I've time, I -shall go round by Crampton, after I've arranged with the police and seen -Hamper and Clarkson.' Their eyes met; they looked at each other intently -for a minute. Then she asked:</p> - -<p>'Why are you going round by Crampton?'</p> - -<p>'To ask after Miss Hale.'</p> - -<p>'I will send. Williams must take the water-bed she came to ask for. He -shall inquire how she is.'</p> - -<p>'I must go myself.'</p> - -<p>'Not merely to ask how Miss Hale is?'</p> - -<p>'No, not merely for that. I want to thank her for the way in which she -stood between me and the mob.'</p> - -<p>'What made you go down at all? It was putting your head into the lion's -mouth!' -</p> -<p> -He glanced sharply at her; saw that she did not know what had -passed between him and Margaret in the drawing-room; and replied by -another question:</p> - -<p>'Shall you be afraid to be left without me, until I can get some of the -police; or had we better send Williams for them now, and they could be -here by the time we have done tea? There's no time to be lost. I must be -off in a quarter of an hour.'</p> - -<p>Mrs. Thornton left the room. Her servants wondered at her directions, -usually so sharply-cut and decided, now confused and uncertain. Mr. -Thornton remained in the dining-room, trying to think of the business he -had to do at the police-office, and in reality thinking of Margaret. -Everything seemed dim and vague beyond—behind—besides the touch of her -arms round his neck—the soft clinging which made the dark colour come -and go in his cheek as he thought of it.</p> - -<p>The tea would have been very silent, but for Fanny's perpetual -description of her own feelings; how she had been alarmed—and then -thought they were gone—and then felt sick and faint and trembling in -every limb.</p> - -<p>'There, that's enough,' said her brother, rising from the table. 'The -reality was enough for me.' He was going to leave the room, when his -mother stopped him with her hand upon his arm.</p> - -<p>'You will come back here before you go to the Hales', said she, in a -low, anxious voice.</p> - -<p>'I know what I know,' said Fanny to herself.</p> - -<p>'Why? Will it be too late to disturb them?'</p> - -<p>'John, come back to me for this one evening. It will be late for Mrs. -Hale. But that is not it. To-morrow, you will—— Come back to-night, -John!' She had seldom pleaded with her son at all—she was too proud for -that: but she had never pleaded in vain.</p> - -<p>'I will return straight here after I have done my business. You will be -sure to inquire after them?—after her?'</p> - -<p>Mrs. Thornton was by no means a talkative companion to Fanny, nor yet a -good listener while her son was absent. But on his return, her eyes and -ears were keen to see and to listen to all the details which he could -give, as to the steps he had taken to secure himself, and those whom he -chose to employ, from any repetition of the day's outrages. He clearly -saw his object. Punishment and suffering, were the natural consequences -to those who had taken part in the riot. All that was necessary, in -order that property should be protected, and that the will of the -proprietor might cut to his end, clean and sharp as a sword.</p> - -<p>'Mother! You know what I have got to say to Miss Hale, to-morrow?' -</p> -<p> -The question came upon her suddenly, during a pause in which she, at least, -had forgotten Margaret.</p> - -<p>She looked up at him.</p> - -<p>'Yes! I do. You can hardly do otherwise.'</p> - -<p>'Do otherwise! I don't understand you.'</p> - -<p>'I mean that, after allowing her feelings so to overcome her, I consider -you bound in honour—'</p> - -<p>'Bound in honour,' said he, scornfully. 'I'm afraid honour has nothing -to do with it. "Her feelings overcome her!" What feelings do you mean?'</p> - -<p>'Nay, John, there is no need to be angry. Did she not rush down, and -cling to you to save you from danger?'</p> - -<p>'She did!' said he. 'But, mother,' continued he, stopping short in his -walk right in front of her, 'I dare not hope. I never was fainthearted -before; but I cannot believe such a creature cares for me.'</p> - -<p>'Don't be foolish, John. Such a creature! Why, she might be a duke's -daughter, to hear you speak. And what proof more would you have, I -wonder, of her caring for you? I can believe she has had a struggle with -her aristocratic way of viewing things; but I like her the better for -seeing clearly at last. It is a good deal for me to say,' said Mrs. -Thornton, smiling slowly, while the tears stood in her eyes; 'for after -to-night, I stand second. It was to have you to myself, all to myself, a -few hours longer, that I begged you not to go till to-morrow!'</p> - -<p>'Dearest mother!' (Still love is selfish, and in an instant he reverted -to his own hopes and fears in a way that drew the cold creeping shadow -over Mrs. Thornton's heart.) 'But I know she does not care for me. I -shall put myself at her feet—I must. If it were but one chance in a -thousand—or a million—I should do it.'</p> - -<p>'Don't fear!' said his mother, crushing down her own personal -mortification at the little notice he had taken of the rare ebullition -of her maternal feelings—of the pang of jealousy that betrayed the -intensity of her disregarded love. 'Don't be afraid,' she said, coldly. -'As far as love may go she may be worthy of you. It must have taken a -good deal to overcome her pride. Don't be afraid, John,' said she, -kissing him, as she wished him good-night. And she went slowly and -majestically out of the room. But when she got into her own, she locked -the door, and sate down to cry unwonted tears.</p> - -<p>Margaret entered the room (where her father and mother still sat, -holding low conversation together), looking very pale and white. She -came close up to them before she could trust herself to speak.</p> - -<p>'Mrs. Thornton will send the water-bed, mamma.'</p> - -<p>'Dear, how tired you look! Is it very hot, Margaret?'</p> - -<p>'Very hot, and the streets are rather rough with the strike.'</p> - -<p>Margaret's colour came back vivid and bright as ever; but it faded away -instantly.</p> - -<p>'Here has been a message from Bessy Higgins, asking you to go to her,' -said Mrs. Hale. 'But I'm sure you look too tired.'</p> - -<p>'Yes!' said Margaret. 'I am tired, I cannot go.'</p> - -<p>She was very silent and trembling while she made tea. She was thankful -to see her father so much occupied with her mother as not to notice her -looks. Even after her mother went to bed, he was not content to be -absent from her, but undertook to read her to sleep. Margaret was alone.</p> - -<p>'Now I will think of it—now I will remember it all. I could not -before—I dared not.' She sat still in her chair, her hands clasped on -her knees, her lips compressed, her eyes fixed as one who sees a vision. -She drew a deep breath.</p> - -<p>'I, who hate scenes—I, who have despised people for showing -emotion—who have thought them wanting in self-control—I went down and -must needs throw myself into the melee, like a romantic fool! Did I do -any good? They would have gone away without me I dare say.' But this was -over-leaping the rational conclusion,—as in an instant her well-poised -judgment felt. 'No, perhaps they would not. I did some good. But what -possessed me to defend that man as if he were a helpless child! Ah!' -said she, clenching her hands together, 'it is no wonder those people -thought I was in love with him, after disgracing myself in that way. I -in love—and with him too!' Her pale cheeks suddenly became one flame of -fire; and she covered her face with her hands. When she took them away, -her palms were wet with scalding tears.</p> - -<p>'Oh how low I am fallen that they should say that of me! I could not -have been so brave for any one else, just because he was so utterly -indifferent to me—if, indeed, I do not positively dislike him. It made -me the more anxious that there should be fair play on each side; and I -could see what fair play was. It was not fair,' said she, vehemently, -'that he should stand there—sheltered, awaiting the soldiers, who might -catch those poor maddened creatures as in a trap—without an effort on -his part, to bring them to reason. And it was worse than unfair for them -to set on him as they threatened. I would do it again, let who will say -what they like of me. If I saved one blow, one cruel, angry action that -might otherwise have been committed, I did a woman's work. Let them -insult my maiden pride as they will—I walk pure before God!'</p> - -<p>She looked up, and a noble peace seemed to descend and calm her face, -till it was 'stiller than chiselled marble.'</p> - -<p>Dixon came in:</p> - -<p>'If you please, Miss Margaret, here's the water-bed from Mrs. -Thornton's. It's too late for to-night, I'm afraid, for missus is nearly -asleep: but it will do nicely for to-morrow.'</p> - -<p>'Very,' said Margaret. 'You must send our best thanks.'</p> - -<p>Dixon left the room for a moment.</p> - -<p>'If you please, Miss Margaret, he says he's to ask particular how you -are. I think he must mean missus; but he says his last words were, to -ask how Miss Hale was.'</p> - -<p>'Me!' said Margaret, drawing herself up. 'I am quite well. Tell him I am -perfectly well.' But her complexion was as deadly white as her -handkerchief; and her head ached intensely.</p> - -<p>Mr. Hale now came in. He had left his sleeping wife; and wanted, as -Margaret saw, to be amused and interested by something that she was to -tell him. With sweet patience did she bear her pain, without a word of -complaint; and rummaged up numberless small subjects for -conversation—all except the riot, and that she never named once. It -turned her sick to think of it.</p> - -<p>'Good-night, Margaret. I have every chance of a good night myself, and -you are looking very pale with your watching. I shall call Dixon if your -mother needs anything. Do you go to bed and sleep like a top; for I'm -sure you need it, poor child!'</p> - -<p>'Good-night, papa.'</p> - -<p>She let her colour go—the forced smile fade away—the eyes grow dull -with heavy pain. She released her strong will from its laborious task. -Till morning she might feel ill and weary.</p> - -<p>She lay down and never stirred. To move hand or foot, or even so much as -one finger, would have been an exertion beyond the powers of either -volition or motion. She was so tired, so stunned, that she thought she -never slept at all; her feverish thoughts passed and repassed the -boundary between sleeping and waking, and kept their own miserable -identity. She could not be alone, prostrate, powerless as she was,—a -cloud of faces looked up at her, giving her no idea of fierce vivid -anger, or of personal danger, but a deep sense of shame that she should -thus be the object of universal regard—a sense of shame so acute that -it seemed as if she would fain have burrowed into the earth to hide -herself, and yet she could not escape out of that unwinking glare of -many eyes.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIV_MISTAKES_CLEARED_UP" id="CHAPTER_XXIV_MISTAKES_CLEARED_UP"></a>CHAPTER XXIV—MISTAKES CLEARED UP</h2> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">'Your beauty was the first that won the place,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">And scal'd the walls of my undaunted heart,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Which, captive now, pines in a caitive case,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Unkindly met with rigour for desert;—<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Yet not the less your servant shall abide,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">In spite of rude repulse or silent pride.'<br /></span> -<span class="i9">W<small>ILLIAM</small> F<small>OWLER</small>.<br /></span> -</div></div> - -<p>The next morning, Margaret dragged herself up, thankful that the night -was over,—unrefreshed, yet rested. All had gone well through the house; -her mother had only wakened once. A little breeze was stirring in the -hot air, and though there were no trees to show the playful tossing -movement caused by the wind among the leaves, Margaret knew how, -somewhere or another, by way-side, in copses, or in thick green woods, -there was a pleasant, murmuring, dancing sound,—a rushing and falling -noise, the very thought of which was an echo of distant gladness in her -heart.</p> - -<p>She sat at her work in Mrs. Hale's room. As soon as that forenoon -slumber was over, she would help her mother to dress after dinner, she -would go and see Bessy Higgins. She would banish all recollection of the -Thornton family,—no need to think of them till they absolutely stood -before her in flesh and blood. But, of course, the effort not to think -of them brought them only the more strongly before her; and from time to -time, the hot flush came over her pale face sweeping it into colour, as -a sunbeam from between watery clouds comes swiftly moving over the sea.</p> - -<p>Dixon opened the door very softly, and stole on tiptoe up to Margaret, -sitting by the shaded window.</p> - -<p>'Mr. Thornton, Miss Margaret. He is in the drawing-room.'</p> - -<p>Margaret dropped her sewing.</p> - -<p>'Did he ask for me? Isn't papa come in?'</p> - -<p>'He asked for you, miss; and master is out.'</p> - -<p>'Very well, I will come,' said Margaret, quietly. But she lingered -strangely. Mr. Thornton stood by one of the windows, with his back to -the door, apparently absorbed in watching something in the street. But, -in truth, he was afraid of himself. His heart beat thick at the thought -of her coming. He could not forget the touch of her arms around his -neck, impatiently felt as it had been at the time; but now the -recollection of her clinging defence of him, seemed to thrill him -through and through,—to melt away every resolution, all power of -self-control, as if it were wax before a fire. He dreaded lest he should -go forwards to meet her, with his arms held out in mute entreaty that -she would come and nestle there, as she had done, all unheeded, the day -before, but never unheeded again. His heart throbbed loud and quick. -Strong man as he was, he trembled at the anticipation of what he had to -say, and how it might be received. She might droop, and flush, and -flutter to his arms, as to her natural home and resting-place. One -moment, he glowed with impatience at the thought that she might do this, -the next, he feared a passionate rejection, the very idea of which -withered up his future with so deadly a blight that he refused to think -of it. He was startled by the sense of the presence of some one else in -the room. He turned round. She had come in so gently, that he had never -heard her; the street noises had been more distinct to his inattentive -ear than her slow movements, in her soft muslin gown.</p> - -<p>She stood by the table, not offering to sit down. Her eyelids were -dropped half over her eyes; her teeth were shut, not compressed; her -lips were just parted over them, allowing the white line to be seen -between their curve. Her slow deep breathings dilated her thin and -beautiful nostrils; it was the only motion visible on her countenance. -The fine-grained skin, the oval cheek, the rich outline of her mouth, -its corners deep set in dimples,—were all wan and pale to-day; the loss -of their usual natural healthy colour being made more evident by the -heavy shadow of the dark hair, brought down upon the temples, to hide -all sign of the blow she had received. Her head, for all its drooping -eyes, was thrown a little back, in the old proud attitude. Her long arms -hung motion-less by her sides. Altogether she looked like some prisoner, -falsely accused of a crime that she loathed and despised, and from which -she was too indignant to justify herself.</p> - -<p>Mr. Thornton made a hasty step or two forwards; recovered himself, and -went with quiet firmness to the door (which she had left open), and shut -it. Then he came back, and stood opposite to her for a moment, receiving -the general impression of her beautiful presence, before he dared to -disturb it, perhaps to repel it, by what he had to say.</p> - -<p>'Miss Hale, I was very ungrateful yesterday—'</p> - -<p>'You had nothing to be grateful for,' said she, raising her eyes, and -looking full and straight at him. 'You mean, I suppose, that you believe -you ought to thank me for what I did.' In spite of herself—in defiance -of her anger—the thick blushes came all over her face, and burnt into -her very eyes; which fell not nevertheless from their grave and steady -look. 'It was only a natural instinct; any woman would have done just -the same. We all feel the sanctity of our sex as a high privilege when -we see danger. I ought rather,' said she, hastily, 'to apologise to you, -for having said thoughtless words which sent you down into the danger.'</p> - -<p>'It was not your words; it was the truth they conveyed, pungently as it -was expressed. But you shall not drive me off upon that, and so escape -the expression of my deep gratitude, my—' he was on the verge now; he -would not speak in the haste of his hot passion; he would weigh each -word. He would; and his will was triumphant. He stopped in mid career.</p> - -<p>'I do not try to escape from anything,' said she. 'I simply say, that -you owe me no gratitude; and I may add, that any expression of it will -be painful to me, because I do not feel that I deserve it. Still, if it -will relieve you from even a fancied obligation, speak on.'</p> - -<p>'I do not want to be relieved from any obligation,' said he, goaded by -her calm manner. 'Fancied, or not fancied—I question not myself to know -which—I choose to believe that I owe my very life to you—ay—smile, -and think it an exaggeration if you will. I believe it, because it adds -a value to that life to think—oh, Miss Hale!' continued he, lowering -his voice to such a tender intensity of passion that she shivered and -trembled before him, 'to think circumstance so wrought, that whenever I -exult in existence henceforward, I may say to myself, "All this gladness -in life, all honest pride in doing my work in the world, all this keen -sense of being, I owe to her!" And it doubles the gladness, it makes the -pride glow, it sharpens the sense of existence till I hardly know if it -is pain or pleasure, to think that I owe it to one—nay, you must, you -shall hear'—said he, stepping forwards with stern determination—'to -one whom I love, as I do not believe man ever loved woman before.' He -held her hand tight in his. He panted as he listened for what should -come. He threw the hand away with indignation, as he heard her icy tone; -for icy it was, though the words came faltering out, as if she knew not -where to find them.</p> - -<p>'Your way of speaking shocks me. It is blasphemous. I cannot help it, if -that is my first feeling. It might not be so, I dare say, if I -understood the kind of feeling you describe. I do not want to vex you; -and besides, we must speak gently, for mamma is asleep; but your whole -manner offends me—'</p> - -<p>'How!' exclaimed he. 'Offends you! I am indeed most unfortunate.'</p> - -<p>'Yes!' said she, with recovered dignity. 'I do feel offended; and, I -think, justly. You seem to fancy that my conduct of yesterday'—again -the deep carnation blush, but this time with eyes kindling with -indignation rather than shame—'was a personal act between you and me; -and that you may come and thank me for it, instead of perceiving, as a -gentleman would—yes! a gentleman,' she repeated, in allusion to their -former conversation about that word, 'that any woman, worthy of the name -of woman, would come forward to shield, with her reverenced -helplessness, a man in danger from the violence of numbers.'</p> - -<p>'And the gentleman thus rescued is forbidden the relief of thanks!' he -broke in contemptuously. 'I am a man. I claim the right of expressing my -feelings.'</p> - -<p>'And I yielded to the right; simply saying that you gave me pain by -insisting upon it,' she replied, proudly. 'But you seem to have -imagined, that I was not merely guided by womanly instinct, but'—and -here the passionate tears (kept down for long—struggled with -vehemently) came up into her eyes, and choked her voice—'but that I was -prompted by some particular feeling for you—you! Why, there was not a -man—not a poor desperate man in all that crowd—for whom I had not more -sympathy—for whom I should not have done what little I could more -heartily.'</p> - -<p>'You may speak on, Miss Hale. I am aware of all these misplaced -sympathies of yours. I now believe that it was only your innate sense of -oppression—(yes; I, though a master, may be oppressed)—that made you -act so nobly as you did. I know you despise me; allow me to say, it is -because you do not understand me.'</p> - -<p>'I do not care to understand,' she replied, taking hold of the table to -steady herself; for she thought him cruel—as, indeed, he was—and she -was weak with her indignation.</p> - -<p>'No, I see you do not. You are unfair and unjust.'</p> - -<p>Margaret compressed her lips. She would not speak in answer to such -accusations. But, for all that—for all his savage words, he could have -thrown himself at her feet, and kissed the hem of her garment. She did -not speak; she did not move. The tears of wounded pride fell hot and -fast. He waited awhile, longing for her to say something, even a taunt, -to which he might reply. But she was silent. He took up his hat.</p> - -<p>'One word more. You look as if you thought it tainted you to be loved by -me. You cannot avoid it. Nay, I, if I would, cannot cleanse you from it. -But I would not, if I could. I have never loved any woman before: my -life has been too busy, my thoughts too much absorbed with other things. -Now I love, and will love. But do not be afraid of too much expression -on my part.'</p> - -<p>'I am not afraid,' she replied, lifting herself straight up. 'No one yet -has ever dared to be impertinent to me, and no one ever shall. But, Mr. -Thornton, you have been very kind to my father,' said she, changing her -whole tone and bearing to a most womanly softness. 'Don't let us go on -making each other angry. Pray don't!' He took no notice of her words: he -occupied himself in smoothing the nap of his hat with his coat-sleeve, -for half a minute or so; and then, rejecting her offered hand, and -making as if he did not see her grave look of regret, he turned abruptly -away, and left the room. Margaret caught one glance at his face before -he went.</p> - -<p>When he was gone, she thought she had seen the gleam of unshed tears in -his eyes; and that turned her proud dislike into something different and -kinder, if nearly as painful—self-reproach for having caused such -mortification to any one.</p> - -<p>'But how could I help it?' asked she of herself. 'I never liked him. I -was civil; but I took no trouble to conceal my indifference. Indeed, I -never thought about myself or him, so my manners must have shown the -truth. All that yesterday, he might mistake. But that is his fault, not -mine. I would do it again, if need were, though it does lead me into all -this shame and trouble.'</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXV_FREDERICK" id="CHAPTER_XXV_FREDERICK"></a>CHAPTER XXV—FREDERICK</h2> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">'Revenge may have her own;<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Roused discipline aloud proclaims their cause,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">And injured navies urge their broken laws.'<br /></span> -<span class="i9">B<small>YRON</small>.<br /></span> -</div></div> - -<p>Margaret began to wonder whether all offers were as unexpected -beforehand,—as distressing at the time of their occurrence, as the two -she had had. An involuntary comparison between Mr. Lennox and Mr. -Thornton arose in her mind. She had been sorry that an expression of any -other feeling than friendship had been lured out by circumstances from -Henry Lennox. That regret was the predominant feeling, on the first -occasion of her receiving a proposal. She had not felt so stunned—so -impressed as she did now, when echoes of Mr. Thornton's voice yet -lingered about the room. In Lennox's case, he seemed for a moment to -have slid over the boundary between friendship and love; and the instant -afterwards, to regret it nearly as much as she did, although for -different reasons. In Mr. Thornton's case, as far as Margaret knew, -there was no intervening stage of friendship. Their intercourse had been -one continued series of opposition. Their opinions clashed; and indeed, -she had never perceived that he had cared for her opinions, as belonging -to her, the individual. As far as they defied his rock-like power of -character, his passion-strength, he seemed to throw them off from him -with contempt, until she felt the weariness of the exertion of making -useless protests; and now, he had come, in this strange wild passionate -way, to make known his love. For, although at first it had struck her, -that his offer was forced and goaded out of him by sharp compassion for -the exposure she had made of herself,—which he, like others, might -misunderstand—yet, even before he left the room,—and certainly, not -five minutes after, the clear conviction dawned upon her, shined bright -upon her, that he did love her; that he had loved her; that he would -love her. And she shrank and shuddered as under the fascination of some -great power, repugnant to her whole previous life. She crept away, and -hid from his idea. But it was of no use. To parody a line out of -Fairfax's Tasso—</p> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">'His strong idea wandered through her thought.'<br /></span> -</div></div> - -<p>She disliked him the more for having mastered her inner will. How dared -he say that he would love her still, even though she shook him off with -contempt? She wished she had spoken more—stronger. Sharp, decisive -speeches came thronging into her mind, now that it was too late to utter -them. The deep impression made by the interview, was like that of a -horror in a dream; that will not leave the room although we waken up, -and rub our eyes, and force a stiff rigid smile upon our lips. It is -there—there, cowering and gibbering, with fixed ghastly eyes, in some -corner of the chamber, listening to hear whether we dare to breathe of -its presence to any one. And we dare not; poor cowards that we are!</p> - -<p>And so she shuddered away from the threat of his enduring love. What did -he mean? Had she not the power to daunt him? She would see. It was more -daring than became a man to threaten her so. Did he ground it upon the -miserable yesterday? If need were, she would do the same to-morrow,—by -a crippled beggar, willingly and gladly,—but by him, she would do it, -just as bravely, in spite of his deductions, and the cold slime of -women's impertinence. She did it because it was right, and simple, and -true to save where she could save; even to try to save. <i>'Fais ce que -dois, advienne que pourra.'</i></p> - -<p>Hitherto she had not stirred from where he had left her; no outward -circumstances had roused her out of the trance of thought in which she -had been plunged by his last words, and by the look of his deep intent -passionate eyes, as their flames had made her own fall before them. She -went to the window, and threw it open, to dispel the oppression which -hung around her. Then she went and opened the door, with a sort of -impetuous wish to shake off the recollection of the past hour in the -company of others, or in active exertion. But all was profoundly hushed -in the noonday stillness of a house, where an invalid catches the -unrefreshing sleep that is denied to the night-hours. Margaret would not -be alone. What should she do? 'Go and see Bessy Higgins, of course,' -thought she, as the recollection of the message sent the night before -flashed into her mind.</p> - -<p>And away she went.</p> - -<p>When she got there, she found Bessy lying on the settle, moved close to -the fire, though the day was sultry and oppressive. She was laid down -quite flat, as if resting languidly after some paroxysm of pain. -Margaret felt sure she ought to have the greater freedom of breathing -which a more sitting posture would procure; and, without a word, she -raised her up, and so arranged the pillows, that Bessy was more at ease, -though very languid.</p> - -<p>'I thought I should na' ha' seen yo' again,' said she, at last, looking -wistfully in Margaret's face.</p> - -<p>'I'm afraid you're much worse. But I could not have come yesterday, my -mother was so ill—for many reasons,' said Margaret, colouring.</p> - -<p>'Yo'd m'appen think I went beyond my place in sending Mary for yo'. But -the wranglin' and the loud voices had just torn me to pieces, and I -thought when father left, oh! if I could just hear her voice, reading me -some words o' peace and promise, I could die away into the silence and -rest o' God, just as a babby is hushed up to sleep by its mother's -lullaby.'</p> - -<p>'Shall I read you a chapter, now?'</p> - -<p>'Ay, do! M'appen I shan't listen to th' sense, at first; it will seem -far away—but when yo' come to words I like—to th' comforting -texts—it'll seem close in my ear, and going through me as it were.'</p> - -<p>Margaret began. Bessy tossed to and fro. If, by an effort, she attended -for one moment, it seemed as though she were convulsed into double -restlessness the next. At last, she burst out 'Don't go on reading. It's -no use. I'm blaspheming all the time in my mind, wi' thinking angrily on -what canna be helped.—Yo'd hear of th' riot, m'appen, yesterday at -Marlborough Mills? Thornton's factory, yo' know.'</p> - -<p>'Your father was not there, was he?' said Margaret, colouring deep.</p> - -<p>'Not he. He'd ha' given his right hand if it had never come to pass. -It's that that's fretting me. He's fairly knocked down in his mind by -it. It's no use telling him, fools will always break out o' bounds. Yo' -never saw a man so down-hearted as he is.'</p> - -<p>'But why?' asked Margaret. 'I don't understand.'</p> - -<p>'Why yo' see, he's a committee-man on this special strike'. Th' Union -appointed him because, though I say it as shouldn't say it, he's -reckoned a deep chap, and true to th' back-bone. And he and t' other -committee-men laid their plans. They were to hou'd together through -thick and thin; what the major part thought, t'others were to think, -whether they would or no. And above all there was to be no going again -the law of the land. Folk would go with them if they saw them striving -and starving wi' dumb patience; but if there was once any noise o' -fighting and struggling—even wi' knobsticks—all was up, as they knew -by th' experience of many, and many a time before. They would try and -get speech o' th' knobsticks, and coax 'em, and reason wi' 'em, and -m'appen warn 'em off; but whatever came, the Committee charged all -members o' th' Union to lie down and die, if need were, without striking -a blow; and then they reckoned they were sure o' carrying th' public -with them. And beside all that, Committee knew they were right in their -demand, and they didn't want to have right all mixed up wi' wrong, till -folk can't separate it, no more nor I can th' physic-powder from th' -jelly yo' gave me to mix it in; jelly is much the biggest, but powder -tastes it all through. Well, I've told yo' at length about this'n, but -I'm tired out. Yo' just think for yo'rsel, what it mun be for father to -have a' his work undone, and by such a fool as Boucher, who must needs -go right again the orders of Committee, and ruin th' strike, just as bad -as if he meant to be a Judas. Eh! but father giv'd it him last night! He -went so far as to say, he'd go and tell police where they might find th' -ringleader o' th' riot; he'd give him up to th' mill-owners to do what -they would wi' him. He'd show the world that th' real leaders o' the -strike were not such as Boucher, but steady thoughtful men; good hands, -and good citizens, who were friendly to law and judgment, and would -uphold order; who only wanted their right wage, and wouldn't work, even -though they starved, till they got 'em; but who would ne'er injure -property or life: For,' dropping her voice, 'they do say, that Boucher -threw a stone at Thornton's sister, that welly killed her.'</p> - -<p>'That's not true,' said Margaret. 'It was not Boucher that threw the -stone'—she went first red, then white.</p> - -<p>'Yo'd be there then, were yo'?' asked Bessy languidly for indeed, she -had spoken with many pauses, as if speech was unusually difficult to -her.</p> - -<p>'Yes. Never mind. Go on. Only it was not Boucher that threw the stone. -But what did he answer to your father?'</p> - -<p>'He did na' speak words. He were all in such a tremble wi' spent -passion, I could na' bear to look at him. I heard his breath coming -quick, and at one time I thought he were sobbing. But when father said -he'd give him up to police, he gave a great cry, and struck father on -th' face wi' his closed fist, and be off like lightning. Father were -stunned wi' the blow at first, for all Boucher were weak wi' passion and -wi' clemming. He sat down a bit, and put his hand afore his eyes; and -then made for th' door. I dunno' where I got strength, but I threw -mysel' off th' settle and clung to him. "Father, father!" said I. -"Thou'll never go peach on that poor clemmed man. I'll never leave go on -thee, till thou sayst thou wunnot." "Dunnot be a fool," says he, "words -come readier than deeds to most men. I never thought o' telling th' -police on him; though by G—, he deserves it, and I should na' ha' -minded if some one else had done the dirty work, and got him clapped up. -But now he has strucken me, I could do it less nor ever, for it would be -getting other men to take up my quarrel. But if ever he gets well o'er -this clemming, and is in good condition, he and I'll have an up and down -fight, purring an' a', and I'll see what I can do for him." And so -father shook me off,—for indeed, I was low and faint enough, and his -face was all clay white, where it weren't bloody, and turned me sick to -look at. And I know not if I slept or waked, or were in a dead swoon, -till Mary come in; and I telled her to fetch yo' to me. And now dunnot -talk to me, but just read out th' chapter. I'm easier in my mind for -having spit it out; but I want some thoughts of the world that's far -away to take the weary taste of it out o' my mouth. Read me—not a -sermon chapter, but a story chapter; they've pictures in them, which I -see when my eyes are shut. Read about the New Heavens, and the New -Earth; and m'appen I'll forget this.'</p> - -<p>Margaret read in her soft low voice. Though Bessy's eyes were shut, she -was listening for some time, for the moisture of tears gathered heavy on -her eyelashes. At last she slept; with many starts, and muttered -pleadings. Margaret covered her up, and left her, for she had an uneasy -consciousness that she might be wanted at home, and yet, until now, it -seemed cruel to leave the dying girl. Mrs. Hale was in the drawing-room -on her daughter's return. It was one of her better days, and she was -full of praises of the water-bed. It had been more like the beds at Sir -John Beresford's than anything she had slept on since. She did not know -how it was, but people seemed to have lost the art of making the same -kind of beds as they used to do in her youth. One would think it was -easy enough; there was the same kind of feathers to be had, and yet -somehow, till this last night she did not know when she had had a good -sound resting sleep. Mr. Hale suggested, that something of the merits of -the featherbeds of former days might be attributed to the activity of -youth, which gave a relish to rest; but this idea was not kindly -received by his wife.</p> - -<p>'No, indeed, Mr. Hale, it was those beds at Sir John's. Now, Margaret, -you're young enough, and go about in the day; are the beds comfortable? -I appeal to you. Do they give you a feeling of perfect repose when you -lie down upon them; or rather, don't you toss about, and try in vain to -find an easy position, and waken in the morning as tired as when you -went to bed?'</p> - -<p>Margaret laughed. 'To tell the truth, mamma, I've never thought about my -bed at all, what kind it is. I'm so sleepy at night, that if I only lie -down anywhere, I nap off directly. So I don't think I'm a competent -witness. But then, you know, I never had the opportunity of trying Sir -John Beresford's beds. I never was at Oxenham.'</p> - -<p>'Were not you? Oh, no! to be sure. It was poor darling Fred I took with -me, I remember. I only went to Oxenham once after I was married,—to -your Aunt Shaw's wedding; and poor little Fred was the baby then. And I -know Dixon did not like changing from lady's maid to nurse, and I was -afraid that if I took her near her old home, and amongst her own people, -she might want to leave me. But poor baby was taken ill at Oxenham, with -his teething; and, what with my being a great deal with Anna just before -her marriage, and not being very strong myself, Dixon had more of the -charge of him than she ever had before; and it made her so fond of him, -and she was so proud when he would turn away from every one and cling to -her, that I don't believe she ever thought of leaving me again; though -it was very different from what she'd been accustomed to. Poor Fred! -Everybody loved him. He was born with the gift of winning hearts. It -makes me think very badly of Captain Reid when I know that he disliked -my own dear boy. I think it a certain proof he had a bad heart. Ah! Your -poor father, Margaret. He has left the room. He can't bear to hear Fred -spoken of.'</p> - -<p>'I love to hear about him, mamma. Tell me all you like; you never can -tell me too much. Tell me what he was like as a baby.'</p> - -<p>'Why, Margaret, you must not be hurt, but he was much prettier than you -were. I remember, when I first saw you in Dixon's arms, I said, "Dear, -what an ugly little thing!" And she said, "It's not every child that's -like Master Fred, bless him!" Dear! how well I remember it. Then I could -have had Fred in my arms every minute of the day, and his cot was close -by my bed; and now, now—Margaret—I don't know where my boy is, and -sometimes I think I shall never see him again.'</p> - -<p>Margaret sat down by her mother's sofa on a little stool, and softly -took hold of her hand, caressing it and kissing it, as if to comfort. -Mrs. Hale cried without restraint. At last, she sat straight, stiff up -on the sofa, and turning round to her daughter, she said with tearful, -almost solemn earnestness, 'Margaret, if I can get better,—if God lets -me have a chance of recovery, it must be through seeing my son Frederick -once more. It will waken up all the poor springs of health left in me.'</p> - -<p>She paused, and seemed to try and gather strength for something more yet -to be said. Her voice was choked as she went on—was quavering as with -the contemplation of some strange, yet closely-present idea.</p> - -<p>'And, Margaret, if I am to die—if I am one of those appointed to die -before many weeks are over—I must see my child first. I cannot think -how it must be managed; but I charge you, Margaret, as you yourself hope -for comfort in your last illness, bring him to me that I may bless him. -Only for five minutes, Margaret. There could be no danger in five -minutes. Oh, Margaret, let me see him before I die!'</p> - -<p>Margaret did not think of anything that might be utterly unreasonable in -this speech: we do not look for reason or logic in the passionate -entreaties of those who are sick unto death; we are stung with the -recollection of a thousand slighted opportunities of fulfilling the -wishes of those who will soon pass away from among us: and do they ask -us for the future happiness of our lives, we lay it at their feet, and -will it away from us. But this wish of Mrs. Hale's was so natural, so -just, so right to both parties, that Margaret felt as if, on Frederick's -account as well as on her mother's, she ought to overlook all -intermediate chances of danger, and pledge herself to do everything in -her power for its realisation. The large, pleading, dilated eyes were -fixed upon her wistfully, steady in their gaze, though the poor white -lips quivered like those of a child. Margaret gently rose up and stood -opposite to her frail mother; so that she might gather the secure -fulfilment of her wish from the calm steadiness of her daughter's face.</p> - -<p>'Mamma, I will write to-night, and tell Frederick what you say. I am as -sure that he will come directly to us, as I am sure of my life. Be easy, -mamma, you shall see him as far as anything earthly can be promised.'</p> - -<p>'You will write to-night? Oh, Margaret! the post goes out at five—you -will write by it, won't you? I have so few hours left—I feel, dear, as -if I should not recover, though sometimes your father over-persuades me -into hoping; you will write directly, won't you? Don't lose a single -post; for just by that very post I may miss him.'</p> - -<p>'But, mamma, papa is out.'</p> - -<p>'Papa is out! and what then? Do you mean that he would deny me this last -wish, Margaret? Why, I should not be ill—be dying—if he had not taken -me away from Helstone, to this unhealthy, smoky, sunless place.'</p> - -<p>'Oh, mamma!' said Margaret.</p> - -<p>'Yes; it is so, indeed. He knows it himself; he has said so many a time. -He would do anything for me; you don't mean he would refuse me this last -wish—prayer, if you will. And, indeed, Margaret, the longing to see -Frederick stands between me and God. I cannot pray till I have this one -thing; indeed, I cannot. Don't lose time, dear, dear Margaret. Write by -this very next post. Then he may be here—here in twenty-two days! For -he is sure to come. No cords or chains can keep him. In twenty-two days -I shall see my boy.' She fell back, and for a short time she took no -notice of the fact that Margaret sat motionless, her hand shading her -eyes.</p> - -<p>'You are not writing!' said her mother at last 'Bring me some pens and -paper; I will try and write myself.' She sat up, trembling all over with -feverish eagerness. Margaret took her hand down and looked at her mother -sadly.</p> - -<p>'Only wait till papa comes in. Let us ask him how best to do it.'</p> - -<p>'You promised, Margaret, not a quarter of an hour ago;—you said he -should come.'</p> - -<p>'And so he shall, mamma; don't cry, my own dear mother. I'll write here, -now,—you shall see me write,—and it shall go by this very post; and if -papa thinks fit, he can write again when he comes in,—it is only a -day's delay. Oh, mamma, don't cry so pitifully,—it cuts me to the -heart.'</p> - -<p>Mrs. Hale could not stop her tears; they came hysterically; and, in -truth, she made no effort to control them, but rather called up all the -pictures of the happy past, and the probable future—painting the scene -when she should lie a corpse, with the son she had longed to see in life -weeping over her, and she unconscious of his presence—till she was -melted by self-pity into a state of sobbing and exhaustion that made -Margaret's heart ache. But at last she was calm, and greedily watched -her daughter, as she began her letter; wrote it with swift urgent -entreaty; sealed it up hurriedly, for fear her mother should ask to see -it: and then, to make security most sure, at Mrs. Hale's own bidding, -took it herself to the post-office. She was coming home when her father -overtook her.</p> - -<p>'And where have you been, my pretty maid?' asked he.</p> - -<p>'To the post-office,—with a letter; a letter to Frederick. Oh, papa, -perhaps I have done wrong: but mamma was seized with such a passionate -yearning to see him—she said it would make her well again,—and then -she said that she must see him before she died,—I cannot tell you how -urgent she was! Did I do wrong?' Mr. Hale did not reply at first. Then -he said:</p> - -<p>'You should have waited till I came in, Margaret.'</p> - -<p>'I tried to persuade her—' and then she was silent.</p> - -<p>'I don't know,' said Mr. Hale, after a pause. 'She ought to see him if -she wishes it so much, for I believe it would do her much more good than -all the doctor's medicine,—and, perhaps, set her up altogether; but the -danger to him, I'm afraid, is very great.'</p> - -<p>'All these years since the mutiny, papa?'</p> - -<p>'Yes; it is necessary, of course, for government to take very stringent -measures for the repression of offences against authority, more -particularly in the navy, where a commanding officer needs to be -surrounded in his men's eyes with a vivid consciousness of all the power -there is at home to back him, and take up his cause, and avenge any -injuries offered to him, if need be. Ah! it's no matter to them how far -their authorities have tyrannised,—galled hasty tempers to -madness,—or, if that can be any excuse afterwards, it is never allowed -for in the first instance; they spare no expense, they send out -ships,—they scour the seas to lay hold of the offenders,—the lapse of -years does not wash out the memory of the offence,—it is a fresh and -vivid crime on the Admiralty books till it is blotted out by blood.'</p> - -<p>'Oh, papa, what have I done! And yet it seemed so right at the time. I'm -sure Frederick himself, would run the risk.'</p> - -<p>'So he would; so he should! Nay, Margaret, I'm glad it is done, though I -durst not have done it myself. I'm thankful it is as it is; I should -have hesitated till, perhaps, it might have been too late to do any -good. Dear Margaret, you have done what is right about it; and the end -is beyond our control.'</p> - -<p>It was all very well; but her father's account of the relentless manner -in which mutinies were punished made Margaret shiver and creep. If she -had decoyed her brother home to blot out the memory of his error by his -blood! She saw her father's anxiety lay deeper than the source of his -latter cheering words. She took his arm and walked home pensively and -wearily by his side.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVI_MOTHER_AND_SON" id="CHAPTER_XXVI_MOTHER_AND_SON"></a>CHAPTER XXVI—MOTHER AND SON</h2> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">'I have found that holy place of rest<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Still changeless.'<br /></span> -<span class="i9">MRS. HEMANS.<br /></span> -</div></div> - -<p>When Mr. Thornton had left the house that morning he was almost blinded -by his baffled passion. He was as dizzy as if Margaret, instead of -looking, and speaking, and moving like a tender graceful woman, had been -a sturdy fish-wife, and given him a sound blow with her fists. He had -positive bodily pain,—a violent headache, and a throbbing intermittent -pulse. He could not bear the noise, the garish light, the continued -rumble and movement of the street. He called himself a fool for -suffering so; and yet he could not, at the moment, recollect the cause -of his suffering, and whether it was adequate to the consequences it had -produced. It would have been a relief to him, if he could have sat down -and cried on a door-step by a little child, who was raging and storming, -through his passionate tears, at some injury he had received. He said to -himself, that he hated Margaret, but a wild, sharp sensation of love -cleft his dull, thunderous feeling like lightning, even as he shaped the -words expressive of hatred. His greatest comfort was in hugging his -torment; and in feeling, as he had indeed said to her, that though she -might despise him, contemn him, treat him with her proud sovereign -indifference, he did not change one whit. She could not make him change. -He loved her, and would love her; and defy her, and this miserable -bodily pain.</p> - -<p>He stood still for a moment, to make this resolution firm and clear. -There was an omnibus passing—going into the country; the conductor -thought he was wishing for a place, and stopped near the pavement. It -was too much trouble to apologise and explain; so he mounted upon it, -and was borne away,—past long rows of houses—then past detached villas -with trim gardens, till they came to real country hedge-rows, and, -by-and-by, to a small country town. Then everybody got down; and so did -Mr. Thornton, and because they walked away he did so too. He went into -the fields, walking briskly, because the sharp motion relieved his mind. -He could remember all about it now; the pitiful figure he must have cut; -the absurd way in which he had gone and done the very thing he had so -often agreed with himself in thinking would be the most foolish thing in -the world; and had met with exactly the consequences which, in these -wise moods, he had always fore-told were certain to follow, if he ever -did make such a fool of himself. Was he bewitched by those beautiful -eyes, that soft, half-open, sighing mouth which lay so close upon his -shoulder only yesterday? He could not even shake off the recollection -that she had been there; that her arms had been round him, once—if -never again. He only caught glimpses of her; he did not understand her -altogether. At one time she was so brave, and at another so timid; now -so tender, and then so haughty and regal-proud. And then he thought over -every time he had ever seen her once again, by way of finally forgetting -her. He saw her in every dress, in every mood, and did not know which -became her best. Even this morning, how magnificent she had looked,—her -eyes flashing out upon him at the idea that, because she had shared his -danger yesterday, she had cared for him the least!</p> - -<p>If Mr. Thornton was a fool in the morning, as he assured himself at -least twenty times he was, he did not grow much wiser in the afternoon. -All that he gained in return for his sixpenny omnibus ride, was a more -vivid conviction that there never was, never could be, any one like -Margaret; that she did not love him and never would; but that she—no! -nor the whole world—should never hinder him from loving her. And so he -returned to the little market-place, and remounted the omnibus to return -to Milton.</p> - -<p>It was late in the afternoon when he was set down, near his warehouse. -The accustomed places brought back the accustomed habits and trains of -thought. He knew how much he had to do—more than his usual work, owing -to the commotion of the day before. He had to see his brother -magistrates; he had to complete the arrangements, only half made in the -morning, for the comfort and safety of his newly imported Irish hands; -he had to secure them from all chance of communication with the -discontented work-people of Milton. Last of all, he had to go home and -encounter his mother.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Thornton had sat in the dining-room all day, every moment expecting -the news of her son's acceptance by Miss Hale. She had braced herself up -many and many a time, at some sudden noise in the house; had caught up -the half-dropped work, and begun to ply her needle diligently, though -through dimmed spectacles, and with an unsteady hand! and many times had -the door opened, and some indifferent person entered on some -insignificant errand. Then her rigid face unstiffened from its gray -frost-bound expression, and the features dropped into the relaxed look -of despondency, so unusual to their sternness. She wrenched herself away -from the contemplation of all the dreary changes that would be brought -about to herself by her son's marriage; she forced her thoughts into the -accustomed household grooves. The newly-married couple-to-be would need -fresh household stocks of linen; and Mrs. Thornton had clothes-basket -upon clothes-basket, full of table-cloths and napkins, brought in, and -began to reckon up the store. There was some confusion between what was -hers, and consequently marked G. H. T. (for George and Hannah Thornton), -and what was her son's—bought with his money, marked with his initials. -Some of those marked G. H. T. were Dutch damask of the old kind, -exquisitely fine; none were like them now. Mrs. Thornton stood looking -at them long,—they had been her pride when she was first married. Then -she knit her brows, and pinched and compressed her lips tight, and -carefully unpicked the G. H. She went so far as to search for the -Turkey-red marking-thread to put in the new initials; but it was all -used,—and she had no heart to send for any more just yet. So she looked -fixedly at vacancy; a series of visions passing before her, in all of -which her son was the principal, the sole object,—her son, her pride, -her property. Still he did not come. Doubtless he was with Miss Hale. -The new love was displacing her already from her place as first in his -heart. A terrible pain—a pang of vain jealousy—shot through her: she -hardly knew whether it was more physical or mental; but it forced her to -sit down. In a moment, she was up again as straight as ever,—a grim -smile upon her face for the first time that day, ready for the door -opening, and the rejoicing triumphant one, who should never know the -sore regret his mother felt at his marriage. In all this, there was -little thought enough of the future daughter-in-law as an individual. -She was to be John's wife. To take Mrs. Thornton's place as mistress of -the house, was only one of the rich consequences which decked out the -supreme glory; all household plenty and comfort, all purple and fine -linen, honour, love, obedience, troops of friends, would all come as -naturally as jewels on a king's robe, and be as little thought of for -their separate value. To be chosen by John, would separate a -kitchen-wench from the rest of the world. And Miss Hale was not so bad. -If she had been a Milton lass, Mrs. Thornton would have positively liked -her. She was pungent, and had taste, and spirit, and flavour in her. -True, she was sadly prejudiced, and very ignorant; but that was to be -expected from her southern breeding. A strange sort of mortified -comparison of Fanny with her, went on in Mrs. Thornton's mind; and for -once she spoke harshly to her daughter; abused her roundly; and then, as -if by way of penance, she took up Henry's Commentaries, and tried to fix -her attention on it, instead of pursuing the employment she took pride -and pleasure in, and continuing her inspection of the table-linen.</p> - -<p>_His_ step at last! She heard him, even while she thought she was -finishing a sentence; while her eye did pass over it, and her memory -could mechanically have repeated it word for word, she heard him come in -at the hall-door. Her quickened sense could interpret every sound of -motion: now he was at the hat-stand—now at the very room-door. Why did -he pause? Let her know the worst.</p> - -<p>Yet her head was down over the book; she did not look up. He came close -to the table, and stood still there, waiting till she should have -finished the paragraph which apparently absorbed her. By an effort she -looked up. 'Well, John?'</p> - -<p>He knew what that little speech meant. But he had steeled himself. He -longed to reply with a jest; the bitterness of his heart could have -uttered one, but his mother deserved better of him. He came round behind -her, so that she could not see his looks, and, bending back her gray, -stony face, he kissed it, murmuring:</p> - -<p>'No one loves me,—no one cares for me, but you, mother.'</p> - -<p>He turned away and stood leaning his head against the mantel-piece, -tears forcing themselves into his manly eyes. She stood up,—she -tottered. For the first time in her life, the strong woman tottered. She -put her hands on his shoulders; she was a tall woman. She looked into -his face; she made him look at her.</p> - -<p>'Mother's love is given by God, John. It holds fast for ever and ever. A -girl's love is like a puff of smoke,—it changes with every wind. And -she would not have you, my own lad, would not she?' She set her teeth; -she showed them like a dog for the whole length of her mouth. He shook -his head.</p> - -<p>'I am not fit for her, mother; I knew I was not.'</p> - -<p>She ground out words between her closed teeth. He could not hear what -she said; but the look in her eyes interpreted it to be a curse,—if not -as coarsely worded, as fell in intent as ever was uttered. And yet her -heart leapt up light, to know he was her own again.</p> - -<p>'Mother!' said he, hurriedly, 'I cannot hear a word against her. Spare -me,—spare me! I am very weak in my sore heart;—I love her yet; I love -her more than ever.'</p> - -<p>'And I hate her,' said Mrs. Thornton, in a low fierce voice. 'I tried -not to hate her, when she stood between you and me, because,—I said to -myself,—she will make him happy; and I would give my heart's blood to -do that. But now, I hate her for your misery's sake. Yes, John, it's no -use hiding up your aching heart from me. I am the mother that bore you, -and your sorrow is my agony; and if you don't hate her, I do.'</p> - -<p>'Then, mother, you make me love her more. She is unjustly treated by -you, and I must make the balance even. But why do we talk of love or -hatred? She does not care for me, and that is enough,—too much. Let us -never name the subject again. It is the only thing you can do for me in -the matter. Let us never name her.'</p> - -<p>'With all my heart. I only wish that she, and all belonging to her, were -swept back to the place they came from.'</p> - -<p>He stood still, gazing into the fire for a minute or two longer. Her dry -dim eyes filled with unwonted tears as she looked at him; but she seemed -just as grim and quiet as usual when he next spoke.</p> - -<p>'Warrants are out against three men for conspiracy, mother. The riot -yesterday helped to knock up the strike.'</p> - -<p>And Margaret's name was no more mentioned between Mrs. Thornton and her -son. They fell back into their usual mode of talk,—about facts, not -opinions, far less feelings. Their voices and tones were calm and cold a -stranger might have gone away and thought that he had never seen such -frigid indifference of demeanour between such near relations.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVII_FRUIT-PIECE" id="CHAPTER_XXVII_FRUIT-PIECE"></a>CHAPTER XXVII—FRUIT-PIECE</h2> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">'For never any thing can be amiss<br /></span> -<span class="i1">When simpleness and duty tender it.'<br /></span> -<span class="i9">MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM.<br /></span> -</div></div> - -<p>Mr. Thornton went straight and clear into all the interests of the -following day. There was a slight demand for finished goods; and as it -affected his branch of the trade, he took advantage of it, and drove -hard bargains. He was sharp to the hour at the meeting of his brother -magistrates,—giving them the best assistance of his strong sense, and -his power of seeing consequences at a glance, and so coming to a rapid -decision. Older men, men of long standing in the town, men of far -greater wealth—realised and turned into land, while his was all -floating capital, engaged in his trade—looked to him for prompt, ready -wisdom. He was the one deputed to see and arrange with the police—to -lead in all the requisite steps. And he cared for their unconscious -deference no more than for the soft west wind, that scarcely made the -smoke from the great tall chimneys swerve in its straight upward course. -He was not aware of the silent respect paid to him. If it had been -otherwise, he would have felt it as an obstacle in his progress to the -object he had in view. As it was, he looked to the speedy accomplishment -of that alone. It was his mother's greedy ears that sucked in, from the -women-kind of these magistrates and wealthy men, how highly Mr. This or -Mr. That thought of Mr. Thornton; that if he had not been there, things -would have gone on very differently,—very badly, indeed. He swept off -his business right and left that day. It seemed as though his deep -mortification of yesterday, and the stunned purposeless course of the -hours afterwards, had cleared away all the mists from his intellect. He -felt his power and revelled in it. He could almost defy his heart. If he -had known it, he could have sang the song of the miller who lived by the -river Dee:—</p> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">'I care for nobody—<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Nobody cares for me.'<br /></span> -</div></div> - -<p>The evidence against Boucher, and other ringleaders of the riot, was -taken before him; that against the three others, for conspiracy, failed. -But he sternly charged the police to be on the watch; for the swift -right arm of the law should be in readiness to strike, as soon as they -could prove a fault. And then he left the hot reeking room in the -borough court, and went out into the fresher, but still sultry street. -It seemed as though he gave way all at once; he was so languid that he -could not control his thoughts; they would wander to her; they would -bring back the scene,—not of his repulse and rejection the day before -but the looks, the actions of the day before that. He went along the -crowded streets mechanically, winding in and out among the people, but -never seeing them,—almost sick with longing for that one -half-hour—that one brief space of time when she clung to him, and her -heart beat against his—to come once again.</p> - -<p>'Why, Mr. Thornton you're cutting me very coolly, I must say. And how is -Mrs. Thornton? Brave weather this! We doctors don't like it, I can tell -you!'</p> - -<p>'I beg your pardon, Dr. Donaldson. I really didn't see you. My mother's -quite well, thank you. It is a fine day, and good for the harvest, I -hope. If the wheat is well got in, we shall have a brisk trade next -year, whatever you doctors have.'</p> - -<p>'Ay, ay. Each man for himself. Your bad weather, and your bad times, are -my good ones. When trade is bad, there's more undermining of health, and -preparation for death, going on among you Milton men than you're aware -of.'</p> - -<p>'Not with me, Doctor. I'm made of iron. The news of the worst bad debt I -ever had, never made my pulse vary. This strike, which affects me more -than any one else in Milton,—more than Hamper,—never comes near my -appetite. You must go elsewhere for a patient, Doctor.'</p> - -<p>'By the way, you've recommended me a good patient, poor lady! Not to go -on talking in this heartless way, I seriously believe that Mrs. -Hale—that lady in Crampton, you know—hasn't many weeks to live. I -never had any hope of cure, as I think I told you; but I've been seeing -her to-day, and I think very badly of her.'</p> - -<p>Mr. Thornton was silent. The vaunted steadiness of pulse failed him for -an instant.</p> - -<p>'Can I do anything, Doctor?' he asked, in an altered voice. 'You -know—you would see, that money is not very plentiful; are there any -comforts or dainties she ought to have?'</p> - -<p>'No,' replied the Doctor, shaking his head. 'She craves for fruit,—she -has a constant fever on her; but jargonelle pears will do as well as -anything, and there are quantities of them in the market.'</p> - -<p>'You will tell me, if there is anything I can do, I'm sure,' replied Mr. -Thornton. 'I rely upon you.'</p> - -<p>'Oh! never fear! I'll not spare your purse,—I know it's deep enough. I -wish you'd give me <i>carte-blanche</i> for all my patients, and all their -wants.'</p> - -<p>But Mr. Thornton had no general benevolence,—no universal philanthropy; -few even would have given him credit for strong affections. But he went -straight to the first fruit-shop in Milton, and chose out the bunch of -purple grapes with the most delicate bloom upon them,—the -richest-coloured peaches,—the freshest vine-leaves. They were packed -into a basket, and the shopman awaited the answer to his inquiry, 'Where -shall we send them to, sir?'</p> - -<p>There was no reply. 'To Marlborough Mills, I suppose, sir?'</p> - -<p>'No!' Mr. Thornton said. 'Give the basket to me,—I'll take it.'</p> - -<p>It took up both his hands to carry it; and he had to pass through the -busiest part of the town for feminine shopping. Many a young lady of his -acquaintance turned to look after him, and thought it strange to see him -occupied just like a porter or an errand-boy.</p> - -<p>He was thinking, 'I will not be daunted from doing as I choose by the -thought of her. I like to take this fruit to the poor mother, and it is -simply right that I should. She shall never scorn me out of doing what I -please. A pretty joke, indeed, if, for fear of a haughty girl, I failed -in doing a kindness to a man I liked! I do it for Mr. Hale; I do it in -defiance of her.'</p> - -<p>He went at an unusual pace, and was soon at Crampton. He went upstairs -two steps at a time, and entered the drawing-room before Dixon could -announce him,—his face flushed, his eyes shining with kindly -earnestness. Mrs. Hale lay on the sofa, heated with fever. Mr. Hale was -reading aloud. Margaret was working on a low stool by her mother's side. -Her heart fluttered, if his did not, at this interview. But he took no -notice of her, hardly of Mr. Hale himself; he went up straight with his -basket to Mrs. Hale, and said, in that subdued and gentle tone, which is -so touching when used by a robust man in full health, speaking to a -feeble invalid—</p> - -<p>'I met Dr. Donaldson, ma'am, and as he said fruit would be good for you, -I have taken the liberty—the great liberty of bringing you some that -seemed to me fine.' Mrs. Hale was excessively surprised; excessively -pleased; quite in a tremble of eagerness. Mr. Hale with fewer words -expressed a deeper gratitude.</p> - -<p>'Fetch a plate, Margaret—a basket—anything.' Margaret stood up by the -table, half afraid of moving or making any noise to arouse Mr. Thornton -into a consciousness of her being in the room. She thought it would be -awkward for both to be brought into conscious collision; and fancied -that, from her being on a low seat at first, and now standing behind her -father, he had overlooked her in his haste. As if he did not feel the -consciousness of her presence all over, though his eyes had never rested -on her!</p> - -<p>'I must go,' said he, 'I cannot stay. If you will forgive this -liberty,—my rough ways,—too abrupt, I fear—but I will be more gentle -next time. You will allow me the pleasure of bringing you some fruit -again, if I should see any that is tempting. Good afternoon, Mr. Hale. -Good-bye, ma'am.'</p> - -<p>He was gone. Not one word: not one look to Margaret. -</p> -<p> -She believed that -he had not seen her. She went for a plate in silence, and lifted the -fruit out tenderly, with the points of her delicate taper fingers. It -was good of him to bring it; and after yesterday too!</p> - -<p>'Oh! it is so delicious!' said Mrs. Hale, in a feeble voice. 'How kind -of him to think of me! Margaret love, only taste these grapes! Was it -not good of him?'</p> - -<p>'Yes!' said Margaret, quietly.</p> - -<p>'Margaret!' said Mrs. Hale, rather querulously, 'you won't like anything -Mr. Thornton does. I never saw anybody so prejudiced.'</p> - -<p>Mr. Hale had been peeling a peach for his wife; and, cutting off a small -piece for himself, he said:</p> - -<p>'If I had any prejudices, the gift of such delicious fruit as this would -melt them all away. I have not tasted such fruit—no! not even in -Hampshire—since I was a boy; and to boys, I fancy, all fruit is good. I -remember eating sloes and crabs with a relish. Do you remember the -matted-up currant bushes, Margaret, at the corner of the west-wall in -the garden at home?'</p> - -<p>Did she not? Did she not remember every weather-stain on the old stone -wall; the gray and yellow lichens that marked it like a map; the little -crane's-bill that grew in the crevices? She had been shaken by the -events of the last two days; her whole life just now was a strain upon -her fortitude; and, somehow, these careless words of her father's, -touching on the remembrance of the sunny times of old, made her start -up, and, dropping her sewing on the ground, she went hastily out of the -room into her own little chamber. She had hardly given way to the first -choking sob, when she became aware of Dixon standing at her drawers, and -evidently searching for something.</p> - -<p>'Bless me, miss! How you startled me! Missus is not worse, is she? Is -anything the matter?'</p> - -<p>'No, nothing. Only I'm silly, Dixon, and want a glass of water. What are -you looking for? I keep my muslins in that drawer.'</p> - -<p>Dixon did not speak, but went on rummaging. The scent of lavender came -out and perfumed the room.</p> - -<p>At last Dixon found what she wanted; what it was Margaret could not see. -Dixon faced round, and spoke to her:</p> - -<p>'Now I don't like telling you what I wanted, because you've fretting -enough to go through, and I know you'll fret about this. I meant to have -kept it from you till night, may be, or such times as that.'</p> - -<p>'What is the matter? Pray, tell me, Dixon, at once.'</p> - -<p>'That young woman you go to see—Higgins, I mean.'</p> - -<p>'Well?'</p> - -<p>'Well! she died this morning, and her sister is here—come to beg a -strange thing. It seems, the young woman who died had a fancy for being -buried in something of yours, and so the sister's come to ask for -it,—and I was looking for a night-cap that wasn't too good to give -away.'</p> - -<p>'Oh! let me find one,' said Margaret, in the midst of her tears. 'Poor -Bessy! I never thought I should not see her again.'</p> - -<p>'Why, that's another thing. This girl down-stairs wanted me to ask you, -if you would like to see her.'</p> - -<p>'But she's dead!' said Margaret, turning a little pale. 'I never saw a -dead person. No! I would rather not.'</p> - -<p>'I should never have asked you, if you hadn't come in. I told her you -wouldn't.'</p> - -<p>'I will go down and speak to her,' said Margaret, afraid lest Dixon's -harshness of manner might wound the poor girl. So, taking the cap in her -hand, she went to the kitchen. Mary's face was all swollen with crying, -and she burst out afresh when she saw Margaret.</p> - -<p>'Oh, ma'am, she loved yo', she loved yo', she did indeed!' And for a -long time, Margaret could not get her to say anything more than this. At -last, her sympathy, and Dixon's scolding, forced out a few facts. -Nicholas Higgins had gone out in the morning, leaving Bessy as well as -on the day before. But in an hour she was taken worse; some neighbour -ran to the room where Mary was working; they did not know where to find -her father; Mary had only come in a few minutes before she died.</p> - -<p>'It were a day or two ago she axed to be buried in somewhat o' yourn. -She were never tired o' talking o' yo'. She used to say yo' were the -prettiest thing she'd ever clapped eyes on. She loved yo' dearly. Her -last words were, "Give her my affectionate respects; and keep father -fro' drink." Yo'll come and see her, ma'am. She would ha' thought it a -great compliment, I know.'</p> - -<p>Margaret shrank a little from answering.</p> - -<p>'Yes, perhaps I may. Yes, I will. I'll come before tea. But where's your -father, Mary?'</p> - -<p>Mary shook her head, and stood up to be going.</p> - -<p>'Miss Hale,' said Dixon, in a low voice, 'where's the use o' your going -to see the poor thing laid out? I'd never say a word against it, if it -could do the girl any good; and I wouldn't mind a bit going myself, if -that would satisfy her. They've just a notion, these common folks, of -its being a respect to the departed. Here,' said she, turning sharply -round, 'I'll come and see your sister. Miss Hale is busy, and she can't -come, or else she would.'</p> - -<p>The girl looked wistfully at Margaret. Dixon's coming might be a -compliment, but it was not the same thing to the poor sister, who had -had her little pangs of jealousy, during Bessy's lifetime, at the -intimacy between her and the young lady.</p> - -<p>'No, Dixon!' said Margaret with decision. 'I will go. Mary, you shall -see me this afternoon.' And for fear of her own cowardice, she went -away, in order to take from herself any chance of changing her -determination.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVIII_COMFORT_IN_SORROW" id="CHAPTER_XXVIII_COMFORT_IN_SORROW"></a>CHAPTER XXVIII—COMFORT IN SORROW</h2> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">'Through cross to crown!—And though thy spirit's life<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Trials untold assail with giant strength,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Good cheer! good cheer! Soon ends the bitter strife,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">And thou shalt reign in peace with Christ at length.'<br /></span> -<span class="i9">K<small>OSEGARTEN</small>.<br /></span> -</div></div> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">'Ay sooth, we feel too strong in weal, to need Thee on that road;<br /></span> -<span class="i1">But woe being come, the soul is dumb, that crieth not on "God."'<br /></span> -<span class="i9">M<small>RS</small>. B<small>ROWNING</small>.<br /></span> -</div></div> - -<p>That afternoon she walked swiftly to the Higgins's house. Mary was -looking out for her, with a half-distrustful face. Margaret smiled into -her eyes to re-assure her. They passed quickly through the house-place, -upstairs, and into the quiet presence of the dead. Then Margaret was -glad that she had come. The face, often so weary with pain, so restless -with troublous thoughts, had now the faint soft smile of eternal rest -upon it. The slow tears gathered into Margaret's eyes, but a deep calm -entered into her soul. And that was death! It looked more peaceful than -life. All beautiful scriptures came into her mind. 'They rest from their -labours.' 'The weary are at rest.' 'He giveth His beloved sleep.'</p> - -<p>Slowly, slowly Margaret turned away from the bed. Mary was humbly -sobbing in the back-ground. They went down stairs without a word.</p> - -<p>Resting his hand upon the house-table, Nicholas Higgins stood in the -midst of the floor; his great eyes startled open by the news he had -heard, as he came along the court, from many busy tongues. His eyes were -dry and fierce; studying the reality of her death; bringing himself to -understand that her place should know her no more. For she had been -sickly, dying so long, that he had persuaded himself she would not die; -that she would 'pull through.'</p> - -<p>Margaret felt as if she had no business to be there, familiarly -acquainting herself with the surroundings of death which he, the father, -had only just learnt. There had been a pause of an instant on the steep -crooked stair, when she first saw him; but now she tried to steal past -his abstracted gaze, and to leave him in the solemn circle of his -household misery.</p> - -<p>Mary sat down on the first chair she came to, and throwing her apron -over her head, began to cry.</p> - -<p>The noise appeared to rouse him. He took sudden hold of Margaret's arm, -and held her till he could gather words to speak seemed dry; they came -up thick, and choked, and hoarse:</p> - -<p>'Were yo' with her? Did yo' see her die?'</p> - -<p>'No!' replied Margaret, standing still with the utmost patience, now she -found herself perceived. It was some time before he spoke again, but he -kept his hold on her arm.</p> - -<p>'All men must die,' said he at last, with a strange sort of gravity, -which first suggested to Margaret the idea that he had been -drinking—not enough to intoxicate himself, but enough to make his -thoughts bewildered. 'But she were younger than me.' Still he pondered -over the event, not looking at Margaret, though he grasped her tight. -Suddenly, he looked up at her with a wild searching inquiry in his -glance. 'Yo're sure and certain she's dead—not in a dwam, a -faint?—she's been so before, often.'</p> - -<p>'She is dead,' replied Margaret. She felt no fear in speaking to him, -though he hurt her arm with his gripe, and wild gleams came across the -stupidity of his eyes.</p> - -<p>'She is dead!' she said.</p> - -<p>He looked at her still with that searching look, which seemed to fade -out of his eyes as he gazed. Then he suddenly let go his hold of -Margaret, and, throwing his body half across the table, he shook it and -every piece of furniture in the room, with his violent sobs. Mary came -trembling towards him.</p> - -<p>'Get thee gone!—get thee gone!' he cried, striking wildly and blindly -at her. 'What do I care for thee?' Margaret took her hand, and held it -softly in hers. He tore his hair, he beat his head against the hard -wood, then he lay exhausted and stupid. Still his daughter and Margaret -did not move. Mary trembled from head to foot.</p> - -<p>At last—it might have been a quarter of an hour, it might have been an -hour—he lifted himself up. His eyes were swollen and bloodshot, and he -seemed to have forgotten that any one was by; he scowled at the watchers -when he saw them. He shook himself heavily, gave them one more sullen -look, spoke never a word, but made for the door.</p> - -<p>'Oh, father, father!' said Mary, throwing herself upon his arm,—'not -to-night! Any night but to-night. Oh, help me! he's going out to drink -again! Father, I'll not leave yo'. Yo' may strike, but I'll not leave -yo'. She told me last of all to keep yo' fro' drink!'</p> - -<p>But Margaret stood in the doorway, silent yet commanding. He looked up -at her defyingly.</p> - -<p>'It's my own house. Stand out o' the way, wench, or I'll make yo'!' He -had shaken off Mary with violence; he looked ready to strike Margaret. -But she never moved a feature—never took her deep, serious eyes off -him. He stared back on her with gloomy fierceness. If she had stirred -hand or foot, he would have thrust her aside with even more violence -than he had used to his own daughter, whose face was bleeding from her -fall against a chair.</p> - -<p>'What are yo' looking at me in that way for?' asked he at last, daunted -and awed by her severe calm. 'If yo' think for to keep me from going -what gait I choose, because she loved yo'—and in my own house, too, -where I never asked yo' to come, yo're mista'en. It's very hard upon a -man that he can't go to the only comfort left.'</p> - -<p>Margaret felt that he acknowledged her power. What could she do next? He -had seated himself on a chair, close to the door; half-conquered, -half-resenting; intending to go out as soon as she left her position, -but unwilling to use the violence he had threatened not five minutes -before. Margaret laid her hand on his arm.</p> - -<p>'Come with me,' she said. 'Come and see her!'</p> - -<p>The voice in which she spoke was very low and solemn; but there was no -fear or doubt expressed in it, either of him or of his compliance. He -sullenly rose up. He stood uncertain, with dogged irresolution upon his -face. She waited him there; quietly and patiently waited for his time to -move. He had a strange pleasure in making her wait; but at last he moved -towards the stairs.</p> - -<p>She and he stood by the corpse.</p> - -<p>'Her last words to Mary were, "Keep my father fro' drink."'</p> - -<p>'It canna hurt her now,' muttered he. 'Nought can hurt her now.' Then, -raising his voice to a wailing cry, he went on: 'We may quarrel and fall -out—we may make peace and be friends—we may clem to skin and bone—and -nought o' all our griefs will ever touch her more. Hoo's had her portion -on 'em. What wi' hard work first, and sickness at last, hoo's led the -life of a dog. And to die without knowing one good piece o' rejoicing in -all her days! Nay, wench, whatever hoo said, hoo can know nought about -it now, and I mun ha' a sup o' drink just to steady me again sorrow.'</p> - -<p>'No,' said Margaret, softening with his softened manner. 'You shall not. -If her life has been what you say, at any rate she did not fear death as -some do. Oh, you should have heard her speak of the life to come—the -life hidden with God, that she is now gone to.'</p> - -<p>He shook his head, glancing sideways up at Margaret as he did so. His -pale, haggard face struck her painfully.</p> - -<p>'You are sorely tired. Where have you been all day—not at work?'</p> - -<p>'Not at work, sure enough,' said he, with a short, grim laugh. 'Not at -what you call work. I were at the Committee, till I were sickened out -wi' trying to make fools hear reason. I were fetched to Boucher's wife -afore seven this morning. She's bed-fast, but she were raving and raging -to know where her dunder-headed brute of a chap was, as if I'd to keep -him—as if he were fit to be ruled by me. The d—— d fool, who has put -his foot in all our plans! And I've walked my feet sore wi' going about -for to see men who wouldn't be seen, now the law is raised again us. And -I were sore-hearted, too, which is worse than sore-footed; and if I did -see a friend who ossed to treat me, I never knew hoo lay a-dying here. -Bess, lass, thou'd believe me, thou wouldst—wouldstn't thou?' turning -to the poor dumb form with wild appeal.</p> - -<p>'I am sure,' said Margaret, 'I am sure you did not know: it was quite -sudden. But now, you see, it would be different; you do know; you do see -her lying there; you hear what she said with her last breath. You will -not go?'</p> - -<p>No answer. In fact, where was he to look for comfort?</p> - -<p>'Come home with me,' said she at last, with a bold venture, half -trembling at her own proposal as she made it. 'At least you shall have -some comfortable food, which I'm sure you need.'</p> - -<p>'Yo'r father's a parson?' asked he, with a sudden turn in his ideas.</p> - -<p>'He was,' said Margaret, shortly.</p> - -<p>'I'll go and take a dish o' tea with him, since yo've asked me. I've -many a thing I often wished to say to a parson, and I'm not particular -as to whether he's preaching now, or not.'</p> - -<p>Margaret was perplexed; his drinking tea with her father, who would be -totally unprepared for his visitor—her mother so ill—seemed utterly -out of the question; and yet if she drew back now, it would be worse -than ever—sure to drive him to the gin-shop. She thought that if she -could only get him to their own house, it was so great a step gained -that she would trust to the chapter of accidents for the next.</p> - -<p>'Goodbye, ou'd wench! We've parted company at last, we have! But thou'st -been a blessin' to thy father ever sin' thou wert born. Bless thy white -lips, lass,—they've a smile on 'em now! and I'm glad to see it once -again, though I'm lone and forlorn for evermore.'</p> - -<p>He stooped down and fondly kissed his daughter; covered up her face, and -turned to follow Margaret. She had hastily gone down stairs to tell Mary -of the arrangement; to say it was the only way she could think of to -keep him from the gin-palace; to urge Mary to come too, for her heart -smote her at the idea of leaving the poor affectionate girl alone. But -Mary had friends among the neighbours, she said, who would come in and -sit a bit with her, it was all right; but father—</p> - -<p>He was there by them as she would have spoken more. He had shaken off -his emotion, as if he was ashamed of having ever given way to it; and -had even o'erleaped himself so much that he assumed a sort of bitter -mirth, like the crackling of thorns under a pot.</p> - -<p>'I'm going to take my tea wi' her father, I am!'</p> - -<p>But he slouched his cap low down over his brow as he went out into the -street, and looked neither to the right nor to the left, while he -tramped along by Margaret's side; he feared being upset by the words, -still more the looks, of sympathising neighbours. So he and Margaret -walked in silence.</p> - -<p>As he got near the street in which he knew she lived, he looked down at -his clothes, his hands, and shoes.</p> - -<p>'I should m'appen ha' cleaned mysel', first?'</p> - -<p>It certainly would have been desirable, but Margaret assured him he -should be allowed to go into the yard, and have soap and towel provided; -she could not let him slip out of her hands just then.</p> - -<p>While he followed the house-servant along the passage, and through the -kitchen, stepping cautiously on every dark mark in the pattern of the -oil-cloth, in order to conceal his dirty foot-prints, Margaret ran -upstairs. She met Dixon on the landing.</p> - -<p>'How is mamma?—where is papa?'</p> - -<p>Missus was tired, and gone into her own room. She had wanted to go to -bed, but Dixon had persuaded her to lie down on the sofa, and have her -tea brought to her there; it would be better than getting restless by -being too long in bed.</p> - -<p>So far, so good. But where was Mr. Hale? In the drawing-room. Margaret -went in half breathless with the hurried story she had to tell. Of -course, she told it incompletely; and her father was rather 'taken -aback' by the idea of the drunken weaver awaiting him in his quiet -study, with whom he was expected to drink tea, and on whose behalf -Margaret was anxiously pleading. The meek, kind-hearted Mr. Hale would -have readily tried to console him in his grief, but, unluckily, the -point Margaret dwelt upon most forcibly was the fact of his having been -drinking, and her having brought him home with her as a last expedient -to keep him from the gin-shop. One little event had come out of another -so naturally that Margaret was hardly conscious of what she had done, -till she saw the slight look of repugnance on her father's face.</p> - -<p>'Oh, papa! he really is a man you will not dislike—if you won't be -shocked to begin with.'</p> - -<p>'But, Margaret, to bring a drunken man home—and your mother so ill!'</p> - -<p>Margaret's countenance fell. 'I am sorry, papa. He is very quiet—he is -not tipsy at all. He was only rather strange at first, but that might be -the shock of poor Bessy's death.' Margaret's eyes filled with tears. Mr. -Hale took hold of her sweet pleading face in both his hands, and kissed -her forehead.</p> - -<p>'It is all right, dear. I'll go and make him as comfortable as I can, -and do you attend to your mother. Only, if you can come in and make a -third in the study, I shall be glad.'</p> - -<p>'Oh, yes—thank you.' But as Mr. Hale was leaving the room, she ran -after him:</p> - -<p>'Papa—you must not wonder at what he says: he's an—— I mean he does -not believe in much of what we do.'</p> - -<p>'Oh dear! a drunken infidel weaver!' said Mr. Hale to himself, in -dismay. But to Margaret he only said, 'If your mother goes to sleep, be -sure you come directly.'</p> - -<p>Margaret went into her mother's room. Mrs. Hale lifted herself up from a -doze.</p> - -<p>'When did you write to Frederick, Margaret? Yesterday, or the day -before?'</p> - -<p>'Yesterday, mamma.'</p> - -<p>'Yesterday. And the letter went?'</p> - -<p>'Yes. I took it myself.'</p> - -<p>'Oh, Margaret, I'm so afraid of his coming! If he should be recognised! -If he should be taken! If he should be executed, after all these years -that he has kept away and lived in safety! I keep falling asleep and -dreaming that he is caught and being tried.'</p> - -<p>'Oh, mamma, don't be afraid. There will be some risk no doubt; but we -will lessen it as much as ever we can. And it is so little! Now, if we -were at Helstone, there would be twenty—a hundred times as much. There, -everybody would remember him and if there was a stranger known to be in -the house, they would be sure to guess it was Frederick; while here, -nobody knows or cares for us enough to notice what we do. Dixon will -keep the door like a dragon—won't you, Dixon—while he is here?'</p> - -<p>'They'll be clever if they come in past me!' said Dixon, showing her -teeth at the bare idea.</p> - -<p>'And he need not go out, except in the dusk, poor fellow!'</p> - -<p>'Poor fellow!' echoed Mrs. Hale. 'But I almost wish you had not written. -Would it be too late to stop him if you wrote again, Margaret?'</p> - -<p>'I'm afraid it would, mamma,' said Margaret, remembering the urgency -with which she had entreated him to come directly, if he wished to see -his mother alive.</p> - -<p>'I always dislike that doing things in such a hurry,' said Mrs. Hale.</p> - -<p>Margaret was silent.</p> - -<p>'Come now, ma'am,' said Dixon, with a kind of cheerful authority, 'you -know seeing Master Frederick is just the very thing of all others you're -longing for. And I'm glad Miss Margaret wrote off straight, without -shilly-shallying. I've had a great mind to do it myself. And we'll keep -him snug, depend upon it. There's only Martha in the house that would -not do a good deal to save him on a pinch; and I've been thinking she -might go and see her mother just at that very time. She's been saying -once or twice she should like to go, for her mother has had a stroke -since she came here, only she didn't like to ask. But I'll see about her -being safe off, as soon as we know when he comes, God bless him! So take -your tea, ma'am, in comfort, and trust to me.'</p> - -<p>Mrs. Hale did trust in Dixon more than in Margaret. Dixon's words -quieted her for the time. Margaret poured out the tea in silence, trying -to think of something agreeable to say; but her thoughts made answer -something like Daniel O'Rourke, when the man-in-the-moon asked him to -get off his reaping-hook. 'The more you ax us, the more we won't stir.' -The more she tried to think of something anything besides the danger to -which Frederick would be exposed—the more closely her imagination clung -to the unfortunate idea presented to her. Her mother prattled with -Dixon, and seemed to have utterly forgotten the possibility of Frederick -being tried and executed—utterly forgotten that at her wish, if by -Margaret's deed, he was summoned into this danger. Her mother was one of -those who throw out terrible possibilities, miserable probabilities, -unfortunate chances of all kinds, as a rocket throws out sparks; but if -the sparks light on some combustible matter, they smoulder first, and -burst out into a frightful flame at last. Margaret was glad when, her -filial duties gently and carefully performed, she could go down into the -study. She wondered how her father and Higgins had got on.</p> - -<p>In the first place, the decorous, kind-hearted, simple, old-fashioned -gentleman, had unconsciously called out, by his own refinement and -courteousness of manner, all the latent courtesy in the other.</p> - -<p>Mr. Hale treated all his fellow-creatures alike: it never entered into -his head to make any difference because of their rank. He placed a chair -for Nicholas: stood up till he, at Mr. Hale's request, took a seat; and -called him, invariably, 'Mr. Higgins,' instead of the curt 'Nicholas' or -'Higgins,' to which the 'drunken infidel weaver' had been accustomed. -But Nicholas was neither an habitual drunkard nor a thorough infidel. He -drank to drown care, as he would have himself expressed it: and he was -infidel so far as he had never yet found any form of faith to which he -could attach himself, heart and soul.</p> - -<p>Margaret was a little surprised, and very much pleased, when she found -her father and Higgins in earnest conversation—each speaking with -gentle politeness to the other, however their opinions might clash. -Nicholas—clean, tidied (if only at the pump-trough), and quiet -spoken—was a new creature to her, who had only seen him in the rough -independence of his own hearthstone. He had 'slicked' his hair down with -the fresh water; he had adjusted his neck-handkerchief, and borrowed an -odd candle-end to polish his clogs with and there he sat, enforcing some -opinion on her father, with a strong Darkshire accent, it is true, but -with a lowered voice, and a good, earnest composure on his face. Her -father, too, was interested in what his companion was saying. He looked -round as she came in, smiled, and quietly gave her his chair, and then -sat down afresh as quickly as possible, and with a little bow of apology -to his guest for the interruption. Higgins nodded to her as a sign of -greeting; and she softly adjusted her working materials on the table, -and prepared to listen.</p> - -<p>'As I was a-sayin, sir, I reckon yo'd not ha' much belief in yo' if yo' -lived here,—if yo'd been bred here. I ax your pardon if I use wrong -words; but what I mean by belief just now, is a-thinking on sayings and -maxims and promises made by folk yo' never saw, about the things and the -life, yo' never saw, nor no one else. Now, yo' say these are true -things, and true sayings, and a true life. I just say, where's the -proof? There's many and many a one wiser, and scores better learned than -I am around me,—folk who've had time to think on these things,—while -my time has had to be gi'en up to getting my bread. Well, I sees these -people. Their lives is pretty much open to me. They're real folk. They -don't believe i' the Bible,—not they. They may say they do, for form's -sake; but Lord, sir, d'ye think their first cry i' th' morning is, "What -shall I do to get hold on eternal life?" or "What shall I do to fill my -purse this blessed day? Where shall I go? What bargains shall I strike?" -The purse and the gold and the notes is real things; things as can be -felt and touched; them's realities; and eternal life is all a talk, very -fit for—I ax your pardon, sir; yo'r a parson out o' work, I believe. -Well! I'll never speak disrespectful of a man in the same fix as I'm in -mysel'. But I'll just ax yo another question, sir, and I dunnot want yo -to answer it, only to put in yo'r pipe, and smoke it, afore yo' go for -to set down us, who only believe in what we see, as fools and noddies. -If salvation, and life to come, and what not, was true—not in men's -words, but in men's hearts' core—dun yo' not think they'd din us wi' it -as they do wi' political 'conomy? They're mighty anxious to come round -us wi' that piece o' wisdom; but t'other would be a greater convarsion, -if it were true.'</p> - -<p>'But the masters have nothing to do with your religion. All that they -are connected with you in is trade,—so they think,—and all that it -concerns them, therefore, to rectify your opinions in is the science of -trade.'</p> - -<p>'I'm glad, sir,' said Higgins, with a curious wink of his eye, 'that yo' -put in, "so they think." I'd ha' thought yo' a hypocrite, I'm afeard, if -yo' hadn't, for all yo'r a parson, or rayther because yo'r a parson. Yo' -see, if yo'd spoken o' religion as a thing that, if it was true, it -didn't concern all men to press on all men's attention, above everything -else in this 'varsal earth, I should ha' thought yo' a knave for to be a -parson; and I'd rather think yo' a fool than a knave. No offence, I -hope, sir.'</p> - -<p>'None at all. You consider me mistaken, and I consider you far more -fatally mistaken. I don't expect to convince you in a day,—not in one -conversation; but let us know each other, and speak freely to each other -about these things, and the truth will prevail. I should not believe in -God if I did not believe that. Mr. Higgins, I trust, whatever else you -have given up, you believe'—(Mr. Hale's voice dropped low in -reverence)—'you believe in Him.'</p> - -<p>Nicholas Higgins suddenly stood straight, stiff up. Margaret started to -her feet,—for she thought, by the working of his face, he was going -into convulsions. Mr. Hale looked at her dismayed. At last Higgins found -words:</p> - -<p>'Man! I could fell yo' to the ground for tempting me. Whatten business -have yo' to try me wi' your doubts? Think o' her lying theere, after the -life hoo's led and think then how yo'd deny me the one sole comfort -left—that there is a God, and that He set her her life. I dunnot -believe she'll ever live again,' said he, sitting down, and drearily -going on, as if to the unsympathising fire. 'I dunnot believe in any -other life than this, in which she dreed such trouble, and had such -never-ending care; and I cannot bear to think it were all a set o' -chances, that might ha' been altered wi' a breath o' wind. There's many -a time when I've thought I didna believe in God, but I've never put it -fair out before me in words, as many men do. I may ha' laughed at those -who did, to brave it out like—but I have looked round at after, to see -if He heard me, if so be there was a He; but to-day, when I'm left -desolate, I wunnot listen to yo' wi' yo'r questions, and yo'r doubts. -There's but one thing steady and quiet i' all this reeling world, and, -reason or no reason, I'll cling to that. It's a' very well for happy -folk'——</p> - -<p>Margaret touched his arm very softly. She had not spoken before, nor had -he heard her rise.</p> - -<p>'Nicholas, we do not want to reason; you misunderstand my father. We do -not reason—we believe; and so do you. It is the one sole comfort in -such times.'</p> - -<p>He turned round and caught her hand. 'Ay! it is, it is'—(brushing away -the tears with the back of his hand).—'But yo' know, she's lying dead -at home and I'm welly dazed wi' sorrow, and at times I hardly know what -I'm saying. It's as if speeches folk ha' made—clever and smart things -as I've thought at the time—come up now my heart's welly brossen. Th' -strike's failed as well; dun yo' know that, miss? I were coming whoam to -ask her, like a beggar as I am, for a bit o' comfort i' that trouble; -and I were knocked down by one who telled me she were dead—just dead. -That were all; but that were enough for me.'</p> - -<p>Mr. Hale blew his nose, and got up to snuff the candles in order to -conceal his emotion. 'He's not an infidel, Margaret; how could you say -so?' muttered he reproachfully 'I've a good mind to read him the -fourteenth chapter of Job.'</p> - -<p>'Not yet, papa, I think. Perhaps not at all. Let us ask him about the -strike, and give him all the sympathy he needs, and hoped to have from -poor Bessy.'</p> - -<p>So they questioned and listened. The workmen's calculations were based -(like too many of the masters') on false premises. They reckoned on -their fellow-men as if they possessed the calculable powers of machines, -no more, no less; no allowance for human passions getting the better of -reason, as in the case of Boucher and the rioters; and believing that -the representations of their injuries would have the same effect on -strangers far away, as the injuries (fancied or real) had upon -themselves. They were consequently surprised and indignant at the poor -Irish, who had allowed themselves to be imported and brought over to -take their places. This indignation was tempered, in some degree, by -contempt for 'them Irishers,' and by pleasure at the idea of the -bungling way in which they would set to work, and perplex their new -masters with their ignorance and stupidity, strange exaggerated stories -of which were already spreading through the town. But the most cruel cut -of all was that of the Milton workmen, who had defied and disobeyed the -commands of the Union to keep the peace, whatever came; who had -originated discord in the camp, and spread the panic of the law being -arrayed against them.</p> - -<p>'And so the strike is at an end,' said Margaret.</p> - -<p>'Ay, miss. It's save as save can. Th' factory doors will need open wide -to-morrow to let in all who'll be axing for work; if it's only just to -show they'd nought to do wi' a measure, which if we'd been made o' th' -right stuff would ha' brought wages up to a point they'n not been at -this ten year.'</p> - -<p>'You'll get work, shan't you?' asked Margaret. 'You're a famous workman, -are not you?'</p> - -<p>'Hamper'll let me work at his mill, when he cuts off his right hand—not -before, and not after,' said Nicholas, quietly. Margaret was silenced -and sad.</p> - -<p>'About the wages,' said Mr. Hale. 'You'll not be offended, but I think -you make some sad mistakes. I should like to read you some remarks in a -book I have.' He got up and went to his book-shelves.</p> - -<p>'Yo' needn't trouble yoursel', sir,' said Nicholas. 'Their book-stuff -goes in at one ear and out at t'other. I can make nought on't. Afore -Hamper and me had this split, th' overlooker telled him I were stirring -up the men to ask for higher wages; and Hamper met me one day in th' -yard. He'd a thin book i' his hand, and says he, "Higgins, I'm told -you're one of those damned fools that think you can get higher wages for -asking for 'em; ay, and keep 'em up too, when you've forced 'em up. Now, -I'll give yo' a chance and try if yo've any sense in yo'. Here's a book -written by a friend o' mine, and if yo'll read it yo'll see how wages -find their own level, without either masters or men having aught to do -with them; except the men cut their own throats wi' striking, like the -confounded noodles they are." Well, now, sir, I put it to yo', being a -parson, and having been in th' preaching line, and having had to try and -bring folk o'er to what yo' thought was a right way o' thinking—did yo' -begin by calling 'em fools and such like, or didn't yo' rayther give 'em -some kind words at first, to make 'em ready for to listen and be -convinced, if they could; and in yo'r preaching, did yo' stop every now -and then, and say, half to them and half to yo'rsel', "But yo're such a -pack o' fools, that I've a strong notion it's no use my trying to put -sense into yo'?" I were not i' th' best state, I'll own, for taking in -what Hamper's friend had to say—I were so vexed at the way it were put -to me;—but I thought, "Come, I'll see what these chaps has got to say, -and try if it's them or me as is th' noodle." So I took th' book and -tugged at it; but, Lord bless yo', it went on about capital and labour, -and labour and capital, till it fair sent me off to sleep. I ne'er could -rightly fix i' my mind which was which; and it spoke on 'em as if they -was vartues or vices; and what I wanted for to know were the rights o' -men, whether they were rich or poor—so be they only were men.'</p> - -<p>'But for all that,' said Mr. Hale, 'and granting to the full the -offensiveness, the folly, the unchristianness of Mr. Hamper's way of -speaking to you in recommending his friend's book, yet if it told you -what he said it did, that wages find their own level, and that the most -successful strike can only force them up for a moment, to sink in far -greater proportion afterwards, in consequence of that very strike, the -book would have told you the truth.'</p> - -<p>'Well, sir,' said Higgins, rather doggedly; 'it might, or it might not. -There's two opinions go to settling that point. But suppose it was truth -double strong, it were no truth to me if I couldna take it in. I daresay -there's truth in yon Latin book on your shelves; but it's gibberish and -not truth to me, unless I know the meaning o' the words. If yo', sir, or -any other knowledgable, patient man come to me, and says he'll larn me -what the words mean, and not blow me up if I'm a bit stupid, or forget -how one thing hangs on another—why, in time I may get to see the truth -of it; or I may not. I'll not be bound to say I shall end in thinking -the same as any man. And I'm not one who think truth can be shaped out -in words, all neat and clean, as th' men at th' foundry cut out -sheet-iron. Same bones won't go down wi' every one. It'll stick here i' -this man's throat, and there i' t'other's. Let alone that, when down, it -may be too strong for this one, too weak for that. Folk who sets up to -doctor th' world wi' their truth, mun suit different for different -minds; and be a bit tender in th' way of giving it too, or th' poor sick -fools may spit it out i' their faces. Now Hamper first gi'es me a box on -my ear, and then he throws his big bolus at me, and says he reckons -it'll do me no good, I'm such a fool, but there it is.'</p> - -<p>'I wish some of the kindest and wisest of the masters would meet some of -you men, and have a good talk on these things; it would, surely, be the -best way of getting over your difficulties, which, I do believe, arise -from your ignorance—excuse me, Mr. Higgins—on subjects which it is for -the mutual interest of both masters and men should be well understood by -both. I wonder'—(half to his daughter), 'if Mr. Thornton might not be -induced to do such a thing?'</p> - -<p>'Remember, papa,' said she in a very low voice, 'what he said one -day—about governments, you know.' She was unwilling to make any clearer -allusion to the conversation they had held on the mode of governing -work-people—by giving men intelligence enough to rule themselves, or by -a wise despotism on the part of the master—for she saw that Higgins had -caught Mr. Thornton's name, if not the whole of the speech: indeed, he -began to speak of him.</p> - -<p>'Thornton! He's the chap as wrote off at once for these Irishers; and -led to th' riot that ruined th' strike. Even Hamper wi' all his -bullying, would ha' waited a while—but it's a word and a blow wi' -Thornton. And, now, when th' Union would ha' thanked him for following -up th' chase after Boucher, and them chaps as went right again our -commands, it's Thornton who steps forrard and coolly says that, as th' -strike's at an end, he, as party injured, doesn't want to press the -charge again the rioters. I thought he'd had more pluck. I thought he'd -ha' carried his point, and had his revenge in an open way; but says he -(one in court telled me his very words) "they are well known; they will -find the natural punishment of their conduct, in the difficulty they -will meet wi' in getting employment. That will be severe enough." I only -wish they'd cotched Boucher, and had him up before Hamper. I see th' oud -tiger setting on him! would he ha' let him off? Not he!'</p> - -<p>'Mr. Thornton was right,' said Margaret. 'You are angry against Boucher, -Nicholas; or else you would be the first to see, that where the natural -punishment would be severe enough for the offence, any farther -punishment would be something like revenge.'</p> - -<p>'My daughter is no great friend of Mr. Thornton's,' said Mr. Hale, -smiling at Margaret; while she, as red as any carnation, began to work -with double diligence, 'but I believe what she says is the truth. I like -him for it.'</p> - -<p>'Well, sir, this strike has been a weary piece o' business to me; and -yo'll not wonder if I'm a bit put out wi' seeing it fail, just for a few -men who would na suffer in silence, and hou'd out, brave and firm.'</p> - -<p>'You forget!' said Margaret. 'I don't know much of Boucher; but the only -time I saw him it was not his own sufferings he spoke of, but those of -his sick wife—his little children.'</p> - -<p>'True! but he were not made of iron himsel'. He'd ha' cried out for his -own sorrows, next. He were not one to bear.'</p> - -<p>'How came he into the Union?' asked Margaret innocently. 'You don't seem -to have much respect for him; nor gained much good from having him in.'</p> - -<p>Higgins's brow clouded. He was silent for a minute or two. Then he said, -shortly enough:</p> - -<p>'It's not for me to speak o' th' Union. What they does, they does. Them -that is of a trade mun hang together; and if they're not willing to take -their chance along wi' th' rest, th' Union has ways and means.'</p> - -<p>Mr. Hale saw that Higgins was vexed at the turn the conversation had -taken, and was silent. Not so Margaret, though she saw Higgins's feeling -as clearly as he did. By instinct she felt, that if he could but be -brought to express himself in plain words, something clear would be -gained on which to argue for the right and the just.</p> - -<p>'And what are the Union's ways and means?'</p> - -<p>He looked up at her, as if on' the point of dogged resistance to her -wish for information. But her calm face, fixed on his, patient and -trustful, compelled him to answer.</p> - -<p>'Well! If a man doesn't belong to th' Union, them as works next looms -has orders not to speak to him—if he's sorry or ill it's a' the same; -he's out o' bounds; he's none o' us; he comes among us, he works among -us, but he's none o' us. I' some places them's fined who speaks to him. -Yo' try that, miss; try living a year or two among them as looks away if -yo' look at 'em; try working within two yards o' crowds o' men, who, yo' -know, have a grinding grudge at yo' in their hearts—to whom if yo' say -yo'r glad, not an eye brightens, nor a lip moves,—to whom if your -heart's heavy, yo' can never say nought, because they'll ne'er take -notice on your sighs or sad looks (and a man 's no man who'll groan out -loud 'bout folk asking him what 's the matter?)—just yo' try that, -miss—ten hours for three hundred days, and yo'll know a bit what th' -Union is.'</p> - -<p>'Why!' said Margaret, 'what tyranny this is! Nay, Higgins, I don't care -one straw for your anger. I know you can't be angry with me if you -would, and I must tell you the truth: that I never read, in all the -history I have read, of a more slow, lingering torture than this. And -you belong to the Union! And you talk of the tyranny of the masters!'</p> - -<p>'Nay,' said Higgins, 'yo' may say what yo' like! The dead stand between -yo and every angry word o' mine. D' ye think I forget who's lying -_there_, and how hoo loved yo'? And it's th' masters as has made us sin, -if th' Union is a sin. Not this generation maybe, but their fathers. -Their fathers ground our fathers to the very dust; ground us to powder! -Parson! I reckon, I've heerd my mother read out a text, "The fathers -have eaten sour grapes and th' children's teeth are set on edge." It's -so wi' them. In those days of sore oppression th' Unions began; it were -a necessity. It's a necessity now, according to me. It's a withstanding -of injustice, past, present, or to come. It may be like war; along wi' -it come crimes; but I think it were a greater crime to let it alone. Our -only chance is binding men together in one common interest; and if some -are cowards and some are fools, they mun come along and join the great -march, whose only strength is in numbers.'</p> - -<p>'Oh!' said Mr. Hale, sighing, 'your Union in itself would be beautiful, -glorious,—it would be Christianity itself—if it were but for an end -which affected the good of all, instead of that of merely one class as -opposed to another.'</p> - -<p>'I reckon it's time for me to be going, sir,' said Higgins, as the clock -struck ten.</p> - -<p>'Home?' said Margaret very softly. He understood her, and took her -offered hand. 'Home, miss. Yo' may trust me, tho' I am one o' th' -Union.'</p> - -<p>'I do trust you most thoroughly, Nicholas.'</p> - -<p>'Stay!' said Mr. Hale, hurrying to the book-shelves. 'Mr. Higgins! I'm -sure you'll join us in family prayer?'</p> - -<p>Higgins looked at Margaret, doubtfully. Her grave sweet eyes met his; -there was no compulsion, only deep interest in them. He did not speak, -but he kept his place.</p> - -<p>Margaret the Churchwoman, her father the Dissenter, Higgins the Infidel, -knelt down together. It did them no harm.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIX_A_RAY_OF_SUNSHINE" id="CHAPTER_XXIX_A_RAY_OF_SUNSHINE"></a>CHAPTER XXIX—A RAY OF SUNSHINE</h2> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">'Some wishes crossed my mind and dimly cheered it,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">And one or two poor melancholy pleasures,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Each in the pale unwarming light of hope,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Silvering its flimsy wing, flew silent by—<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Moths in the moonbeam!'<br /></span> -<span class="i9">C<small>OLERIDGE</small>.<br /></span> -</div></div> - -<p>The next morning brought Margaret a letter from Edith. It was -affectionate and inconsequent like the writer. But the affection was -charming to Margaret's own affectionate nature; and she had grown up -with the inconsequence, so she did not perceive it. It was as follows:—</p> - -<p>'Oh, Margaret, it is worth a journey from England to see my boy! He is a -superb little fellow, especially in his caps, and most especially in the -one you sent him, you good, dainty-fingered, persevering little lady! -Having made all the mothers here envious, I want to show him to somebody -new, and hear a fresh set of admiring expressions; perhaps, that's all -the reason; perhaps it is not—nay, possibly, there is just a little -cousinly love mixed with it; but I do want you so much to come here, -Margaret! I'm sure it would be the very best thing for Aunt Hale's -health; everybody here is young and well, and our skies are always blue, -and our sun always shines, and the band plays deliciously from morning -till night; and, to come back to the burden of my ditty, my baby always -smiles. I am constantly wanting you to draw him for me, Margaret. It -does not signify what he is doing; that very thing is prettiest, -gracefulest, best. I think I love him a great deal better than my -husband, who is getting stout, and grumpy,—what he calls "busy." No! he -is not. He has just come in with news of such a charming pic-nic, given -by the officers of the Hazard, at anchor in the bay below. Because he -has brought in such a pleasant piece of news, I retract all I said just -now. Did not somebody burn his hand for having said or done something he -was sorry for? Well, I can't burn mine, because it would hurt me, and -the scar would be ugly; but I'll retract all I said as fast as I can. -Cosmo is quite as great a darling as baby, and not a bit stout, and as -un-grumpy as ever husband was; only, sometimes he is very, very busy. I -may say that without love—wifely duty—where was I?—I had something -very particular to say, I know, once. Oh, it is this—Dearest -Margaret!—you must come and see me; it would do Aunt Hale good, as I -said before. Get the doctor to order it for her. Tell him that it's the -smoke of Milton that does her harm. I have no doubt it is that, really. -Three months (you must not come for less) of this delicious climate—all -sunshine, and grapes as common as blackberries, would quite cure her. I -don't ask my uncle'—(Here the letter became more constrained, and -better written; Mr. Hale was in the corner, like a naughty child, for -having given up his living.)—'because, I dare say, he disapproves of -war, and soldiers, and bands of music; at least, I know that many -Dissenters are members of the Peace Society, and I am afraid he would -not like to come; but, if he would, dear, pray say that Cosmo and I will -do our best to make him happy; and I'll hide up Cosmo's red coat and -sword, and make the band play all sorts of grave, solemn things; or, if -they do play pomps and vanities, it shall be in double slow time. Dear -Margaret, if he would like to accompany you and Aunt Hale, we will try -and make it pleasant, though I'm rather afraid of any one who has done -something for conscience sake. You never did, I hope. Tell Aunt Hale not -to bring many warm clothes, though I'm afraid it will be late in the -year before you can come. But you have no idea of the heat here! I tried -to wear my great beauty Indian shawl at a pic-nic. I kept myself up with -proverbs as long as I could; "Pride must abide,"—and such wholesome -pieces of pith; but it was of no use. I was like mamma's little dog Tiny -with an elephant's trappings on; smothered, hidden, killed with my -finery; so I made it into a capital carpet for us all to sit down upon. -Here's this boy of mine, Margaret,—if you don't pack up your things as -soon as you get this letter, a come straight off to see him, I shall -think you're descended from King Herod!'</p> - -<p>Margaret did long for a day of Edith's life—her freedom from care, her -cheerful home, her sunny skies. If a wish could have transported her, -she would have gone off; just for one day. She yearned for the strength -which such a change would give,—even for a few hours to be in the midst -of that bright life, and to feel young again. Not yet twenty! and she -had had to bear up against such hard pressure that she felt quite old. -That was her first feeling after reading Edith's letter. Then she read -it again, and, forgetting herself, was amused at its likeness to Edith's -self, and was laughing merrily over it when Mrs. Hale came into the -drawing-room, leaning on Dixon's arm. Margaret flew to adjust the -pillows. Her mother seemed more than usually feeble.</p> - -<p>'What were you laughing at, Margaret?' asked she, as soon as she had -recovered from the exertion of settling herself on the sofa.</p> - -<p>'A letter I have had this morning from Edith. Shall I read it you, -mamma?'</p> - -<p>She read it aloud, and for a time it seemed to interest her mother, who -kept wondering what name Edith had given to her boy, and suggesting all -probable names, and all possible reasons why each and all of these names -should be given. Into the very midst of these wonders Mr. Thornton came, -bringing another offering of fruit for Mrs. Hale. He could not—say -rather, he would not—deny himself the chance of the pleasure of seeing -Margaret. He had no end in this but the present gratification. It was -the sturdy wilfulness of a man usually most reasonable and -self-controlled. He entered the room, taking in at a glance the fact of -Margaret's presence; but after the first cold distant bow, he never -seemed to let his eyes fall on her again. He only stayed to present his -peaches—to speak some gentle kindly words—and then his cold offended -eyes met Margaret's with a grave farewell, as he left the room. She sat -down silent and pale.</p> - -<p>'Do you know, Margaret, I really begin quite to like Mr. Thornton.'</p> - -<p>No answer at first. Then Margaret forced out an icy 'Do you?'</p> - -<p>'Yes! I think he is really getting quite polished in his manners.'</p> - -<p>Margaret's voice was more in order now. She replied,</p> - -<p>'He is very kind and attentive,—there is no doubt of that.'</p> - -<p>'I wonder Mrs. Thornton never calls. She must know I am ill, because of -the water-bed.'</p> - -<p>'I dare say, she hears how you are from her son.'</p> - -<p>'Still, I should like to see her. You have so few friends here, -Margaret.'</p> - -<p>Margaret felt what was in her mother's thoughts,—a tender craving to -bespeak the kindness of some woman towards the daughter that might be so -soon left motherless. But she could not speak.</p> - -<p>'Do you think,' said Mrs. Hale, after a pause, 'that you could go and -ask Mrs. Thornton to come and see me? Only once,—I don't want to be -troublesome.'</p> - -<p>'I will do anything, if you wish it, mamma,—but if—but when Frederick -comes—— '</p> - -<p>'Ah, to be sure! we must keep our doors shut,—we must let no one in. I -hardly know whether I dare wish him to come or not. Sometimes I think I -would rather not. Sometimes I have such frightful dreams about him.'</p> - -<p>'Oh, mamma! we'll take good care. I will put my arm in the bolt sooner -than he should come to the slightest harm. Trust the care of him to me, -mamma. I will watch over him like a lioness over her young.'</p> - -<p>'When can we hear from him?'</p> - -<p>'Not for a week yet, certainly,—perhaps more.'</p> - -<p>'We must send Martha away in good time. It would never do to have her -here when he comes, and then send her off in a hurry.'</p> - -<p>'Dixon is sure to remind us of that. I was thinking that, if we wanted -any help in the house while he is here, we could perhaps get Mary -Higgins. She is very slack of work, and is a good girl, and would take -pains to do her best, I am sure, and would sleep at home, and need never -come upstairs, so as to know who is in the house.'</p> - -<p>'As you please. As Dixon pleases. But, Margaret, don't get to use these -horrid Milton words. "Slack of work:" it is a provincialism. What will -your aunt Shaw say, if she hears you use it on her return?'</p> - -<p>'Oh, mamma! don't try and make a bugbear of aunt Shaw' said Margaret, -laughing. 'Edith picked up all sorts of military slang from Captain -Lennox, and aunt Shaw never took any notice of it.'</p> - -<p>'But yours is factory slang.'</p> - -<p>'And if I live in a factory town, I must speak factory language when I -want it. Why, mamma, I could astonish you with a great many words you -never heard in your life. I don't believe you know what a knobstick is.'</p> - -<p>'Not I, child. I only know it has a very vulgar sound and I don't want -to hear you using it.'</p> - -<p>'Very well, dearest mother, I won't. Only I shall have to use a whole -explanatory sentence instead.'</p> - -<p>'I don't like this Milton,' said Mrs. Hale. 'Edith is right enough in -saying it's the smoke that has made me so ill.'</p> - -<p>Margaret started up as her mother said this. Her father had just entered -the room, and she was most anxious that the faint impression she had -seen on his mind that the Milton air had injured her mother's health, -should not be deepened,—should not receive any confirmation. She could -not tell whether he had heard what Mrs. Hale had said or not; but she -began speaking hurriedly of other things, unaware that Mr. Thornton was -following him.</p> - -<p>'Mamma is accusing me of having picked up a great deal of vulgarity -since we came to Milton.'</p> - -<p>The 'vulgarity' Margaret spoke of, referred purely to the use of local -words, and the expression arose out of the conversation they had just -been holding. But Mr. Thornton's brow darkened; and Margaret suddenly -felt how her speech might be misunderstood by him; so, in the natural -sweet desire to avoid giving unnecessary pain, she forced herself to go -forwards with a little greeting, and continue what she was saying, -addressing herself to him expressly.</p> - -<p>'Now, Mr. Thornton, though "knobstick" has not a very pretty sound, is -it not expressive? Could I do without it, in speaking of the thing it -represents? If using local words is vulgar, I was very vulgar in the -Forest,—was I not, mamma?'</p> - -<p>It was unusual with Margaret to obtrude her own subject of conversation -on others; but, in this case, she was so anxious to prevent Mr. Thornton -from feeling annoyance at the words he had accidentally overheard, that -it was not until she had done speaking that she coloured all over with -consciousness, more especially as Mr. Thornton seemed hardly to -understand the exact gist or bearing of what she was saying, but passed -her by, with a cold reserve of ceremonious movement, to speak to Mrs. -Hale.</p> - -<p>The sight of him reminded her of the wish to see his mother, and commend -Margaret to her care. Margaret, sitting in burning silence, vexed and -ashamed of her difficulty in keeping her right place, and her calm -unconsciousness of heart, when Mr. Thornton was by, heard her mother's -slow entreaty that Mrs. Thornton would come and see her; see her soon; -to-morrow, if it were possible. Mr. Thornton promised that she -should—conversed a little, and then took his leave; and Margaret's -movements and voice seemed at once released from some invisible chains. -He never looked at her; and yet, the careful avoidance of his eyes -betokened that in some way he knew exactly where, if they fell by -chance, they would rest on her. If she spoke, he gave no sign of -attention, and yet his next speech to any one else was modified by what -she had said; sometimes there was an express answer to what she had -remarked, but given to another person as though unsuggested by her. It -was not the bad manners of ignorance; it was the wilful bad manners -arising from deep offence. It was wilful at the time, repented of -afterwards. But no deep plan, no careful cunning could have stood him in -such good stead. Margaret thought about him more than she had ever done -before; not with any tinge of what is called love, but with regret that -she had wounded him so deeply,—and with a gentle, patient striving to -return to their former position of antagonistic friendship; for a -friend's position was what she found that he had held in her regard, as -well as in that of the rest of the family. There was a pretty humility -in her behaviour to him, as if mutely apologising for the over-strong -words which were the reaction from the deeds of the day of the riot.</p> - -<p>But he resented those words bitterly. They rung in his ears; and he was -proud of the sense of justice which made him go on in every kindness he -could offer to her parents. He exulted in the power he showed in -compelling himself to face her, whenever he could think of any action -which might give her father or mother pleasure. He thought that he -disliked seeing one who had mortified him so keenly; but he was -mistaken. It was a stinging pleasure to be in the room with her, and -feel her presence. But he was no great analyser of his own motives, and -was mistaken as I have said.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXX_HOME_AT_LAST" id="CHAPTER_XXX_HOME_AT_LAST"></a>CHAPTER XXX—HOME AT LAST</h2> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">'The saddest birds a season find to sing.'<br /></span> -<span class="i9">S<small>OUTHWELL</small>.<br /></span> -</div></div> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">'Never to fold the robe o'er secret pain,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Never, weighed down by memory's clouds again,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">To bow thy head! Thou art gone home!'<br /></span> -<span class="i9">MRS. HEMANS.<br /></span> -</div></div> - -<p>Mrs. Thornton came to see Mrs. Hale the next morning. She was much -worse. One of those sudden changes—those great visible strides towards -death, had been taken in the night, and her own family were startled by -the gray sunken look her features had assumed in that one twelve hours -of suffering. Mrs. Thornton—who had not seen her for weeks—was -softened all at once. She had come because her son asked it from her as -a personal favour, but with all the proud bitter feelings of her nature -in arms against that family of which Margaret formed one. She doubted -the reality of Mrs. Hale's illness; she doubted any want beyond a -momentary fancy on that lady's part, which should take her out of her -previously settled course of employment for the day. She told her son -that she wished they had never come near the place; that he had never -got acquainted with them; that there had been no such useless languages -as Latin and Greek ever invented. He bore all this pretty silently; but -when she had ended her invective against the dead languages, he quietly -returned to the short, curt, decided expression of his wish that she -should go and see Mrs. Hale at the time appointed, as most likely to be -convenient to the invalid. Mrs. Thornton submitted with as bad a grace -as she could to her son's desire, all the time liking him the better for -having it; and exaggerating in her own mind the same notion that he had -of extraordinary goodness on his part in so perseveringly keeping up -with the Hales.</p> - -<p>His goodness verging on weakness (as all the softer virtues did in her -mind), and her own contempt for Mr. and Mrs. Hale, and positive dislike -to Margaret, were the ideas which occupied Mrs. Thornton, till she was -struck into nothingness before the dark shadow of the wings of the angel -of death. There lay Mrs. Hale—a mother like herself—a much younger -woman than she was,—on the bed from which there was no sign of hope -that she might ever rise again. No more variety of light and shade for -her in that darkened room; no power of action, scarcely change of -movement; faint alternations of whispered sound and studious silence; -and yet that monotonous life seemed almost too much! When Mrs. Thornton, -strong and prosperous with life, came in, Mrs. Hale lay still, although -from the look on her face she was evidently conscious of who it was. But -she did not even open her eyes for a minute or two. The heavy moisture -of tears stood on the eye-lashes before she looked up, then with her -hand groping feebly over the bed-clothes, for the touch of Mrs. -Thornton's large firm fingers, she said, scarcely above her breath—Mrs. -Thornton had to stoop from her erectness to listen,—</p> - -<p>'Margaret—you have a daughter—my sister is in Italy. My child will be -without a mother;—in a strange place,—if I die—will you'——</p> - -<p>And her filmy wandering eyes fixed themselves with an intensity of -wistfulness on Mrs. Thornton's face. For a minute, there was no change -in its rigidness; it was stern and unmoved;—nay, but that the eyes of -the sick woman were growing dim with the slow-gathering tears, she might -have seen a dark cloud cross the cold features. And it was no thought of -her son, or of her living daughter Fanny, that stirred her heart at -last; but a sudden remembrance, suggested by something in the -arrangement of the room,—of a little daughter—dead in infancy—long -years ago—that, like a sudden sunbeam, melted the icy crust, behind -which there was a real tender woman.</p> - -<p>'You wish me to be a friend to Miss Hale,' said Mrs. Thornton, in her -measured voice, that would not soften with her heart, but came out -distinct and clear.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Hale, her eyes still fixed on Mrs. Thornton's face, pressed the -hand that lay below hers on the coverlet. She could not speak. Mrs. -Thornton sighed, 'I will be a true friend, if circumstances require it. -Not a tender friend. That I cannot be,'—('to her,' she was on the point -of adding, but she relented at the sight of that poor, anxious -face.)—'It is not my nature to show affection even where I feel it, nor -do I volunteer advice in general. Still, at your request,—if it will be -any comfort to you, I will promise you.' Then came a pause. Mrs. -Thornton was too conscientious to promise what she did not mean to -perform; and to perform any-thing in the way of kindness on behalf of -Margaret, more disliked at this moment than ever, was difficult; almost -impossible.</p> - -<p>'I promise,' said she, with grave severity; which, after all, inspired -the dying woman with faith as in something more stable than life -itself,—flickering, flitting, wavering life! 'I promise that in any -difficulty in which Miss Hale'——</p> - -<p>'Call her Margaret!' gasped Mrs. Hale.</p> - -<p>'In which she comes to me for help, I will help her with every power I -have, as if she were my own daughter. I also promise that if ever I see -her doing what I think is wrong'——</p> - -<p>'But Margaret never does wrong—not wilfully wrong,' pleaded Mrs. Hale. -Mrs. Thornton went on as before; as if she had not heard:</p> - -<p>'If ever I see her doing what I believe to be wrong—such wrong not -touching me or mine, in which case I might be supposed to have an -interested motive—I will tell her of it, faithfully and plainly, as I -should wish my own daughter to be told.'</p> - -<p>There was a long pause. Mrs. Hale felt that this promise did not include -all; and yet it was much. It had reservations in it which she did not -understand; but then she was weak, dizzy, and tired. Mrs. Thornton was -reviewing all the probable cases in which she had pledged herself to -act. She had a fierce pleasure in the idea of telling Margaret unwelcome -truths, in the shape of performance of duty. Mrs. Hale began to speak:</p> - -<p>'I thank you. I pray God to bless you. I shall never see you again in -this world. But my last words are, I thank you for your promise of -kindness to my child.'</p> - -<p>'Not kindness!' testified Mrs. Thornton, ungraciously truthful to the -last. But having eased her conscience by saying these words, she was not -sorry that they were not heard. She pressed Mrs. Hale's soft languid -hand; and rose up and went her way out of the house without seeing a -creature.</p> - -<p>During the time that Mrs. Thornton was having this interview with Mrs. -Hale, Margaret and Dixon were laying their heads together, and -consulting how they should keep Frederick's coming a profound secret to -all out of the house. A letter from him might now be expected any day; -and he would assuredly follow quickly on its heels. Martha must be sent -away on her holiday; Dixon must keep stern guard on the front door, only -admitting the few visitors that ever came to the house into Mr. Hale's -room down-stairs—Mrs. Hale's extreme illness giving her a good excuse -for this. If Mary Higgins was required as a help to Dixon in the kitchen -she was to hear and see as little of Frederick as possible; and he was, -if necessary to be spoken of to her under the name of Mr. Dickinson. But -her sluggish and incurious nature was the greatest safeguard of all.</p> - -<p>They resolved that Martha should leave them that very afternoon for this -visit to her mother. Margaret wished that she had been sent away on the -previous day, as she fancied it might be thought strange to give a -servant a holiday when her mistress's state required so much attendance.</p> - -<p>Poor Margaret! All that afternoon she had to act the part of a Roman -daughter, and give strength out of her own scanty stock to her father. -Mr. Hale would hope, would not despair, between the attacks of his -wife's malady; he buoyed himself up in every respite from her pain, and -believed that it was the beginning of ultimate recovery. And so, when -the paroxysms came on, each more severe than the last, they were fresh -agonies, and greater disappointments to him. This afternoon, he sat in -the drawing-room, unable to bear the solitude of his study, or to employ -himself in any way. He buried his head in his arms, which lay folded on -the table. Margaret's heart ached to see him; yet, as he did not speak, -she did not like to volunteer any attempt at comfort. Martha was gone. -Dixon sat with Mrs. Hale while she slept. The house was very still and -quiet, and darkness came on, without any movement to procure candles. -Margaret sat at the window, looking out at the lamps and the street, but -seeing nothing,—only alive to her father's heavy sighs. She did not -like to go down for lights, lest the tacit restraint of her presence -being withdrawn, he might give way to more violent emotion, without her -being at hand to comfort him. Yet she was just thinking that she ought -to go and see after the well-doing of the kitchen fire, which there was -nobody but herself to attend to when she heard the muffled door-ring -with so violent a pull, that the wires jingled all through the house, -though the positive sound was not great. She started up, passed her -father, who had never moved at the veiled, dull sound,—returned, and -kissed him tenderly. And still he never moved, nor took any notice of -her fond embrace. Then she went down softly, through the dark, to the -door. Dixon would have put the chain on before she opened it, but -Margaret had not a thought of fear in her pre-occupied mind. A man's -tall figure stood between her and the luminous street. He was looking -away; but at the sound of the latch he turned quickly round.</p> - -<p>'Is this Mr. Hale's?' said he, in a clear, full, delicate voice.</p> - -<p>Margaret trembled all over; at first she did not answer. In a moment she -sighed out,</p> - -<p>'Frederick!' and stretched out both her hands to catch his, and draw him -in.</p> - -<p>'Oh, Margaret!' said he, holding her off by her shoulders, after they -had kissed each other, as if even in that darkness he could see her -face, and read in its expression a quicker answer to his question than -words could give,—</p> - -<p>'My mother! is she alive?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, she is alive, dear, dear brother! She—as ill as she can be she -is; but alive! She is alive!'</p> - -<p>'Thank God!' said he.</p> - -<p>'Papa is utterly prostrate with this great grief.'</p> - -<p>'You expect me, don't you?'</p> - -<p>'No, we have had no letter.'</p> - -<p>'Then I have come before it. But my mother knows I am coming?'</p> - -<p>'Oh! we all knew you would come. But wait a little! Step in here. Give -me your hand. What is this? Oh! your carpet-bag. Dixon has shut the -shutters; but this is papa's study, and I can take you to a chair to -rest yourself for a few minutes; while I go and tell him.'</p> - -<p>She groped her way to the taper and the lucifer matches. She suddenly -felt shy, when the little feeble light made them visible. All she could -see was, that her brother's face was unusually dark in complexion, and -she caught the stealthy look of a pair of remarkably long-cut blue eyes, -that suddenly twinkled up with a droll consciousness of their mutual -purpose of inspecting each other. But though the brother and sister had -an instant of sympathy in their reciprocal glances, they did not -exchange a word; only, Margaret felt sure that she should like her -brother as a companion as much as she already loved him as a near -relation. Her heart was wonderfully lighter as she went up-stairs; the -sorrow was no less in reality, but it became less oppressive from having -some one in precisely the same relation to it as that in which she -stood. Not her father's desponding attitude had power to damp her now. -He lay across the table, helpless as ever; but she had the spell by -which to rouse him. She used it perhaps too violently in her own great -relief.</p> - -<p>'Papa,' said she, throwing her arms fondly round his neck; pulling his -weary head up in fact with her gentle violence, till it rested in her -arms, and she could look into his eyes, and let them gain strength and -assurance from hers.</p> - -<p>'Papa! guess who is here!'</p> - -<p>He looked at her; she saw the idea of the truth glimmer into their filmy -sadness, and be dismissed thence as a wild imagination.</p> - -<p>He threw himself forward, and hid his face once more in his -stretched-out arms, resting upon the table as heretofore. She heard him -whisper; she bent tenderly down to listen. 'I don't know. Don't tell me -it is Frederick—not Frederick. I cannot bear it,—I am too weak. And -his mother is dying!' He began to cry and wail like a child. It was so -different to all which Margaret had hoped and expected, that she turned -sick with disappointment, and was silent for an instant. Then she spoke -again—very differently—not so exultingly, far more tenderly and -carefully.</p> - -<p>'Papa, it is Frederick! Think of mamma, how glad she will be! And oh, -for her sake, how glad we ought to be! For his sake, too,—our poor, -poor boy!'</p> - -<p>Her father did not change his attitude, but he seemed to be trying to -understand the fact.</p> - -<p>'Where is he?' asked he at last, his face still hidden in his prostrate -arms.</p> - -<p>'In your study, quite alone. I lighted the taper, and ran up to tell -you. He is quite alone, and will be wondering why—'</p> - -<p>'I will go to him,' broke in her father; and he lifted himself up and -leant on her arm as on that of a guide.</p> - -<p>Margaret led him to the study door, but her spirits were so agitated -that she felt she could not bear to see the meeting. She turned away, -and ran up-stairs, and cried most heartily. It was the first time she -had dared to allow herself this relief for days. The strain had been -terrible, as she now felt. But Frederick was come! He, the one precious -brother, was there, safe, amongst them again! She could hardly believe -it. She stopped her crying, and opened her bedroom door. She heard no -sound of voices, and almost feared she might have dreamt. She went -down-stairs, and listened at the study door. She heard the buzz of -voices; and that was enough. She went into the kitchen, and stirred up -the fire, and lighted the house, and prepared for the wanderer's -refreshment. How fortunate it was that her mother slept! She knew that -she did, from the candle-lighter thrust through the keyhole of her -bedroom door. The traveller could be refreshed and bright, and the first -excitement of the meeting with his father all be over, before her mother -became aware of anything unusual.</p> - -<p>When all was ready, Margaret opened the study door, and went in like a -serving-maiden, with a heavy tray held in her extended arms. She was -proud of serving Frederick. But he, when he saw her, sprang up in a -minute, and relieved her of her burden. It was a type, a sign, of all -the coming relief which his presence would bring. The brother and sister -arranged the table together, saying little, but their hands touching, -and their eyes speaking the natural language of expression, so -intelligible to those of the same blood. The fire had gone out; and -Margaret applied herself to light it, for the evenings had begun to be -chilly; and yet it was desirable to make all noises as distant as -possible from Mrs. Hale's room.</p> - -<p>'Dixon says it is a gift to light a fire; not an art to be acquired.'</p> - -<p>'Poeta nascitur, non fit,' murmured Mr. Hale; and Margaret was glad to -hear a quotation once more, however languidly given.</p> - -<p>'Dear old Dixon! How we shall kiss each other!' said Frederick. 'She -used to kiss me, and then look in my face to be sure I was the right -person, and then set to again! But, Margaret, what a bungler you are! I -never saw such a little awkward, good-for-nothing pair of hands. Run -away, and wash them, ready to cut bread-and-butter for me, and leave the -fire. I'll manage it. Lighting fires is one of my natural -accomplishments.'</p> - -<p>So Margaret went away; and returned; and passed in and out of the room, -in a glad restlessness that could not be satisfied with sitting still. -The more wants Frederick had, the better she was pleased; and he -understood all this by instinct. It was a joy snatched in the house of -mourning, and the zest of it was all the more pungent, because they knew -in the depths of their hearts what irremediable sorrow awaited them.</p> - -<p>In the middle, they heard Dixon's foot on the stairs. Mr. Hale started -from his languid posture in his great armchair, from which he had been -watching his children in a dreamy way, as if they were acting some drama -of happiness, which it was pretty to look at, but which was distinct -from reality, and in which he had no part. He stood up, and faced the -door, showing such a strange, sudden anxiety to conceal Frederick from -the sight of any person entering, even though it were the faithful -Dixon, that a shiver came over Margaret's heart: it reminded her of the -new fear in their lives. She caught at Frederick's arm, and clutched it -tight, while a stern thought compressed her brows, and caused her to set -her teeth. And yet they knew it was only Dixon's measured tread. They -heard her walk the length of the passage, into the kitchen. Margaret -rose up.</p> - -<p>'I will go to her, and tell her. And I shall hear how mamma is.' Mrs. -Hale was awake. She rambled at first; but after they had given her some -tea she was refreshed, though not disposed to talk. It was better that -the night should pass over before she was told of her son's arrival. Dr. -Donaldson's appointed visit would bring nervous excitement enough for -the evening; and he might tell them how to prepare her for seeing -Frederick. He was there, in the house; could be summoned at any moment.</p> - -<p>Margaret could not sit still. It was a relief to her to aid Dixon in all -her preparations for 'Master Frederick.' It seemed as though she never -could be tired again. Each glimpse into the room where he sate by his -father, conversing with him, about, she knew not what, nor cared to -know,—was increase of strength to her. Her own time for talking and -hearing would come at last, and she was too certain of this to feel in a -hurry to grasp it now. She took in his appearance and liked it. He had -delicate features, redeemed from effeminacy by the swarthiness of his -complexion, and his quick intensity of expression. His eyes were -generally merry-looking, but at times they and his mouth so suddenly -changed, and gave her such an idea of latent passion, that it almost -made her afraid. But this look was only for an instant; and had in it no -doggedness, no vindictiveness; it was rather the instantaneous ferocity -of expression that comes over the countenances of all natives of wild or -southern countries—a ferocity which enhances the charm of the childlike -softness into which such a look may melt away. Margaret might fear the -violence of the impulsive nature thus occasionally betrayed, but there -was nothing in it to make her distrust, or recoil in the least, from the -new-found brother. On the contrary, all their intercourse was peculiarly -charming to her from the very first. She knew then how much -responsibility she had had to bear, from the exquisite sensation of -relief which she felt in Frederick's presence. He understood his father -and mother—their characters and their weaknesses, and went along with a -careless freedom, which was yet most delicately careful not to hurt or -wound any of their feelings. He seemed to know instinctively when a -little of the natural brilliancy of his manner and conversation would -not jar on the deep depression of his father, or might relieve his -mother's pain. Whenever it would have been out of tune, and out of time, -his patient devotion and watchfulness came into play, and made him an -admirable nurse. Then Margaret was almost touched into tears by the -allusions which he often made to their childish days in the New Forest; -he had never forgotten her—or Helstone either—all the time he had been -roaming among distant countries and foreign people. She might talk to -him of the old spot, and never fear tiring him. She had been afraid of -him before he came, even while she had longed for his coming; seven or -eight years had, she felt, produced such great changes in herself that, -forgetting how much of the original Margaret was left, she had reasoned -that if her tastes and feelings had so materially altered, even in her -stay-at-home life, his wild career, with which she was but imperfectly -acquainted, must have almost substituted another Frederick for the tall -stripling in his middy's uniform, whom she remembered looking up to with -such admiring awe. But in their absence they had grown nearer to each -other in age, as well as in many other things. And so it was that the -weight, this sorrowful time, was lightened to Margaret. Other light than -that of Frederick's presence she had none. For a few hours, the mother -rallied on seeing her son. She sate with his hand in hers; she would not -part with it even while she slept; and Margaret had to feed him like a -baby, rather than that he should disturb her mother by removing a -finger. Mrs. Hale wakened while they were thus engaged; she slowly moved -her head round on the pillow, and smiled at her children, as she -understood what they were doing, and why it was done.</p> - -<p>'I am very selfish,' said she; 'but it will not be for long.' Frederick -bent down and kissed the feeble hand that imprisoned his.</p> - -<p>This state of tranquillity could not endure for many days, nor perhaps -for many hours; so Dr. Donaldson assured Margaret. After the kind doctor -had gone away, she stole down to Frederick, who, during the visit, had -been adjured to remain quietly concealed in the back parlour, usually -Dixon's bedroom, but now given up to him.</p> - -<p>Margaret told him what Dr. Donaldson said.</p> - -<p>'I don't believe it,' he exclaimed. 'She is very ill; she may be -dangerously ill, and in immediate danger, too; but I can't imagine that -she could be as she is, if she were on the point of death. Margaret! she -should have some other advice—some London doctor. Have you never -thought of that?'</p> - -<p>'Yes,' said Margaret, 'more than once. But I don't believe it would do -any good. And, you know, we have not the money to bring any great London -surgeon down, and I am sure Dr. Donaldson is only second in skill to the -very best,—if, indeed, he is to them.'</p> - -<p>Frederick began to walk up and down the room impatiently.</p> - -<p>'I have credit in Cadiz,' said he, 'but none here, owing to this -wretched change of name. Why did my father leave Helstone? That was the -blunder.'</p> - -<p>'It was no blunder,' said Margaret gloomily. 'And above all possible -chances, avoid letting papa hear anything like what you have just been -saying. I can see that he is tormenting himself already with the idea -that mamma would never have been ill if we had stayed at Helstone, and -you don't know papa's agonising power of self-reproach!'</p> - -<p>Frederick walked away as if he were on the quarter-deck. At last he -stopped right opposite to Margaret, and looked at her drooping and -desponding attitude for an instant.</p> - -<p>'My little Margaret!' said he, caressing her. 'Let us hope as long as we -can. Poor little woman! what! is this face all wet with tears? I will -hope. I will, in spite of a thousand doctors. Bear up, Margaret, and be -brave enough to hope!'</p> - -<p>Margaret choked in trying to speak, and when she did it was very low.</p> - -<p>'I must try to be meek enough to trust. Oh, Frederick! mamma was getting -to love me so! And I was getting to understand her. And now comes death -to snap us asunder!'</p> - -<p>'Come, come, come! Let us go up-stairs, and do something, rather than -waste time that may be so precious. Thinking has, many a time, made me -sad, darling; but doing never did in all my life. My theory is a sort of -parody on the maxim of "Get money, my son, honestly if you can; but get -money." My precept is, "Do something, my sister, do good if you can; -but, at any rate, do something."'</p> - -<p>'Not excluding mischief,' said Margaret, smiling faintly through her -tears.</p> - -<p>'By no means. What I do exclude is the remorse afterwards. Blot your -misdeeds out (if you are particularly conscientious), by a good deed, as -soon as you can; just as we did a correct sum at school on the slate, -where an incorrect one was only half rubbed out. It was better than -wetting our sponge with our tears; both less loss of time where tears -had to be waited for, and a better effect at last.'</p> - -<p>If Margaret thought Frederick's theory rather a rough one at first, she -saw how he worked it out into continual production of kindness in fact. -After a bad night with his mother (for he insisted on taking his turn as -a sitter-up) he was busy next morning before breakfast, contriving a -leg-rest for Dixon, who was beginning to feel the fatigues of watching. -At breakfast-time, he interested Mr. Hale with vivid, graphic, rattling -accounts of the wild life he had led in Mexico, South America, and -elsewhere. Margaret would have given up the effort in despair to rouse -Mr. Hale out of his dejection; it would even have affected herself and -rendered her incapable of talking at all. But Fred, true to his theory, -did something perpetually; and talking was the only thing to be done, -besides eating, at breakfast.</p> - -<p>Before the night of that day, Dr. Donaldson's opinion was proved to be -too well founded. Convulsions came on; and when they ceased, Mrs. Hale -was unconscious. Her husband might lie by her shaking the bed with his -sobs; her son's strong arms might lift her tenderly up into a -comfortable position; her daughter's hands might bathe her face; but she -knew them not. She would never recognise them again, till they met in -Heaven.</p> - -<p>Before the morning came all was over.</p> - -<p>Then Margaret rose from her trembling and despondency, and became as a -strong angel of comfort to her father and brother. For Frederick had -broken down now, and all his theories were of no use to him. He cried so -violently when shut up alone in his little room at night, that Margaret -and Dixon came down in affright to warn him to be quiet: for the house -partitions were but thin, and the next-door neighbours might easily hear -his youthful passionate sobs, so different from the slower trembling -agony of after-life, when we become inured to grief, and dare not be -rebellious against the inexorable doom, knowing who it is that decrees.</p> - -<p>Margaret sate with her father in the room with the dead. If he had -cried, she would have been thankful. But he sate by the bed quite -quietly; only, from time to time, he uncovered the face, and stroked it -gently, making a kind of soft inarticulate noise, like that of some -mother-animal caressing her young. He took no notice of Margaret's -presence. Once or twice she came up to kiss him; and he submitted to it, -giving her a little push away when she had done, as if her affection -disturbed him from his absorption in the dead. He started when he heard -Frederick's cries, and shook his head:—'Poor boy! poor boy!' he said, -and took no more notice. Margaret's heart ached within her. She could -not think of her own loss in thinking of her father's case. The night -was wearing away, and the day was at hand, when, without a word of -preparation, Margaret's voice broke upon the stillness of the room, with -a clearness of sound that startled even herself: 'Let not your heart be -troubled,' it said; and she went steadily on through all that chapter of -unspeakable consolation.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXI_SHOULD_AULD_ACQUAINTANCE_BE_FORGOT" id="CHAPTER_XXXI_SHOULD_AULD_ACQUAINTANCE_BE_FORGOT"></a>CHAPTER XXXI—'SHOULD AULD ACQUAINTANCE BE FORGOT?'</h2> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">'Show not that manner, and these features all,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">The serpent's cunning, and the sinner's fall?'<br /></span> -<span class="i9">C<small>RABBE</small>.<br /></span> -</div></div> - -<p>The chill, shivery October morning came; not the October morning of the -country, with soft, silvery mists, clearing off before the sunbeams that -bring out all the gorgeous beauty of colouring, but the October morning -of Milton, whose silver mists were heavy fogs, and where the sun could -only show long dusky streets when he did break through and shine. -Margaret went languidly about, assisting Dixon in her task of arranging -the house. Her eyes were continually blinded by tears, but she had no -time to give way to regular crying. The father and brother depended upon -her; while they were giving way to grief, she must be working, planning, -considering. Even the necessary arrangements for the funeral seemed to -devolve upon her.</p> - -<p>When the fire was bright and crackling—when everything was ready for -breakfast, and the tea-kettle was singing away, Margaret gave a last -look round the room before going to summon Mr. Hale and Frederick. She -wanted everything to look as cheerful as possible; and yet, when it did -so, the contrast between it and her own thoughts forced her into sudden -weeping. She was kneeling by the sofa, hiding her face in the cushions -that no one might hear her cry, when she was touched on the shoulder by -Dixon.</p> - -<p>'Come, Miss Hale—come, my dear! You must not give way, or where shall -we all be? There is not another person in the house fit to give a -direction of any kind, and there is so much to be done. There's who's to -manage the funeral; and who's to come to it; and where it's to be; and -all to be settled: and Master Frederick's like one crazed with crying, -and master never was a good one for settling; and, poor gentleman, he -goes about now as if he was lost. It's bad enough, my dear, I know; but -death comes to us all; and you're well off never to have lost any friend -till now.' Perhaps so. But this seemed a loss by itself; not to bear -comparison with any other event in the world. Margaret did not take any -comfort from what Dixon said, but the unusual tenderness of the prim old -servant's manner touched her to the heart; and, more from a desire to -show her gratitude for this than for any other reason, she roused -herself up, and smiled in answer to Dixon's anxious look at her; and -went to tell her father and brother that breakfast was ready.</p> - -<p>Mr. Hale came—as if in a dream, or rather with the unconscious motion -of a sleep-walker, whose eyes and mind perceive other things than what -are present. Frederick came briskly in, with a forced cheerfulness, -grasped her hand, looked into her eyes, and burst into tears. She had to -try and think of little nothings to say all breakfast-time, in order to -prevent the recurrence of her companions' thoughts too strongly to the -last meal they had taken together, when there had been a continual -strained listening for some sound or signal from the sick-room.</p> - -<p>After breakfast, she resolved to speak to her father, about the funeral. -He shook his head, and assented to all she proposed, though many of her -propositions absolutely contradicted one another. Margaret gained no -real decision from him; and was leaving the room languidly, to have a -consultation with Dixon, when Mr. Hale motioned her back to his side.</p> - -<p>'Ask Mr. Bell,' said he in a hollow voice.</p> - -<p>'Mr. Bell!' said she, a little surprised. 'Mr. Bell of Oxford?'</p> - -<p>'Mr. Bell,' he repeated. 'Yes. He was my groom's-man.'</p> - -<p>Margaret understood the association.</p> - -<p>'I will write to-day,' said she. He sank again into listlessness. All -morning she toiled on, longing for rest, but in a continual whirl of -melancholy business.</p> - -<p>Towards evening, Dixon said to her:</p> - -<p>'I've done it, miss. I was really afraid for master, that he'd have a -stroke with grief. He's been all this day with poor missus; and when -I've listened at the door, I've heard him talking to her, and talking to -her, as if she was alive. When I went in he would be quite quiet, but -all in a maze like. So I thought to myself, he ought to be roused; and -if it gives him a shock at first, it will, maybe, be the better -afterwards. So I've been and told him, that I don't think it's safe for -Master Frederick to be here. And I don't. It was only on Tuesday, when I -was out, that I met a Southampton man—the first I've seen since I came -to Milton; they don't make their way much up here, I think. Well, it was -young Leonards, old Leonards the draper's son, as great a scamp as ever -lived—who plagued his father almost to death, and then ran off to sea. -I never could abide him. He was in the <i>Orion</i> at the same time as Master -Frederick, I know; though I don't recollect if he was there at the -mutiny.'</p> - -<p>'Did he know you?' said Margaret, eagerly.</p> - -<p>'Why, that's the worst of it. I don't believe he would have known me but -for my being such a fool as to call out his name. He were a Southampton -man, in a strange place, or else I should never have been so ready to -call cousins with him, a nasty, good-for-nothing fellow. Says he, "Miss -Dixon! who would ha' thought of seeing you here? But perhaps I mistake, -and you're Miss Dixon no longer?" So I told him he might still address -me as an unmarried lady, though if I hadn't been so particular, I'd had -good chances of matrimony. He was polite enough: "He couldn't look at me -and doubt me." But I were not to be caught with such chaff from such a -fellow as him, and so I told him; and, by way of being even, I asked him -after his father (who I knew had turned him out of doors), as if they -was the best friends as ever was. So then, to spite me—for you see we -were getting savage, for all we were so civil to each other—he began to -inquire after Master Frederick, and said, what a scrape he'd got into -(as if Master Frederick's scrapes would ever wash George Leonards' -white, or make 'em look otherwise than nasty, dirty black), and how he'd -be hung for mutiny if ever he were caught, and how a hundred pound -reward had been offered for catching him, and what a disgrace he had -been to his family—all to spite me, you see, my dear, because before -now I've helped old Mr. Leonards to give George a good rating, down in -Southampton. So I said, there were other families be thankful if they -could think they were earning an honest living as I knew, who had far -more cause to blush for their sons, and to far away from home. To which -he made answer, like the impudent chap he is, that he were in a -confidential situation, and if I knew of any young man who had been so -unfortunate as to lead vicious courses, and wanted to turn steady, he'd -have no objection to lend him his patronage. He, indeed! Why, he'd -corrupt a saint. I've not felt so bad myself for years as when I were -standing talking to him the other day. I could have cried to think I -couldn't spite him better, for he kept smiling in my face, as if he took -all my compliments for earnest; and I couldn't see that he minded what I -said in the least, while I was mad with all his speeches.'</p> - -<p>'But you did not tell him anything about us—about Frederick?'</p> - -<p>'Not I,' said Dixon. 'He had never the grace to ask where I was staying; -and I shouldn't have told him if he had asked. Nor did I ask him what -his precious situation was. He was waiting for a bus, and just then it -drove up, and he hailed it. But, to plague me to the last, he turned -back before he got in, and said, "If you can help me to trap Lieutenant -Hale, Miss Dixon, we'll go partners in the reward. I know you'd like to -be my partner, now wouldn't you? Don't be shy, but say yes." And he -jumped on the bus, and I saw his ugly face leering at me with a wicked -smile to think how he'd had the last word of plaguing.'</p> - -<p>Margaret was made very uncomfortable by this account of Dixon's.</p> - -<p>'Have you told Frederick?' asked she.</p> - -<p>'No,' said Dixon. 'I were uneasy in my mind at knowing that bad Leonards -was in town; but there was so much else to think about that I did not -dwell on it at all. But when I saw master sitting so stiff, and with his -eyes so glazed and sad, I thought it might rouse him to have to think of -Master Frederick's safety a bit. So I told him all, though I blushed to -say how a young man had been speaking to me. And it has done master -good. And if we're to keep Master Frederick in hiding, he would have to -go, poor fellow, before Mr. Bell came.'</p> - -<p>'Oh, I'm not afraid of Mr. Bell; but I am afraid of this Leonards. I -must tell Frederick. What did Leonards look like?'</p> - -<p>'A bad-looking fellow, I can assure you, miss. Whiskers such as I should -be ashamed to wear—they are so red. And for all he said he'd got a -confidential situation, he was dressed in fustian just like a -working-man.'</p> - -<p>It was evident that Frederick must go. Go, too, when he had so -completely vaulted into his place in the family, and promised to be such -a stay and staff to his father and sister. Go, when his cares for the -living mother, and sorrow for the dead, seemed to make him one of those -peculiar people who are bound to us by a fellow-love for them that are -taken away. Just as Margaret was thinking all this, sitting over the -drawing-room fire—her father restless and uneasy under the pressure of -this newly-aroused fear, of which he had not as yet spoken—Frederick -came in, his brightness dimmed, but the extreme violence of his grief -passed away. He came up to Margaret, and kissed her forehead.</p> - -<p>'How wan you look, Margaret!' said he in a low voice. 'You have been -thinking of everybody, and no one has thought of you. Lie on this -sofa—there is nothing for you to do.'</p> - -<p>'That is the worst,' said Margaret, in a sad whisper. But she went and -lay down, and her brother covered her feet with a shawl, and then sate -on the ground by her side; and the two began to talk in a subdued tone.</p> - -<p>Margaret told him all that Dixon had related of her interview with young -Leonards. Frederick's lips closed with a long whew of dismay.</p> - -<p>'I should just like to have it out with that young fellow. A worse -sailor was never on board ship—nor a much worse man either. I declare, -Margaret—you know the circumstances of the whole affair?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, mamma told me.'</p> - -<p>'Well, when all the sailors who were good for anything were indignant -with our captain, this fellow, to curry favour—pah! And to think of his -being here! Oh, if he'd a notion I was within twenty miles of him, he'd -ferret me out to pay off old grudges. I'd rather anybody had the hundred -pounds they think I am worth than that rascal. What a pity poor old -Dixon could not be persuaded to give me up, and make a provision for her -old age!'</p> - -<p>'Oh, Frederick, hush! Don't talk so.'</p> - -<p>Mr. Hale came towards them, eager and trembling. He had overheard what -they were saying. He took Frederick's hand in both of his:</p> - -<p>'My boy, you must go. It is very bad—but I see you must. You have done -all you could—you have been a comfort to her.'</p> - -<p>'Oh, papa, must he go?' said Margaret, pleading against her own -conviction of necessity.</p> - -<p>'I declare, I've a good mind to face it out, and stand my trial. If I -could only pick up my evidence! I cannot endure the thought of being in -the power of such a blackguard as Leonards. I could almost have -enjoyed—in other circumstances—this stolen visit: it has had all the -charm which the French-woman attributed to forbidden pleasures.'</p> - -<p>'One of the earliest things I can remember,' said Margaret, 'was your -being in some great disgrace, Fred, for stealing apples. We had plenty -of our own—trees loaded with them; but some one had told you that -stolen fruit tasted sweetest, which you took au pied de la lettre, and -off you went a-robbing. You have not changed your feelings much since -then.'</p> - -<p>'Yes—you must go,' repeated Mr. Hale, answering Margaret's question, -which she had asked some time ago. His thoughts were fixed on one -subject, and it was an effort to him to follow the zig-zag remarks of -his children—an effort which he did not make.</p> - -<p>Margaret and Frederick looked at each other. That quick momentary -sympathy would be theirs no longer if he went away. So much was -understood through eyes that could not be put into words. Both coursed -the same thought till it was lost in sadness. Frederick shook it off -first:</p> - -<p>'Do you know, Margaret, I was very nearly giving both Dixon and myself a -good fright this afternoon. I was in my bedroom; I had heard a ring at -the front door, but I thought the ringer must have done his business and -gone away long ago; so I was on the point of making my appearance in the -passage, when, as I opened my room door, I saw Dixon coming downstairs; -and she frowned and kicked me into hiding again. I kept the door open, -and heard a message given to some man that was in my father's study, and -that then went away. Who could it have been? Some of the shopmen?'</p> - -<p>'Very likely,' said Margaret, indifferently. 'There was a little quiet -man who came up for orders about two o'clock.'</p> - -<p>'But this was not a little man—a great powerful fellow; and it was past -four when he was here.'</p> - -<p>'It was Mr. Thornton,' said Mr. Hale. They were glad to have drawn him -into the conversation.</p> - -<p>'Mr. Thornton!' said Margaret, a little surprised. 'I thought—— '</p> - -<p>'Well, little one, what did you think?' asked Frederick, as she did not -finish her sentence.</p> - -<p>'Oh, only,' said she, reddening and looking straight at him, 'I fancied -you meant some one of a different class, not a gentleman; somebody come -on an errand.'</p> - -<p>'He looked like some one of that kind,' said Frederick, carelessly. 'I -took him for a shopman, and he turns out a manufacturer.'</p> - -<p>Margaret was silent. She remembered how at first, before she knew his -character, she had spoken and thought of him just as Frederick was -doing. It was but a natural impression that was made upon him, and yet -she was a little annoyed by it. She was unwilling to speak; she wanted -to make Frederick understand what kind of person Mr. Thornton was—but -she was tongue-tied.</p> - -<p>Mr. Hale went on. 'He came to offer any assistance in his power, I -believe. But I could not see him. I told Dixon to ask him if he would -like to see you—I think I asked her to find you, and you would go to -him. I don't know what I said.'</p> - -<p>'He has been a very agreeable acquaintance, has he not?' asked -Frederick, throwing the question like a ball for any one to catch who -chose.</p> - -<p>'A very kind friend,' said Margaret, when her father did not answer.</p> - -<p>Frederick was silent for a time. At last he spoke:</p> - -<p>'Margaret, it is painful to think I can never thank those who have shown -you kindness. Your acquaintances and mine must be separate. Unless, -indeed, I run the chances of a court-martial, or unless you and my -father would come to Spain.' He threw out this last suggestion as a kind -of feeler; and then suddenly made the plunge. 'You don't know how I wish -you would. I have a good position—the chance of a better,' continued -he, reddening like a girl. 'That Dolores Barbour that I was telling you -of, Margaret—I only wish you knew her; I am sure you would like—no, -love is the right word, like is so poor—you would love her, father, if -you knew her. She is not eighteen; but if she is in the same mind -another year, she is to be my wife. Mr. Barbour won't let us call it an -engagement. But if you would come, you would find friends everywhere, -besides Dolores. Think of it, father. Margaret, be on my side.'</p> - -<p>'No—no more removals for me,' said Mr. Hale. 'One removal has cost me -my wife. No more removals in this life. She will be here; and here will -I stay out my appointed time.'</p> - -<p>'Oh, Frederick,' said Margaret, 'tell us more about her. I never thought -of this; but I am so glad. You will have some one to love and care for -you out there. Tell us all about it.'</p> - -<p>'In the first place, she is a Roman Catholic. That's the only objection -I anticipated. But my father's change of opinion—nay, Margaret, don't -sigh.'</p> - -<p>Margaret had reason to sigh a little more before the conversation ended. -Frederick himself was Roman Catholic in fact, though not in profession -as yet. This was, then, the reason why his sympathy in her extreme -distress at her father's leaving the Church had been so faintly -expressed in his letters. She had thought it was the carelessness of a -sailor; but the truth was, that even then he was himself inclined to -give up the form of religion into which he had been baptised, only that -his opinions were tending in exactly the opposite direction to those of -his father. How much love had to do with this change not even Frederick -himself could have told. Margaret gave up talking about this branch of -the subject at last; and, returning to the fact of the engagement, she -began to consider it in some fresh light:</p> - -<p>'But for her sake, Fred, you surely will try and clear yourself of the -exaggerated charges brought against you, even if the charge of mutiny -itself be true. If there were to be a court-martial, and you could find -your witnesses, you might, at any rate, show how your disobedience to -authority was because that authority was unworthily exercised.'</p> - -<p>Mr. Hale roused himself up to listen to his son's answer.</p> - -<p>'In the first place, Margaret, who is to hunt up my witnesses? All of -them are sailors, drafted off to other ships, except those whose -evidence would go for very little, as they took part, or sympathised in -the affair. In the next place, allow me to tell you, you don't know what -a court-martial is, and consider it as an assembly where justice is -administered, instead of what it really is—a court where authority -weighs nine-tenths in the balance, and evidence forms only the other -tenth. In such cases, evidence itself can hardly escape being influenced -by the prestige of authority.'</p> - -<p>'But is it not worth trying, to see how much evidence might be -discovered and arrayed on your behalf? At present, all those who knew -you formerly, believe you guilty without any shadow of excuse. You have -never tried to justify yourself, and we have never known where to seek -for proofs of your justification. Now, for Miss Barbour's sake, make -your conduct as clear as you can in the eye of the world. She may not -care for it; she has, I am sure, that trust in you that we all have; but -you ought not to let her ally herself to one under such a serious -charge, without showing the world exactly how it is you stand. You -disobeyed authority—that was bad; but to have stood by, without word or -act, while the authority was brutally used, would have been infinitely -worse. People know what you did; but not the motives that elevate it out -of a crime into an heroic protection of the weak. For Dolores' sake, -they ought to know.'</p> - -<p>'But how must I make them know? I am not sufficiently sure of the purity -and justice of those who would be my judges, to give myself up to a -court-martial, even if I could bring a whole array of truth-speaking -witnesses. I can't send a bellman about, to cry aloud and proclaim in -the streets what you are pleased to call my heroism. No one would read a -pamphlet of self-justification so long after the deed, even if I put one -out.'</p> - -<p>'Will you consult a lawyer as to your chances of exculpation?' asked -Margaret, looking up, and turning very red.</p> - -<p>'I must first catch my lawyer, and have a look at him, and see how I -like him, before I make him into my confidant. Many a briefless -barrister might twist his conscience into thinking that he could earn a -hundred pounds very easily by doing a good action—in giving me, a -criminal, up to justice.'</p> - -<p>'Nonsense, Frederick!—because I know a lawyer on whose honour I can -rely; of whose cleverness in his profession people speak very highly; -and who would, I think, take a good deal of trouble for any of—of Aunt -Shaw's relations. Mr. Henry Lennox, papa.'</p> - -<p>'I think it is a good idea,' said Mr. Hale. 'But don't propose anything -which will detain Frederick in England. Don't, for your mother's sake.'</p> - -<p>'You could go to London to-morrow evening by a night-train,' continued -Margaret, warming up into her plan. 'He must go to-morrow, I'm afraid, -papa,' said she, tenderly; 'we fixed that, because of Mr. Bell, and -Dixon's disagreeable acquaintance.'</p> - -<p>'Yes; I must go to-morrow,' said Frederick decidedly.</p> - -<p>Mr. Hale groaned. 'I can't bear to part with you, and yet I am miserable -with anxiety as long as you stop here.'</p> - -<p>'Well then,' said Margaret, 'listen to my plan. He gets to London on -Friday morning. I will—you might—no! it would be better for me to give -him a note to Mr. Lennox. You will find him at his chambers in the -Temple.'</p> - -<p>'I will write down a list of all the names I can remember on board the -<i>Orion</i>. I could leave it with him to ferret them out. He is Edith's -husband's brother, isn't he? I remember your naming him in your letters. -I have money in Barbour's hands. I can pay a pretty long bill, if there -is any chance of success. Money, dear father, that I had meant for a -different purpose; so I shall only consider it as borrowed from you and -Margaret.'</p> - -<p>'Don't do that,' said Margaret. 'You won't risk it if you do. And it -will be a risk only it is worth trying. You can sail from London as well -as from Liverpool?'</p> - -<p>'To be sure, little goose. Wherever I feel water heaving under a plank, -there I feel at home. I'll pick up some craft or other to take me off, -never fear. I won't stay twenty-four hours in London, away from you on -the one hand, and from somebody else on the other.'</p> - -<p>It was rather a comfort to Margaret that Frederick took it into his head -to look over her shoulder as she wrote to Mr. Lennox. If she had not -been thus compelled to write steadily and concisely on, she might have -hesitated over many a word, and been puzzled to choose between many an -expression, in the awkwardness of being the first to resume the -intercourse of which the concluding event had been so unpleasant to both -sides. However, the note was taken from her before she had even had time -to look it over, and treasured up in a pocket-book, out of which fell a -long lock of black hair, the sight of which caused Frederick's eyes to -glow with pleasure.</p> - -<p>'Now you would like to see that, wouldn't you?' said he. 'No! you must -wait till you see her herself. She is too perfect to be known by -fragments. No mean brick shall be a specimen of the building of my -palace.'</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXII_MISCHANCES" id="CHAPTER_XXXII_MISCHANCES"></a>CHAPTER XXXII—MISCHANCES</h2> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">'What! remain to be<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Denounced—dragged, it may be, in chains.'<br /></span> -<span class="i9">W<small>ERNER</small>.<br /></span> -</div></div> - -<p>All the next day they sate together—they three. Mr. Hale hardly ever -spoke but when his children asked him questions, and forced him, as it -were, into the present. Frederick's grief was no more to be seen or -heard; the first paroxysm had passed over, and now he was ashamed of -having been so battered down by emotion; and though his sorrow for the -loss of his mother was a deep real feeling, and would last out his life, -it was never to be spoken of again. Margaret, not so passionate at -first, was more suffering now. At times she cried a good deal; and her -manner, even when speaking on indifferent things, had a mournful -tenderness about it, which was deepened whenever her looks fell on -Frederick, and she thought of his rapidly approaching departure. She was -glad he was going, on her father's account, however much she might -grieve over it on her own. The anxious terror in which Mr. Hale lived -lest his son should be detected and captured, far out-weighed the -pleasure he derived from his presence. The nervousness had increased -since Mrs. Hale's death, probably because he dwelt upon it more -exclusively. He started at every unusual sound; and was never -comfortable unless Frederick sate out of the immediate view of any one -entering the room. Towards evening he said:</p> - -<p>'You will go with Frederick to the station, Margaret? I shall want to -know he is safely off. You will bring me word that he is clear of -Milton, at any rate?'</p> - -<p>'Certainly,' said Margaret. 'I shall like it, if you won't be lonely -without me, papa.'</p> - -<p>'No, no! I should always be fancying some one had known him, and that he -had been stopped, unless you could tell me you had seen him off. And go -to the Outwood station. It is quite as near, and not so many people -about. Take a cab there. There is less risk of his being seen. What time -is your train, Fred?'</p> - -<p>'Ten minutes past six; very nearly dark. So what will you do, Margaret?'</p> - -<p>'Oh, I can manage. I am getting very brave and very hard. It is a -well-lighted road all the way home, if it should be dark. But I was out -last week much later.'</p> - -<p>Margaret was thankful when the parting was over—the parting from the -dead mother and the living father. She hurried Frederick into the cab, -in order to shorten a scene which she saw was so bitterly painful to her -father, who would accompany his son as he took his last look at his -mother. Partly in consequence of this, and partly owing to one of the -very common mistakes in the 'Railway Guide' as to the times when trains -arrive at the smaller stations, they found, on reaching Outwood, that -they had nearly twenty minutes to spare. The booking-office was not -open, so they could not even take the ticket. They accordingly went down -the flight of steps that led to the level of the ground below the -railway. There was a broad cinder-path diagonally crossing a field which -lay along-side of the carriage-road, and they went there to walk -backwards and forwards for the few minutes they had to spare.</p> - -<p>Margaret's hand lay in Frederick's arm. He took hold of it -affectionately.</p> - -<p>'Margaret! I am going to consult Mr. Lennox as to the chance of -exculpating myself, so that I may return to England whenever I choose, -more for your sake than for the sake of any one else. I can't bear to -think of your lonely position if anything should happen to my father. He -looks sadly changed—terribly shaken. I wish you could get him to think -of the Cadiz plan, for many reasons. What could you do if he were taken -away? You have no friend near. We are curiously bare of relations.'</p> - -<p>Margaret could hardly keep from crying at the tender anxiety with which -Frederick was bringing before her an event which she herself felt was -not very improbable, so severely had the cares of the last few months -told upon Mr. Hale. But she tried to rally as she said:</p> - -<p>'There have been such strange unexpected changes in my life during these -last two years, that I feel more than ever that it is not worth while to -calculate too closely what I should do if any future event took place. I -try to think only upon the present.' She paused; they were standing -still for a moment, close on the field side of the stile leading into -the road; the setting sun fell on their faces. Frederick held her hand -in his, and looked with wistful anxiety into her face, reading there -more care and trouble than she would betray by words. She went on:</p> - -<p>'We shall write often to one another, and I will promise—for I see it -will set your mind at ease—to tell you every worry I have. Papa -is'—she started a little, a hardly visible start—but Frederick felt -the sudden motion of the hand he held, and turned his full face to the -road, along which a horseman was slowly riding, just passing the very -stile where they stood. Margaret bowed; her bow was stiffly returned.</p> - -<p>'Who is that?' said Frederick, almost before he was out of hearing. -Margaret was a little drooping, a little flushed, as she replied:</p> - -<p>'Mr. Thornton; you saw him before, you know.'</p> - -<p>'Only his back. He is an unprepossessing-looking fellow. What a scowl he -has!'</p> - -<p>'Something has happened to vex him,' said Margaret, apologetically. 'You -would not have thought him unprepossessing if you had seen him with -mamma.'</p> - -<p>'I fancy it must be time to go and take my ticket. If I had known how -dark it would be, we wouldn't have sent back the cab, Margaret.'</p> - -<p>'Oh, don't fidget about that. I can take a cab here, if I like; or go -back by the rail-road, when I should have shops and people and lamps all -the way from the Milton station-house. Don't think of me; take care of -yourself. I am sick with the thought that Leonards may be in the same -train with you. Look well into the carriage before you get in.'</p> - -<p>They went back to the station. Margaret insisted upon going into the -full light of the flaring gas inside to take the ticket. Some -idle-looking young men were lounging about with the stationmaster. -Margaret thought she had seen the face of one of them before, and -returned him a proud look of offended dignity for his somewhat -impertinent stare of undisguised admiration. She went hastily to her -brother, who was standing outside, and took hold of his arm. 'Have you -got your bag? Let us walk about here on the platform,' said she, a -little flurried at the idea of so soon being left alone, and her bravery -oozing out rather faster than she liked to acknowledge even to herself. -She heard a step following them along the flags; it stopped when they -stopped, looking out along the line and hearing the whizz of the coming -train. They did not speak; their hearts were too full. Another moment, -and the train would be here; a minute more, and he would be gone. -Margaret almost repented the urgency with which she had entreated him to -go to London; it was throwing more chances of detection in his way. If -he had sailed for Spain by Liverpool, he might have been off in two or -three hours.</p> - -<p>Frederick turned round, right facing the lamp, where the gas darted up -in vivid anticipation of the train. A man in the dress of a railway -porter started forward; a bad-looking man, who seemed to have drunk -himself into a state of brutality, although his senses were in perfect -order.</p> - -<p>'By your leave, miss!' said he, pushing Margaret rudely on one side, and -seizing Frederick by the collar.</p> - -<p>'Your name is Hale, I believe?'</p> - -<p>In an instant—how, Margaret did not see, for everything danced before -her eyes—but by some sleight of wrestling, Frederick had tripped him -up, and he fell from the height of three or four feet, which the -platform was elevated above the space of soft ground, by the side of the -railroad. There he lay.</p> - -<p>'Run, run!' gasped Margaret. 'The train is here. It was Leonards, was -it? oh, run! I will carry your bag.' And she took him by the arm to push -him along with all her feeble force. A door was opened in a carriage—he -jumped in; and as he leant out to say, 'God bless you, Margaret!' the -train rushed past her; an she was left standing alone. She was so -terribly sick and faint that she was thankful to be able to turn into -the ladies' waiting-room, and sit down for an instant. At first she -could do nothing but gasp for breath. It was such a hurry; such a -sickening alarm; such a near chance. If the train had not been there at -the moment, the man would have jumped up again and called for assistance -to arrest him. She wondered if the man had got up: she tried to remember -if she had seen him move; she wondered if he could have been seriously -hurt. She ventured out; the platform was all alight, but still quite -deserted; she went to the end, and looked over, somewhat fearfully. No -one was there; and then she was glad she had made herself go, and -inspect, for otherwise terrible thoughts would have haunted her dreams. -And even as it was, she was so trembling and affrighted that she felt -she could not walk home along the road, which did indeed seem lonely and -dark, as she gazed down upon it from the blaze of the station. She would -wait till the down train passed and take her seat in it. But what if -Leonards recognised her as Frederick's companion! She peered about, -before venturing into the booking-office to take her ticket. There were -only some railway officials standing about; and talking loud to one -another.</p> - -<p>'So Leonards has been drinking again!' said one, seemingly in authority. -'He'll need all his boasted influence to keep his place this time.'</p> - -<p>'Where is he?' asked another, while Margaret, her back towards them, was -counting her change with trembling fingers, not daring to turn round -until she heard the answer to this question.</p> - -<p>'I don't know. He came in not five minutes ago, with some long story or -other about a fall he'd had, swearing awfully; and wanted to borrow some -money from me to go to London by the next up-train. He made all sorts of -tipsy promises, but I'd something else to do than listen to him; I told -him to go about his business; and he went off at the front door.'</p> - -<p>'He's at the nearest vaults, I'll be bound,' said the first speaker. -'Your money would have gone there too, if you'd been such a fool as to -lend it.'</p> - -<p>'Catch me! I knew better what his London meant. Why, he has never paid -me off that five shillings'—and so they went on.</p> - -<p>And now all Margaret's anxiety was for the train to come. She hid -herself once more in the ladies' waiting-room, and fancied every noise -was Leonards' step—every loud and boisterous voice was his. But no one -came near her until the train drew up; when she was civilly helped into -a carriage by a porter, into whose face she durst not look till they -were in motion, and then she saw that it was not Leonards'.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXIII_PEACE" id="CHAPTER_XXXIII_PEACE"></a>CHAPTER XXXIII—PEACE</h2> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">'Sleep on, my love, in thy cold bed,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Never to be disquieted!<br /></span> -<span class="i1">My last Good Night—thou wilt not wake<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Till I thy fate shall overtake.'<br /></span> -<span class="i9">DR. KING.<br /></span> -</div></div> - -<p>Home seemed unnaturally quiet after all this terror and noisy commotion. -Her father had seen all due preparation made for her refreshment on her -return; and then sate down again in his accustomed chair, to fall into -one of his sad waking dreams. Dixon had got Mary Higgins to scold and -direct in the kitchen; and her scolding was not the less energetic -because it was delivered in an angry whisper; for, speaking above her -breath she would have thought irreverent, as long as there was any one -dead lying in the house. Margaret had resolved not to mention the -crowning and closing affright to her father. There was no use in -speaking about it; it had ended well; the only thing to be feared was -lest Leonards should in some way borrow money enough to effect his -purpose of following Frederick to London, and hunting him out there. But -there were immense chances against the success of any such plan; and -Margaret determined not to torment herself by thinking of what she could -do nothing to prevent. Frederick would be as much on his guard as she -could put him; and in a day or two at most he would be safely out of -England.</p> - -<p>'I suppose we shall hear from Mr. Bell to-morrow,' said Margaret.</p> - -<p>'Yes,' replied her father. 'I suppose so.'</p> - -<p>'If he can come, he will be here to-morrow evening, I should think.'</p> - -<p>'If he cannot come, I shall ask Mr. Thornton to go with me to the -funeral. I cannot go alone. I should break down utterly.'</p> - -<p>'Don't ask Mr. Thornton, papa. Let me go with you,' said Margaret, -impetuously.</p> - -<p>'You! My dear, women do not generally go.'</p> - -<p>'No: because they can't control themselves. Women of our class don't go, -because they have no power over their emotions, and yet are ashamed of -showing them. Poor women go, and don't care if they are seen overwhelmed -with grief. But I promise you, papa, that if you will let me go, I will -be no trouble. Don't have a stranger, and leave me out. Dear papa! if -Mr. Bell cannot come, I shall go. I won't urge my wish against your -will, if he does.'</p> - -<p>Mr. Bell could not come. He had the gout. It was a most affectionate -letter, and expressed great and true regret for his inability to attend. -He hoped to come and pay them a visit soon, if they would have him; his -Milton property required some looking after, and his agent had written -to him to say that his presence was absolutely necessary; or else he had -avoided coming near Milton as long as he could, and now the only thing -that would reconcile him to this necessary visit was the idea that he -should see, and might possibly be able to comfort his old friend.</p> - -<p>Margaret had all the difficulty in the world to persuade her father not -to invite Mr. Thornton. She had an indescribable repugnance to this step -being taken. The night before the funeral, came a stately note from Mrs. -Thornton to Miss Hale, saying that, at her son's desire, their carriage -should attend the funeral, if it would not be disagreeable to the -family. Margaret tossed the note to her father.</p> - -<p>'Oh, don't let us have these forms,' said she. 'Let us go alone—you and -me, papa. They don't care for us, or else he would have offered to go -himself, and not have proposed this sending an empty carriage.'</p> - -<p>'I thought you were so extremely averse to his going, Margaret,' said -Mr. Hale in some surprise.</p> - -<p>'And so I am. I don't want him to come at all; and I should especially -dislike the idea of our asking him. But this seems such a mockery of -mourning that I did not expect it from him.' She startled her father by -bursting into tears. She had been so subdued in her grief, so thoughtful -for others, so gentle and patient in all things, that he could not -understand her impatient ways to-night; she seemed agitated and -restless; and at all the tenderness which her father in his turn now -lavished upon her, she only cried the more.</p> - -<p>She passed so bad a night that she was ill prepared for the additional -anxiety caused by a letter received from Frederick. Mr. Lennox was out -of town; his clerk said that he would return by the following Tuesday at -the latest; that he might possibly be at home on Monday. Consequently, -after some consideration, Frederick had determined upon remaining in -London a day or two longer. He had thought of coming down to Milton -again; the temptation had been very strong; but the idea of Mr. Bell -domesticated in his father's house, and the alarm he had received at the -last moment at the railway station, had made him resolve to stay in -London. Margaret might be assured he would take every precaution against -being tracked by Leonards. Margaret was thankful that she received this -letter while her father was absent in her mother's room. If he had been -present, he would have expected her to read it aloud to him, and it -would have raised in him a state of nervous alarm which she would have -found it impossible to soothe away. There was not merely the fact, which -disturbed her excessively, of Frederick's detention in London, but there -were allusions to the recognition at the last moment at Milton, and the -possibility of a pursuit, which made her blood run cold; and how then -would it have affected her father? Many a time did Margaret repent of -having suggested and urged on the plan of consulting Mr. Lennox. At the -moment, it had seemed as if it would occasion so little delay—add so -little to the apparently small chances of detection; and yet everything -that had since occurred had tended to make it so undesirable. Margaret -battled hard against this regret of hers for what could not now be -helped; this self-reproach for having said what had at the time appeared -to be wise, but which after events were proving to have been so foolish. -But her father was in too depressed a state of mind and body to struggle -healthily; he would succumb to all these causes for morbid regret over -what could not be recalled. Margaret summoned up all her forces to her -aid. Her father seemed to have forgotten that they had any reason to -expect a letter from Frederick that morning. He was absorbed in one -idea—that the last visible token of the presence of his wife was to be -carried away from him, and hidden from his sight. He trembled pitifully -as the undertaker's man was arranging his crape draperies around him. He -looked wistfully at Margaret; and, when released, he tottered towards -her, murmuring, 'Pray for me, Margaret. I have no strength left in me. I -cannot pray. I give her up because I must. I try to bear it: indeed I -do. I know it is God's will. But I cannot see why she died. Pray for me, -Margaret, that I may have faith to pray. It is a great strait, my -child.'</p> - -<p>Margaret sat by him in the coach, almost supporting him in her arms; and -repeating all the noble verses of holy comfort, or texts expressive of -faithful resignation, that she could remember. Her voice never faltered; -and she herself gained strength by doing this. Her father's lips moved -after her, repeating the well-known texts as her words suggested them; -it was terrible to see the patient struggling effort to obtain the -resignation which he had not strength to take into his heart as a part -of himself.</p> - -<p>Margaret's fortitude nearly gave way as Dixon, with a slight motion of -her hand, directed her notice to Nicholas Higgins and his daughter, -standing a little aloof, but deeply attentive to the ceremonial. -Nicholas wore his usual fustian clothes, but had a bit of black stuff -sewn round his hat—a mark of mourning which he had never shown to his -daughter Bessy's memory. But Mr. Hale saw nothing. He went on repeating -to himself, mechanically as it were, all the funeral service as it was -read by the officiating clergyman; he sighed twice or thrice when all -was ended; and then, putting his hand on Margaret's arm, he mutely -entreated to be led away, as if he were blind, and she his faithful -guide.</p> - -<p>Dixon sobbed aloud; she covered her face with her handkerchief, and was -so absorbed in her own grief, that she did not perceive that the crowd, -attracted on such occasions, was dispersing, till she was spoken to by -some one close at hand. It was Mr. Thornton. He had been present all the -time, standing, with bent head, behind a group of people, so that, in -fact, no one had recognised him.</p> - -<p>'I beg your pardon,—but, can you tell me how Mr. Hale is? And Miss -Hale, too? I should like to know how they both are.'</p> - -<p>'Of course, sir. They are much as is to be expected. Master is terribly -broke down. Miss Hale bears up better than likely.'</p> - -<p>Mr. Thornton would rather have heard that she was suffering the natural -sorrow. In the first place, there was selfishness enough in him to have -taken pleasure in the idea that his great love might come in to comfort -and console her; much the same kind of strange passionate pleasure which -comes stinging through a mother's heart, when her drooping infant -nestles close to her, and is dependent upon her for everything. But this -delicious vision of what might have been—in which, in spite of all -Margaret's repulse, he would have indulged only a few days ago—was -miserably disturbed by the recollection of what he had seen near the -Outwood station. 'Miserably disturbed!' that is not strong enough. He -was haunted by the remembrance of the handsome young man, with whom she -stood in an attitude of such familiar confidence; and the remembrance -shot through him like an agony, till it made him clench his hands tight -in order to subdue the pain. At that late hour, so far from home! It -took a great moral effort to galvanise his trust—erewhile so -perfect—in Margaret's pure and exquisite maidenliness, into life; as -soon as the effort ceased, his trust dropped down dead and powerless: -and all sorts of wild fancies chased each other like dreams through his -mind. Here was a little piece of miserable, gnawing confirmation. 'She -bore up better than likely' under this grief. She had then some hope to -look to, so bright that even in her affectionate nature it could come in -to lighten the dark hours of a daughter newly made motherless. Yes! he -knew how she would love. He had not loved her without gaining that -instinctive knowledge of what capabilities were in her. Her soul would -walk in glorious sunlight if any man was worthy, by his power of loving, -to win back her love. Even in her mourning she would rest with a -peaceful faith upon his sympathy. His sympathy! Whose? That other man's. -And that it was another was enough to make Mr. Thornton's pale grave -face grow doubly wan and stern at Dixon's answer.</p> - -<p>'I suppose I may call,' said he coldly. 'On Mr. Hale, I mean. He will -perhaps admit me after to-morrow or so.'</p> - -<p>He spoke as if the answer were a matter of indifference to him. But it -was not so. For all his pain, he longed to see the author of it. -Although he hated Margaret at times, when he thought of that gentle -familiar attitude and all the attendant circumstances, he had a restless -desire to renew her picture in his mind—a longing for the very -atmosphere she breathed. He was in the Charybdis of passion, and must -perforce circle and circle ever nearer round the fatal centre.</p> - -<p>'I dare say, sir, master will see you. He was very sorry to have to deny -you the other day; but circumstances was not agreeable just then.'</p> - -<p>For some reason or other, Dixon never named this interview that she had -had with Mr. Thornton to Margaret. It might have been mere chance, but -so it was that Margaret never heard that he had attended her poor -mother's funeral.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXIV_FALSE_AND_TRUE" id="CHAPTER_XXXIV_FALSE_AND_TRUE"></a>CHAPTER XXXIV—FALSE AND TRUE</h2> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">'Truth will fail thee never, never!<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Though thy bark be tempest-driven,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Though each plank be rent and riven,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Truth will bear thee on for ever!'<br /></span> -<span class="i9">A<small>NON</small>.<br /></span> -</div></div> - -<p>The 'bearing up better than likely' was a terrible strain upon Margaret. -Sometimes she thought she must give way, and cry out with pain, as the -sudden sharp thought came across her, even during her apparently -cheerful conversations with her father, that she had no longer a mother. -About Frederick, too, there was great uneasiness. The Sunday post -intervened, and interfered with their London letters; and on Tuesday -Margaret was surprised and disheartened to find that there was still no -letter. She was quite in the dark as to his plans, and her father was -miserable at all this uncertainty. It broke in upon his lately acquired -habit of sitting still in one easy chair for half a day together. He -kept pacing up and down the room; then out of it; and she heard him upon -the landing opening and shutting the bed-room doors, without any -apparent object. She tried to tranquillise him by reading aloud; but it -was evident he could not listen for long together. How thankful she was -then, that she had kept to herself the additional cause for anxiety -produced by their encounter with Leonards. She was thankful to hear Mr. -Thornton announced. His visit would force her father's thoughts into -another channel.</p> - -<p>He came up straight to her father, whose hands he took and wrung without -a word—holding them in his for a minute or two, during which time his -face, his eyes, his look, told of more sympathy than could be put into -words. Then he turned to Margaret. Not 'better than likely' did she -look. Her stately beauty was dimmed with much watching and with many -tears. The expression on her countenance was of gentle patient -sadness—nay of positive present suffering. He had not meant to greet -her otherwise than with his late studied coldness of demeanour; but he -could not help going up to her, as she stood a little aside, rendered -timid by the uncertainty of his manner of late, and saying the few -necessary common-place words in so tender a voice, that her eyes filled -with tears, and she turned away to hide her emotion. She took her work -and sate down very quiet and silent. Mr. Thornton's heart beat quick and -strong, and for the time he utterly forgot the Outwood lane. He tried to -talk to Mr. Hale: and—his presence always a certain kind of pleasure to -Mr. Hale, as his power and decision made him, and his opinions, a safe, -sure port—was unusually agreeable to her father, as Margaret saw.</p> - -<p>Presently Dixon came to the door and said, 'Miss Hale, you are wanted.'</p> - -<p>Dixon's manner was so flurried that Margaret turned sick at heart. -Something had happened to Fred. She had no doubt of that. It was well -that her father and Mr. Thornton were so much occupied by their -conversation.</p> - -<p>'What is it, Dixon?' asked Margaret, the moment she had shut the -drawing-room door.</p> - -<p>'Come this way, miss,' said Dixon, opening the door of what had been -Mrs. Hale's bed-chamber, now Margaret's, for her father refused to sleep -there again after his wife's death. 'It's nothing, miss,' said Dixon, -choking a little. 'Only a police-inspector. He wants to see you, miss. -But I dare say, it's about nothing at all.'</p> - -<p>'Did he name—' asked Margaret, almost inaudibly.</p> - -<p>'No, miss; he named nothing. He only asked if you lived here, and if he -could speak to you. Martha went to the door, and let him in; she has -shown him into master's study. I went to him myself, to try if that -would do; but no—it's you, miss, he wants.'</p> - -<p>Margaret did not speak again till her hand was on the lock of the study -door. Here she turned round and said, 'Take care papa does not come -down. Mr. Thornton is with him now.'</p> - -<p>The inspector was almost daunted by the haughtiness of her manner as she -entered. There was something of indignation expressed in her -countenance, but so kept down and controlled, that it gave her a superb -air of disdain. There was no surprise, no curiosity. She stood awaiting -the opening of his business there. Not a question did she ask.</p> - -<p>'I beg your pardon, ma'am, but my duty obliges me to ask you a few plain -questions. A man has died at the Infirmary, in consequence of a fall, -received at Outwood station, between the hours of five and six on -Thursday evening, the twenty-sixth instant. At the time, this fall did -not seem of much consequence; but it was rendered fatal, the doctors -say, by the presence of some internal complaint, and the man's own habit -of drinking.'</p> - -<p>The large dark eyes, gazing straight into the inspector's face, dilated -a little. Otherwise there was no motion perceptible to his experienced -observation. Her lips swelled out into a richer curve than ordinary, -owing to the enforced tension of the muscles, but he did not know what -was their usual appearance, so as to recognise the unwonted sullen -defiance of the firm sweeping lines. She never blenched or trembled. She -fixed him with her eye. Now—as he paused before going on, she said, -almost as if she would encourage him in telling his tale—'Well—go on!'</p> - -<p>'It is supposed that an inquest will have to be held; there is some -slight evidence to prove that the blow, or push, or scuffle that caused -the fall, was provoked by this poor fellow's half-tipsy impertinence to -a young lady, walking with the man who pushed the deceased over the edge -of the platform. This much was observed by some one on the platform, -who, however, thought no more about the matter, as the blow seemed of -slight consequence. There is also some reason to identify the lady with -yourself; in which case—'</p> - -<p>'I was not there,' said Margaret, still keeping her expressionless eyes -fixed on his face, with the unconscious look of a sleep-walker.</p> - -<p>The inspector bowed but did not speak. The lady standing before him -showed no emotion, no fluttering fear, no anxiety, no desire to end the -interview. The information he had received was very vague; one of the -porters, rushing out to be in readiness for the train, had seen a -scuffle, at the other end of the platform, between Leonards and a -gentleman accompanied by a lady, but heard no noise; and before the -train had got to its full speed after starting, he had been almost -knocked down by the headlong run of the enraged half intoxicated -Leonards, swearing and cursing awfully. He had not thought any more -about it, till his evidence was routed out by the inspector, who, on -making some farther inquiry at the railroad station, had heard from the -station-master that a young lady and gentleman had been there about that -hour—the lady remarkably handsome—and said, by some grocer's assistant -present at the time, to be a Miss Hale, living at Crampton, whose family -dealt at his shop. There was no certainty that the one lady and -gentleman were identical with the other pair, but there was great -probability. Leonards himself had gone, half-mad with rage and pain, to -the nearest gin-palace for comfort; and his tipsy words had not been -attended to by the busy waiters there; they, however, remembered his -starting up and cursing himself for not having sooner thought of the -electric telegraph, for some purpose unknown; and they believed that he -left with the idea of going there. On his way, overcome by pain or -drink, he had lain down in the road, where the police had found him and -taken him to the Infirmary: there he had never recovered sufficient -consciousness to give any distinct account of his fall, although once or -twice he had had glimmerings of sense sufficient to make the authorities -send for the nearest magistrate, in hopes that he might be able to take -down the dying man's deposition of the cause of his death. But when the -magistrate had come, he was rambling about being at sea, and mixing up -names of captains and lieutenants in an indistinct manner with those of -his fellow porters at the railway; and his last words were a curse on -the 'Cornish trick' which had, he said, made him a hundred pounds poorer -than he ought to have been. The inspector ran all this over in his -mind—the vagueness of the evidence to prove that Margaret had been at -the station—the unflinching, calm denial which she gave to such a -supposition. She stood awaiting his next word with a composure that -appeared supreme.</p> - -<p>'Then, madam, I have your denial that you were the lady accompanying the -gentleman who struck the blow, or gave the push, which caused the death -of this poor man?'</p> - -<p>A quick, sharp pain went through Margaret's brain. 'Oh God! that I knew -Frederick were safe!' A deep observer of human countenances might have -seen the momentary agony shoot out of her great gloomy eyes, like the -torture of some creature brought to bay. But the inspector though a very -keen, was not a very deep observer. He was a little struck, -notwithstanding, by the form of the answer, which sounded like a -mechanical repetition of her first reply—not changed and modified in -shape so as to meet his last question.</p> - -<p>'I was not there,' said she, slowly and heavily. And all this time she -never closed her eyes, or ceased from that glassy, dream-like stare. His -quick suspicions were aroused by this dull echo of her former denial. It -was as if she had forced herself to one untruth, and had been stunned -out of all power of varying it.</p> - -<p>He put up his book of notes in a very deliberate manner. Then he looked -up; she had not moved any more than if she had been some great Egyptian -statue.</p> - -<p>'I hope you will not think me impertinent when I say, that I may have to -call on you again. I may have to summon you to appear on the inquest, -and prove an alibi, if my witnesses' (it was but one who had recognised -her) 'persist in deposing to your presence at the unfortunate event.' He -looked at her sharply. She was still perfectly quiet—no change of -colour, or darker shadow of guilt, on her proud face. He thought to have -seen her wince: he did not know Margaret Hale. He was a little abashed -by her regal composure. It must have been a mistake of identity. He went -on:</p> - -<p>'It is very unlikely, ma'am, that I shall have to do anything of the -kind. I hope you will excuse me for doing what is only my duty, although -it may appear impertinent.'</p> - -<p>Margaret bowed her head as he went towards the door. Her lips were stiff -and dry. She could not speak even the common words of farewell. But -suddenly she walked forwards, and opened the study door, and preceded -him to the door of the house, which she threw wide open for his exit. -She kept her eyes upon him in the same dull, fixed manner, until he was -fairly out of the house. She shut the door, and went half-way into the -study; then turned back, as if moved by some passionate impulse, and -locked the door inside.</p> - -<p>Then she went into the study, paused—tottered forward—paused -again—swayed for an instant where she stood, and fell prone on the -floor in a dead swoon.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXV_EXPIATION" id="CHAPTER_XXXV_EXPIATION"></a>CHAPTER XXXV—EXPIATION</h2> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">'There's nought so finely spun<br /></span> -<span class="i1">But it cometh to the sun.'<br /></span> -</div></div> - -<p>Mr. Thornton sate on and on. He felt that his company gave pleasure to -Mr. Hale; and was touched by the half-spoken wishful entreaty that he -would remain a little longer—the plaintive 'Don't go yet,' which his -poor friend put forth from time to time. He wondered Margaret did not -return; but it was with no view of seeing her that he lingered. For the -hour—and in the presence of one who was so thoroughly feeling the -nothingness of earth—he was reasonable and self-controlled. He was -deeply interested in all her father said,</p> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">'Of death, and of the heavy lull,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">And of the brain that has grown dull.'<br /></span> -</div></div> - -<p>It was curious how the presence of Mr. Thornton had power over Mr. Hale -to make him unlock the secret thoughts which he kept shut up even from -Margaret. Whether it was that her sympathy would be so keen, and show -itself in so lively a manner, that he was afraid of the reaction upon -himself, or whether it was that to his speculative mind all kinds of -doubts presented themselves at such a time, pleading and crying aloud to -be resolved into certainties, and that he knew she would have shrunk -from the expression of any such doubts—nay, from him himself as capable -of conceiving them—whatever was the reason, he could unburden himself -better to Mr. Thornton than to her of all the thoughts and fancies and -fears that had been frost-bound in his brain till now. Mr. Thornton said -very little; but every sentence he uttered added to Mr. Hale's reliance -and regard for him. Was it that he paused in the expression of some -remembered agony, Mr. Thornton's two or three words would complete the -sentence, and show how deeply its meaning was entered into. Was it a -doubt—a fear—a wandering uncertainty seeking rest, but finding -none—so tear-blinded were its eyes—Mr. Thornton, instead of being -shocked, seemed to have passed through that very stage of thought -himself, and could suggest where the exact ray of light was to be found, -which should make the dark places plain. Man of action as he was, busy -in the world's great battle, there was a deeper religion binding him to -God in his heart, in spite of his strong wilfulness, through all his -mistakes, than Mr. Hale had ever dreamed. They never spoke of such -things again, as it happened; but this one conversation made them -peculiar people to each other; knit them together, in a way which no -loose indiscriminate talking about sacred things can ever accomplish. -When all are admitted, how can there be a Holy of Holies?</p> - -<p>And all this while, Margaret lay as still and white as death on the -study floor! She had sunk under her burden. It had been heavy in weight -and long carried; and she had been very meek and patient, till all at -once her faith had given way, and she had groped in vain for help! There -was a pitiful contraction of suffering upon her beautiful brows, -although there was no other sign of consciousness remaining. The -mouth—a little while ago, so sullenly projected in defiance—was -relaxed and livid.</p> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">'E par che de la sua labbia si mova<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Uno spirto soave e pien d'amore,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Chi va dicendo a l'anima: sospira!'<br /></span> -</div></div> - -<p>The first symptom of returning life was a quivering about the lips—a -little mute soundless attempt at speech; but the eyes were still closed; -and the quivering sank into stillness. Then, feebly leaning on her arms -for an instant to steady herself, Margaret gathered herself up, and -rose. Her comb had fallen out of her hair; and with an intuitive desire -to efface the traces of weakness, and bring herself into order again, -she sought for it, although from time to time, in the course of the -search, she had to sit down and recover strength. Her head drooped -forwards—her hands meekly laid one upon the other—she tried to recall -the force of her temptation, by endeavouring to remember the details -which had thrown her into such deadly fright; but she could not. She -only understood two facts—that Frederick had been in danger of being -pursued and detected in London, as not only guilty of manslaughter, but -as the more unpardonable leader of the mutiny, and that she had lied to -save him. There was one comfort; her lie had saved him, if only by -gaining some additional time. If the inspector came again to-morrow, -after she had received the letter she longed for to assure her of her -brother's safety, she would brave shame, and stand in her bitter -penance—she, the lofty Margaret—acknowledging before a crowded -justice-room, if need were, that she had been as 'a dog, and done this -thing.' But if he came before she heard from Frederick; if he returned, -as he had half threatened, in a few hours, why! she would tell that lie -again; though how the words would come out, after all this terrible -pause for reflection and self-reproach, without betraying her falsehood, -she did not know, she could not tell. But her repetition of it would -gain time—time for Frederick.</p> - -<p>She was roused by Dixon's entrance into the room; she had just been -letting out Mr. Thornton.</p> - -<p>He had hardly gone ten steps in the street, before a passing omnibus -stopped close by him, and a man got down, and came up to him, touching -his hat as he did so. It was the police-inspector.</p> - -<p>Mr. Thornton had obtained for him his first situation in the police, and -had heard from time to time of the progress of his protege, but they had -not often met, and at first Mr. Thornton did not remember him.</p> - -<p>'My name is Watson—George Watson, sir, that you got—— '</p> - -<p>'Ah, yes! I recollect. Why you are getting on famously, I hear.'</p> - -<p>'Yes, sir. I ought to thank you, sir. But it is on a little matter of -business I made so bold as to speak to you now. I believe you were the -magistrate who attended to take down the deposition of a poor man who -died in the Infirmary last night.'</p> - -<p>'Yes,' replied Mr. Thornton. 'I went and heard some kind of a rambling -statement, which the clerk said was of no great use. I'm afraid he was -but a drunken fellow, though there is no doubt he came to his death by -violence at last. One of my mother's servants was engaged to him, I -believe, and she is in great distress to-day. What about him?'</p> - -<p>'Why, sir, his death is oddly mixed up with somebody in the house I saw -you coming out of just now; it was a Mr. Hale's, I believe.'</p> - -<p>'Yes!' said Mr. Thornton, turning sharp round and looking into the -inspector's face with sudden interest. 'What about it?'</p> - -<p>'Why, sir, it seems to me that I have got a pretty distinct chain of -evidence, inculpating a gentleman who was walking with Miss Hale that -night at the Outwood station, as the man who struck or pushed Leonards -off the platform and so caused his death. But the young lady denies that -she was there at the time.'</p> - -<p>'Miss Hale denies she was there!' repeated Mr. Thornton, in an altered -voice. 'Tell me, what evening was it? What time?'</p> - -<p>'About six o'clock, on the evening of Thursday, the twenty-sixth.'</p> - -<p>They walked on, side by side, in silence for a minute or two. The -inspector was the first to speak.</p> - -<p>'You see, sir, there is like to be a coroner's inquest; and I've got a -young man who is pretty positive,—at least he was at first;—since he -has heard of the young lady's denial, he says he should not like to -swear; but still he's pretty positive that he saw Miss Hale at the -station, walking about with a gentleman, not five minutes before the -time, when one of the porters saw a scuffle, which he set down to some -of Leonards' impudence—but which led to the fall which caused his -death. And seeing you come out of the very house, sir, I thought I might -make bold to ask if—you see, it's always awkward having to do with -cases of disputed identity, and one doesn't like to doubt the word of a -respectable young woman unless one has strong proof to the contrary.'</p> - -<p>'And she denied having been at the station that evening!' repeated Mr. -Thornton, in a low, brooding tone.</p> - -<p>'Yes, sir, twice over, as distinct as could be. I told her I should call -again, but seeing you just as I was on my way back from questioning the -young man who said it was her, I thought I would ask your advice, both -as the magistrate who saw Leonards on his death-bed, and as the -gentleman who got me my berth in the force.'</p> - -<p>'You were quite right,' said Mr. Thornton. 'Don't take any steps till -you have seen me again.'</p> - -<p>'The young lady will expect me to call, from what I said.'</p> - -<p>'I only want to delay you an hour. It's now three. Come to my warehouse -at four.'</p> - -<p>'Very well, sir!'</p> - -<p>And they parted company. Mr. Thornton hurried to his warehouse, and, -sternly forbidding his clerks to allow any one to interrupt him, he went -his way to his own private room, and locked the door. Then he indulged -himself in the torture of thinking it all over, and realising every -detail. How could he have lulled himself into the unsuspicious calm in -which her tearful image had mirrored itself not two hours before, till -he had weakly pitied her and yearned towards her, and forgotten the -savage, distrustful jealousy with which the sight of her—and that -unknown to him—at such an hour—in such a place—had inspired him! How -could one so pure have stooped from her decorous and noble manner of -bearing! But was it decorous—was it? He hated himself for the idea that -forced itself upon him, just for an instant—no more—and yet, while it -was present, thrilled him with its old potency of attraction towards her -image. And then this falsehood—how terrible must be some dread of shame -to be revealed—for, after all, the provocation given by such a man as -Leonards was, when excited by drinking, might, in all probability, be -more than enough to justify any one who came forward to state the -circumstances openly and without reserve! How creeping and deadly that -fear which could bow down the truthful Margaret to falsehood! He could -almost pity her. What would be the end of it? She could not have -considered all she was entering upon; if there was an inquest and the -young man came forward. Suddenly he started up. There should be no -inquest. He would save Margaret. He would take the responsibility of -preventing the inquest, the issue of which, from the uncertainty of the -medical testimony (which he had vaguely heard the night before, from the -surgeon in attendance), could be but doubtful; the doctors had -discovered an internal disease far advanced, and sure to prove fatal; -they had stated that death might have been accelerated by the fall, or -by the subsequent drinking and exposure to cold. If he had but known how -Margaret would have become involved in the affair—if he had but -foreseen that she would have stained her whiteness by a falsehood, he -could have saved her by a word; for the question, of inquest or no -inquest, had hung trembling in the balance only the night before. Miss -Hale might love another—was indifferent and contemptuous to him—but he -would yet do her faithful acts of service of which she should never -know. He might despise her, but the woman whom he had once loved should -be kept from shame; and shame it would be to pledge herself to a lie in -a public court, or otherwise to stand and acknowledge her reason for -desiring darkness rather than light.</p> - -<p>Very gray and stern did Mr. Thornton look, as he passed out through his -wondering clerks. He was away about half an hour; and scarcely less -stern did he look when he returned, although his errand had been -successful.</p> - -<p>He wrote two lines on a slip of paper, put it in an envelope, and sealed -it up. This he gave to one of the clerks, saying:—</p> - -<p>'I appointed Watson—he who was a packer in the warehouse, and who went -into the police—to call on me at four o'clock. I have just met with a -gentleman from Liverpool who wishes to see me before he leaves town. -Take care to give this note to Watson when he calls.'</p> - -<p>The note contained these words:</p> - -<p>'There will be no inquest. Medical evidence not sufficient to justify -it. Take no further steps. I have not seen the coroner; but I will take -the responsibility.'</p> - -<p>'Well,' thought Watson, 'it relieves me from an awkward job. None of my -witnesses seemed certain of anything except the young woman. She was -clear and distinct enough; the porter at the rail-road had seen a -scuffle; or when he found it was likely to bring him in as a witness, -then it might not have been a scuffle, only a little larking, and -Leonards might have jumped off the platform himself;—he would not stick -firm to anything. And Jennings, the grocer's shopman,—well, he was not -quite so bad, but I doubt if I could have got him up to an oath after he -heard that Miss Hale flatly denied it. It would have been a troublesome -job and no satisfaction. And now I must go and tell them they won't be -wanted.'</p> - -<p>He accordingly presented himself again at Mr. Hale's that evening. Her -father and Dixon would fain have persuaded Margaret to go to bed; but -they, neither of them, knew the reason for her low continued refusals to -do so. Dixon had learnt part of the truth—but only part. Margaret would -not tell any human being of what she had said, and she did not reveal -the fatal termination to Leonards' fall from the platform. So Dixon -curiosity combined with her allegiance to urge Margaret to go to rest, -which her appearance, as she lay on the sofa, showed but too clearly -that she required. She did not speak except when spoken to; she tried to -smile back in reply to her father's anxious looks and words of tender -enquiry; but, instead of a smile, the wan lips resolved themselves into -a sigh. He was so miserably uneasy that, at last, she consented to go -into her own room, and prepare for going to bed. She was indeed inclined -to give up the idea that the inspector would call again that night, as -it was already past nine o'clock.</p> - -<p>She stood by her father, holding on to the back of his chair.</p> - -<p>'You will go to bed soon, papa, won't you? Don't sit up alone!'</p> - -<p>What his answer was she did not hear; the words were lost in the far -smaller point of sound that magnified itself to her fears, and filled -her brain. There was a low ring at the door-bell.</p> - -<p>She kissed her father and glided down stairs, with a rapidity of motion -of which no one would have thought her capable, who had seen her the -minute before. She put aside Dixon.</p> - -<p>'Don't come; I will open the door. I know it is him—I can—I must -manage it all myself.'</p> - -<p>'As you please, miss!' said Dixon testily; but in a moment afterwards, -she added, 'But you're not fit for it. You are more dead than alive.'</p> - -<p>'Am I?' said Margaret, turning round and showing her eyes all aglow with -strange fire, her cheeks flushed, though her lips were baked and livid -still.</p> - -<p>She opened the door to the Inspector, and preceded him into the study. -She placed the candle on the table, and snuffed it carefully, before she -turned round and faced him.</p> - -<p>'You are late!' said she. 'Well?' She held her breath for the answer.</p> - -<p>'I'm sorry to have given any unnecessary trouble, ma'am; for, after all, -they've given up all thoughts of holding an inquest. I have had other -work to do and other people to see, or I should have been here before -now.'</p> - -<p>'Then it is ended,' said Margaret. 'There is to be no further enquiry.'</p> - -<p>'I believe I've got Mr. Thornton's note about me,' said the Inspector, -fumbling in his pocket-book.</p> - -<p>'Mr. Thornton's!' said Margaret.</p> - -<p>'Yes! he's a magistrate—ah! here it is.' She could not see to read -it—no, not although she was close to the candle. The words swam before -her. But she held it in her hand, and looked at it as if she were -intently studying it.</p> - -<p>'I'm sure, ma'am, it's a great weight off my mind; for the evidence was -so uncertain, you see, that the man had received any blow at all,—and -if any question of identity came in, it so complicated the case, as I -told Mr. Thornton—'</p> - -<p>'Mr. Thornton!' said Margaret, again.</p> - -<p>'I met him this morning, just as he was coming out of this house, and, -as he's an old friend of mine, besides being the magistrate who saw -Leonards last night, I made bold to tell him of my difficulty.'</p> - -<p>Margaret sighed deeply. She did not want to hear any more; she was -afraid alike of what she had heard, and of what she might hear. She -wished that the man would go. She forced herself to speak.</p> - -<p>'Thank you for calling. It is very late. I dare say it is past ten -o'clock. Oh! here is the note!' she continued, suddenly interpreting the -meaning of the hand held out to receive it. He was putting it up, when -she said, 'I think it is a cramped, dazzling sort of writing. I could -not read it; will you just read it to me?'</p> - -<p>He read it aloud to her.</p> - -<p>'Thank you. You told Mr. Thornton that I was not there?'</p> - -<p>'Oh, of course, ma'am. I'm sorry now that I acted upon information, -which seems to have been so erroneous. At first the young man was so -positive; and now he says that he doubted all along, and hopes that his -mistake won't have occasioned you such annoyance as to lose their shop -your custom. Good night, ma'am.'</p> - -<p>'Good night.' She rang the bell for Dixon to show him out. As Dixon -returned up the passage Margaret passed her swiftly.</p> - -<p>'It is all right!' said she, without looking at Dixon; and before the -woman could follow her with further questions she had sped up-stairs, -and entered her bed-chamber, and bolted her door.</p> - -<p>She threw herself, dressed as she was, upon her bed. She was too much -exhausted to think. Half an hour or more elapsed before the cramped -nature of her position, and the chilliness, supervening upon great -fatigue, had the power to rouse her numbed faculties. Then she began to -recall, to combine, to wonder. The first idea that presented itself to -her was, that all this sickening alarm on Frederick's behalf was over; -that the strain was past. The next was a wish to remember every word of -the Inspector's which related to Mr. Thornton. When had he seen him? -What had he said? What had Mr. Thornton done? What were the exact words -of his note? And until she could recollect, even to the placing or -omitting an article, the very expressions which he had used in the note, -her mind refused to go on with its progress. But the next conviction she -came to was clear enough;—Mr. Thornton had seen her close to Outwood -station on the fatal Thursday night, and had been told of her denial -that she was there. She stood as a liar in his eyes. She was a liar. But -she had no thought of penitence before God; nothing but chaos and night -surrounded the one lurid fact that, in Mr. Thornton's eyes, she was -degraded. She cared not to think, even to herself, of how much of excuse -she might plead. That had nothing to do with Mr. Thornton; she never -dreamed that he, or any one else, could find cause for suspicion in what -was so natural as her accompanying her brother; but what was really -false and wrong was known to him, and he had a right to judge her. 'Oh, -Frederick! Frederick!' she cried, 'what have I not sacrificed for you!' -Even when she fell asleep her thoughts were compelled to travel the same -circle, only with exaggerated and monstrous circumstances of pain.</p> - -<p>When she awoke a new idea flashed upon her with all the brightness of -the morning. Mr. Thornton had learnt her falsehood before he went to the -coroner; that suggested the thought, that he had possibly been -influenced so to do with a view of sparing her the repetition of her -denial. But she pushed this notion on one side with the sick wilfulness -of a child. If it were so, she felt no gratitude to him, as it only -showed her how keenly he must have seen that she was disgraced already, -before he took such unwonted pains to spare her any further trial of -truthfulness, which had already failed so signally. She would have gone -through the whole—she would have perjured herself to save Frederick, -rather—far rather—than Mr. Thornton should have had the knowledge that -prompted him to interfere to save her. What ill-fate brought him in -contact with the Inspector? What made him be the very magistrate sent -for to receive Leonards' deposition? What had Leonards said? How much of -it was intelligible to Mr. Thornton, who might already, for aught she -knew, be aware of the old accusation against Frederick, through their -mutual friend, Mr. Bell? If so, he had striven to save the son, who came -in defiance of the law to attend his mother's death-bed. And under this -idea she could feel grateful—not yet, if ever she should, if his -interference had been prompted by contempt. Oh! had any one such just -cause to feel contempt for her? Mr. Thornton, above all people, on whom -she had looked down from her imaginary heights till now! She suddenly -found herself at his feet, and was strangely distressed at her fall. She -shrank from following out the premises to their conclusion, and so -acknowledging to herself how much she valued his respect and good -opinion. Whenever this idea presented itself to her at the end of a long -avenue of thoughts, she turned away from following that path—she would -not believe in it.</p> - -<p>It was later than she fancied, for in the agitation of the previous -night, she had forgotten to wind up her watch; and Mr. Hale had given -especial orders that she was not to be disturbed by the usual awakening. -By and by the door opened cautiously, and Dixon put her head in. -Perceiving that Margaret was awake, she came forwards with a letter.</p> - -<p>'Here's something to do you good, miss. A letter from Master Frederick.'</p> - -<p>'Thank you, Dixon. How late it is!'</p> - -<p>She spoke very languidly, and suffered Dixon to lay it on the -counterpane before her, without putting out a hand to take it.</p> - -<p>'You want your breakfast, I'm sure. I will bring it you in a minute. -Master has got the tray all ready, I know.'</p> - -<p>Margaret did not reply; she let her go; she felt that she must be alone -before she could open that letter. She opened it at last. The first -thing that caught her eye was the date two days earlier than she -received it. He had then written when he had promised, and their alarm -might have been spared. But she would read the letter and see. It was -hasty enough, but perfectly satisfactory. He had seen Henry Lennox, who -knew enough of the case to shake his head over it, in the first -instance, and tell him he had done a very daring thing in returning to -England, with such an accusation, backed by such powerful influence, -hanging over him. But when they had come to talk it over, Mr. Lennox had -acknowledged that there might be some chance of his acquittal, if he -could but prove his statements by credible witnesses—that in such case -it might be worth while to stand his trial, otherwise it would be a -great risk. He would examine—he would take every pains. 'It struck me' -said Frederick, 'that your introduction, little sister of mine, went a -long way. Is it so? He made many inquiries, I can assure you. He seemed -a sharp, intelligent fellow, and in good practice too, to judge from the -signs of business and the number of clerks about him. But these may be -only lawyer's dodges. I have just caught a packet on the point of -sailing—I am off in five minutes. I may have to come back to England -again on this business, so keep my visit secret. I shall send my father -some rare old sherry, such as you cannot buy in England,—(such stuff as -I've got in the bottle before me)! He needs something of the kind—my -dear love to him—God bless him. I'm sure—here's my cab. P.S.—What an -escape that was! Take care you don't breathe of my having been—not even -to the Shaws.'</p> - -<p>Margaret turned to the envelope; it was marked 'Too late.' The letter -had probably been trusted to some careless waiter, who had forgotten to -post it. Oh! what slight cobwebs of chances stand between us and -Temptation! Frederick had been safe, and out of England twenty, nay, -thirty hours ago; and it was only about seventeen hours since she had -told a falsehood to baffle pursuit, which even then would have been -vain. How faithless she had been! Where now was her proud motto, <i>'Fais -ce que dois, advienne que pourra?'</i> If she had but dared to bravely tell -the truth as regarded herself, defying them to find out what she refused -to tell concerning another, how light of heart she would now have felt! -Not humbled before God, as having failed in trust towards Him; not -degraded and abased in Mr. Thornton's sight. She caught herself up at -this with a miserable tremor; here was she classing his low opinion of -her alongside with the displeasure of God. How was it that he haunted -her imagination so persistently? What could it be? Why did she care for -what he thought, in spite of all her pride in spite of herself? She -believed that she could have borne the sense of Almighty displeasure, -because He knew all, and could read her penitence, and hear her cries -for help in time to come. But Mr. Thornton—why did she tremble, and -hide her face in the pillow? What strong feeling had overtaken her at -last?</p> - -<p>She sprang out of bed and prayed long and earnestly. It soothed and -comforted her so to open her heart. But as soon as she reviewed her -position she found the sting was still there; that she was not good -enough, nor pure enough to be indifferent to the lowered opinion of a -fellow creature; that the thought of how he must be looking upon her -with contempt, stood between her and her sense of wrong-doing. She took -her letter in to her father as soon as she was drest. There was so -slight an allusion to their alarm at the rail-road station, that Mr. -Hale passed over it without paying any attention to it. Indeed, beyond -the mere fact of Frederick having sailed undiscovered and unsuspected, -he did not gather much from the letter at the time, he was so uneasy -about Margaret's pallid looks. She seemed continually on the point of -weeping.</p> - -<p>'You are sadly overdone, Margaret. It is no wonder. But you must let me -nurse you now.'</p> - -<p>He made her lie down on the sofa, and went for a shawl to cover her -with. His tenderness released her tears; and she cried bitterly.</p> - -<p>'Poor child!—poor child!' said he, looking fondly at her, as she lay -with her face to the wall, shaking with her sobs. After a while they -ceased, and she began to wonder whether she durst give herself the -relief of telling her father of all her trouble. But there were more -reasons against it than for it. The only one for it was the relief to -herself; and against it was the thought that it would add materially to -her father's nervousness, if it were indeed necessary for Frederick to -come to England again; that he would dwell on the circumstance of his -son's having caused the death of a man, however unwittingly and -unwillingly; that this knowledge would perpetually recur to trouble him, -in various shapes of exaggeration and distortion from the simple truth. -And about her own great fault—he would be distressed beyond measure at -her want of courage and faith, yet perpetually troubled to make excuses -for her. Formerly Margaret would have come to him as priest as well as -father, to tell him of her temptation and her sin; but latterly they had -not spoken much on such subjects; and she knew not how, in his change of -opinions, he would reply if the depth of her soul called unto his. No; -she would keep her secret, and bear the burden alone. Alone she would go -before God, and cry for His absolution. Alone she would endure her -disgraced position in the opinion of Mr. Thornton. She was unspeakably -touched by the tender efforts of her father to think of cheerful -subjects on which to talk, and so to take her thoughts away from -dwelling on all that had happened of late. It was some months since he -had been so talkative as he was this day. He would not let her sit up, -and offended Dixon desperately by insisting on waiting upon her himself.</p> - -<p>At last she smiled; a poor, weak little smile; but it gave him the -truest pleasure.</p> - -<p>'It seems strange to think, that what gives us most hope for the future -should be called Dolores,' said Margaret. The remark was more in -character with her father than with her usual self; but to-day they -seemed to have changed natures.</p> - -<p>'Her mother was a Spaniard, I believe: that accounts for her religion. -Her father was a stiff Presbyterian when I knew him. But it is a very -soft and pretty name.'</p> - -<p>'How young she is!—younger by fourteen months than I am. Just the age -that Edith was when she was engaged to Captain Lennox. Papa, we will go -and see them in Spain.'</p> - -<p>He shook his head. But he said, 'If you wish it, Margaret. Only let us -come back here. It would seem unfair—unkind to your mother, who always, -I'm afraid, disliked Milton so much, if we left it now she is lying -here, and cannot go with us. No, dear; you shall go and see them, and -bring me back a report of my Spanish daughter.'</p> - -<p>'No, papa, I won't go without you. Who is to take care of you when I am -gone?'</p> - -<p>'I should like to know which of us is taking care of the other. But if -you went, I should persuade Mr. Thornton to let me give him double -lessons. We would work up the classics famously. That would be a -perpetual interest. You might go on, and see Edith at Corfu, if you -liked.'</p> - -<p>Margaret did not speak all at once. Then she said rather gravely: 'Thank -you, papa. But I don't want to go. We will hope that Mr. Lennox will -manage so well, that Frederick may bring Dolores to see us when they are -married. And as for Edith, the regiment won't remain much longer in -Corfu. Perhaps we shall see both of them here before another year is -out.'</p> - -<p>Mr. Hale's cheerful subjects had come to an end. Some painful -recollection had stolen across his mind, and driven him into silence. -By-and-by Margaret said:</p> - -<p>'Papa—did you see Nicholas Higgins at the funeral? He was there, and -Mary too. Poor fellow! it was his way of showing sympathy. He has a good -warm heart under his bluff abrupt ways.'</p> - -<p>'I am sure of it,' replied Mr. Hale. 'I saw it all along, even while you -tried to persuade me that he was all sorts of bad things. We will go and -see them to-morrow, if you are strong enough to walk so far.'</p> - -<p>'Oh yes. I want to see them. We did not pay Mary—or rather she refused -to take it, Dixon says. We will go so as to catch him just after his -dinner, and before he goes to his work.'</p> - -<p>Towards evening Mr. Hale said:</p> - -<p>'I half expected Mr. Thornton would have called. He spoke of a book -yesterday which he had, and which I wanted to see. He said he would try -and bring it to-day.'</p> - -<p>Margaret sighed. She knew he would not come. He would be too delicate to -run the chance of meeting her, while her shame must be so fresh in his -memory. The very mention of his name renewed her trouble, and produced a -relapse into the feeling of depressed, pre-occupied exhaustion. She gave -way to listless languor. Suddenly it struck her that this was a strange -manner to show her patience, or to reward her father for his watchful -care of her all through the day. She sate up and offered to read aloud. -His eyes were failing, and he gladly accepted her proposal. She read -well: she gave the due emphasis; but had any one asked her, when she had -ended, the meaning of what she had been reading, she could not have -told. She was smitten with a feeling of ingratitude to Mr. Thornton, -inasmuch as, in the morning, she had refused to accept the kindness he -had shown her in making further inquiry from the medical men, so as to -obviate any inquest being held. Oh! she was grateful! She had been -cowardly and false, and had shown her cowardliness and falsehood in -action that could not be recalled; but she was not ungrateful. It sent a -glow to her heart, to know how she could feel towards one who had reason -to despise her. His cause for contempt was so just, that she should have -respected him less if she had thought he did not feel contempt. It was a -pleasure to feel how thoroughly she respected him. He could not prevent -her doing that; it was the one comfort in all this misery.</p> - -<p>Late in the evening, the expected book arrived, 'with Mr. Thornton's -kind regards, and wishes to know how Mr. Hale is.'</p> - -<p>'Say that I am much better, Dixon, but that Miss Hale—'</p> - -<p>'No, papa,' said Margaret, eagerly—'don't say anything about me. He -does not ask.'</p> - -<p>'My dear child, how you are shivering!' said her father, a few minutes -afterwards. 'You must go to bed directly. You have turned quite pale!'</p> - -<p>Margaret did not refuse to go, though she was loth to leave her father -alone. She needed the relief of solitude after a day of busy thinking, -and busier repenting.</p> - -<p>But she seemed much as usual the next day; the lingering gravity and -sadness, and the occasional absence of mind, were not unnatural symptoms -in the early days of grief. And almost in proportion to her -re-establishment in health, was her father's relapse into his abstracted -musing upon the wife he had lost, and the past era in his life that was -closed to him for ever.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXVI_UNION_NOT_ALWAYS_STRENGTH" id="CHAPTER_XXXVI_UNION_NOT_ALWAYS_STRENGTH"></a>CHAPTER XXXVI—UNION NOT ALWAYS STRENGTH</h2> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">'The steps of the bearers, heavy and slow,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">The sobs of the mourners, deep and low.'<br /></span> -<span class="i9">S<small>HELLEY</small>.<br /></span> -</div></div> - -<p>At the time arranged the previous day, they set out on their walk to see -Nicholas Higgins and his daughter. They both were reminded of their -recent loss, by a strange kind of shyness in their new habiliments, and -in the fact that it was the first time, for many weeks, that they had -deliberately gone out together. They drew very close to each other in -unspoken sympathy.</p> - -<p>Nicholas was sitting by the fire-side in his accustomed corner: but he -had not his accustomed pipe. He was leaning his head upon his hand, his -arm resting on his knee. He did not get up when he saw them, though -Margaret could read the welcome in his eye.</p> - -<p>'Sit ye down, sit ye down. Fire's welly out,' said he, giving it a -vigorous poke, as if to turn attention away from himself. He was rather -disorderly, to be sure, with a black unshaven beard of several days' -growth, making his pale face look yet paler, and a jacket which would -have been all the better for patching.</p> - -<p>'We thought we should have a good chance of finding you, just after -dinner-time,' said Margaret.</p> - -<p>'We have had our sorrow too, since we saw you,' said Mr. Hale.</p> - -<p>'Ay, ay. Sorrows is more plentiful than dinners just now; I reckon, my -dinner hour stretches all o'er the day; yo're pretty sure of finding -me.'</p> - -<p>'Are you out of work?' asked Margaret.</p> - -<p>'Ay,' he replied shortly. Then, after a moment's silence, he added, -looking up for the first time: 'I'm not wanting brass. Dunno yo' think -it. Bess, poor lass, had a little stock under her pillow, ready to slip -into my hand, last moment, and Mary is fustian-cutting. But I'm out o' -work a' the same.'</p> - -<p>'We owe Mary some money,' said Mr. Hale, before Margaret's sharp -pressure on his arm could arrest the words.</p> - -<p>'If hoo takes it, I'll turn her out o' doors. I'll bide inside these -four walls, and she'll bide out. That's a'.'</p> - -<p>'But we owe her many thanks for her kind service,' began Mr. Hale again.</p> - -<p>'I ne'er thanked yo'r daughter theer for her deeds o' love to my poor -wench. I ne'er could find th' words. I'se have to begin and try now, if -yo' start making an ado about what little Mary could sarve yo'.'</p> - -<p>'Is it because of the strike you're out of work?' asked Margaret gently.</p> - -<p>'Strike's ended. It's o'er for this time. I'm out o' work because I -ne'er asked for it. And I ne'er asked for it, because good words is -scarce, and bad words is plentiful.'</p> - -<p>He was in a mood to take a surly pleasure in giving answers that were -like riddles. But Margaret saw that he would like to be asked for the -explanation.</p> - -<p>'And good words are—?'</p> - -<p>'Asking for work. I reckon them's almost the best words that men can -say. "Gi' me work" means "and I'll do it like a man." Them's good -words.'</p> - -<p>'And bad words are refusing you work when you ask for it.'</p> - -<p>'Ay. Bad words is saying "Aha, my fine chap! Yo've been true to yo'r -order, and I'll be true to mine. Yo' did the best yo' could for them as -wanted help; that's yo'r way of being true to yo'r kind; and I'll be -true to mine. Yo've been a poor fool, as knowed no better nor be a true -faithful fool. So go and be d—— d to yo'. There's no work for yo' -here." Them's bad words. I'm not a fool; and if I was, folk ought to ha' -taught me how to be wise after their fashion. I could mappen ha' learnt, -if any one had tried to teach me.'</p> - -<p>'Would it not be worth while,' said Mr. Hale, 'to ask your old master if -he would take you back again? It might be a poor chance, but it would be -a chance.'</p> - -<p>He looked up again, with a sharp glance at the questioner; and then -tittered a low and bitter laugh.</p> - -<p>'Measter! if it's no offence, I'll ask yo' a question or two in my -turn.'</p> - -<p>'You're quite welcome,' said Mr. Hale.</p> - -<p>'I reckon yo'n some way of earning your bread. Folk seldom lives i' -Milton just for pleasure, if they can live anywhere else.'</p> - -<p>'You are quite right. I have some independent property, but my intention -in settling in Milton was to become a private tutor.'</p> - -<p>'To teach folk. Well! I reckon they pay yo' for teaching them, dunnot -they?'</p> - -<p>'Yes,' replied Mr. Hale, smiling. 'I teach in order to get paid.'</p> - -<p>'And them that pays yo', dun they tell yo' whatten to do, or whatten not -to do wi' the money they gives you in just payment for your pains—in -fair exchange like?'</p> - -<p>'No; to be sure not!'</p> - -<p>'They dunnot say, "Yo' may have a brother, or a friend as dear as a -brother, who wants this here brass for a purpose both yo' and he think -right; but yo' mun promise not give it to him. Yo' may see a good use, -as yo' think, to put yo'r money to; but we don't think it good, and so -if yo' spend it a-thatens we'll just leave off dealing with yo'." They -dunnot say that, dun they?'</p> - -<p>'No: to be sure not!'</p> - -<p>'Would yo' stand it if they did?'</p> - -<p>'It would be some very hard pressure that would make me even think of -submitting to such dictation.'</p> - -<p>'There's not the pressure on all the broad earth that would make me, -said Nicholas Higgins. 'Now yo've got it. Yo've hit the bull's eye. -Hamper's—that's where I worked—makes their men pledge 'emselves -they'll not give a penny to help th' Union or keep turnouts fro' -clemming. They may pledge and make pledge,' continued he, scornfully; -'they nobbut make liars and hypocrites. And that's a less sin, to my -mind, to making men's hearts so hard that they'll not do a kindness to -them as needs it, or help on the right and just cause, though it goes -again the strong hand. But I'll ne'er forswear mysel' for a' the work -the king could gi'e me. I'm a member o' the Union; and I think it's the -only thing to do the workman any good. And I've been a turn-out, and -known what it were to clem; so if I get a shilling, sixpence shall go to -them if they axe it from me. Consequence is, I dunnot see where I'm to -get a shilling.'</p> - -<p>'Is that rule about not contributing to the Union in force at all the -mills?' asked Margaret.</p> - -<p>'I cannot say. It's a new regulation at ourn; and I reckon they'll find -that they cannot stick to it. But it's in force now. By-and-by they'll -find out, tyrants makes liars.'</p> - -<p>There was a little pause. Margaret was hesitating whether she should say -what was in her mind; she was unwilling to irritate one who was already -gloomy and despondent enough. At last out it came. But in her soft -tones, and with her reluctant manner, showing that she was unwilling to -say anything unpleasant, it did not seem to annoy Higgins, only to -perplex him.</p> - -<p>'Do you remember poor Boucher saying that the Union was a tyrant? I -think he said it was the worst tyrant of all. And I remember at the time -I agreed with him.'</p> - -<p>It was a long while before he spoke. He was resting his head on his two -hands, and looking down into the fire, so she could not read the -expression on his face.</p> - -<p>'I'll not deny but what th' Union finds it necessary to force a man into -his own good. I'll speak truth. A man leads a dree life who's not i' th' -Union. But once i' the' Union, his interests are taken care on better -nor he could do it for himsel', or by himsel', for that matter. It's the -only way working men can get their rights, by all joining together. More -the members, more chance for each one separate man having justice done -him. Government takes care o' fools and madmen; and if any man is -inclined to do himsel' or his neighbour a hurt, it puts a bit of a check -on him, whether he likes it or no. That's all we do i' th' Union. We -can't clap folk into prison; but we can make a man's life so heavy to be -borne, that he's obliged to come in, and be wise and helpful in spite of -himself. Boucher were a fool all along, and ne'er a worse fool than at -th' last.'</p> - -<p>'He did you harm?' asked Margaret.</p> - -<p>'Ay, that did he. We had public opinion on our side, till he and his -sort began rioting and breaking laws. It were all o'er wi' the strike -then.'</p> - -<p>'Then would it not have been far better to have left him alone, and not -forced him to join the Union? He did you no good; and you drove him -mad.'</p> - -<p>'Margaret,' said her father, in a low and warning tone, for he saw the -cloud gathering on Higgins's face.</p> - -<p>'I like her,' said Higgins, suddenly. 'Hoo speaks plain out what's in -her mind. Hoo doesn't comprehend th' Union for all that. It's a great -power: it's our only power. I ha' read a bit o' poetry about a plough -going o'er a daisy, as made tears come into my eyes, afore I'd other -cause for crying. But the chap ne'er stopped driving the plough, I'se -warrant, for all he were pitiful about the daisy. He'd too much -mother-wit for that. Th' Union's the plough, making ready the land for -harvest-time. Such as Boucher—'twould be settin' him up too much to -liken him to a daisy; he's liker a weed lounging over the ground—mun -just make up their mind to be put out o' the way. I'm sore vexed wi' him -just now. So, mappen, I dunnot speak him fair. I could go o'er him wi' a -plough mysel', wi' a' the pleasure in life.'</p> - -<p>'Why? What has he been doing? Anything fresh?'</p> - -<p>'Ay, to be sure. He's ne'er out o' mischief, that man. First of a' he -must go raging like a mad fool, and kick up yon riot. Then he'd to go -into hiding, where he'd a been yet, if Thornton had followed him out as -I'd hoped he would ha' done. But Thornton, having got his own purpose, -didn't care to go on wi' the prosecution for the riot. So Boucher slunk -back again to his house. He ne'er showed himsel' abroad for a day or -two. He had that grace. And then, where think ye that he went? Why, to -Hamper's. Damn him! He went wi' his mealy-mouthed face, that turns me -sick to look at, a-asking for work, though he knowed well enough the new -rule, o' pledging themselves to give nought to th' Unions; nought to -help the starving turn-out! Why he'd a clemmed to death, if th' Union -had na helped him in his pinch. There he went, ossing to promise aught, -and pledge himsel' to aught—to tell a' he know'd on our proceedings, -the good-for-nothing Judas! But I'll say this for Hamper, and thank him -for it at my dying day, he drove Boucher away, and would na listen to -him—ne'er a word—though folk standing by, says the traitor cried like -a babby!'</p> - -<p>'Oh! how shocking! how pitiful!' exclaimed Margaret. 'Higgins, I don't -know you to-day. Don't you see how you've made Boucher what he is, by -driving him into the Union against his will—without his heart going -with it. You have made him what he is!'</p> - -<p>Made him what he is! What was he?</p> - -<p>Gathering, gathering along the narrow street, came a hollow, measured -sound; now forcing itself on their attention. Many voices were hushed -and low: many steps were heard not moving onwards, at least not with any -rapidity or steadiness of motion, but as if circling round one spot. -Yes, there was one distinct, slow tramp of feet, which made itself a -clear path through the air, and reached their ears; the measured -laboured walk of men carrying a heavy burden. They were all drawn -towards the house-door by some irresistible impulse; impelled -thither—not by a poor curiosity, but as if by some solemn blast.</p> - -<p>Six men walked in the middle of the road, three of them being policemen. -They carried a door, taken off its hinges, upon their shoulders, on -which lay some dead human creature; and from each side of the door there -were constant droppings. All the street turned out to see, and, seeing, -to accompany the procession, each one questioning the bearers, who -answered almost reluctantly at last, so often had they told the tale.</p> - -<p>'We found him i' th' brook in the field beyond there.'</p> - -<p>'Th' brook!—why there's not water enough to drown him!'</p> - -<p>'He was a determined chap. He lay with his face downwards. He was sick -enough o' living, choose what cause he had for it.'</p> - -<p>Higgins crept up to Margaret's side, and said in a weak piping kind of -voice: 'It's not John Boucher? He had na spunk enough. Sure! It's not -John Boucher! Why, they are a' looking this way! Listen! I've a singing -in my head, and I cannot hear.'</p> - -<p>They put the door down carefully upon the stones, and all might see the -poor drowned wretch—his glassy eyes, one half-open, staring right -upwards to the sky. Owing to the position in which he had been found -lying, his face was swollen and discoloured besides, his skin was -stained by the water in the brook, which had been used for dyeing -purposes. The fore part of his head was bald; but the hair grew thin and -long behind, and every separate lock was a conduit for water. Through -all these disfigurements, Margaret recognised John Boucher. It seemed to -her so sacrilegious to be peering into that poor distorted, agonised -face, that, by a flash of instinct, she went forwards and softly covered -the dead man's countenance with her handkerchief. The eyes that saw her -do this followed her, as she turned away from her pious office, and were -thus led to the place where Nicholas Higgins stood, like one rooted to -the spot. The men spoke together, and then one of them came up to -Higgins, who would have fain shrunk back into his house.</p> - -<p>'Higgins, thou knowed him! Thou mun go tell the wife. Do it gently, man, -but do it quick, for we canna leave him here long.'</p> - -<p>'I canna go,' said Higgins. 'Dunnot ask me. I canna face her.'</p> - -<p>'Thou knows her best,' said the man. 'We'n done a deal in bringing him -here—thou take thy share.'</p> - -<p>'I canna do it,' said Higgins. 'I'm welly felled wi' seeing him. We -wasn't friends; and now he's dead.'</p> - -<p>'Well, if thou wunnot thou wunnot. Some one mun, though. It's a dree -task; but it's a chance, every minute, as she doesn't hear on it in some -rougher way nor a person going to make her let on by degrees, as it -were.'</p> - -<p>'Papa, do you go,' said Margaret, in a low voice.</p> - -<p>'If I could—if I had time to think of what I had better say; but all at -once—— ' Margaret saw that her father was indeed unable. He was -trembling from head to foot.</p> - -<p>'I will go,' said she.</p> - -<p>'Bless yo', miss, it will be a kind act; for she's been but a sickly -sort of body, I hear, and few hereabouts know much on her.'</p> - -<p>Margaret knocked at the closed door; but there was such a noise, as of -many little ill-ordered children, that she could hear no reply; indeed, -she doubted if she was heard, and as every moment of delay made her -recoil from her task more and more, she opened the door and went in, -shutting it after her, and even, unseen to the woman, fastening the -bolt.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Boucher was sitting in a rocking-chair, on the other side of the -ill-redd-up fireplace; it looked as if the house had been untouched for -days by any effort at cleanliness.</p> - -<p>Margaret said something, she hardly knew what, her throat and mouth were -so dry, and the children's noise completely prevented her from being -heard. She tried again.</p> - -<p>'How are you, Mrs. Boucher? But very poorly, I'm afraid.'</p> - -<p>'I've no chance o' being well,' said she querulously. 'I'm left alone to -manage these childer, and nought for to give 'em for to keep 'em quiet. -John should na ha' left me, and me so poorly.'</p> - -<p>'How long is it since he went away?'</p> - -<p>'Four days sin'. No one would give him work here, and he'd to go on -tramp toward Greenfield. But he might ha' been back afore this, or sent -me some word if he'd getten work. He might—— '</p> - -<p>'Oh, don't blame him,' said Margaret. 'He felt it deeply, I'm sure—— '</p> - -<p>'Willto' hold thy din, and let me hear the lady speak!' addressing -herself, in no very gentle voice, to a little urchin of about a year -old. She apologetically continued to Margaret, 'He's always mithering me -for "daddy" and "butty;" and I ha' no butties to give him, and daddy's -away, and forgotten us a', I think. He's his father's darling, he is,' -said she, with a sudden turn of mood, and, dragging the child up to her -knee, she began kissing it fondly.</p> - -<p>Margaret laid her hand on the woman's arm to arrest her attention. Their -eyes met.</p> - -<p>'Poor little fellow!' said Margaret, slowly; 'he <i>was</i> his father's -darling.'</p> - -<p>'He <i>is</i> his father's darling,' said the woman, rising hastily, and -standing face to face with Margaret. Neither of them spoke for a moment -or two. Then Mrs. Boucher began in a low, growling tone, gathering in -wildness as she went on: 'He <i>is</i> his father's darling, I say. Poor folk -can love their childer as well as rich. Why dunno yo' speak? Why dun yo' -stare at me wi' your great pitiful eyes? Where's John?' Weak as she was, -she shook Margaret to force out an answer. 'Oh, my God!' said she, -understanding the meaning of that tearful look. She sank back into the -chair. Margaret took up the child and put him into her arms.</p> - -<p>'He loved him,' said she.</p> - -<p>'Ay,' said the woman, shaking her head, 'he loved us a'. We had some one -to love us once. It's a long time ago; but when he were in life and with -us, he did love us, he did. He loved this babby mappen the best on us; -but he loved me and I loved him, though I was calling him five minutes -agone. Are yo' sure he's dead?' said she, trying to get up. 'If it's -only that he's ill and like to die, they may bring him round yet. I'm -but an ailing creature mysel'—I've been ailing this long time.'</p> - -<p>'But he is dead—he is drowned!'</p> - -<p>'Folk are brought round after they're dead-drowned. Whatten was I -thinking of, to sit still when I should be stirring mysel'? Here, whisth -thee, child—whisth thee! tak' this, tak' aught to play wi', but dunnot -cry while my heart's breaking! Oh, where is my strength gone to? Oh, -John—husband!'</p> - -<p>Margaret saved her from falling by catching her in her arms. She sate -down in the rocking chair, and held the woman upon her knees, her head -lying on Margaret's shoulder. The other children, clustered together in -affright, began to understand the mystery of the scene; but the ideas -came slowly, for their brains were dull and languid of perception. They -set up such a cry of despair as they guessed the truth, that Margaret -knew not how to bear it. Johnny's cry was loudest of them all, though he -knew not why he cried, poor little fellow.</p> - -<p>The mother quivered as she lay in Margaret's arms. Margaret heard a -noise at the door.</p> - -<p>'Open it. Open it quick,' said she to the eldest child. 'It's bolted; -make no noise—be very still. Oh, papa, let them go upstairs very softly -and carefully, and perhaps she will not hear them. She has -fainted—that's all.'</p> - -<p>'It's as well for her, poor creature,' said a woman following in the -wake of the bearers of the dead. 'But yo're not fit to hold her. Stay, -I'll run fetch a pillow and we'll let her down easy on the floor.'</p> - -<p>This helpful neighbour was a great relief to Margaret; she was evidently -a stranger to the house, a new-comer in the district, indeed; but she -was so kind and thoughtful that Margaret felt she was no longer needed; -and that it would be better, perhaps, to set an example of clearing the -house, which was filled with idle, if sympathising gazers.</p> - -<p>She looked round for Nicholas Higgins. He was not there. So she spoke to -the woman who had taken the lead in placing Mrs. Boucher on the floor.</p> - -<p>'Can you give all these people a hint that they had better leave in -quietness? So that when she comes round, she should only find one or two -that she knows about her. Papa, will you speak to the men, and get them -to go away? She cannot breathe, poor thing, with this crowd about her.'</p> - -<p>Margaret was kneeling down by Mrs. Boucher and bathing her face with -vinegar; but in a few minutes she was surprised at the gush of fresh -air. She looked round, and saw a smile pass between her father and the -woman.</p> - -<p>'What is it?' asked she.</p> - -<p>'Only our good friend here,' replied her father, 'hit on a capital -expedient for clearing the place.'</p> - -<p>'I bid 'em begone, and each take a child with 'em, and to mind that they -were orphans, and their mother a widow. It was who could do most, and -the childer are sure of a bellyful to-day, and of kindness too. Does hoo -know how he died?'</p> - -<p>'No,' said Margaret; 'I could not tell her all at once.'</p> - -<p>'Hoo mun be told because of th' Inquest. See! Hoo's coming round; shall -you or I do it? or mappen your father would be best?'</p> - -<p>'No; you, you,' said Margaret.</p> - -<p>They awaited her perfect recovery in silence. Then the neighbour woman -sat down on the floor, and took Mrs. Boucher's head and shoulders on her -lap.</p> - -<p>'Neighbour,' said she, 'your man is dead. Guess yo' how he died?'</p> - -<p>'He were drowned,' said Mrs. Boucher, feebly, beginning to cry for the -first time, at this rough probing of her sorrows.</p> - -<p>'He were found drowned. He were coming home very hopeless o' aught on -earth. He thought God could na be harder than men; mappen not so hard; -mappen as tender as a mother; mappen tenderer. I'm not saying he did -right, and I'm not saying he did wrong. All I say is, may neither me nor -mine ever have his sore heart, or we may do like things.'</p> - -<p>'He has left me alone wi' a' these children!' moaned the widow, less -distressed at the manner of the death than Margaret expected; but it was -of a piece with her helpless character to feel his loss as principally -affecting herself and her children.</p> - -<p>'Not alone,' said Mr. Hale, solemnly. 'Who is with you? Who will take up -your cause?' The widow opened her eyes wide, and looked at the new -speaker, of whose presence she had not been aware till then.</p> - -<p>'Who has promised to be a father to the fatherless?' continued he.</p> - -<p>'But I've getten six children, sir, and the eldest not eight years of -age. I'm not meaning for to doubt His power, sir,—only it needs a deal -o' trust;' and she began to cry afresh.</p> - -<p>'Hoo'll be better able to talk to-morrow, sir,' said the neighbour. -'Best comfort now would be the feel of a child at her heart. I'm sorry -they took the babby.'</p> - -<p>'I'll go for it,' said Margaret. And in a few minutes she returned, -carrying Johnnie, his face all smeared with eating, and his hands loaded -with treasures in the shape of shells, and bits of crystal, and the head -of a plaster figure. She placed him in his mother's arms.</p> - -<p>'There!' said the woman, 'now you go. They'll cry together, and comfort -together, better nor any one but a child can do. I'll stop with her as -long as I'm needed, and if yo' come to-morrow, yo' can have a deal o' -wise talk with her, that she's not up to to-day.'</p> - -<p>As Margaret and her father went slowly up the street, she paused at -Higgins's closed door.</p> - -<p>'Shall we go in?' asked her father. 'I was thinking of him too.'</p> - -<p>They knocked. There was no answer, so they tried the door. It was -bolted, but they thought they heard him moving within.</p> - -<p>'Nicholas!' said Margaret. There was no answer, and they might have gone -away, believing the house to be empty, if there had not been some -accidental fall, as of a book, within.</p> - -<p>'Nicholas!' said Margaret again. 'It is only us. Won't you let us come -in?'</p> - -<p>'No,' said he. 'I spoke as plain as I could, 'bout using words, when I -bolted th' door. Let me be, this day.'</p> - -<p>Mr. Hale would have urged their desire, but Margaret placed her finger -on his lips.</p> - -<p>'I don't wonder at it,' said she. 'I myself long to be alone. It seems -the only thing to do one good after a day like this.'</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXVII_LOOKING_SOUTH" id="CHAPTER_XXXVII_LOOKING_SOUTH"></a>CHAPTER XXXVII—LOOKING SOUTH</h2> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">'A spade! a rake! a hoe!<br /></span> -<span class="i1">A pickaxe or a bill!<br /></span> -<span class="i1">A hook to reap, or a scythe to mow,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">A flail, or what ye will—<br /></span> -<span class="i1">And here's a ready hand<br /></span> -<span class="i1">To ply the needful tool,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">And skill'd enough, by lessons rough,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">In Labour's rugged school.'<br /></span> -<span class="i9">H<small>OOD</small>.<br /></span> -</div></div> - -<p>Higgins's door was locked the next day, when they went to pay their call -on the widow Boucher: but they learnt this time from an officious -neighbour, that he was really from home. He had, however, been in to see -Mrs. Boucher, before starting on his day's business, whatever that was. -It was but an unsatisfactory visit to Mrs. Boucher; she considered -herself as an ill-used woman by her poor husband's suicide; and there -was quite germ of truth enough in this idea to make it a very difficult -one to refute. Still, it was unsatisfactory to see how completely her -thoughts were turned upon herself and her own position, and this -selfishness extended even to her relations with her children, whom she -considered as incumbrances, even in the very midst of her somewhat -animal affection for them. Margaret tried to make acquaintances with one -or two of them, while her father strove to raise the widow's thoughts -into some higher channel than that of mere helpless querulousness. She -found that the children were truer and simpler mourners than the widow. -Daddy had been a kind daddy to them; each could tell, in their eager -stammering way, of some tenderness shown some indulgence granted by the -lost father.</p> - -<p>'Is yon thing upstairs really him? it doesna look like him. I'm feared -on it, and I never was feared o' daddy.'</p> - -<p>Margaret's heart bled to hear that the mother, in her selfish -requirement of sympathy, had taken her children upstairs to see their -disfigured father. It was intermingling the coarseness of horror with -the profoundness of natural grief. She tried to turn their thoughts in -some other direction; on what they could do for mother; on what—for -this was a more efficacious way of putting it—what father would have -wished them to do. Margaret was more successful than Mr. Hale in her -efforts. The children seeing their little duties lie in action close -around them, began to try each one to do something that she suggested -towards redding up the slatternly room. But her father set too high a -standard, and too abstract a view, before the indolent invalid. She -could not rouse her torpid mind into any vivid imagination of what her -husband's misery might have been before he had resorted to the last -terrible step; she could only look upon it as it affected herself; she -could not enter into the enduring mercy of the God who had not specially -interposed to prevent the water from drowning her prostrate husband; and -although she was secretly blaming her husband for having fallen into -such drear despair, and denying that he had any excuse for his last rash -act, she was inveterate in her abuse of all who could by any possibility -be supposed to have driven him to such desperation. The masters—Mr. -Thornton in particular, whose mill had been attacked by Boucher, and -who, after the warrant had been issued for his apprehension on the -charge of rioting, had caused it to be withdrawn,—the Union, of which -Higgins was the representative to the poor woman,—the children so -numerous, so hungry, and so noisy—all made up one great army of -personal enemies, whose fault it was that she was now a helpless widow.</p> - -<p>Margaret heard enough of this unreasonableness to dishearten her; and -when they came away she found it impossible to cheer her father.</p> - -<p>'It is the town life,' said she. 'Their nerves are quickened by the -haste and bustle and speed of everything around them, to say nothing of -the confinement in these pent-up houses, which of itself is enough to -induce depression and worry of spirits. Now in the country, people live -so much more out of doors, even children, and even in the winter.'</p> - -<p>'But people must live in towns. And in the country some get such -stagnant habits of mind that they are almost fatalists.'</p> - -<p>'Yes; I acknowledge that. I suppose each mode of life produces its own -trials and its own temptations. The dweller in towns must find it as -difficult to be patient and calm, as the country-bred man must find it -to be active, and equal to unwonted emergencies. Both must find it hard -to realise a future of any kind; the one because the present is so -living and hurrying and close around him; the other because his life -tempts him to revel in the mere sense of animal existence, not knowing -of, and consequently not caring for any pungency of pleasure for the -attainment of which he can plan, and deny himself and look forward.'</p> - -<p>'And thus both the necessity for engrossment, and the stupid content in -the present, produce the same effects. But this poor Mrs. Boucher! how -little we can do for her.'</p> - -<p>'And yet we dare not leave her without our efforts, although they may -seem so useless. Oh papa! it's a hard world to live in!'</p> - -<p>'So it is, my child. We feel it so just now, at any rate; but we have -been very happy, even in the midst of our sorrow. What a pleasure -Frederick's visit was!'</p> - -<p>'Yes, that it was,' said Margaret; brightly. 'It was such a charming, -snatched, forbidden thing.' But she suddenly stopped speaking. She had -spoiled the remembrance of Frederick's visit to herself by her own -cowardice. Of all faults the one she most despised in others was the -want of bravery; the meanness of heart which leads to untruth. And here -had she been guilty of it! Then came the thought of Mr. Thornton's -cognisance of her falsehood. She wondered if she should have minded -detection half so much from any one else. She tried herself in -imagination with her Aunt Shaw and Edith; with her father; with Captain -and Mr. Lennox; with Frederick. The thought of the last knowing what she -had done, even in his own behalf, was the most painful, for the brother -and sister were in the first flush of their mutual regard and love; but -even any fall in Frederick's opinion was as nothing to the shame, the -shrinking shame she felt at the thought of meeting Mr. Thornton again. -And yet she longed to see him, to get it over; to understand where she -stood in his opinion. Her cheeks burnt as she recollected how proudly -she had implied an objection to trade (in the early days of their -acquaintance), because it too often led to the deceit of passing off -inferior for superior goods, in the one branch; of assuming credit for -wealth and resources not possessed, in the other. She remembered Mr. -Thornton's look of calm disdain, as in few words he gave her to -understand that, in the great scheme of commerce, all dishonourable ways -of acting were sure to prove injurious in the long run, and that, -testing such actions simply according to the poor standard of success, -there was folly and not wisdom in all such, and every kind of deceit in -trade, as well as in other things. She remembered—she, then strong in -her own untempted truth—asking him, if he did not think that buying in -the cheapest and selling in the dearest market proved some want of the -transparent justice which is so intimately connected with the idea of -truth: and she had used the word chivalric—and her father had corrected -her with the higher word, Christian; and so drawn the argument upon -himself, while she sate silent by with a slight feeling of contempt.</p> - -<p>No more contempt for her!—no more talk about the chivalric! -Henceforward she must feel humiliated and disgraced in his sight. But -when should she see him? Her heart leaped up in apprehension at every -ring of the door-bell; and yet when it fell down to calmness, she felt -strangely saddened and sick at heart at each disappointment. It was very -evident that her father expected to see him, and was surprised that he -did not come. The truth was, that there were points in their -conversation the other night on which they had no time then to enlarge; -but it had been understood that if possible on the succeeding -evening—if not then, at least the very first evening that Mr. Thornton -could command,—they should meet for further discussion. Mr. Hale had -looked forward to this meeting ever since they had parted. He had not -yet resumed the instruction to his pupils, which he had relinquished at -the commencement of his wife's more serious illness, so he had fewer -occupations than usual; and the great interest of the last day or so -(Boucher's suicide) had driven him back with more eagerness than ever -upon his speculations. He was restless all evening. He kept saying, 'I -quite expected to have seen Mr. Thornton. I think the messenger who -brought the book last night must have had some note, and forgot to -deliver it. Do you think there has been any message left to-day?'</p> - -<p>'I will go and inquire, papa,' said Margaret, after the changes on these -sentences had been rung once or twice. 'Stay, there's a ring!' She sate -down instantly, and bent her head attentively over her work. She heard a -step on the stairs, but it was only one, and she knew it was Dixon's. -She lifted up her head and sighed, and believed she felt glad.</p> - -<p>'It's that Higgins, sir. He wants to see you, or else Miss Hale. Or it -might be Miss Hale first, and then you, sir; for he's in a strange kind -of way.'</p> - -<p>'He had better come up here, Dixon; and then he can see us both, and -choose which he likes for his listener.'</p> - -<p>'Oh! very well, sir. I've no wish to hear what he's got to say, I'm -sure; only, if you could see his shoes, I'm sure you'd say the kitchen -was the fitter place.'</p> - -<p>'He can wipe them, I suppose,' said Mr. Hale. So Dixon flung off, to bid -him walk up-stairs. She was a little mollified, however, when he looked -at his feet with a hesitating air; and then, sitting down on the bottom -stair, he took off the offending shoes, and without a word walked -up-stairs.</p> - -<p>'Sarvant, sir!' said he, slicking his hair down when he came into the -room. 'If hoo'l excuse me (looking at Margaret) for being i' my -stockings; I'se been tramping a' day, and streets is none o' th' -cleanest.'</p> - -<p>Margaret thought that fatigue might account for the change in his -manner, for he was unusually quiet and subdued; and he had evidently -some difficulty in saying what he came to say.</p> - -<p>Mr. Hale's ever-ready sympathy with anything of shyness or hesitation, -or want of self-possession, made him come to his aid.</p> - -<p>'We shall have tea up directly, and then you'll take a cup with us, Mr. -Higgins. I am sure you are tired, if you've been out much this wet -relaxing day. Margaret, my dear, can't you hasten tea?'</p> - -<p>Margaret could only hasten tea by taking the preparation of it into her -own hands, and so offending Dixon, who was emerging out of her sorrow -for her late mistress into a very touchy, irritable state. But Martha, -like all who came in contact with Margaret—even Dixon herself, in the -long run—felt it a pleasure and an honour to forward any of her wishes; -and her readiness, and Margaret's sweet forbearance, soon made Dixon -ashamed of herself.</p> - -<p>'Why master and you must always be asking the lower classes up-stairs, -since we came to Milton, I cannot understand. Folk at Helstone were -never brought higher than the kitchen; and I've let one or two of them -know before now that they might think it an honour to be even there.'</p> - -<p>Higgins found it easier to unburden himself to one than to two. After -Margaret left the room, he went to the door and assured himself that it -was shut. Then he came and stood close to Mr. Hale.</p> - -<p>'Master,' said he, 'yo'd not guess easy what I've been tramping after -to-day. Special if yo' remember my manner o' talk yesterday. I've been a -seeking work. I have' said he. 'I said to mysel', I'd keep a civil -tongue in my head, let who would say what 'em would. I'd set my teeth -into my tongue sooner nor speak i' haste. For that man's sake—yo' -understand,' jerking his thumb back in some unknown direction.</p> - -<p>'No, I don't,' said Mr. Hale, seeing he waited for some kind of assent, -and completely bewildered as to who 'that man' could be.</p> - -<p>'That chap as lies theer,' said he, with another jerk. 'Him as went and -drownded himself, poor chap! I did na' think he'd got it in him to lie -still and let th' water creep o'er him till he died. Boucher, yo' know.'</p> - -<p>'Yes, I know now,' said Mr. Hale. 'Go back to what you were saying: -you'd not speak in haste—— '</p> - -<p>'For his sake. Yet not for his sake; for where'er he is, and whate'er, -he'll ne'er know other clemming or cold again; but for the wife's sake, -and the bits o' childer.'</p> - -<p>'God bless you!' said Mr. Hale, starting up; then, calming down, he said -breathlessly, 'What do you mean? Tell me out.'</p> - -<p>'I have telled yo',' said Higgins, a little surprised at Mr. Hale's -agitation. 'I would na ask for work for mysel'; but them's left as a -charge on me. I reckon, I would ha guided Boucher to a better end; but I -set him off o' th' road, and so I mun answer for him.'</p> - -<p>Mr. Hale got hold of Higgins's hand and shook it heartily, without -speaking. Higgins looked awkward and ashamed.</p> - -<p>'Theer, theer, master! Theer's ne'er a man, to call a man, amongst us, -but what would do th' same; ay, and better too; for, belie' me, I'se -ne'er got a stroke o' work, nor yet a sight of any. For all I telled -Hamper that, let alone his pledge—which I would not sign—no, I could -na, not e'en for this—he'd ne'er ha' such a worker on his mill as I -would be—he'd ha' none o' me—no more would none o' th' others. I'm a -poor black feckless sheep—childer may clem for aught I can do, unless, -parson, yo'd help me?'</p> - -<p>'Help you! How? I would do anything,—but what can I do?'</p> - -<p>'Miss there'—for Margaret had re-entered the room, and stood silent, -listening—'has often talked grand o' the South, and the ways down -there. Now I dunnot know how far off it is, but I've been thinking if I -could get 'em down theer, where food is cheap and wages good, and all -the folk, rich and poor, master and man, friendly like; yo' could, may -be, help me to work. I'm not forty-five, and I've a deal o' strength in -me, measter.'</p> - -<p>'But what kind of work could you do, my man?'</p> - -<p>'Well, I reckon I could spade a bit—— '</p> - -<p>'And for that,' said Margaret, stepping forwards, 'for anything you -could do, Higgins, with the best will in the world, you would, may be, -get nine shillings a week; maybe ten, at the outside. Food is much the -same as here, except that you might have a little garden—— '</p> - -<p>'The childer could work at that,' said he. 'I'm sick o' Milton anyways, -and Milton is sick o' me.'</p> - -<p>'You must not go to the South,' said Margaret, 'for all that. You could -not stand it. You would have to be out all weathers. It would kill you -with rheumatism. The mere bodily work at your time of life would break -you down. The fare is far different to what you have been accustomed -to.'</p> - -<p>'I'se nought particular about my meat,' said he, as if offended.</p> - -<p>'But you've reckoned on having butcher's meat once a day, if you're in -work; pay for that out of your ten shillings, and keep those poor -children if you can. I owe it to you—since it's my way of talking that -has set you off on this idea—to put it all clear before you. You would -not bear the dulness of the life; you don't know what it is; it would -eat you away like rust. Those that have lived there all their lives, are -used to soaking in the stagnant waters. They labour on, from day to day, -in the great solitude of steaming fields—never speaking or lifting up -their poor, bent, downcast heads. The hard spade-work robs their brain -of life; the sameness of their toil deadens their imagination; they -don't care to meet to talk over thoughts and speculations, even of the -weakest, wildest kind, after their work is done; they go home brutishly -tired, poor creatures! caring for nothing but food and rest. You could -not stir them up into any companionship, which you get in a town as -plentiful as the air you breathe, whether it be good or bad—and that I -don't know; but I do know, that you of all men are not one to bear a -life among such labourers. What would be peace to them would be eternal -fretting to you. Think no more of it, Nicholas, I beg. Besides, you -could never pay to get mother and children all there—that's one good -thing.'</p> - -<p>'I've reckoned for that. One house mun do for us a', and the furniture -o' t'other would go a good way. And men theer mun have their families to -keep—mappen six or seven childer. God help 'em!' said he, more -convinced by his own presentation of the facts than by all Margaret had -said, and suddenly renouncing the idea, which had but recently formed -itself in a brain worn out by the day's fatigue and anxiety. 'God help -'em! North an' South have each getten their own troubles. If work's sure -and steady theer, labour's paid at starvation prices; while here we'n -rucks o' money coming in one quarter, and ne'er a farthing th' next. For -sure, th' world is in a confusion that passes me or any other man to -understand; it needs fettling, and who's to fettle it, if it's as yon -folks say, and there's nought but what we see?'</p> - -<p>Mr. Hale was busy cutting bread and butter; Margaret was glad of this, -for she saw that Higgins was better left to himself: that if her father -began to speak ever so mildly on the subject of Higgins's thoughts, the -latter would consider himself challenged to an argument, and would feel -himself bound to maintain his own ground. She and her father kept up an -indifferent conversation until Higgins, scarcely aware whether he ate or -not, had made a very substantial meal. Then he pushed his chair away -from the table, and tried to take an interest in what they were saying; -but it was of no use; and he fell back into dreamy gloom. Suddenly, -Margaret said (she had been thinking of it for some time, but the words -had stuck in her throat), 'Higgins, have you been to Marlborough Mills -to seek for work?'</p> - -<p>'Thornton's?' asked he. 'Ay, I've been at Thornton's.'</p> - -<p>'And what did he say?'</p> - -<p>'Such a chap as me is not like to see the measter. Th' o'erlooker bid me -go and be d—— d.'</p> - -<p>'I wish you had seen Mr. Thornton,' said Mr. Hale. 'He might not have -given you work, but he would not have used such language.'</p> - -<p>'As to th' language, I'm welly used to it; it dunnot matter to me. I'm -not nesh mysel' when I'm put out. It were th' fact that I were na wanted -theer, no more nor ony other place, as I minded.'</p> - -<p>'But I wish you had seen Mr. Thornton,' repeated Margaret. 'Would you go -again—it's a good deal to ask, I know—but would you go to-morrow and -try him? I should be so glad if you would.'</p> - -<p>'I'm afraid it would be of no use,' said Mr. Hale, in a low voice. 'It -would be better to let me speak to him.' Margaret still looked at -Higgins for his answer. Those grave soft eyes of hers were difficult to -resist. He gave a great sigh.</p> - -<p>'It would tax my pride above a bit; if it were for mysel', I could stand -a deal o' clemming first; I'd sooner knock him down than ask a favour -from him. I'd a deal sooner be flogged mysel'; but yo're not a common -wench, axing yo'r pardon, nor yet have yo' common ways about yo'. I'll -e'en make a wry face, and go at it to-morrow. Dunna yo' think that he'll -do it. That man has it in him to be burnt at the stake afore he'll give -in. I do it for yo'r sake, Miss Hale, and it's first time in my life as -e'er I give way to a woman. Neither my wife nor Bess could e'er say that -much again me.'</p> - -<p>'All the more do I thank you,' said Margaret, smiling. 'Though I don't -believe you: I believe you have just given way to wife and daughter as -much as most men.'</p> - -<p>'And as to Mr. Thornton,' said Mr. Hale, 'I'll give you a note to him, -which, I think I may venture to say, will ensure you a hearing.'</p> - -<p>'I thank yo' kindly, sir, but I'd as lief stand on my own bottom. I -dunnot stomach the notion of having favour curried for me, by one as -doesn't know the ins and outs of the quarrel. Meddling 'twixt master and -man is liker meddling 'twixt husband and wife than aught else: it takes -a deal o' wisdom for to do ony good. I'll stand guard at the lodge door. -I'll stand there fro' six in the morning till I get speech on him. But -I'd liefer sweep th' streets, if paupers had na' got hold on that work. -Dunna yo' hope, miss. There'll be more chance o' getting milk out of a -flint. I wish yo' a very good night, and many thanks to yo'.'</p> - -<p>'You'll find your shoes by the kitchen fire; I took them there to dry,' -said Margaret.</p> - -<p>He turned round and looked at her steadily, and then he brushed his lean -hand across his eyes and went his way.</p> - -<p>'How proud that man is!' said her father, who was a little annoyed at -the manner in which Higgins had declined his intercession with Mr. -Thornton.</p> - -<p>'He is,' said Margaret; 'but what grand makings of a man there are in -him, pride and all.'</p> - -<p>'It's amusing to see how he evidently respects the part in Mr. -Thornton's character which is like his own.'</p> - -<p>'There's granite in all these northern people, papa, is there not?'</p> - -<p>'There was none in poor Boucher, I am afraid; none in his wife either.'</p> - -<p>'I should guess from their tones that they had Irish blood in them. I -wonder what success he'll have to-morrow. If he and Mr. Thornton would -speak out together as man to man—if Higgins would forget that Mr. -Thornton was a master, and speak to him as he does to us—and if Mr. -Thornton would be patient enough to listen to him with his human heart, -not with his master's ears—'</p> - -<p>'You are getting to do Mr. Thornton justice at last, Margaret,' said her -father, pinching her ear.</p> - -<p>Margaret had a strange choking at her heart, which made her unable to -answer. 'Oh!' thought she, 'I wish I were a man, that I could go and -force him to express his disapprobation, and tell him honestly that I -knew I deserved it. It seems hard to lose him as a friend just when I -had begun to feel his value. How tender he was with dear mamma! If it -were only for her sake, I wish he would come, and then at least I should -know how much I was abased in his eyes.'</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXVIII_PROMISES_FULFILLED" id="CHAPTER_XXXVIII_PROMISES_FULFILLED"></a>CHAPTER XXXVIII—PROMISES FULFILLED</h2> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">'Then proudly, proudly up she rose,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Tho' the tear was in her e'e,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">"Whate'er ye say, think what ye may,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Ye's get na word frae me!"'<br /></span> -<span class="i9">S<small>COTCH</small> B<small>ALLAD</small>.<br /></span> -</div></div> - -<p>It was not merely that Margaret was known to Mr. Thornton to have spoken -falsely,—though she imagined that for this reason only was she so -turned in his opinion,—but that this falsehood of hers bore a distinct -reference in his mind to some other lover. He could not forget the fond -and earnest look that had passed between her and some other man—the -attitude of familiar confidence, if not of positive endearment. The -thought of this perpetually stung him; it was a picture before his eyes, -wherever he went and whatever he was doing. In addition to this (and he -ground his teeth as he remembered it), was the hour, dusky twilight; the -place, so far away from home, and comparatively unfrequented. His nobler -self had said at first, that all this last might be accidental, -innocent, justifiable; but once allow her right to love and be beloved -(and had he any reason to deny her right?—had not her words been -severely explicit when she cast his love away from her?), she might -easily have been beguiled into a longer walk, on to a later hour than -she had anticipated. But that falsehood! which showed a fatal -consciousness of something wrong, and to be concealed, which was unlike -her. He did her that justice, though all the time it would have been a -relief to believe her utterly unworthy of his esteem. It was this that -made the misery—that he passionately loved her, and thought her, even -with all her faults, more lovely and more excellent than any other -woman; yet he deemed her so attached to some other man, so led away by -her affection for him as to violate her truthful nature. The very -falsehood that stained her, was a proof how blindly she loved -another—this dark, slight, elegant, handsome man—while he himself was -rough, and stern, and strongly made. He lashed himself into an agony of -fierce jealousy. He thought of that look, that attitude!—how he would -have laid his life at her feet for such tender glances, such fond -detention! He mocked at himself, for having valued the mechanical way in -which she had protected him from the fury of the mob; now he had seen -how soft and bewitching she looked when with a man she really loved. He -remembered, point by point, the sharpness of her words—'There was not a -man in all that crowd for whom she would not have done as much, far more -readily than for him.' He shared with the mob, in her desire of averting -bloodshed from them; but this man, this hidden lover, shared with -nobody; he had looks, words, hand-cleavings, lies, concealment, all to -himself.</p> - -<p>Mr. Thornton was conscious that he had never been so irritable as he was -now, in all his life long; he felt inclined to give a short abrupt -answer, more like a bark than a speech, to every one that asked him a -question; and this consciousness hurt his pride: he had always piqued -himself on his self-control, and control himself he would. So the manner -was subdued to a quiet deliberation, but the matter was even harder and -sterner than common. He was more than usually silent at home; employing -his evenings in a continual pace backwards and forwards, which would -have annoyed his mother exceedingly if it had been practised by any one -else; and did not tend to promote any forbearance on her part even to -this beloved son.</p> - -<p>'Can you stop—can you sit down for a moment? I have something to say to -you, if you would give up that everlasting walk, walk, walk.'</p> - -<p>He sat down instantly, on a chair against the wall.</p> - -<p>'I want to speak to you about Betsy. She says she must leave us; that -her lover's death has so affected her spirits she can't give her heart -to her work.'</p> - -<p>'Very well. I suppose other cooks are to be met with.'</p> - -<p>'That's so like a man. It's not merely the cooking, it is that she knows -all the ways of the house. Besides, she tells me something about your -friend Miss Hale.'</p> - -<p>'Miss Hale is no friend of mine. Mr. Hale is my friend.'</p> - -<p>'I am glad to hear you say so, for if she had been your friend, what -Betsy says would have annoyed you.'</p> - -<p>'Let me hear it,' said he, with the extreme quietness of manner he had -been assuming for the last few days.</p> - -<p>'Betsy says, that the night on which her lover—I forget his name—for -she always calls him "he"—— '</p> - -<p>'Leonards.'</p> - -<p>'The night on which Leonards was last seen at the station—when he was -last seen on duty, in fact—Miss Hale was there, walking about with a -young man who, Betsy believes, killed Leonards by some blow or push.'</p> - -<p>'Leonards was not killed by any blow or push.'</p> - -<p>'How do you know?'</p> - -<p>'Because I distinctly put the question to the surgeon of the Infirmary. -He told me there was an internal disease of long standing, caused by -Leonards' habit of drinking to excess; that the fact of his becoming -rapidly worse while in a state of intoxication, settled the question as -to whether the last fatal attack was caused by excess of drinking, or -the fall.'</p> - -<p>'The fall! What fall?'</p> - -<p>'Caused by the blow or push of which Betsy speaks.'</p> - -<p>'Then there was a blow or push?'</p> - -<p>'I believe so.'</p> - -<p>'And who did it?'</p> - -<p>'As there was no inquest, in consequence of the doctor's opinion, I -cannot tell you.'</p> - -<p>'But Miss Hale was there?'</p> - -<p>No answer.</p> - -<p>'And with a young man?'</p> - -<p>Still no answer. At last he said: 'I tell you, mother, that there was no -inquest—no inquiry. No judicial inquiry, I mean.'</p> - -<p>'Betsy says that Woolmer (some man she knows, who is in a grocer's shop -out at Crampton) can swear that Miss Hale was at the station at that -hour, walking backwards and forwards with a young man.'</p> - -<p>'I don't see what we have to do with that. Miss Hale is at liberty to -please herself.'</p> - -<p>'I'm glad to hear you say so,' said Mrs. Thornton, eagerly. 'It -certainly signifies very little to us—not at all to you, after what has -passed! but I—I made a promise to Mrs. Hale, that I would not allow her -daughter to go wrong without advising and remonstrating with her. I -shall certainly let her know my opinion of such conduct.'</p> - -<p>'I do not see any harm in what she did that evening,' said Mr. Thornton, -getting up, and coming near to his mother; he stood by the chimney-piece -with his face turned away from the room.</p> - -<p>'You would not have approved of Fanny's being seen out, after dark, in -rather a lonely place, walking about with a young man. I say nothing of -the taste which could choose the time, when her mother lay unburied, for -such a promenade. Should you have liked your sister to have been noticed -by a grocer's assistant for doing so?'</p> - -<p>'In the first place, as it is not many years since I myself was a -draper's assistant, the mere circumstance of a grocer's assistant -noticing any act does not alter the character of the act to me. And in -the next place, I see a great deal of difference between Miss Hale and -Fanny. I can imagine that the one may have weighty reasons, which may -and ought to make her overlook any seeming impropriety in her conduct. I -never knew Fanny have weighty reasons for anything. Other people must -guard her. I believe Miss Hale is a guardian to herself.'</p> - -<p>'A pretty character of your sister, indeed! Really, John, one would have -thought Miss Hale had done enough to make you clear-sighted. She drew -you on to an offer, by a bold display of pretended regard for you,—to -play you off against this very young man, I've no doubt. Her whole -conduct is clear to me now. You believe he is her lover, I suppose—you -agree to that.'</p> - -<p>He turned round to his mother; his face was very gray and grim. 'Yes, -mother. I do believe he is her lover.' When he had spoken, he turned -round again; he writhed himself about, like one in bodily pain. He leant -his face against his hand. Then before she could speak, he turned sharp -again:</p> - -<p>'Mother. He is her lover, whoever he is; but she may need help and -womanly counsel;—there may be difficulties or temptations which I don't -know. I fear there are. I don't want to know what they are; but as you -have ever been a good—ay! and a tender mother to me, go to her, and -gain her confidence, and tell her what is best to be done. I know that -something is wrong; some dread, must be a terrible torture to her.'</p> - -<p>'For God's sake, John!' said his mother, now really shocked, 'what do -you mean? What do you mean? What do you know?'</p> - -<p>He did not reply to her.</p> - -<p>'John! I don't know what I shan't think unless you speak. You have no -right to say what you have done against her.'</p> - -<p>'Not against her, mother! I <i>could</i> not speak against her.'</p> - -<p>'Well! you have no right to say what you have done, unless you say more. -These half-expressions are what ruin a woman's character.'</p> - -<p>'Her character! Mother, you do not dare—' he faced about, and looked -into her face with his flaming eyes. Then, drawing himself up into -determined composure and dignity, he said, 'I will not say any more than -this, which is neither more nor less than the simple truth, and I am -sure you believe me,—I have good reason to believe, that Miss Hale is -in some strait and difficulty connected with an attachment which, of -itself, from my knowledge of Miss Hale's character, is perfectly -innocent and right. What my reason is, I refuse to tell. But never let -me hear any one say a word against her, implying any more serious -imputation than that she now needs the counsel of some kind and gentle -woman. You promised Mrs. Hale to be that woman!'</p> - -<p>'No!' said Mrs. Thornton. 'I am happy to say, I did not promise kindness -and gentleness, for I felt at the time that it might be out of my power -to render these to one of Miss Hale's character and disposition. I -promised counsel and advice, such as I would give to my own daughter; I -shall speak to her as I would do to Fanny, if she had gone gallivanting -with a young man in the dusk. I shall speak with relation to the -circumstances I know, without being influenced either one way or another -by the "strong reasons" which you will not confide to me. Then I shall -have fulfilled my promise, and done my duty.'</p> - -<p>'She will never bear it,' said he passionately.</p> - -<p>'She will have to bear it, if I speak in her dead mother's name.'</p> - -<p>'Well!' said he, breaking away, 'don't tell me any more about it. I -cannot endure to think of it. It will be better that you should speak to -her any way, than that she should not be spoken to at all.—Oh! that -look of love!' continued he, between his teeth, as he bolted himself -into his own private room. 'And that cursed lie; which showed some -terrible shame in the background, to be kept from the light in which I -thought she lived perpetually! Oh, Margaret, Margaret! Mother, how you -have tortured me! Oh! Margaret, could you not have loved me? I am but -uncouth and hard, but I would never have led you into any falsehood for -me.'</p> - -<p>The more Mrs. Thornton thought over what her son had said, in pleading -for a merciful judgment for Margaret's indiscretion, the more bitterly -she felt inclined towards her. She took a savage pleasure in the idea of -'speaking her mind' to her, in the guise of fulfilment of a duty. She -enjoyed the thought of showing herself untouched by the 'glamour,' which -she was well aware Margaret had the power of throwing over many people. -She snorted scornfully over the picture of the beauty of her victim; her -jet black hair, her clear smooth skin, her lucid eyes would not help to -save her one word of the just and stern reproach which Mrs. Thornton -spent half the night in preparing to her mind.</p> - -<p>'Is Miss Hale within?' She knew she was, for she had seen her at the -window, and she had her feet inside the little hall before Martha had -half answered her question.</p> - -<p>Margaret was sitting alone, writing to Edith, and giving her many -particulars of her mother's last days. It was a softening employment, -and she had to brush away the unbidden tears as Mrs. Thornton was -announced.</p> - -<p>She was so gentle and ladylike in her mode of reception that her visitor -was somewhat daunted; and it became impossible to utter the speech, so -easy of arrangement with no one to address it to. Margaret's low rich -voice was softer than usual; her manner more gracious, because in her -heart she was feeling very grateful to Mrs. Thornton for the courteous -attention of her call. She exerted herself to find subjects of interest -for conversation; praised Martha, the servant whom Mrs. Thornton had -found for them; had asked Edith for a little Greek air, about which she -had spoken to Miss Thornton. Mrs. Thornton was fairly discomfited. Her -sharp Damascus blade seemed out of place, and useless among rose-leaves. -She was silent, because she was trying to task herself up to her duty. -At last, she stung herself into its performance by a suspicion which, in -spite of all probability, she allowed to cross her mind, that all this -sweetness was put on with a view of propitiating Mr. Thornton; that, -somehow, the other attachment had fallen through, and that it suited -Miss Hale's purpose to recall her rejected lover. Poor Margaret! there -was perhaps so much truth in the suspicion as this: that Mrs. Thornton -was the mother of one whose regard she valued, and feared to have lost; -and this thought unconsciously added to her natural desire of pleasing -one who was showing her kindness by her visit. Mrs. Thornton stood up to -go, but yet she seemed to have something more to say. She cleared her -throat and began:</p> - -<p>'Miss Hale, I have a duty to perform. I promised your poor mother that, -as far as my poor judgment went, I would not allow you to act in any way -wrongly, or (she softened her speech down a little here) inadvertently, -without remonstrating; at least, without offering advice, whether you -took it or not.'</p> - -<p>Margaret stood before her, blushing like any culprit, with her eyes -dilating as she gazed at Mrs. Thornton. She thought she had come to -speak to her about the falsehood she had told—that Mr. Thornton had -employed her to explain the danger she had exposed herself to, of being -confuted in full court! and although her heart sank to think he had not -rather chosen to come himself, and upbraid her, and receive her -penitence, and restore her again to his good opinion, yet she was too -much humbled not to bear any blame on this subject patiently and meekly.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Thornton went on:</p> - -<p>'At first, when I heard from one of my servants, that you had been seen -walking about with a gentleman, so far from home as the Outwood station, -at such a time of the evening, I could hardly believe it. But my son, I -am sorry to say, confirmed her story. It was indiscreet, to say the -least; many a young woman has lost her character before now—— '</p> - -<p>Margaret's eyes flashed fire. This was a new idea—this was too -insulting. If Mrs. Thornton had spoken to her about the lie she had -told, well and good—she would have owned it, and humiliated herself. -But to interfere with her conduct—to speak of her character! she—Mrs. -Thornton, a mere stranger—it was too impertinent! She would not answer -her—not one word. Mrs. Thornton saw the battle-spirit in Margaret's -eyes, and it called up her combativeness also.</p> - -<p>'For your mother's sake, I have thought it right to warn you against -such improprieties; they must degrade you in the long run in the -estimation of the world, even if in fact they do not lead you to -positive harm.'</p> - -<p>'For my mother's sake,' said Margaret, in a tearful voice, 'I will bear -much; but I cannot bear everything. She never meant me to be exposed to -insult, I am sure.'</p> - -<p>'Insult, Miss Hale!'</p> - -<p>'Yes, madam,' said Margaret more steadily, 'it is insult. What do you -know of me that should lead you to suspect—Oh!' said she, breaking -down, and covering her face with her hands—'I know now, Mr. Thornton -has told you—— '</p> - -<p>'No, Miss Hale,' said Mrs. Thornton, her truthfulness causing her to -arrest the confession Margaret was on the point of making, though her -curiosity was itching to hear it. 'Stop. Mr. Thornton has told me -nothing. You do not know my son. You are not worthy to know him. He said -this. Listen, young lady, that you may understand, if you can, what sort -of a man you rejected. This Milton manufacturer, his great tender heart -scorned as it was scorned, said to me only last night, "Go to her. I -have good reason to know that she is in some strait, arising out of some -attachment; and she needs womanly counsel." I believe those were his -very words. Farther than that—beyond admitting the fact of your being -at the Outwood station with a gentleman, on the evening of the -twenty-sixth—he has said nothing—not one word against you. If he has -knowledge of anything which should make you sob so, he keeps it to -himself.'</p> - -<p>Margaret's face was still hidden in her hands, the fingers of which were -wet with tears. Mrs. Thornton was a little mollified.</p> - -<p>'Come, Miss Hale. There may be circumstances, I'll allow, that, if -explained, may take off from the seeming impropriety.'</p> - -<p>Still no answer. Margaret was considering what to say; she wished to -stand well with Mrs. Thornton; and yet she could not, might not, give -any explanation. Mrs. Thornton grew impatient.</p> - -<p>'I shall be sorry to break off an acquaintance; but for Fanny's sake—as -I told my son, if Fanny had done so we should consider it a great -disgrace—and Fanny might be led away—— '</p> - -<p>'I can give you no explanation,' said Margaret, in a low voice. 'I have -done wrong, but not in the way you think or know about. I think Mr. -Thornton judges me more mercifully than you;'—she had hard work to keep -herself from choking with her tears—'but, I believe, madam, you mean to -do rightly.'</p> - -<p>'Thank you,' said Mrs. Thornton, drawing herself up; 'I was not aware -that my meaning was doubted. It is the last time I shall interfere. I -was unwilling to consent to do it, when your mother asked me. I had not -approved of my son's attachment to you, while I only suspected it. You -did not appear to me worthy of him. But when you compromised yourself as -you did at the time of the riot, and exposed yourself to the comments of -servants and workpeople, I felt it was no longer right to set myself -against my son's wish of proposing to you—a wish, by the way, which he -had always denied entertaining until the day of the riot.' Margaret -winced, and drew in her breath with a long, hissing sound; of which, -however, Mrs. Thornton took no notice. 'He came; you had apparently -changed your mind. I told my son yesterday, that I thought it possible, -short as was the interval, you might have heard or learnt something of -this other lover—— '</p> - -<p>'What must you think of me, madam?' asked Margaret, throwing her head -back with proud disdain, till her throat curved outwards like a swan's. -'You can say nothing more, Mrs. Thornton. I decline every attempt to -justify myself for anything. You must allow me to leave the room.'</p> - -<p>And she swept out of it with the noiseless grace of an offended -princess. Mrs. Thornton had quite enough of natural humour to make her -feel the ludicrousness of the position in which she was left. There was -nothing for it but to show herself out. She was not particularly annoyed -at Margaret's way of behaving. She did not care enough for her for that. -She had taken Mrs. Thornton's remonstrance to the full as keenly to -heart as that lady expected; and Margaret's passion at once mollified -her visitor, far more than any silence or reserve could have done. It -showed the effect of her words. 'My young lady,' thought Mrs. Thornton -to herself; 'you've a pretty good temper of your own. If John and you -had come together, he would have had to keep a tight hand over you, to -make you know your place. But I don't think you will go a-walking again -with your beau, at such an hour of the day, in a hurry. You've too much -pride and spirit in you for that. I like to see a girl fly out at the -notion of being talked about. It shows they're neither giddy, nor bold -by nature. As for that girl, she might be bold, but she'd never be -giddy. I'll do her that justice. Now as to Fanny, she'd be giddy, and -not bold. She's no courage in her, poor thing!'</p> - -<p>Mr. Thornton was not spending the morning so satisfactorily as his -mother. She, at any rate, was fulfilling her determined purpose. He was -trying to understand where he stood; what damage the strike had done -him. A good deal of his capital was locked up in new and expensive -machinery; and he had also bought cotton largely, with a view to some -great orders which he had in hand. The strike had thrown him terribly -behindhand, as to the completion of these orders. Even with his own -accustomed and skilled workpeople, he would have had some difficulty in -fulfilling his engagements; as it was, the incompetence of the Irish -hands, who had to be trained to their work, at a time requiring unusual -activity, was a daily annoyance.</p> - -<p>It was not a favourable hour for Higgins to make his request. But he had -promised Margaret to do it at any cost. So, though every moment added to -his repugnance, his pride, and his sullenness of temper, he stood -leaning against the dead wall, hour after hour, first on one leg, then -on the other. At last the latch was sharply lifted, and out came Mr. -Thornton.</p> - -<p>'I want for to speak to yo', sir.'</p> - -<p>'Can't stay now, my man. I'm too late as it is.'</p> - -<p>'Well, sir, I reckon I can wait till yo' come back.'</p> - -<p>Mr. Thornton was half way down the street. Higgins sighed. But it was no -use. To catch him in the street was his only chance of seeing 'the -measter;' if he had rung the lodge bell, or even gone up to the house to -ask for him, he would have been referred to the overlooker. So he stood -still again, vouchsafing no answer, but a short nod of recognition to -the few men who knew and spoke to him, as the crowd drove out of the -millyard at dinner-time, and scowling with all his might at the Irish -'knobsticks' who had just been imported. At last Mr. Thornton returned.</p> - -<p>'What! you there still!'</p> - -<p>'Ay, sir. I mun speak to yo'.'</p> - -<p>'Come in here, then. Stay, we'll go across the yard; the men are not -come back, and we shall have it to ourselves. These good people, I see, -are at dinner;' said he, closing the door of the porter's lodge.</p> - -<p>He stopped to speak to the overlooker. The latter said in a low tone:</p> - -<p>'I suppose you know, sir, that that man is Higgins, one of the leaders -of the Union; he that made that speech in Hurstfield.'</p> - -<p>'No, I didn't,' said Mr. Thornton, looking round sharply at his -follower. Higgins was known to him by name as a turbulent spirit.</p> - -<p>'Come along,' said he, and his tone was rougher than before. 'It is men -such as this,' thought he, 'who interrupt commerce and injure the very -town they live in: mere demagogues, lovers of power, at whatever cost to -others.'</p> - -<p>'Well, sir! what do you want with me?' said Mr. Thornton, facing round -at him, as soon as they were in the counting-house of the mill.</p> - -<p>'My name is Higgins'—</p> - -<p>'I know that,' broke in Mr. Thornton. 'What do you want, Mr. Higgins? -That's the question.'</p> - -<p>'I want work.'</p> - -<p>'Work! You're a pretty chap to come asking me for work. You don't want -impudence, that's very clear.'</p> - -<p>'I've getten enemies and backbiters, like my betters; but I ne'er heerd -o' ony of them calling me o'er-modest,' said Higgins. His blood was a -little roused by Mr. Thornton's manner, more than by his words.</p> - -<p>Mr. Thornton saw a letter addressed to himself on the table. He took it -up and read it through. At the end, he looked up and said, 'What are you -waiting for?'</p> - -<p>'An answer to the question I axed.'</p> - -<p>'I gave it you before. Don't waste any more of your time.'</p> - -<p>'Yo' made a remark, sir, on my impudence: but I were taught that it was -manners to say either "yes" or "no," when I were axed a civil question. -I should be thankfu' to yo' if yo'd give me work. Hamper will speak to -my being a good hand.'</p> - -<p>'I've a notion you'd better not send me to Hamper to ask for a -character, my man. I might hear more than you'd like.'</p> - -<p>'I'd take th' risk. Worst they could say of me is, that I did what I -thought best, even to my own wrong.'</p> - -<p>'You'd better go and try them, then, and see whether they'll give you -work. I've turned off upwards of a hundred of my best hands, for no -other fault than following you and such as you; and d'ye think I'll take -you on? I might as well put a firebrand into the midst of the -cotton-waste.'</p> - -<p>Higgins turned away; then the recollection of Boucher came over him, and -he faced round with the greatest concession he could persuade himself to -make.</p> - -<p>'I'd promise yo', measter, I'd not speak a word as could do harm, if so -be yo' did right by us; and I'd promise more: I'd promise that when I -seed yo' going wrong, and acting unfair, I'd speak to yo' in private -first; and that would be a fair warning. If yo' and I did na agree in -our opinion o' your conduct, yo' might turn me off at an hour's notice.'</p> - -<p>'Upon my word, you don't think small beer of yourself! Hamper has had a -loss of you. How came he to let you and your wisdom go?'</p> - -<p>'Well, we parted wi' mutual dissatisfaction. I wouldn't gi'e the pledge -they were asking; and they wouldn't have me at no rate. So I'm free to -make another engagement; and as I said before, though I should na' say -it, I'm a good hand, measter, and a steady man—specially when I can -keep fro' drink; and that I shall do now, if I ne'er did afore.'</p> - -<p>'That you may have more money laid up for another strike, I suppose?'</p> - -<p>'No! I'd be thankful if I was free to do that; it's for to keep th' -widow and childer of a man who was drove mad by them knobsticks o' -yourn; put out of his place by a Paddy that did na know weft fro' warp.'</p> - -<p>'Well! you'd better turn to something else, if you've any such good -intention in your head. I shouldn't advise you to stay in Milton: you're -too well known here.'</p> - -<p>'If it were summer,' said Higgins, 'I'd take to Paddy's work, and go as -a navvy, or haymaking, or summut, and ne'er see Milton again. But it's -winter, and th' childer will clem.'</p> - -<p>'A pretty navvy you'd make! why, you couldn't do half a day's work at -digging against an Irishman.'</p> - -<p>'I'd only charge half-a-day for th' twelve hours, if I could only do -half-a-day's work in th' time. Yo're not knowing of any place, where -they could gi' me a trial, away fro' the mills, if I'm such a firebrand? -I'd take any wage they thought I was worth, for the sake of those -childer.'</p> - -<p>'Don't you see what you would be? You'd be a knobstick. You'd be taking -less wages than the other labourers—all for the sake of another man's -children. Think how you'd abuse any poor fellow who was willing to take -what he could get to keep his own children. You and your Union would -soon be down upon him. No! no! if it's only for the recollection of the -way in which you've used the poor knobsticks before now, I say No! to -your question. I'll not give you work. I won't say, I don't believe your -pretext for coming and asking for work; I know nothing about it. It may -be true, or it may not. It's a very unlikely story, at any rate. Let me -pass. I'll not give you work. There's your answer.'</p> - -<p>'I hear, sir. I would na ha' troubled yo', but that I were bid to come, -by one as seemed to think yo'd getten some soft place in yo'r heart. -Hoo were mistook, and I were misled. But I'm not the first man as is -misled by a woman.'</p> - -<p>'Tell her to mind her own business the next time, instead of taking up -your time and mine too. I believe women are at the bottom of every -plague in this world. Be off with you.'</p> - -<p>'I'm obleeged to yo' for a' yo'r kindness, measter, and most of a' for -yo'r civil way o' saying good-bye.'</p> - -<p>Mr. Thornton did not deign a reply. But, looking out of the window a -minute after, he was struck with the lean, bent figure going out of the -yard: the heavy walk was in strange contrast with the resolute, clear -determination of the man to speak to him. He crossed to the porter's -lodge:</p> - -<p>'How long has that man Higgins been waiting to speak to me?'</p> - -<p>'He was outside the gate before eight o'clock, sir. I think he's been -there ever since.'</p> - -<p>'And it is now—?'</p> - -<p>'Just one, sir.'</p> - -<p>'Five hours,' thought Mr. Thornton; 'it's a long time for a man to wait, -doing nothing but first hoping and then fearing.'</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXIX_MAKING_FRIENDS" id="CHAPTER_XXXIX_MAKING_FRIENDS"></a>CHAPTER XXXIX—MAKING FRIENDS</h2> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">'Nay, I have done; you get no more of me:<br /></span> -<span class="i1">And I am glad, yea glad with all my heart,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">That thus so clearly I myself am free.'<br /></span> -<span class="i9">D<small>RAYTON</small>.<br /></span> -</div></div> - -<p>Margaret shut herself up in her own room, after she had quitted Mrs. -Thornton. She began to walk backwards and forwards, in her old habitual -way of showing agitation; but, then, remembering that in that -slightly-built house every step was heard from one room to another, she -sate down until she heard Mrs. Thornton go safely out of the house. She -forced herself to recollect all the conversation that had passed between -them; speech by speech, she compelled her memory to go through with it. -At the end, she rose up, and said to herself, in a melancholy tone:</p> - -<p>'At any rate, her words do not touch me; they fall off from me; for I am -innocent of all the motives she attributes to me. But still, it is hard -to think that any one—any woman—can believe all this of another so -easily. It is hard and sad. Where I have done wrong, she does not accuse -me—she does not know. He never told her: I might have known he would -not!'</p> - -<p>She lifted up her head, as if she took pride in any delicacy of feeling -which Mr. Thornton had shown. Then, as a new thought came across her, -she pressed her hands tightly together.</p> - -<p>'He, too, must take poor Frederick for some lover.' (She blushed as the -word passed through her mind.) 'I see it now. It is not merely that he -knows of my falsehood, but he believes that some one else cares for me; -and that I—— Oh dear!—oh dear! What shall I do? What do I mean? Why -do I care what he thinks, beyond the mere loss of his good opinion as -regards my telling the truth or not? I cannot tell. But I am very -miserable! Oh, how unhappy this last year has been! I have passed out of -childhood into old age. I have had no youth—no womanhood; the hopes of -womanhood have closed for me—for I shall never marry; and I anticipate -cares and sorrows just as if I were an old woman, and with the same -fearful spirit. I am weary of this continual call upon me for strength. -I could bear up for papa; because that is a natural, pious duty. And I -think I could bear up against—at any rate, I could have the energy to -resent, Mrs. Thornton's unjust, impertinent suspicions. But it is hard -to feel how completely he must misunderstand me. What has happened to -make me so morbid to-day? I do not know. I only know I cannot help it. I -must give way sometimes. No, I will not, though,' said she, springing to -her feet. 'I will not—I <i>will</i> not think of myself and my own position. -I won't examine into my own feelings. It would be of no use now. Some -time, if I live to be an old woman, I may sit over the fire, and, -looking into the embers, see the life that might have been.'</p> - -<p>All this time, she was hastily putting on her things to go out, only -stopping from time to time to wipe her eyes, with an impatience of -gesture at the tears that would come, in spite of all her bravery.</p> - -<p>'I dare say, there's many a woman makes as sad a mistake as I have done, -and only finds it out too late. And how proudly and impertinently I -spoke to him that day! But I did not know then. It has come upon me -little by little, and I don't know where it began. Now I won't give way. -I shall find it difficult to behave in the same way to him, with this -miserable consciousness upon me; but I will be very calm and very quiet, -and say very little. But, to be sure, I may not see him; he keeps out of -our way evidently. That would be worse than all. And yet no wonder that -he avoids me, believing what he must about me.'</p> - -<p>She went out, going rapidly towards the country, and trying to drown -reflection by swiftness of motion.</p> - -<p>As she stood on the door-step, at her return, her father came up:</p> - -<p>'Good girl!' said he. 'You've been to Mrs. Boucher's. I was just meaning -to go there, if I had time, before dinner.'</p> - -<p>'No, papa; I have not,' said Margaret, reddening. 'I never thought about -her. But I will go directly after dinner; I will go while you are taking -your nap.'</p> - -<p>Accordingly Margaret went. Mrs. Boucher was very ill; really ill—not -merely ailing. The kind and sensible neighbour, who had come in the -other day, seemed to have taken charge of everything. Some of the -children were gone to the neighbours. Mary Higgins had come for the -three youngest at dinner-time; and since then Nicholas had gone for the -doctor. He had not come as yet; Mrs. Boucher was dying; and there was -nothing to do but to wait. Margaret thought that she should like to know -his opinion, and that she could not do better than go and see the -Higginses in the meantime. She might then possibly hear whether Nicholas -had been able to make his application to Mr. Thornton.</p> - -<p>She found Nicholas busily engaged in making a penny spin on the dresser, -for the amusement of three little children, who were clinging to him in -a fearless manner. He, as well as they, was smiling at a good long spin; -and Margaret thought, that the happy look of interest in his occupation -was a good sign. When the penny stopped spinning, 'lile Johnnie' began -to cry.</p> - -<p>'Come to me,' said Margaret, taking him off the dresser, and holding him -in her arms; she held her watch to his ear, while she asked Nicholas if -he had seen Mr. Thornton.</p> - -<p>The look on his face changed instantly.</p> - -<p>'Ay!' said he. 'I've seen and heerd too much on him.'</p> - -<p>'He refused you, then?' said Margaret, sorrowfully.</p> - -<p>'To be sure. I knew he'd do it all long. It's no good expecting marcy at -the hands o' them measters. Yo're a stranger and a foreigner, and aren't -likely to know their ways; but I knowed it.'</p> - -<p>'I am sorry I asked you. Was he angry? He did not speak to you as Hamper -did, did he?'</p> - -<p>'He weren't o'er-civil!' said Nicholas, spinning the penny again, as -much for his own amusement as for that of the children. 'Never yo' fret, -I'm only where I was. I'll go on tramp to-morrow. I gave him as good as -I got. I telled him, I'd not that good opinion on him that I'd ha' come -a second time of mysel'; but yo'd advised me for to come, and I were -beholden to yo'.'</p> - -<p>'You told him I sent you?'</p> - -<p>'I dunno' if I ca'd yo' by your name. I dunnot think I did. I said, a -woman who knew no better had advised me for to come and see if there was -a soft place in his heart.'</p> - -<p>'And he—?' asked Margaret.</p> - -<p>'Said I were to tell yo' to mind yo'r own business.—That's the longest -spin yet, my lads.—And them's civil words to what he used to me. But -ne'er mind. We're but where we was; and I'll break stones on th' road -afore I let these little uns clem.'</p> - -<p>Margaret put the struggling Johnnie out of her arms, back into his -former place on the dresser.</p> - -<p>'I am sorry I asked you to go to Mr. Thornton's. I am disappointed in -him.'</p> - -<p>There was a slight noise behind her. Both she and Nicholas turned round -at the same moment, and there stood Mr. Thornton, with a look of -displeased surprise upon his face. Obeying her swift impulse, Margaret -passed out before him, saying not a word, only bowing low to hide the -sudden paleness that she felt had come over her face. He bent equally -low in return, and then closed the door after her. As she hurried to -Mrs. Boucher's, she heard the clang, and it seemed to fill up the -measure of her mortification. He too was annoyed to find her there. He -had tenderness in his heart—'a soft place,' as Nicholas Higgins called -it; but he had some pride in concealing it; he kept it very sacred and -safe, and was jealous of every circumstance that tried to gain -admission. But if he dreaded exposure of his tenderness, he was equally -desirous that all men should recognise his justice; and he felt that he -had been unjust, in giving so scornful a hearing to any one who had -waited, with humble patience, for five hours, to speak to him. That the -man had spoken saucily to him when he had the opportunity, was nothing -to Mr. Thornton. He rather liked him for it; and he was conscious of his -own irritability of temper at the time, which probably made them both -quits. It was the five hours of waiting that struck Mr. Thornton. He had -not five hours to spare himself; but one hour—two hours, of his hard -penetrating intellectual, as well as bodily labour, did he give up to -going about collecting evidence as to the truth of Higgins's story, the -nature of his character, the tenor of his life. He tried not to be, but -was convinced that all that Higgins had said was true. And then the -conviction went in, as if by some spell, and touched the latent -tenderness of his heart; the patience of the man, the simple generosity -of the motive (for he had learnt about the quarrel between Boucher and -Higgins), made him forget entirely the mere reasonings of justice, and -overleap them by a diviner instinct. He came to tell Higgins he would -give him work; and he was more annoyed to find Margaret there than by -hearing her last words, for then he understood that she was the woman -who had urged Higgins to come to him; and he dreaded the admission of -any thought of her, as a motive to what he was doing solely because it -was right.</p> - -<p>'So that was the lady you spoke of as a woman?' said he indignantly to -Higgins. 'You might have told me who she was.'</p> - -<p>'And then, maybe, yo'd ha' spoken of her more civil than yo' did; yo'd -getten a mother who might ha' kept yo'r tongue in check when yo' were -talking o' women being at the root o' all the plagues.'</p> - -<p>'Of course you told that to Miss Hale?'</p> - -<p>'In coorse I did. Leastways, I reckon I did. I telled her she weren't to -meddle again in aught that concerned yo'.'</p> - -<p>'Whose children are those—yours?' Mr. Thornton had a pretty good notion -whose they were, from what he had heard; but he felt awkward in turning -the conversation round from this unpromising beginning.</p> - -<p>'They're not mine, and they are mine.'</p> - -<p>'They are the children you spoke of to me this morning?'</p> - -<p>'When yo' said,' replied Higgins, turning round, with ill-smothered -fierceness, 'that my story might be true or might not, bur it were a -very unlikely one. Measter, I've not forgetten.'</p> - -<p>Mr. Thornton was silent for a moment; then he said: 'No more have I. I -remember what I said. I spoke to you about those children in a way I had -no business to do. I did not believe you. I could not have taken care of -another man's children myself, if he had acted towards me as I hear -Boucher did towards you. But I know now that you spoke truth. I beg your -pardon.'</p> - -<p>Higgins did not turn round, or immediately respond to this. But when he -did speak, it was in a softened tone, although the words were gruff -enough.</p> - -<p>'Yo've no business to go prying into what happened between Boucher and -me. He's dead, and I'm sorry. That's enough.'</p> - -<p>'So it is. Will you take work with me? That's what I came to ask.'</p> - -<p>Higgins's obstinacy wavered, recovered strength, and stood firm. He -would not speak. Mr. Thornton would not ask again. Higgins's eye fell on -the children.</p> - -<p>'Yo've called me impudent, and a liar, and a mischief-maker, and yo' -might ha' said wi' some truth, as I were now and then given to drink. -An' I ha' called you a tyrant, an' an oud bull-dog, and a hard, cruel -master; that's where it stands. But for th' childer. Measter, do yo' -think we can e'er get on together?'</p> - -<p>'Well!' said Mr. Thornton, half-laughing, 'it was not my proposal that -we should go together. But there's one comfort, on your own showing. We -neither of us can think much worse of the other than we do now.'</p> - -<p>'That's true,' said Higgins, reflectively. 'I've been thinking, ever -sin' I saw you, what a marcy it were yo' did na take me on, for that I -ne'er saw a man whom I could less abide. But that's maybe been a hasty -judgment; and work's work to such as me. So, measter, I'll come; and -what's more, I thank yo'; and that's a deal fro' me,' said he, more -frankly, suddenly turning round and facing Mr. Thornton fully for the -first time.</p> - -<p>'And this is a deal from me,' said Mr. Thornton, giving Higgins's hand a -good grip. 'Now mind you come sharp to your time,' continued he, -resuming the master. 'I'll have no laggards at my mill. What fines we -have, we keep pretty sharply. And the first time I catch you making -mischief, off you go. So now you know where you are.'</p> - -<p>'Yo' spoke of my wisdom this morning. I reckon I may bring it wi' me; or -would yo' rayther have me 'bout my brains?'</p> - -<p>''Bout your brains if you use them for meddling with my business; with -your brains if you can keep them to your own.'</p> - -<p>'I shall need a deal o' brains to settle where my business ends and -yo'rs begins.'</p> - -<p>'Your business has not begun yet, and mine stands still for me. So good -afternoon.'</p> - -<p>Just before Mr. Thornton came up to Mrs. Boucher's door, Margaret came -out of it. She did not see him; and he followed her for several yards, -admiring her light and easy walk, and her tall and graceful figure. But, -suddenly, this simple emotion of pleasure was tainted, poisoned by -jealousy. He wished to overtake her, and speak to her, to see how she -would receive him, now she must know he was aware of some other -attachment. He wished too, but of this wish he was rather ashamed, that -she should know that he had justified her wisdom in sending Higgins to -him to ask for work; and had repented him of his morning's decision. He -came up to her. She started.</p> - -<p>'Allow me to say, Miss Hale, that you were rather premature in -expressing your disappointment. I have taken Higgins on.'</p> - -<p>'I am glad of it,' said she, coldly.</p> - -<p>'He tells me, he repeated to you, what I said this morning about—' Mr. -Thornton hesitated. Margaret took it up:</p> - -<p>'About women not meddling. You had a perfect right to express your -opinion, which was a very correct one, I have no doubt. But,' she went -on a little more eagerly, 'Higgins did not quite tell you the exact -truth.' The word 'truth,' reminded her of her own untruth, and she -stopped short, feeling exceedingly uncomfortable.</p> - -<p>Mr. Thornton at first was puzzled to account for her silence; and then -he remembered the lie she had told, and all that was foregone. 'The -exact truth!' said he. 'Very few people do speak the exact truth. I have -given up hoping for it. Miss Hale, have you no explanation to give me? -You must perceive what I cannot but think.'</p> - -<p>Margaret was silent. She was wondering whether an explanation of any -kind would be consistent with her loyalty to Frederick.</p> - -<p>'Nay,' said he, 'I will ask no farther. I may be putting temptation in -your way. At present, believe me, your secret is safe with me. But you -run great risks, allow me to say, in being so indiscreet. I am now only -speaking as a friend of your father's: if I had any other thought or -hope, of course that is at an end. I am quite disinterested.'</p> - -<p>'I am aware of that,' said Margaret, forcing herself to speak in an -indifferent, careless way. 'I am aware of what I must appear to you, but -the secret is another person's, and I cannot explain it without doing -him harm.'</p> - -<p>'I have not the slightest wish to pry into the gentleman's secrets,' he -said, with growing anger. 'My own interest in you is—simply that of a -friend. You may not believe me, Miss Hale, but it is—in spite of the -persecution I'm afraid I threatened you with at one time—but that is -all given up; all passed away. You believe me, Miss Hale?'</p> - -<p>'Yes,' said Margaret, quietly and sadly.</p> - -<p>'Then, really, I don't see any occasion for us to go on walking -together. I thought, perhaps you might have had something to say, but I -see we are nothing to each other. If you're quite convinced, that any -foolish passion on my part is entirely over, I will wish you good -afternoon.' He walked off very hastily.</p> - -<p>'What can he mean?' thought Margaret,—'what could he mean by speaking -so, as if I were always thinking that he cared for me, when I know he -does not; he cannot. His mother will have said all those cruel things -about me to him. But I won't care for him. I surely am mistress enough -of myself to control this wild, strange, miserable feeling, which -tempted me even to betray my own dear Frederick, so that I might but -regain his good opinion—the good opinion of a man who takes such pains -to tell me that I am nothing to him. Come poor little heart! be cheery -and brave. We'll be a great deal to one another, if we are thrown off -and left desolate.'</p> - -<p>Her father was almost startled by her merriment this afternoon. She -talked incessantly, and forced her natural humour to an unusual pitch; -and if there was a tinge of bitterness in much of what she said; if her -accounts of the old Harley Street set were a little sarcastic, her -father could not bear to check her, as he would have done at another -time—for he was glad to see her shake off her cares. In the middle of -the evening, she was called down to speak to Mary Higgins; and when she -came back, Mr. Hale imagined that he saw traces of tears on her cheeks. -But that could not be, for she brought good news—that Higgins had got -work at Mr. Thornton's mill. Her spirits were damped, at any rate, and -she found it very difficult to go on talking at all, much more in the -wild way that she had done. For some days her spirits varied strangely; -and her father was beginning to be anxious about her, when news arrived -from one or two quarters that promised some change and variety for her. -Mr. Hale received a letter from Mr. Bell, in which that gentleman -volunteered a visit to them; and Mr. Hale imagined that the promised -society of his old Oxford friend would give as agreeable a turn to -Margaret's ideas as it did to his own. Margaret tried to take an -interest in what pleased her father; but she was too languid to care -about any Mr. Bell, even though he were twenty times her godfather. She -was more roused by a letter from Edith, full of sympathy about her -aunt's death; full of details about herself, her husband, and child; and -at the end saying, that as the climate did not suit the baby, and as -Mrs. Shaw was talking of returning to England, she thought it probable -that Captain Lennox might sell out, and that they might all go and live -again in the old Harley Street house; which, however, would seem very -incomplete with-out Margaret. Margaret yearned after that old house, and -the placid tranquillity of that old well-ordered, monotonous life. She -had found it occasionally tiresome while it lasted; but since then she -had been buffeted about, and felt so exhausted by this recent struggle -with herself, that she thought that even stagnation would be a rest and -a refreshment. So she began to look towards a long visit to the -Lennoxes, on their return to England, as to a point—no, not of -hope—but of leisure, in which she could regain her power and command -over herself. At present it seemed to her as if all subjects tended -towards Mr. Thornton; as if she could not forget him with all her -endeavours. If she went to see the Higginses, she heard of him there; -her father had resumed their readings together, and quoted his opinions -perpetually; even Mr. Bell's visit brought his tenant's name upon the -tapis; for he wrote word that he believed he must be occupied some great -part of his time with Mr. Thornton, as a new lease was in preparation, -and the terms of it must be agreed upon.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XL_OUT_OF_TUNE" id="CHAPTER_XL_OUT_OF_TUNE"></a>CHAPTER XL—OUT OF TUNE</h2> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">'I have no wrong, where I can claim no right,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Naught ta'en me fro, where I have nothing had,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Yet of my woe I cannot so be quite;<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Namely, since that another may be glad<br /></span> -<span class="i1">With that, that thus in sorrow makes me sad.'<br /></span> -<span class="i9">W<small>YATT</small>.<br /></span> -</div></div> - -<p>Margaret had not expected much pleasure to herself from Mr. Bell's -visit—she had only looked forward to it on her father's account, but -when her godfather came, she at once fell into the most natural position -of friendship in the world. He said she had no merit in being what she -was, a girl so entirely after his own heart; it was an hereditary power -which she had, to walk in and take possession of his regard; while she, -in reply, gave him much credit for being so fresh and young under his -Fellow's cap and gown.</p> - -<p>'Fresh and young in warmth and kindness, I mean. I'm afraid I must own, -that I think your opinions are the oldest and mustiest I have met with -this long time.'</p> - -<p>'Hear this daughter of yours, Hale. Her residence in Milton has quite -corrupted her. She's a democrat, a red republican, a member of the Peace -Society, a socialist—'</p> - -<p>'Papa, it's all because I'm standing up for the progress of commerce. -Mr. Bell would have had it keep still at exchanging wild-beast skins for -acorns.'</p> - -<p>'No, no. I'd dig the ground and grow potatoes. And I'd shave the -wild-beast skins and make the wool into broad cloth. Don't exaggerate, -missy. But I'm tired of this bustle. Everybody rushing over everybody, -in their hurry to get rich.'</p> - -<p>'It is not every one who can sit comfortably in a set of college rooms, -and let his riches grow without any exertion of his own. No doubt there -is many a man here who would be thankful if his property would increase -as yours has done, without his taking any trouble about it,' said Mr. -Hale.</p> - -<p>'I don't believe they would. It's the bustle and the struggle they like. -As for sitting still, and learning from the past, or shaping out the -future by faithful work done in a prophetic spirit—Why! Pooh! I don't -believe there's a man in Milton who knows how to sit still; and it is a -great art.'</p> - -<p>'Milton people, I suspect, think Oxford men don't know how to move. It -would be a very good thing if they mixed a little more.'</p> - -<p>'It might be good for the Miltoners. Many things might be good for them -which would be very disagreeable for other people.'</p> - -<p>'Are you not a Milton man yourself?' asked Margaret. 'I should have -thought you would have been proud of your town.'</p> - -<p>'I confess, I don't see what there is to be proud of. If you'll only -come to Oxford, Margaret, I will show you a place to glory in.'</p> - -<p>'Well!' said Mr. Hale, 'Mr. Thornton is coming to drink tea with us -to-night, and he is as proud of Milton as you of Oxford. You two must -try and make each other a little more liberal-minded.'</p> - -<p>'I don't want to be more liberal-minded, thank you,' said Mr. Bell.</p> - -<p>'Is Mr. Thornton coming to tea, papa?' asked Margaret in a low voice.</p> - -<p>'Either to tea or soon after. He could not tell. He told us not to -wait.'</p> - -<p>Mr. Thornton had determined that he would make no inquiry of his mother -as to how far she had put her project into execution of speaking to -Margaret about the impropriety of her conduct. He felt pretty sure that, -if this interview took place, his mother's account of what passed at it -would only annoy and chagrin him, though he would all the time be aware -of the colouring which it received by passing through her mind. He -shrank from hearing Margaret's very name mentioned; he, while he blamed -her—while he was jealous of her—while he renounced her—he loved her -sorely, in spite of himself. He dreamt of her; he dreamt she came -dancing towards him with outspread arms, and with a lightness and gaiety -which made him loathe her, even while it allured him. But the impression -of this figure of Margaret—with all Margaret's character taken out of -it, as completely as if some evil spirit had got possession of her -form—was so deeply stamped upon his imagination, that when he wakened -he felt hardly able to separate the Una from the Duessa; and the dislike -he had to the latter seemed to envelope and disfigure the former. Yet he -was too proud to acknowledge his weakness by avoiding the sight of her. -He would neither seek an opportunity of being in her company nor avoid -it. To convince himself of his power of self-control, he lingered over -every piece of business this afternoon; he forced every movement into -unnatural slowness and deliberation; and it was consequently past eight -o'clock before he reached Mr. Hale's. Then there were business -arrangements to be transacted in the study with Mr. Bell; and the latter -kept on, sitting over the fire, and talking wearily, long after all -business was transacted, and when they might just as well have gone -upstairs. But Mr. Thornton would not say a word about moving their -quarters; he chafed and chafed, and thought Mr. Bell a most prosy -companion; while Mr. Bell returned the compliment in secret, by -considering Mr. Thornton about as brusque and curt a fellow as he had -ever met with, and terribly gone off both in intelligence and manner. At -last, some slight noise in the room above suggested the desirableness of -moving there. They found Margaret with a letter open before her, eagerly -discussing its contents with her father. On the entrance of the -gentlemen, it was immediately put aside; but Mr. Thornton's eager senses -caught some few words of Mr. Hale's to Mr. Bell.</p> - -<p>'A letter from Henry Lennox. It makes Margaret very hopeful.'</p> - -<p>Mr. Bell nodded. Margaret was red as a rose when Mr. Thornton looked at -her. He had the greatest mind in the world to get up and go out of the -room that very instant, and never set foot in the house again.</p> - -<p>'We were thinking,' said Mr. Hale, 'that you and Mr. Thornton had taken -Margaret's advice, and were each trying to convert the other, you were -so long in the study.'</p> - -<p>'And you thought there would be nothing left of us but an opinion, like -the Kilkenny cat's tail. Pray whose opinion did you think would have the -most obstinate vitality?'</p> - -<p>Mr. Thornton had not a notion what they were talking about, and -disdained to inquire. Mr. Hale politely enlightened him.</p> - -<p>'Mr. Thornton, we were accusing Mr. Bell this morning of a kind of -Oxonian mediaeval bigotry against his native town; and we—Margaret, I -believe—suggested that it would do him good to associate a little with -Milton manufacturers.'</p> - -<p>'I beg your pardon. Margaret thought it would do the Milton -manufacturers good to associate a little more with Oxford men. Now -wasn't it so, Margaret?'</p> - -<p>'I believe I thought it would do both good to see a little more of the -other,—I did not know it was my idea any more than papa's.'</p> - -<p>'And so you see, Mr. Thornton, we ought to have been improving each -other down-stairs, instead of talking over vanished families of Smiths -and Harrisons. However, I am willing to do my part now. I wonder when -you Milton men intend to live. All your lives seem to be spent in -gathering together the materials for life.'</p> - -<p>'By living, I suppose you mean enjoyment.'</p> - -<p>'Yes, enjoyment,—I don't specify of what, because I trust we should -both consider mere pleasure as very poor enjoyment.'</p> - -<p>'I would rather have the nature of the enjoyment defined.'</p> - -<p>'Well! enjoyment of leisure—enjoyment of the power and influence which -money gives. You are all striving for money. What do you want it for?'</p> - -<p>Mr. Thornton was silent. Then he said, 'I really don't know. But money -is not what <i>I</i> strive for.'</p> - -<p>'What then?'</p> - -<p>'It is a home question. I shall have to lay myself open to such a -catechist, and I am not sure that I am prepared to do it.'</p> - -<p>'No!' said Mr. Hale; 'don't let us be personal in our catechism. You are -neither of you representative men; you are each of you too individual -for that.'</p> - -<p>'I am not sure whether to consider that as a compliment or not. I should -like to be the representative of Oxford, with its beauty and its -learning, and its proud old history. What do you say, Margaret; ought I -to be flattered?'</p> - -<p>'I don't know Oxford. But there is a difference between being the -representative of a city and the representative man of its inhabitants.'</p> - -<p>'Very true, Miss Margaret. Now I remember, you were against me this -morning, and were quite Miltonian and manufacturing in your -preferences.' Margaret saw the quick glance of surprise that Mr. -Thornton gave her, and she was annoyed at the construction which he -might put on this speech of Mr. Bell's. Mr. Bell went on—</p> - -<p>'Ah! I wish I could show you our High Street—our Radcliffe Square. I am -leaving out our colleges, just as I give Mr. Thornton leave to omit his -factories in speaking of the charms of Milton. I have a right to abuse -my birth-place. Remember I am a Milton man.'</p> - -<p>Mr. Thornton was annoyed more than he ought to have been at all that Mr. -Bell was saying. He was not in a mood for joking. At another time, he -could have enjoyed Mr. Bell's half testy condemnation of a town where -the life was so at variance with every habit he had formed; but now, he -was galled enough to attempt to defend what was never meant to be -seriously attacked.</p> - -<p>'I don't set up Milton as a model of a town.'</p> - -<p>'Not in architecture?' slyly asked Mr. Bell.</p> - -<p>'No! We've been too busy to attend to mere outward appearances.'</p> - -<p>'Don't say <i>mere</i> outward appearances,' said Mr. Hale, gently. 'They -impress us all, from childhood upward—every day of our life.'</p> - -<p>'Wait a little while,' said Mr. Thornton. 'Remember, we are of a -different race from the Greeks, to whom beauty was everything, and to -whom Mr. Bell might speak of a life of leisure and serene enjoyment, -much of which entered in through their outward senses. I don't mean to -despise them, any more than I would ape them. But I belong to Teutonic -blood; it is little mingled in this part of England to what it is in -others; we retain much of their language; we retain more of their -spirit; we do not look upon life as a time for enjoyment, but as a time -for action and exertion. Our glory and our beauty arise out of our -inward strength, which makes us victorious over material resistance, and -over greater difficulties still. We are Teutonic up here in Darkshire in -another way. We hate to have laws made for us at a distance. We wish -people would allow us to right ourselves, instead of continually -meddling, with their imperfect legislation. We stand up for -self-government, and oppose centralisation.'</p> - -<p>'In short, you would like the Heptarchy back again. Well, at any rate, I -revoke what I said this morning—that you Milton people did not -reverence the past. You are regular worshippers of Thor.'</p> - -<p>'If we do not reverence the past as you do in Oxford, it is because we -want something which can apply to the present more directly. It is fine -when the study of the past leads to a prophecy of the future. But to men -groping in new circumstances, it would be finer if the words of -experience could direct us how to act in what concerns us most -intimately and immediately; which is full of difficulties that must be -encountered; and upon the mode in which they are met and conquered—not -merely pushed aside for the time—depends our future. Out of the wisdom -of the past, help us over the present. But no! People can speak of -Utopia much more easily than of the next day's duty; and yet when that -duty is all done by others, who so ready to cry, "Fie, for shame!"'</p> - -<p>'And all this time I don't see what you are talking about. Would you -Milton men condescend to send up your to-day's difficulty to Oxford? You -have not tried us yet.'</p> - -<p>Mr. Thornton laughed outright at this. 'I believe I was talking with -reference to a good deal that has been troubling us of late; I was -thinking of the strikes we have gone through, which are troublesome and -injurious things enough, as I am finding to my cost. And yet this last -strike, under which I am smarting, has been respectable.'</p> - -<p>'A respectable strike!' said Mr. Bell. 'That sounds as if you were far -gone in the worship of Thor.'</p> - -<p>Margaret felt, rather than saw, that Mr. Thornton was chagrined by the -repeated turning into jest of what he was feeling as very serious. She -tried to change the conversation from a subject about which one party -cared little, while, to the other, it was deeply, because personally, -interesting. She forced herself to say something.</p> - -<p>'Edith says she finds the printed calicoes in Corfu better and cheaper -than in London.'</p> - -<p>'Does she?' said her father. 'I think that must be one of Edith's -exaggerations. Are you sure of it, Margaret?'</p> - -<p>'I am sure she says so, papa.'</p> - -<p>'Then I am sure of the fact,' said Mr. Bell. 'Margaret, I go so far in -my idea of your truthfulness, that it shall cover your cousin's -character. I don't believe a cousin of yours could exaggerate.'</p> - -<p>'Is Miss Hale so remarkable for truth?' said Mr. Thornton, bitterly. The -moment he had done so, he could have bitten his tongue out. What was he? -And why should he stab her with her shame in this way? How evil he was -to-night; possessed by ill-humour at being detained so long from her; -irritated by the mention of some name, because he thought it belonged to -a more successful lover; now ill-tempered because he had been unable to -cope, with a light heart, against one who was trying, by gay and -careless speeches, to make the evening pass pleasantly away,—the kind -old friend to all parties, whose manner by this time might be well known -to Mr. Thornton, who had been acquainted with him for many years. And -then to speak to Margaret as he had done! She did not get up and leave -the room, as she had done in former days, when his abruptness or his -temper had annoyed her. She sat quite still, after the first momentary -glance of grieved surprise, that made her eyes look like some child's -who has met with an unexpected rebuff; they slowly dilated into -mournful, reproachful sadness; and then they fell, and she bent over her -work, and did not speak again. But he could not help looking at her, and -he saw a sigh tremble over her body, as if she quivered in some unwonted -chill. He felt as the mother would have done, in the midst of 'her -rocking it, and rating it,' had she been called away before her slow -confiding smile, implying perfect trust in mother's love, had proved the -renewing of its love. He gave short sharp answers; he was uneasy and -cross, unable to discern between jest and earnest; anxious only for a -look, a word of hers, before which to prostrate himself in penitent -humility. But she neither looked nor spoke. Her round taper fingers flew -in and out of her sewing, as steadily and swiftly as if that were the -business of her life. She could not care for him, he thought, or else -the passionate fervour of his wish would have forced her to raise those -eyes, if but for an instant, to read the late repentance in his. He -could have struck her before he left, in order that by some strange -overt act of rudeness, he might earn the privilege of telling her the -remorse that gnawed at his heart. It was well that the long walk in the -open air wound up this evening for him. It sobered him back into grave -resolution, that henceforth he would see as little of her as -possible,—since the very sight of that face and form, the very sounds -of that voice (like the soft winds of pure melody) had such power to -move him from his balance. Well! He had known what love was—a sharp -pang, a fierce experience, in the midst of whose flames he was -struggling! but, through that furnace he would fight his way out into -the serenity of middle age,—all the richer and more human for having -known this great passion.</p> - -<p>When he had somewhat abruptly left the room, Margaret rose from her -seat, and began silently to fold up her work; the long seams were heavy, -and had an unusual weight for her languid arms. The round lines in her -face took a lengthened, straighter form, and her whole appearance was -that of one who had gone through a day of great fatigue. As the three -prepared for bed, Mr. Bell muttered forth a little condemnation of Mr. -Thornton.</p> - -<p>'I never saw a fellow so spoiled by success. He can't bear a word; a -jest of any kind. Everything seems to touch on the soreness of his high -dignity. Formerly, he was as simple and noble as the open day; you could -not offend him, because he had no vanity.'</p> - -<p>'He is not vain now,' said Margaret, turning round from the table, and -speaking with quiet distinctness. 'To-night he has not been like -himself. Something must have annoyed him before he came here.'</p> - -<p>Mr. Bell gave her one of his sharp glances from above his spectacles. -She stood it quite calmly; but, after she had left the room, he suddenly -asked,—</p> - -<p>'Hale! did it ever strike you that Thornton and your daughter have what -the French call a tendresse for each other?'</p> - -<p>'Never!' said Mr. Hale, first startled and then flurried by the new -idea. 'No, I am sure you are wrong. I am almost certain you are -mistaken. If there is anything, it is all on Mr. Thornton's side. Poor -fellow! I hope and trust he is not thinking of her, for I am sure she -would not have him.'</p> - -<p>'Well! I'm a bachelor, and have steered clear of love affairs all my -life; so perhaps my opinion is not worth having. Or else I should say -there were very pretty symptoms about her!'</p> - -<p>'Then I am sure you are wrong,' said Mr. Hale. 'He may care for her, -though she really has been almost rude to him at times. But she!—why, -Margaret would never think of him, I'm sure! Such a thing has never -entered her head.'</p> - -<p>'Entering her heart would do. But I merely threw out a suggestion of -what might be. I dare say I was wrong. And whether I was wrong or right, -I'm very sleepy; so, having disturbed your night's rest (as I can see) -with my untimely fancies, I'll betake myself with an easy mind to my -own.'</p> - -<p>But Mr. Hale resolved that he would not be disturbed by any such -nonsensical idea; so he lay awake, determining not to think about it.</p> - -<p>Mr. Bell took his leave the next day, bidding Margaret look to him as -one who had a right to help and protect her in all her troubles, of -whatever nature they might be. To Mr. Hale he said,—</p> - -<p>'That Margaret of yours has gone deep into my heart. Take care of her, -for she is a very precious creature,—a great deal too good for -Milton,—only fit for Oxford, in fact. The town, I mean; not the men. I -can't match her yet. When I can, I shall bring my young man to stand -side by side with your young woman, just as the genie in the Arabian -Nights brought Prince Caralmazan to match with the fairy's Princess -Badoura.'</p> - -<p>'I beg you'll do no such thing. Remember the misfortunes that ensued; -and besides, I can't spare Margaret.'</p> - -<p>'No; on second thoughts, we'll have her to nurse us ten years hence, -when we shall be two cross old invalids. Seriously, Hale! I wish you'd -leave Milton; which is a most unsuitable place for you, though it was my -recommendation in the first instance. If you would; I'd swallow my -shadows of doubts, and take a college living; and you and Margaret -should come and live at the parsonage—you to be a sort of lay curate, -and take the unwashed off my hands; and she to be our housekeeper—the -village Lady Bountiful—by day; and read us to sleep in the evenings. I -could be very happy in such a life. What do you think of it?'</p> - -<p>'Never!' said Mr. Hale, decidedly. 'My one great change has been made -and my price of suffering paid. Here I stay out my life; and here will I -be buried, and lost in the crowd.'</p> - -<p>'I don't give up my plan yet. Only I won't bait you with it any more -just now. Where's the Pearl? Come, Margaret, give me a farewell kiss; -and remember, my dear, where you may find a true friend, as far as his -capability goes. You are my child, Margaret. Remember that, and 'God -bless you!'</p> - -<p>So they fell back into the monotony of the quiet life they would -henceforth lead. There was no invalid to hope and fear about; even the -Higginses—so long a vivid interest—seemed to have receded from any -need of immediate thought. The Boucher children, left motherless -orphans, claimed what of Margaret's care she could bestow; and she went -pretty often to see Mary Higgins, who had charge of them. The two -families were living in one house: the elder children were at humble -schools, the younger ones were tended, in Mary's absence at her work, by -the kind neighbour whose good sense had struck Margaret at the time of -Boucher's death. Of course she was paid for her trouble; and indeed, in -all his little plans and arrangements for these orphan children, -Nicholas showed a sober judgment, and regulated method of thinking, -which were at variance with his former more eccentric jerks of action. -He was so steady at his work, that Margaret did not often see him during -these winter months; but when she did, she saw that he winced away from -any reference to the father of those children, whom he had so fully and -heartily taken under his care. He did not speak easily of Mr. Thornton.</p> - -<p>'To tell the truth,' said he, 'he fairly bamboozles me. He's two chaps. -One chap I knowed of old as were measter all o'er. T'other chap hasn't -an ounce of measter's flesh about him. How them two chaps is bound up in -one body, is a craddy for me to find out. I'll not be beat by it, -though. Meanwhile he comes here pretty often; that's how I know the chap -that's a man, not a measter. And I reckon he's taken aback by me pretty -much as I am by him; for he sits and listens and stares, as if I were -some strange beast newly caught in some of the zones. But I'm none -daunted. It would take a deal to daunt me in my own house, as he sees. -And I tell him some of my mind that I reckon he'd ha' been the better of -hearing when he were a younger man.'</p> - -<p>'And does he not answer you?' asked Mr. Hale.</p> - -<p>'Well! I'll not say th' advantage is all on his side, for all I take -credit for improving him above a bit. Sometimes he says a rough thing or -two, which is not agreeable to look at at first, but has a queer smack -o' truth in it when yo' come to chew it. He'll be coming to-night, I -reckon, about them childer's schooling. He's not satisfied wi' the make -of it, and wants for t' examine 'em.'</p> - -<p>'What are they'—began Mr. Hale; but Margaret, touching his arm, showed -him her watch.</p> - -<p>'It is nearly seven,' she said. 'The evenings are getting longer now. -Come, papa.' She did not breathe freely till they were some distance -from the house. Then, as she became more calm, she wished that she had -not been in so great a hurry; for, somehow, they saw Mr. Thornton but -very seldom now; and he might have come to see Higgins, and for the old -friendship's sake she should like to have seen him to-night.</p> - -<p>Yes! he came very seldom, even for the dull cold purpose of lessons. Mr. -Hale was disappointed in his pupil's lukewarmness about Greek -literature, which had but a short time ago so great an interest for him. -And now it often happened that a hurried note from Mr. Thornton would -arrive, just at the last moment, saying that he was so much engaged that -he could not come to read with Mr. Hale that evening. And though other -pupils had taken more than his place as to time, no one was like his -first scholar in Mr. Hale's heart. He was depressed and sad at this -partial cessation of an intercourse which had become dear to him; and he -used to sit pondering over the reason that could have occasioned this -change.</p> - -<p>He startled Margaret, one evening as she sate at her work, by suddenly -asking:</p> - -<p>'Margaret! had you ever any reason for thinking that Mr. Thornton cared -for you?'</p> - -<p>He almost blushed as he put this question; but Mr. Bell's scouted idea -recurred to him, and the words were out of his mouth before he well knew -what he was about.</p> - -<p>Margaret did not answer immediately; but by the bent drooping of her -head, he guessed what her reply would be.</p> - -<p>'Yes; I believe—oh papa, I should have told you.' And she dropped her -work, and hid her face in her hands.</p> - -<p>'No, dear; don't think that I am impertinently curious. I am sure you -would have told me if you had felt that you could return his regard. Did -he speak to you about it?'</p> - -<p>No answer at first; but by-and-by a little gentle reluctant 'Yes.'</p> - -<p>'And you refused him?'</p> - -<p>A long sigh; a more helpless, nerveless attitude, and another 'Yes.' But -before her father could speak, Margaret lifted up her face, rosy with -some beautiful shame, and, fixing her eyes upon him, said:</p> - -<p>'Now, papa, I have told you this, and I cannot tell you more; and then -the whole thing is so painful to me; every word and action connected -with it is so unspeakably bitter, that I cannot bear to think of it. Oh, -papa, I am sorry to have lost you this friend, but I could not help -it—but oh! I am very sorry.' She sate down on the ground, and laid her -head on his knees.</p> - -<p>'I too, am sorry, my dear. Mr. Bell quite startled me when he said, some -idea of the kind—'</p> - -<p>'Mr. Bell! Oh, did Mr. Bell see it?'</p> - -<p>'A little; but he took it into his head that you—how shall I say -it?—that you were not ungraciously disposed towards Mr. Thornton. I -knew that could never be. I hoped the whole thing was but an -imagination; but I knew too well what your real feelings were to suppose -that you could ever like Mr. Thornton in that way. But I am very sorry.'</p> - -<p>They were very quiet and still for some minutes. But, on stroking her -cheek in a caressing way soon after, he was almost shocked to find her -face wet with tears. As he touched her, she sprang up, and smiling with -forced brightness, began to talk of the Lennoxes with such a vehement -desire to turn the conversation, that Mr. Hale was too tender-hearted to -try to force it back into the old channel.</p> - -<p>'To-morrow—yes, to-morrow they will be back in Harley Street. Oh, how -strange it will be! I wonder what room they will make into the nursery? -Aunt Shaw will be happy with the baby. Fancy Edith a mamma! And Captain -Lennox—I wonder what he will do with himself now he has sold out!'</p> - -<p>'I'll tell you what,' said her father, anxious to indulge her in this -fresh subject of interest, 'I think I must spare you for a fortnight -just to run up to town and see the travellers. You could learn more, by -half an hour's conversation with Mr. Henry Lennox, about Frederick's -chances, than in a dozen of these letters of his; so it would, in fact, -be uniting business with pleasure.'</p> - -<p>'No, papa, you cannot spare me, and what's more, I won't be spared.' -Then after a pause, she added: 'I am losing hope sadly about Frederick; -he is letting us down gently, but I can see that Mr. Lennox himself has -no hope of hunting up the witnesses under years and years of time. No,' -said she, 'that bubble was very pretty, and very dear to our hearts; but -it has burst like many another; and we must console ourselves with being -glad that Frederick is so happy, and with being a great deal to each -other. So don't offend me by talking of being able to spare me, papa, -for I assure you you can't.'</p> - -<p>But the idea of a change took root and germinated in Margaret's heart, -although not in the way in which her father proposed it at first. She -began to consider how desirable something of the kind would be to her -father, whose spirits, always feeble, now became too frequently -depressed, and whose health, though he never complained, had been -seriously affected by his wife's illness and death. There were the -regular hours of reading with his pupils, but that all giving and no -receiving could no longer be called companion-ship, as in the old days -when Mr. Thornton came to study under him. Margaret was conscious of the -want under which he was suffering, unknown to himself; the want of a -man's intercourse with men. At Helstone there had been perpetual -occasions for an interchange of visits with neighbouring clergymen; and -the poor labourers in the fields, or leisurely tramping home at eve, or -tending their cattle in the forest, were always at liberty to speak or -be spoken to. But in Milton every one was too busy for quiet speech, or -any ripened intercourse of thought; what they said was about business, -very present and actual; and when the tension of mind relating to their -daily affairs was over, they sunk into fallow rest until next morning. -The workman was not to be found after the day's work was done; he had -gone away to some lecture, or some club, or some beer-shop, according to -his degree of character. Mr. Hale thought of trying to deliver a course -of lectures at some of the institutions, but he contemplated doing this -so much as an effort of duty, and with so little of the genial impulse -of love towards his work and its end, that Margaret was sure that it -would not be well done until he could look upon it with some kind of -zest.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLI_THE_JOURNEYS_END" id="CHAPTER_XLI_THE_JOURNEYS_END"></a>CHAPTER XLI—THE JOURNEY'S END</h2> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">'I see my way as birds their trackless way—<br /></span> -<span class="i1">I shall arrive! what time, what circuit first,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">I ask not: but unless God send his hail<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Or blinding fire-balls, sleet, or stifling snow,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">In some time—his good time—I shall arrive;<br /></span> -<span class="i1">He guides me and the bird. In His good time!'<br /></span> -<span class="i8">BROWNING'S PARACELSUS.<br /></span> -</div></div> - -<p>So the winter was getting on, and the days were beginning to lengthen, -without bringing with them any of the brightness of hope which usually -accompanies the rays of a February sun. Mrs. Thornton had of course -entirely ceased to come to the house. Mr. Thornton came occasionally, -but his visits were addressed to her father, and were confined to the -study. Mr. Hale spoke of him as always the same; indeed, the very rarity -of their intercourse seemed to make Mr. Hale set only the higher value -on it. And from what Margaret could gather of what Mr. Thornton had -said, there was nothing in the cessation of his visits which could arise -from any umbrage or vexation. His business affairs had become -complicated during the strike, and required closer attention than he had -given to them last winter. Nay, Margaret could even discover that he -spoke from time to time of her, and always, as far as she could learn, -in the same calm friendly way, never avoiding and never seeking any -mention of her name.</p> - -<p>She was not in spirits to raise her father's tone of mind. The dreary -peacefulness of the present time had been preceded by so long a period -of anxiety and care—even intermixed with storms—that her mind had lost -its elasticity. She tried to find herself occupation in teaching the two -younger Boucher children, and worked hard at goodness; hard, I say most -truly, for her heart seemed dead to the end of all her efforts; and -though she made them punctually and painfully, yet she stood as far off -as ever from any cheerfulness; her life seemed still bleak and dreary. -The only thing she did well, was what she did out of unconscious piety, -the silent comforting and consoling of her father. Not a mood of his but -what found a ready sympathiser in Margaret; not a wish of his that she -did not strive to forecast, and to fulfil. They were quiet wishes to be -sure, and hardly named without hesitation and apology. All the more -complete and beautiful was her meek spirit of obedience. March brought -the news of Frederick's marriage. He and Dolores wrote; she in -Spanish-English, as was but natural, and he with little turns and -inversions of words which proved how far the idioms of his bride's -country were infecting him.</p> - -<p>On the receipt of Henry Lennox's letter, announcing how little hope -there was of his ever clearing himself at a court-martial, in the -absence of the missing witnesses, Frederick had written to Margaret a -pretty vehement letter, containing his renunciation of England as his -country; he wished he could unnative himself, and declared that he would -not take his pardon if it were offered him, nor live in the country if -he had permission to do so. All of which made Margaret cry sorely, so -unnatural did it seem to her at the first opening; but on consideration, -she saw rather in such expression the poignancy of the disappointment -which had thus crushed his hopes; and she felt that there was nothing -for it but patience. In the next letter, Frederick spoke so joyfully of -the future that he had no thought for the past; and Margaret found a use -in herself for the patience she had been craving for him. She would have -to be patient. But the pretty, timid, girlish letters of Dolores were -beginning to have a charm for both Margaret and her father. The young -Spaniard was so evidently anxious to make a favourable impression upon -her lover's English relations, that her feminine care peeped out at -every erasure; and the letters announcing the marriage, were accompanied -by a splendid black lace mantilla, chosen by Dolores herself for her -unseen sister-in-law, whom Frederick had represented as a paragon of -beauty, wisdom and virtue. Frederick's worldly position was raised by -this marriage on to as high a level as they could desire. Barbour and -Co. was one of the most extensive Spanish houses, and into it he was -received as a junior partner. Margaret smiled a little, and then sighed -as she remembered afresh her old tirades against trade. Here was her -preux chevalier of a brother turned merchant, trader! But then she -rebelled against herself, and protested silently against the confusion -implied between a Spanish merchant and a Milton mill-owner. Well! trade -or no trade, Frederick was very, very happy. Dolores must be charming, -and the mantilla was exquisite! And then she returned to the present -life.</p> - -<p>Her father had occasionally experienced a difficulty in breathing this -spring, which had for the time distressed him exceedingly. Margaret was -less alarmed, as this difficulty went off completely in the intervals; -but she still was so desirous of his shaking off the liability -altogether, as to make her very urgent that he should accept Mr. Bell's -invitation to visit him at Oxford this April. Mr. Bell's invitation -included Margaret. Nay more, he wrote a special letter commanding her to -come; but she felt as if it would be a greater relief to her to remain -quietly at home, entirely free from any responsibility whatever, and so -to rest her mind and heart in a manner which she had not been able to do -for more than two years past.</p> - -<p>When her father had driven off on his way to the railroad, Margaret felt -how great and long had been the pressure on her time and her spirits. It -was astonishing, almost stunning, to feel herself so much at liberty; no -one depending on her for cheering care, if not for positive happiness; -no invalid to plan and think for; she might be idle, and silent, and -forgetful,—and what seemed worth more than all the other -privileges—she might be unhappy if she liked. For months past, all her -own personal cares and troubles had had to be stuffed away into a dark -cupboard; but now she had leisure to take them out, and mourn over them, -and study their nature, and seek the true method of subduing them into -the elements of peace. All these weeks she had been conscious of their -existence in a dull kind of way, though they were hidden out of sight. -Now, once for all she would consider them, and appoint to each of them -its right work in her life. So she sat almost motionless for hours in -the drawing-room, going over the bitterness of every remembrance with an -unwincing resolution. Only once she cried aloud, at the stinging thought -of the faithlessness which gave birth to that abasing falsehood.</p> - -<p>She now would not even acknowledge the force of the temptation; her -plans for Frederick had all failed, and the temptation lay there a dead -mockery,—a mockery which had never had life in it; the lie had been so -despicably foolish, seen by the light of the ensuing events, and faith -in the power of truth so infinitely the greater wisdom!</p> - -<p>In her nervous agitation, she unconsciously opened a book of her -father's that lay upon the table,—the words that caught her eye in it, -seemed almost made for her present state of acute self-abasement:—</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>'Je ne voudrois pas reprendre mon cœur en ceste sorte: meurs de -honte, aveugle, impudent, traistre et desloyal a ton Dieu, et -sembables choses; mais je voudrois le corriger par voye de -compassion. Or sus, mon pauvre cœur, nous voilà tombez dans la -fosse, laquelle nous avions tant resolu d'éschapper. Ah! -relevons-nous, et quittons-la pour jamais, reclamons la misericorde -de Dieu, et esperons en elle qu'elle nous assistera pour desormais -estre plus fermes; et remettons-nous au chemin de l'humilité. -Courage, soyons meshuy sur nos gardes, Dieu nous aydera.'</p></div> - -<p>'The way of humility. Ah,' thought Margaret, 'that is what I have -missed! But courage, little heart. We will turn back, and by God's help -we may find the lost path.'</p> - -<p>So she rose up, and determined at once to set to on some work which -should take her out of herself. To begin with, she called in Martha, as -she passed the drawing-room door in going up-stairs, and tried to find -out what was below the grave, respectful, servant-like manner, which -crusted over her individual character with an obedience that was almost -mechanical. She found it difficult to induce Martha to speak of any of -her personal interests; but at last she touched the right chord, in -naming Mrs. Thornton. Martha's whole face brightened, and, on a little -encouragement, out came a long story, of how her father had been in -early life connected with Mrs. Thornton's husband—nay, had even been in -a position to show him some kindness; what, Martha hardly knew, for it -had happened when she was quite a little child; and circumstances had -intervened to separate the two families until Martha was nearly grown -up, when, her father having sunk lower and lower from his original -occupation as clerk in a warehouse, and her mother being dead, she and -her sister, to use Martha's own expression, would have been 'lost' but -for Mrs. Thornton; who sought them out, and thought for them, and cared -for them.</p> - -<p>'I had had the fever, and was but delicate; and Mrs. Thornton, and Mr. -Thornton too, they never rested till they had nursed me up in their own -house, and sent me to the sea and all. The doctors said the fever was -catching, but they cared none for that—only Miss Fanny, and she went -a-visiting these folk that she is going to marry into. So, though she -was afraid at the time, it has all ended well.'</p> - -<p>'Miss Fanny going to be married!' exclaimed Margaret.</p> - -<p>'Yes; and to a rich gentleman, too, only he's a deal older than she is. -His name is Watson; and his mills are somewhere out beyond Hayleigh; -it's a very good marriage, for all he's got such gray hair.'</p> - -<p>At this piece of information, Margaret was silent long enough for Martha -to recover her propriety, and, with it, her habitual shortness of -answer. She swept up the hearth, asked at what time she should prepare -tea, and quitted the room with the same wooden face with which she had -entered it. Margaret had to pull herself up from indulging a bad trick, -which she had lately fallen into, of trying to imagine how every event -that she heard of in relation to Mr. Thornton would affect him: whether -he would like it or dislike it.</p> - -<p>The next day she had the little Boucher children for their lessons, and -took a long walk, and ended by a visit to Mary Higgins. Somewhat to -Margaret's surprise, she found Nicholas already come home from his work; -the lengthening light had deceived her as to the lateness of the -evening. He too seemed, by his manners, to have entered a little more on -the way of humility; he was quieter, and less self-asserting.</p> - -<p>'So th' oud gentleman's away on his travels, is he?' said he. 'Little -'uns telled me so. Eh! but they're sharp 'uns, they are; I a'most think -they beat my own wenches for sharpness, though mappen it's wrong to say -so, and one on 'em in her grave. There's summut in th' weather, I -reckon, as sets folk a-wandering. My measter, him at th' shop yonder, is -spinning about th' world somewhere.'</p> - -<p>'Is that the reason you're so soon at home to-night?' asked Margaret -innocently.</p> - -<p>'Thou know'st nought about it, that's all,' said he, contemptuously. -'I'm not one wi' two faces—one for my measter, and t'other for his -back. I counted a' th' clocks in the town striking afore I'd leave my -work. No! yon Thornton's good enough for to fight wi', but too good for -to be cheated. It were you as getten me the place, and I thank yo' for -it. Thornton's is not a bad mill, as times go. Stand down, lad, and say -yo'r pretty hymn to Miss Margaret. That's right; steady on thy legs, and -right arm out as straight as a shewer. One to stop, two to stay, three -mak' ready, and four away!'</p> - -<p>The little fellow repeated a Methodist hymn, far above his comprehension -in point of language, but of which the swinging rhythm had caught his -ear, and which he repeated with all the developed cadence of a member of -parliament. When Margaret had duly applauded, Nicholas called for -another, and yet another, much to her surprise, as she found him thus -oddly and unconsciously led to take an interest in the sacred things -which he had formerly scouted.</p> - -<p>It was past the usual tea-time when she reached home; but she had the -comfort of feeling that no one had been kept waiting for her; and of -thinking her own thoughts while she rested, instead of anxiously -watching another person to learn whether to be grave or gay. After tea -she resolved to examine a large packet of letters, and pick out those -that were to be destroyed.</p> - -<p>Among them she came to four or five of Mr. Henry Lennox's, relating to -Frederick's affairs; and she carefully read them over again, with the -sole intention, when she began, to ascertain exactly on how fine a -chance the justification of her brother hung. But when she had finished -the last, and weighed the pros and cons, the little personal revelation -of character contained in them forced itself on her notice. It was -evident enough, from the stiffness of the wording, that Mr. Lennox had -never forgotten his relation to her in any interest he might feel in the -subject of the correspondence. They were clever letters; Margaret saw -that in a twinkling; but she missed out of them all hearty and genial -atmosphere. They were to be preserved, however, as valuable; so she laid -them carefully on one side. When this little piece of business was -ended, she fell into a reverie; and the thought of her absent father ran -strangely in Margaret's head this night. She almost blamed herself for -having felt her solitude (and consequently his absence) as a relief; but -these two days had set her up afresh, with new strength and brighter -hope. Plans which had lately appeared to her in the guise of tasks, now -appeared like pleasures. The morbid scales had fallen from her eyes, and -she saw her position and her work more truly. If only Mr. Thornton would -restore her the lost friendship,—nay, if he would only come from time -to time to cheer her father as in former days,—though she should never -see him, she felt as if the course of her future life, though not -brilliant in prospect, might lie clear and even before her. She sighed -as she rose up to go to bed. In spite of the 'One step's enough for -me,'—in spite of the one plain duty of devotion to her father,—there -lay at her heart an anxiety and a pang of sorrow.</p> - -<p>And Mr. Hale thought of Margaret, that April evening, just as strangely -and as persistently as she was thinking of him. He had been fatigued by -going about among his old friends and old familiar places. He had had -exaggerated ideas of the change which his altered opinions might make in -his friends' reception of him; but although some of them might have felt -shocked or grieved or indignant at his falling off in the abstract, as -soon as they saw the face of the man whom they had once loved, they -forgot his opinions in himself; or only remembered them enough to give -an additional tender gravity to their manner. For Mr. Hale had not been -known to many; he had belonged to one of the smaller colleges, and had -always been shy and reserved; but those who in youth had cared to -penetrate to the delicacy of thought and feeling that lay below his -silence and indecision, took him to their hearts, with something of the -protecting kindness which they would have shown to a woman. And the -renewal of this kindliness, after the lapse of years, and an interval of -so much change, overpowered him more than any roughness or expression of -disapproval could have done.</p> - -<p>'I'm afraid we've done too much,' said Mr. Bell. 'You're suffering now -from having lived so long in that Milton air.</p> - -<p>'I am tired,' said Mr. Hale. 'But it is not Milton air. I'm fifty-five -years of age, and that little fact of itself accounts for any loss of -strength.'</p> - -<p>'Nonsense! I'm upwards of sixty, and feel no loss of strength, either -bodily or mental. Don't let me hear you talking so. Fifty-five! why, -you're quite a young man.'</p> - -<p>Mr. Hale shook his head. 'These last few years!' said he. But after a -minute's pause, he raised himself from his half recumbent position, in -one of Mr. Bell's luxurious easy-chairs, and said with a kind of -trembling earnestness:</p> - -<p>'Bell! you're not to think, that if I could have foreseen all that would -come of my change of opinion, and my resignation of my living—no! not -even if I could have known how <i>she</i> would have suffered,—that I would -undo it—the act of open acknowledgment that I no longer held the same -faith as the church in which I was a priest. As I think now, even if I -could have foreseen that cruellest martyrdom of suffering, through the -sufferings of one whom I loved, I would have done just the same as far -as that step of openly leaving the church went. I might have done -differently, and acted more wisely, in all that I subsequently did for -my family. But I don't think God endued me with over-much wisdom or -strength,' he added, falling back into his old position.</p> - -<p>Mr. Bell blew his nose ostentatiously before answering. Then he said:</p> - -<p>'He gave you strength to do what your conscience told you was right; and -I don't see that we need any higher or holier strength than that; or -wisdom either. I know I have not that much; and yet men set me down in -their fool's books as a wise man; an independent character; -strong-minded, and all that cant. The veriest idiot who obeys his own -simple law of right, if it be but in wiping his shoes on a door-mat, is -wiser and stronger than I. But what gulls men are!'</p> - -<p>There was a pause. Mr. Hale spoke first, in continuation of his thought:</p> - -<p>'About Margaret.'</p> - -<p>'Well! about Margaret. What then?'</p> - -<p>'If I die—— '</p> - -<p>'Nonsense!'</p> - -<p>'What will become of her—I often think? I suppose the Lennoxes will ask -her to live with them. I try to think they will. Her aunt Shaw loved her -well in her own quiet way; but she forgets to love the absent.'</p> - -<p>'A very common fault. What sort of people are the Lennoxes?'</p> - -<p>'He, handsome, fluent, and agreeable. Edith, a sweet little spoiled -beauty. Margaret loves her with all her heart, and Edith with as much of -her heart as she can spare.'</p> - -<p>'Now, Hale; you know that girl of yours has got pretty nearly all my -heart. I told you that before. Of course, as your daughter, as my -god-daughter, I took great interest in her before I saw her the last -time. But this visit that I paid to you at Milton made me her slave. I -went, a willing old victim, following the car of the conqueror. For, -indeed, she looks as grand and serene as one who has struggled, and may -be struggling, and yet has the victory secure in sight. Yes, in spite of -all her present anxieties, that was the look on her face. And so, all I -have is at her service, if she needs it; and will be hers, whether she -will or no, when I die. Moreover, I myself, will be her preux chevalier, -sixty and gouty though I be. Seriously, old friend, your daughter shall -be my principal charge in life, and all the help that either my wit or -my wisdom or my willing heart can give, shall be hers. I don't choose -her out as a subject for fretting. Something, I know of old, you must -have to worry yourself about, or you wouldn't be happy. But you're going -to outlive me by many a long year. You spare, thin men are always -tempting and always cheating Death! It's the stout, florid fellows like -me, that always go off first.'</p> - -<p>If Mr. Bell had had a prophetic eye he might have seen the torch all but -inverted, and the angel with the grave and composed face standing very -nigh, beckoning to his friend. That night Mr. Hale laid his head down on -the pillow on which it never more should stir with life. The servant who -entered his room in the morning, received no answer to his speech; drew -near the bed, and saw the calm, beautiful face lying white and cold -under the ineffaceable seal of death. The attitude was exquisitely easy; -there had been no pain—no struggle. The action of the heart must have -ceased as he lay down.</p> - -<p>Mr. Bell was stunned by the shock; and only recovered when the time came -for being angry at every suggestion of his man's.</p> - -<p>'A coroner's inquest? Pooh. You don't think I poisoned him! Dr. Forbes -says it is just the natural end of a heart complaint. Poor old Hale! You -wore out that tender heart of yours before its time. Poor old friend! -how he talked of his—— Wallis, pack up a carpet-bag for me in five -minutes. Here have I been talking. Pack it up, I say. I must go to -Milton by the next train.'</p> - -<p>The bag was packed, the cab ordered, the railway reached, in twenty -minutes from the moment of this decision. The London train whizzed by, -drew back some yards, and in Mr. Bell was hurried by the impatient -guard. He threw himself back in his seat, to try, with closed eyes, to -understand how one in life yesterday could be dead to-day; and shortly -tears stole out between his grizzled eye-lashes, at the feeling of which -he opened his keen eyes, and looked as severely cheerful as his set -determination could make him. He was not going to blubber before a set -of strangers. Not he!</p> - -<p>There was no set of strangers, only one sitting far from him on the same -side. By and bye Mr. Bell peered at him, to discover what manner of man -it was that might have been observing his emotion; and behind the great -sheet of the outspread 'Times,' he recognised Mr. Thornton.</p> - -<p>'Why, Thornton! is that you?' said he, removing hastily to a closer -proximity. He shook Mr. Thornton vehemently by the hand, until the gripe -ended in a sudden relaxation, for the hand was wanted to wipe away -tears. He had last seen Mr. Thornton in his friend Hale's company.</p> - -<p>'I'm going to Milton, bound on a melancholy errand. Going to break to -Hale's daughter the news of his sudden death!'</p> - -<p>'Death! Mr. Hale dead!'</p> - -<p>'Ay; I keep saying it to myself, "Hale is dead!" but it doesn't make it -any the more real. Hale is dead for all that. He went to bed well, to -all appearance, last night, and was quite cold this morning when my -servant went to call him.'</p> - -<p>'Where? I don't understand!'</p> - -<p>'At Oxford. He came to stay with me; hadn't been in Oxford this -seventeen years—and this is the end of it.'</p> - -<p>Not one word was spoken for above a quarter of an hour. Then Mr. -Thornton said:</p> - -<p>'And she!' and stopped full short.</p> - -<p>'Margaret you mean. Yes! I am going to tell her. Poor fellow! how full -his thoughts were of her all last night! Good God! Last night only. And -how immeasurably distant he is now! But I take Margaret as my child for -his sake. I said last night I would take her for her own sake. Well, I -take her for both.'</p> - -<p>Mr. Thornton made one or two fruitless attempts to speak, before he -could get out the words:</p> - -<p>'What will become of her!'</p> - -<p>'I rather fancy there will be two people waiting for her: myself for -one. I would take a live dragon into my house to live, if, by hiring -such a chaperon, and setting up an establishment of my own, I could make -my old age happy with having Margaret for a daughter. But there are -those Lennoxes!'</p> - -<p>'Who are they?' asked Mr. Thornton with trembling interest.</p> - -<p>'Oh, smart London people, who very likely will think they've the best -right to her. Captain Lennox married her cousin—the girl she was -brought up with. Good enough people, I dare say. And there's her aunt, -Mrs. Shaw. There might be a way open, perhaps, by my offering to marry -that worthy lady! but that would be quite a pis aller. And then there's -that brother!'</p> - -<p>'What brother? A brother of her aunt's?'</p> - -<p>'No, no; a clever Lennox, (the captain's a fool, you must understand) a -young barrister, who will be setting his cap at Margaret. I know he has -had her in his mind this five years or more: one of his chums told me as -much; and he was only kept back by her want of fortune. Now that will be -done away with.'</p> - -<p>'How?' asked Mr. Thornton, too earnestly curious to be aware of the -impertinence of his question.</p> - -<p>'Why, she'll have my money at my death. And if this Henry Lennox is half -good enough for her, and she likes him—well! I might find another way -of getting a home through a marriage. I'm dreadfully afraid of being -tempted, at an unguarded moment, by the aunt.'</p> - -<p>Neither Mr. Bell nor Mr. Thornton was in a laughing humour; so the -oddity of any of the speeches which the former made was unnoticed by -them. Mr. Bell whistled, without emitting any sound beyond a long -hissing breath; changed his seat, without finding comfort or rest while -Mr. Thornton sat immoveably still, his eyes fixed on one spot in the -newspaper, which he had taken up in order to give himself leisure to -think.</p> - -<p>'Where have you been?' asked Mr. Bell, at length.</p> - -<p>'To Havre. Trying to detect the secret of the great rise in the price of -cotton.'</p> - -<p>'Ugh! Cotton, and speculations, and smoke, well-cleansed and -well-cared-for machinery, and unwashed and neglected hands. Poor old -Hale! Poor old Hale! If you could have known the change which it was to -him from Helstone. Do you know the New Forest at all?'</p> - -<p>'Yes.' (Very shortly).</p> - -<p>'Then you can fancy the difference between it and Milton. What part were -you in? Were you ever at Helstone? a little picturesque village, like -some in the Odenwald? You know Helstone?'</p> - -<p>'I have seen it. It was a great change to leave it and come to Milton.'</p> - -<p>He took up his newspaper with a determined air, as if resolved to avoid -further conversation; and Mr. Bell was fain to resort to his former -occupation of trying to find out how he could best break the news to -Margaret.</p> - -<p>She was at an up-stairs window; she saw him alight; she guessed the -truth with an instinctive flash. She stood in the middle of the -drawing-room, as if arrested in her first impulse to rush downstairs, -and as if by the same restraining thought she had been turned to stone; -so white and immoveable was she.</p> - -<p>'Oh! don't tell me! I know it from your face! You would have sent—you -would not have left him—if he were alive! Oh papa, papa!'</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLII_ALONE_ALONE" id="CHAPTER_XLII_ALONE_ALONE"></a>CHAPTER XLII—ALONE! ALONE!</h2> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">'When some beloved voice that was to you<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Both sound and sweetness, faileth suddenly,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">And silence, against which you dare not cry,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Aches round you like a strong disease and new—<br /></span> -<span class="i1">What hope? what help? what music will undo<br /></span> -<span class="i1">That silence to your sense?'<br /></span> -<span class="i9">M<small>RS</small>. B<small>ROWNING</small>.<br /></span> -</div></div> - -<p>The shock had been great. Margaret fell into a state of prostration, -which did not show itself in sobs and tears, or even find the relief of -words. She lay on the sofa, with her eyes shut, never speaking but when -spoken to, and then replying in whispers. Mr. Bell was perplexed. He -dared not leave her; he dared not ask her to accompany him back to -Oxford, which had been one of the plans he had formed on the journey to -Milton, her physical exhaustion was evidently too complete for her to -undertake any such fatigue—putting the sight that she would have to -encounter out of the question. Mr. Bell sate over the fire, considering -what he had better do. Margaret lay motionless, and almost breathless by -him. He would not leave her, even for the dinner which Dixon had -prepared for him down-stairs, and, with sobbing hospitality, would fain -have tempted him to eat. He had a plateful of something brought up to -him. In general, he was particular and dainty enough, and knew well each -shade of flavour in his food, but now the devilled chicken tasted like -sawdust. He minced up some of the fowl for Margaret, and peppered and -salted it well; but when Dixon, following his directions, tried to feed -her, the languid shake of head proved that in such a state as Margaret -was in, food would only choke, not nourish her.</p> - -<p>Mr. Bell gave a great sigh; lifted up his stout old limbs (stiff with -travelling) from their easy position, and followed Dixon out of the -room.</p> - -<p>'I can't leave her. I must write to them at Oxford, to see that the -preparations are made: they can be getting on with these till I arrive. -Can't Mrs. Lennox come to her? I'll write and tell her she must. The -girl must have some woman-friend about her, if only to talk her into a -good fit of crying.'</p> - -<p>Dixon was crying—enough for two; but, after wiping her eyes and -steadying her voice, she managed to tell Mr. Bell, that Mrs. Lennox was -too near her confinement to be able to undertake any journey at present.</p> - -<p>'Well! I suppose we must have Mrs. Shaw; she's come back to England, -isn't she?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, sir, she's come back; but I don't think she will like to leave -Mrs. Lennox at such an interesting time,' said Dixon, who did not much -approve of a stranger entering the household, to share with her in her -ruling care of Margaret.</p> - -<p>'Interesting time be—' Mr. Bell restricted himself to coughing over the -end of his sentence. 'She could be content to be at Venice or Naples, or -some of those Popish places, at the last "interesting time," which took -place in Corfu, I think. And what does that little prosperous woman's -"interesting time" signify, in comparison with that poor creature -there,—that helpless, homeless, friendless Margaret—lying as still on -that sofa as if it were an altar-tomb, and she the stone statue on it. I -tell you, Mrs. Shaw shall come. See that a room, or whatever she wants, -is got ready for her by to-morrow night. I'll take care she comes.'</p> - -<p>Accordingly Mr. Bell wrote a letter, which Mrs. Shaw declared, with many -tears, to be so like one of the dear general's when he was going to have -a fit of the gout, that she should always value and preserve it. If he -had given her the option, by requesting or urging her, as if a refusal -were possible, she might not have come—true and sincere as was her -sympathy with Margaret. It needed the sharp uncourteous command to make -her conquer her vis inertiae, and allow herself to be packed by her -maid, after the latter had completed the boxes. Edith, all cap, shawls, -and tears, came out to the top of the stairs, as Captain Lennox was -taking her mother down to the carriage:</p> - -<p>'Don't forget, mamma; Margaret must come and live with us. Sholto will -go to Oxford on Wednesday, and you must send word by Mr. Bell to him -when we're to expect you. And if you want Sholto, he can go on from -Oxford to Milton. Don't forget, mamma; you are to bring back Margaret.'</p> - -<p>Edith re-entered the drawing-room. Mr. Henry Lennox was there, cutting -open the pages of a new Review. Without lifting his head, he said, 'If -you don't like Sholto to be so long absent from you, Edith, I hope you -will let me go down to Milton, and give what assistance I can.'</p> - -<p>'Oh, thank you,' said Edith, 'I dare say old Mr. Bell will do everything -he can, and more help may not be needed. Only one does not look for much -<i>savoir-faire</i> from a resident Fellow. Dear, darling Margaret! won't it be -nice to have her here, again? You were both great allies, years ago.'</p> - -<p>'Were we?' asked he indifferently, with an appearance of being -interested in a passage in the Review.</p> - -<p>'Well, perhaps not—I forget. I was so full of Sholto. But doesn't it -fall out well, that if my uncle was to die, it should be just now, when -we are come home, and settled in the old house, and quite ready to -receive Margaret? Poor thing! what a change it will be to her from -Milton! I'll have new chintz for her bedroom, and make it look new and -bright, and cheer her up a little.'</p> - -<p>In the same spirit of kindness, Mrs. Shaw journeyed to Milton, -occasionally dreading the first meeting, and wondering how it would be -got over; but more frequently planning how soon she could get Margaret -away from 'that horrid place,' and back into the pleasant comforts of -Harley Street.</p> - -<p>'Oh dear!' she said to her maid; 'look at those chimneys! My poor sister -Hale! I don't think I could have rested at Naples, if I had known what -it was! I must have come and fetched her and Margaret away.' And to -herself she acknowledged, that she had always thought her brother-in-law -rather a weak man, but never so weak as now, when she saw for what a -place he had exchanged the lovely Helstone home.</p> - -<p>Margaret had remained in the same state; white, motionless, speechless, -tearless. They had told her that her aunt Shaw was coming; but she had -not expressed either surprise or pleasure, or dislike to the idea. Mr. -Bell, whose appetite had returned, and who appreciated Dixon's -endeavours to gratify it, in vain urged upon her to taste some -sweetbreads stewed with oysters; she shook her head with the same quiet -obstinacy as on the previous day; and he was obliged to console himself -for her rejection, by eating them all himself. But Margaret was the -first to hear the stopping of the cab that brought her aunt from the -railway station. Her eyelids quivered, her lips coloured and trembled. -Mr. Bell went down to meet Mrs. Shaw; and when they came up, Margaret -was standing, trying to steady her dizzy self; and when she saw her -aunt, she went forward to the arms open to receive her, and first found -the passionate relief of tears on her aunt's shoulder. All thoughts of -quiet habitual love, of tenderness for years, of relationship to the -dead,—all that inexplicable likeness in look, tone, and gesture, that -seem to belong to one family, and which reminded Margaret so forcibly at -this moment of her mother,—came in to melt and soften her numbed heart -into the overflow of warm tears.</p> - -<p>Mr. Bell stole out of the room, and went down into the study, where he -ordered a fire, and tried to divert his thoughts by taking down and -examining the different books. Each volume brought a remembrance or a -suggestion of his dead friend. It might be a change of employment from -his two days' work of watching Margaret, but it was no change of -thought. He was glad to catch the sound of Mr. Thornton's voice, making -enquiry at the door. Dixon was rather cavalierly dismissing him; for -with the appearance of Mrs. Shaw's maid, came visions of former -grandeur, of the Beresford blood, of the 'station' (so she was pleased -to term it) from which her young lady had been ousted, and to which she -was now, please God, to be restored. These visions, which she had been -dwelling on with complacency in her conversation with Mrs. Shaw's maid -(skilfully eliciting meanwhile all the circumstances of state and -consequence connected with the Harley Street establishment, for the -edification of the listening Martha), made Dixon rather inclined to be -supercilious in her treatment of any inhabitant of Milton; so, though -she always stood rather in awe of Mr. Thornton, she was as curt as she -durst be in telling him that he could see none of the inmates of the -house that night. It was rather uncomfortable to be contradicted in her -statement by Mr. Bell's opening the study-door, and calling out:</p> - -<p>'Thornton! is that you? Come in for a minute or two; I want to speak to -you.' So Mr. Thornton went into the study, and Dixon had to retreat into -the kitchen, and reinstate herself in her own esteem by a prodigious -story of Sir John Beresford's coach and six, when he was high sheriff.</p> - -<p>'I don't know what I wanted to say to you after all. Only it's dull -enough to sit in a room where everything speaks to you of a dead friend. -Yet Margaret and her aunt must have the drawing-room to themselves!'</p> - -<p>'Is Mrs.—is her aunt come?' asked Mr. Thornton.</p> - -<p>'Come? Yes! maid and all. One would have thought she might have come by -herself at such a time! And now I shall have to turn out and find my way -to the Clarendon.'</p> - -<p>'You must not go to the Clarendon. We have five or six empty bed-rooms -at home.'</p> - -<p>'Well aired?'</p> - -<p>'I think you may trust my mother for that.'</p> - -<p>'Then I'll only run up-stairs and wish that wan girl good-night, and -make my bow to her aunt, and go off with you straight.'</p> - -<p>Mr. Bell was some time up-stairs. Mr. Thornton began to think it long, -for he was full of business, and had hardly been able to spare the time -for running up to Crampton, and enquiring how Miss Hale was.</p> - -<p>When they had set out upon their walk, Mr. Bell said:</p> - -<p>'I was kept by those women in the drawing-room. Mrs. Shaw is anxious to -get home—on account of her daughter, she says—and wants Margaret to go -off with her at once. Now she is no more fit for travelling than I am -for flying. Besides, she says, and very justly, that she has friends she -must see—that she must wish good-bye to several people; and then her -aunt worried her about old claims, and was she forgetful of old friends? -And she said, with a great burst of crying, she should be glad enough to -go from a place where she had suffered so much. Now I must return to -Oxford to-morrow, and I don't know on which side of the scale to throw -in my voice.'</p> - -<p>He paused, as if asking a question; but he received no answer from his -companion, the echo of whose thoughts kept repeating—</p> - -<p>'Where she had suffered so much.' Alas! and that was the way in which -this eighteen months in Milton—to him so unspeakably precious, down to -its very bitterness, which was worth all the rest of life's -sweetness—would be remembered. Neither loss of father, nor loss of -mother, dear as she was to Mr. Thornton, could have poisoned the -remembrance of the weeks, the days, the hours, when a walk of two miles, -every step of which was pleasant, as it brought him nearer and nearer to -her, took him to her sweet presence—every step of which was rich, as -each recurring moment that bore him away from her made him recall some -fresh grace in her demeanour, or pleasant pungency in her character. -Yes! whatever had happened to him, external to his relation to her, he -could never have spoken of that time, when he could have seen her every -day—when he had her within his grasp, as it were—as a time of -suffering. It had been a royal time of luxury to him, with all its -stings and contumelies, compared to the poverty that crept round and -clipped the anticipation of the future down to sordid fact, and life -without an atmosphere of either hope or fear.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Thornton and Fanny were in the dining-room; the latter in a flutter -of small exultation, as the maid held up one glossy material after -another, to try the effect of the wedding-dresses by candlelight. Her -mother really tried to sympathise with her, but could not. Neither taste -nor dress were in her line of subjects, and she heartily wished that -Fanny had accepted her brother's offer of having the wedding clothes -provided by some first-rate London dressmaker, without the endless -troublesome discussions, and unsettled wavering, that arose out of -Fanny's desire to choose and superintend everything herself. Mr. -Thornton was only too glad to mark his grateful approbation of any -sensible man, who could be captivated by Fanny's second-rate airs and -graces, by giving her ample means for providing herself with the finery, -which certainly rivalled, if it did not exceed, the lover in her -estimation. When her brother and Mr. Bell came in, Fanny blushed and -simpered, and fluttered over the signs of her employment, in a way which -could not have failed to draw attention from any one else but Mr. Bell. -If he thought about her and her silks and satins at all, it was to -compare her and them with the pale sorrow he had left behind him, -sitting motionless, with bent head and folded hands, in a room where the -stillness was so great that you might almost fancy the rush in your -straining ears was occasioned by the spirits of the dead, yet hovering -round their beloved. For, when Mr. Bell had first gone up-stairs, Mrs. -Shaw lay asleep on the sofa; and no sound broke the silence.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Thornton gave Mr. Bell her formal, hospitable welcome. She was -never so gracious as when receiving her son's friends in her son's -house; and the more unexpected they were, the more honour to her -admirable housekeeping preparations for comfort.</p> - -<p>'How is Miss Hale?' she asked.</p> - -<p>'About as broken down by this last stroke as she can be.'</p> - -<p>'I am sure it is very well for her that she has such a friend as you.'</p> - -<p>'I wish I were her only friend, madam. I daresay it sounds very brutal; -but here have I been displaced, and turned out of my post of comforter -and adviser by a fine lady aunt; and there are cousins and what not -claiming her in London, as if she were a lap-dog belonging to them. And -she is too weak and miserable to have a will of her own.'</p> - -<p>'She must indeed be weak,' said Mrs. Thornton, with an implied meaning -which her son understood well. 'But where,' continued Mrs. Thornton, -'have these relations been all this time that Miss Hale has appeared -almost friendless, and has certainly had a good deal of anxiety to -bear?' But she did not feel interest enough in the answer to her -question to wait for it. She left the room to make her household -arrangements.</p> - -<p>'They have been living abroad. They have some kind of claim upon her. I -will do them that justice. The aunt brought her up, and she and the -cousin have been like sisters. The thing vexing me, you see, is that I -wanted to take her for a child of my own; and I am jealous of these -people, who don't seem to value the privilege of their right. Now it -would be different if Frederick claimed her.'</p> - -<p>'Frederick!' exclaimed Mr. Thornton. 'Who is he? What right—?' He -stopped short in his vehement question.</p> - -<p>'Frederick,' said Mr. Bell in surprise. 'Why don't you know? He's her -brother. Have you not heard—'</p> - -<p>'I never heard his name before. Where is he? Who is he?'</p> - -<p>'Surely I told you about him, when the family first came to Milton—the -son who was concerned in that mutiny.'</p> - -<p>'I never heard of him till this moment. Where does he live?'</p> - -<p>'In Spain. He's liable to be arrested the moment he sets foot on English -ground. Poor fellow! he will grieve at not being able to attend his -father's funeral. We must be content with Captain Lennox; for I don't -know of any other relation to summon.'</p> - -<p>'I hope I may be allowed to go?'</p> - -<p>'Certainly; thankfully. You're a good fellow, after all, Thornton. Hale -liked you. He spoke to me, only the other day, about you at Oxford. He -regretted he had seen so little of you lately. I am obliged to you for -wishing to show him respect.'</p> - -<p>'But about Frederick. Does he never come to England?'</p> - -<p>'Never.'</p> - -<p>'He was not over here about the time of Mrs. Hale's death?'</p> - -<p>'No. Why, I was here then. I hadn't seen Hale for years and years and, -if you remember, I came—No, it was some time after that that I came. -But poor Frederick Hale was not here then. What made you think he was?'</p> - -<p>'I saw a young man walking with Miss Hale one day,' replied Mr. -Thornton, 'and I think it was about that time.'</p> - -<p>'Oh, that would be this young Lennox, the Captain's brother. He's a -lawyer, and they were in pretty constant correspondence with him; and I -remember Mr. Hale told me he thought he would come down. Do you know,' -said Mr. Bell, wheeling round, and shutting one eye, the better to bring -the forces of the other to bear with keen scrutiny on Mr. Thornton's -face, 'that I once fancied you had a little tenderness for Margaret?'</p> - -<p>No answer. No change of countenance.</p> - -<p>'And so did poor Hale. Not at first, and not till I had put it into his -head.'</p> - -<p>'I admired Miss Hale. Every one must do so. She is a beautiful -creature,' said Mr. Thornton, driven to bay by Mr. Bell's pertinacious -questioning.</p> - -<p>'Is that all! You can speak of her in that measured way, as simply a -"beautiful creature"—only something to catch the eye. I did hope you -had had nobleness enough in you to make you pay her the homage of the -heart. Though I believe—in fact I know, she would have rejected you, -still to have loved her without return would have lifted you higher than -all those, be they who they may, that have never known her to love. -"Beautiful creature" indeed! Do you speak of her as you would of a horse -or a dog?'</p> - -<p>Mr. Thornton's eyes glowed like red embers.</p> - -<p>'Mr. Bell,' said he, 'before you speak so, you should remember that all -men are not as free to express what they feel as you are. Let us talk of -something else.' For though his heart leaped up, as at a trumpet-call, -to every word that Mr. Bell had said, and though he knew that what he -had said would henceforward bind the thought of the old Oxford Fellow -closely up with the most precious things of his heart, yet he would not -be forced into any expression of what he felt towards Margaret. He was -no mocking-bird of praise, to try because another extolled what he -reverenced and passionately loved, to outdo him in laudation. So he -turned to some of the dry matters of business that lay between Mr. Bell -and him, as landlord and tenant.</p> - -<p>'What is that heap of brick and mortar we came against in the yard? Any -repairs wanted?'</p> - -<p>'No, none, thank you.'</p> - -<p>'Are you building on your own account? If you are, I'm very much obliged -to you.'</p> - -<p>'I'm building a dining-room—for the men I mean—the hands.'</p> - -<p>'I thought you were hard to please, if this room wasn't good enough to -satisfy you, a bachelor.'</p> - -<p>'I've got acquainted with a strange kind of chap, and I put one or two -children in whom he is interested to school. So, as I happened to be -passing near his house one day, I just went there about some trifling -payment to be made; and I saw such a miserable black frizzle of a -dinner—a greasy cinder of meat, as first set me a-thinking. But it was -not till provisions grew so high this winter that I bethought me how, by -buying things wholesale, and cooking a good quantity of provisions -together, much money might be saved, and much comfort gained. So I spoke -to my friend—or my enemy—the man I told you of—and he found fault -with every detail of my plan; and in consequence I laid it aside, both -as impracticable, and also because if I forced it into operation I -should be interfering with the independence of my men; when, suddenly, -this Higgins came to me and graciously signified his approval of a -scheme so nearly the same as mine, that I might fairly have claimed it; -and, moreover, the approval of several of his fellow-workmen, to whom he -had spoken. I was a little "riled," I confess, by his manner, and -thought of throwing the whole thing overboard to sink or swim. But it -seemed childish to relinquish a plan which I had once thought wise and -well-laid, just because I myself did not receive all the honour and -consequence due to the originator. So I coolly took the part assigned to -me, which is something like that of steward to a club. I buy in the -provisions wholesale, and provide a fitting matron or cook.'</p> - -<p>'I hope you give satisfaction in your new capacity. Are you a good judge -of potatoes and onions? But I suppose Mrs. Thornton assists you in your -marketing.'</p> - -<p>'Not a bit,' replied Mr. Thornton. 'She disapproves of the whole plan, -and now we never mention it to each other. But I manage pretty well, -getting in great stocks from Liverpool, and being served in butcher's -meat by our own family butcher. I can assure you, the hot dinners the -matron turns out are by no means to be despised.'</p> - -<p>'Do you taste each dish as it goes in, in virtue of your office? I hope -you have a white wand.'</p> - -<p>'I was very scrupulous, at first, in confining myself to the mere -purchasing part, and even in that I rather obeyed the men's orders -conveyed through the housekeeper, than went by my own judgment. At one -time, the beef was too large, at another the mutton was not fat enough. -I think they saw how careful I was to leave them free, and not to -intrude my own ideas upon them; so, one day, two or three of the men—my -friend Higgins among them—asked me if I would not come in and take a -snack. It was a very busy day, but I saw that the men would be hurt if, -after making the advance, I didn't meet them half-way, so I went in, and -I never made a better dinner in my life. I told them (my next neighbours -I mean, for I'm no speech-maker) how much I'd enjoyed it; and for some -time, whenever that especial dinner recurred in their dietary, I was -sure to be met by these men, with a "Master, there's hot-pot for dinner -to-day, win yo' come?" If they had not asked me, I would no more have -intruded on them than I'd have gone to the mess at the barracks without -invitation.'</p> - -<p>'I should think you were rather a restraint on your hosts' conversation. -They can't abuse the masters while you're there. I suspect they take it -out on non-hot-pot days.'</p> - -<p>'Well! hitherto we've steered clear of all vexed questions. But if any -of the old disputes came up again, I would certainly speak out my mind -next hot-pot day. But you are hardly acquainted with our Darkshire -fellows, for all you're a Darkshire man yourself. They have such a sense -of humour, and such a racy mode of expression! I am getting really to -know some of them now, and they talk pretty freely before me.'</p> - -<p>'Nothing like the act of eating for equalising men. Dying is nothing to -it. The philosopher dies sententiously—the pharisee ostentatiously—the -simple-hearted humbly—the poor idiot blindly, as the sparrow falls to -the ground; the philosopher and idiot, publican and pharisee, all eat -after the same fashion—given an equally good digestion. There's theory -for theory for you!'</p> - -<p>'Indeed I have no theory; I hate theories.'</p> - -<p>'I beg your pardon. To show my penitence, will you accept a ten pound -note towards your marketing, and give the poor fellows a feast?'</p> - -<p>'Thank you; but I'd rather not. They pay me rent for the oven and -cooking-places at the back of the mill: and will have to pay more for -the new dining-room. I don't want it to fall into a charity. I don't -want donations. Once let in the principle, and I should have people -going, and talking, and spoiling the simplicity of the whole thing.'</p> - -<p>'People will talk about any new plan. You can't help that.'</p> - -<p>'My enemies, if I have any, may make a philanthropic fuss about this -dinner-scheme; but you are a friend, and I expect you will pay my -experiment the respect of silence. It is but a new broom at present, and -sweeps clean enough. But by-and-by we shall meet with plenty of -stumbling-blocks, no doubt.'</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLIII_MARGARETS_FLITTIN" id="CHAPTER_XLIII_MARGARETS_FLITTIN"></a>CHAPTER XLIII—MARGARET'S FLITTIN'</h2> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">'The meanest thing to which we bid adieu,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Loses its meanness in the parting hour.'<br /></span> -<span class="i10">E<small>LLIOTT</small>.<br /></span> -</div></div> - -<p>Mrs. Shaw took as vehement a dislike as it was possible for one of her -gentle nature to do, against Milton. It was noisy, and smoky, and the -poor people whom she saw in the streets were dirty, and the rich ladies -over-dressed, and not a man that she saw, high or low, had his clothes -made to fit him. She was sure Margaret would never regain her lost -strength while she stayed in Milton; and she herself was afraid of one -of her old attacks of the nerves. Margaret must return with her, and -that quickly. This, if not the exact force of her words, was at any rate -the spirit of what she urged on Margaret, till the latter, weak, weary, -and broken-spirited, yielded a reluctant promise that, as soon as -Wednesday was over she would prepare to accompany her aunt back to town, -leaving Dixon in charge of all the arrangements for paying bills, -disposing of furniture, and shutting up the house. Before that -Wednesday—that mournful Wednesday, when Mr. Hale was to be interred, -far away from either of the homes he had known in life, and far away -from the wife who lay lonely among strangers (and this last was -Margaret's great trouble, for she thought that if she had not given way -to that overwhelming stupor during the first sad days, she could have -arranged things otherwise)—before that Wednesday, Margaret received a -letter from Mr. Bell.</p> - -<p>'MY DEAR MARGARET:—I did mean to have returned to Milton on Thursday, -but unluckily it turns out to be one of the rare occasions when we, -Plymouth Fellows, are called upon to perform any kind of duty, and I -must not be absent from my post. Captain Lennox and Mr. Thornton are -here. The former seems a smart, well-meaning man; and has proposed to go -over to Milton, and assist you in any search for the will; of course -there is none, or you would have found it by this time, if you followed -my directions. Then the Captain declares he must take you and his -mother-in-law home; and, in his wife's present state, I don't see how -you can expect him to remain away longer than Friday. However, that -Dixon of yours is trusty; and can hold her, or your own, till I come. I -will put matters into the hands of my Milton attorney if there is no -will; for I doubt this smart captain is no great man of business. -Nevertheless, his moustachios are splendid. There will have to be a -sale, so select what things you wish reserved. Or you can send a list -afterwards. Now two things more, and I have done. You know, or if you -don't, your poor father did, that you are to have my money and goods -when I die. Not that I mean to die yet; but I name this just to explain -what is coming. These Lennoxes seem very fond of you now; and perhaps -may continue to be; perhaps not. So it is best to start with a formal -agreement; namely, that you are to pay them two hundred and fifty pounds -a year, as long as you and they find it pleasant to live together. -(This, of course, includes Dixon; mind you don't be cajoled into paying -any more for her.) Then you won't be thrown adrift, if some day the -captain wishes to have his house to himself, but you can carry yourself -and your two hundred and fifty pounds off somewhere else; if, indeed, I -have not claimed you to come and keep house for me first. Then as to -dress, and Dixon, and personal expenses, and confectionery (all young -ladies eat confectionery till wisdom comes by age), I shall consult some -lady of my acquaintance, and see how much you will have from your father -before fixing this. Now, Margaret, have you flown out before you have -read this far, and wondered what right the old man has to settle your -affairs for you so cavalierly? I make no doubt you have. Yet the old man -has a right. He has loved your father for five and thirty years; he -stood beside him on his wedding-day; he closed his eyes in death. -Moreover, he is your godfather; and as he cannot do you much good -spiritually, having a hidden consciousness of your superiority in such -things, he would fain do you the poor good of endowing you materially. -And the old man has not a known relation on earth; "who is there to -mourn for Adam Bell?" and his whole heart is set and bent upon this one -thing, and Margaret Hale is not the girl to say him nay. Write by -return, if only two lines, to tell me your answer. But <i>no thanks</i>.'</p> - -<p>Margaret took up a pen and scrawled with trembling hand, 'Margaret Hale -is not the girl to say him nay.' In her weak state she could not think -of any other words, and yet she was vexed to use these. But she was so -much fatigued even by this slight exertion, that if she could have -thought of another form of acceptance, she could not have sate up to -write a syllable of it. She was obliged to lie down again, and try not -to think.</p> - -<p>'My dearest child! Has that letter vexed or troubled you?'</p> - -<p>'No!' said Margaret feebly. 'I shall be better when to-morrow is over.'</p> - -<p>'I feel sure, darling, you won't be better till I get you out of this -horrid air. How you can have borne it this two years I can't imagine.'</p> - -<p>'Where could I go to? I could not leave papa and mamma.'</p> - -<p>'Well! don't distress yourself, my dear. I dare say it was all for the -best, only I had no conception of how you were living. Our butler's wife -lives in a better house than this.'</p> - -<p>'It is sometimes very pretty—in summer; you can't judge by what it is -now. I have been very happy here,' and Margaret closed her eyes by way -of stopping the conversation.</p> - -<p>The house teemed with comfort now, compared to what it had done. The -evenings were chilly, and by Mrs. Shaw's directions fires were lighted -in every bedroom. She petted Margaret in every possible way, and bought -every delicacy, or soft luxury in which she herself would have burrowed -and sought comfort. But Margaret was indifferent to all these things; -or, if they forced themselves upon her attention, it was simply as -causes for gratitude to her aunt, who was putting herself so much out of -her way to think of her. She was restless, though so weak. All the day -long, she kept herself from thinking of the ceremony which was going on -at Oxford, by wandering from room to room, and languidly setting aside -such articles as she wished to retain. Dixon followed her by Mrs. Shaw's -desire, ostensibly to receive instructions, but with a private -injunction to soothe her into repose as soon as might be.</p> - -<p>'These books, Dixon, I will keep. All the rest will you send to Mr. -Bell? They are of a kind that he will value for themselves, as well as -for papa's sake. This—— I should like you to take this to Mr. -Thornton, after I am gone. Stay; I will write a note with it.' And she -sate down hastily, as if afraid of thinking, and wrote:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>'DEAR SIR,—The accompanying book I am sure will be valued by you -for the sake of my father, to whom it belonged.</p> - -<p class="r">'Yours sincerely,</p> - -<p class="r">'M<small>ARGARET</small> H<small>ALE</small>.'</p></div> - -<p>She set out again upon her travels through the house, turning over -articles, known to her from her childhood, with a sort of caressing -reluctance to leave them—old-fashioned, worn and shabby, as they might -be. But she hardly spoke again; and Dixon's report to Mrs. Shaw was, -that 'she doubted whether Miss Hale heard a word of what she said, -though she talked the whole time, in order to divert her attention.' The -consequence of being on her feet all day was excessive bodily weariness -in the evening, and a better night's rest than she had had since she had -heard of Mr. Hale's death.</p> - -<p>At breakfast time the next day, she expressed her wish to go and bid one -or two friends good-bye. Mrs. Shaw objected:</p> - -<p>'I am sure, my dear, you can have no friends here with whom you are -sufficiently intimate to justify you in calling upon them so soon; -before you have been at church.'</p> - -<p>'But to-day is my only day; if Captain Lennox comes this afternoon, and -if we must—if I must really go to-morrow—— '</p> - -<p>'Oh, yes; we shall go to-morrow. I am more and more convinced that this -air is bad for you, and makes you look so pale and ill; besides, Edith -expects us; and she may be waiting me; and you cannot be left alone, my -dear, at your age. No; if you must pay these calls, I will go with you. -Dixon can get us a coach, I suppose?'</p> - -<p>So Mrs. Shaw went to take care of Margaret, and took her maid with her -to take care of the shawls and air-cushions. Margaret's face was too sad -to lighten up into a smile at all this preparation for paying two -visits, that she had often made by herself at all hours of the day. She -was half afraid of owning that one place to which she was going was -Nicholas Higgins'; all she could do was to hope her aunt would be -indisposed to get out of the coach, and walk up the court, and at every -breath of wind have her face slapped by wet clothes, hanging out to dry -on ropes stretched from house to house.</p> - -<p>There was a little battle in Mrs. Shaw's mind between ease and a sense -of matronly propriety; but the former gained the day; and with many an -injunction to Margaret to be careful of herself, and not to catch any -fever, such as was always lurking in such places, her aunt permitted her -to go where she had often been before without taking any precaution or -requiring any permission.</p> - -<p>Nicholas was out; only Mary and one or two of the Boucher children at -home. Margaret was vexed with herself for not having timed her visit -better. Mary had a very blunt intellect, although her feelings were warm -and kind; and the instant she understood what Margaret's purpose was in -coming to see them, she began to cry and sob with so little restraint -that Margaret found it useless to say any of the thousand little things -which had suggested themselves to her as she was coming along in the -coach. She could only try to comfort her a little by suggesting the -vague chance of their meeting again, at some possible time, in some -possible place, and bid her tell her father how much she wished, if he -could manage it, that he should come to see her when he had done his -work in the evening.</p> - -<p>As she was leaving the place, she stopped and looked round; then -hesitated a little before she said:</p> - -<p>'I should like to have some little thing to remind me of Bessy.'</p> - -<p>Instantly Mary's generosity was keenly alive. What could they give? And -on Margaret's singling out a little common drinking-cup, which she -remembered as the one always standing by Bessy's side with drink for her -feverish lips, Mary said:</p> - -<p>'Oh, take summut better; that only cost fourpence!'</p> - -<p>'That will do, thank you,' said Margaret; and she went quickly away, -while the light caused by the pleasure of having something to give yet -lingered on Mary's face.</p> - -<p>'Now to Mrs. Thornton's,' thought she to herself. 'It must be done.' But -she looked rather rigid and pale at the thought of it, and had hard work -to find the exact words in which to explain to her aunt who Mrs. -Thornton was, and why she should go to bid her farewell.</p> - -<p>They (for Mrs. Shaw alighted here) were shown into the drawing-room, in -which a fire had only just been kindled. Mrs. Shaw huddled herself up in -her shawl, and shivered.</p> - -<p>'What an icy room!' she said.</p> - -<p>They had to wait for some time before Mrs. Thornton entered. There was -some softening in her heart towards Margaret, now that she was going -away out of her sight. She remembered her spirit, as shown at various -times and places even more than the patience with which she had endured -long and wearing cares. Her countenance was blander than usual, as she -greeted her; there was even a shade of tenderness in her manner, as she -noticed the white, tear-swollen face, and the quiver in the voice which -Margaret tried to make so steady.</p> - -<p>'Allow me to introduce my aunt, Mrs. Shaw. I am going away from Milton -to-morrow; I do not know if you are aware of it; but I wanted to see you -once again, Mrs. Thornton, to—to apologise for my manner the last time -I saw you; and to say that I am sure you meant kindly—however much we -may have misunderstood each other.'</p> - -<p>Mrs. Shaw looked extremely perplexed by what Margaret had said. Thanks -for kindness! and apologies for failure in good manners! But Mrs. -Thornton replied:</p> - -<p>'Miss Hale, I am glad you do me justice. I did no more than I believed -to be my duty in remonstrating with you as I did. I have always desired -to act the part of a friend to you. I am glad you do me justice.'</p> - -<p>'And,' said Margaret, blushing excessively as she spoke, 'will you do me -justice, and believe that though I cannot—I do not choose—to give -explanations of my conduct, I have not acted in the unbecoming way you -apprehended?'</p> - -<p>Margaret's voice was so soft, and her eyes so pleading, that Mrs. -Thornton was for once affected by the charm of manner to which she had -hitherto proved herself invulnerable.</p> - -<p>'Yes, I do believe you. Let us say no more about it. Where are you going -to reside, Miss Hale? I understood from Mr. Bell that you were going to -leave Milton. You never liked Milton, you know,' said Mrs. Thornton, -with a sort of grim smile; 'but for all that, you must not expect me to -congratulate you on quitting it. Where shall you live?'</p> - -<p>'With my aunt,' replied Margaret, turning towards Mrs. Shaw.</p> - -<p>'My niece will reside with me in Harley Street. She is almost like a -daughter to me,' said Mrs. Shaw, looking fondly at Margaret; 'and I am -glad to acknowledge my own obligation for any kindness that has been -shown to her. If you and your husband ever come to town, my son and -daughter, Captain and Mrs. Lennox, will, I am sure, join with me in -wishing to do anything in our power to show you attention.'</p> - -<p>Mrs. Thornton thought in her own mind, that Margaret had not taken much -care to enlighten her aunt as to the relationship between the Mr. and -Mrs. Thornton, towards whom the fine-lady aunt was extending her soft -patronage; so she answered shortly.</p> - -<p>'My husband is dead. Mr. Thornton is my son. I never go to London; so I -am not likely to be able to avail myself of your polite offers.'</p> - -<p>At this instant Mr. Thornton entered the room; he had only just returned -from Oxford. His mourning suit spoke of the reason that had called him -there.</p> - -<p>'John,' said his mother, 'this lady is Mrs. Shaw, Miss Hale's aunt. I am -sorry to say, that Miss Hale's call is to wish us good-bye.'</p> - -<p>'You are going then!' said he, in a low voice.</p> - -<p>'Yes,' said Margaret. 'We leave to-morrow.'</p> - -<p>'My son-in-law comes this evening to escort us,' said Mrs. Shaw.</p> - -<p>Mr. Thornton turned away. He had not sat down, and now he seemed to be -examining something on the table, almost as if he had discovered an -unopened letter, which had made him forget the present company. He did -not even seem to be aware when they got up to take leave. He started -forwards, however, to hand Mrs. Shaw down to the carriage. As it drove -up, he and Margaret stood close together on the door-step, and it was -impossible but that the recollection of the day of the riot should force -itself into both their minds. Into his it came associated with the -speeches of the following day; her passionate declaration that there was -not a man in all that violent and desperate crowd, for whom she did not -care as much as for him. And at the remembrance of her taunting words, -his brow grew stern, though his heart beat thick with longing love. -'No!' said he, 'I put it to the touch once, and I lost it all. Let her -go,—with her stony heart, and her beauty;—how set and terrible her -look is now, for all her loveliness of feature! She is afraid I shall -speak what will require some stern repression. Let her go. Beauty and -heiress as she may be, she will find it hard to meet with a truer heart -than mine. Let her go!'</p> - -<p>And there was no tone of regret, or emotion of any kind in the voice -with which he said good-bye; and the offered hand was taken with a -resolute calmness, and dropped as carelessly as if it had been a dead -and withered flower. But none in his household saw Mr. Thornton again -that day. He was busily engaged; or so he said.</p> - -<p>Margaret's strength was so utterly exhausted by these visits, that she -had to submit to much watching, and petting, and sighing -'I-told-you-so's,' from her aunt. Dixon said she was quite as bad as she -had been on the first day she heard of her father's death; and she and -Mrs. Shaw consulted as to the desirableness of delaying the morrow's -journey. But when her aunt reluctantly proposed a few days' delay to -Margaret, the latter writhed her body as if in acute suffering, and -said:</p> - -<p>'Oh! let us go. I cannot be patient here. I shall not get well here. I -want to forget.'</p> - -<p>So the arrangements went on; and Captain Lennox came, and with him news -of Edith and the little boy; and Margaret found that the indifferent, -careless conversation of one who, however kind, was not too warm and -anxious a sympathiser, did her good. She roused up; and by the time that -she knew she might expect Higgins, she was able to leave the room -quietly, and await in her own chamber the expected summons.</p> - -<p>'Eh!' said he, as she came in, 'to think of th' oud gentleman dropping -off as he did! Yo' might ha' knocked me down wi' a straw when they -telled me. "Mr. Hale?" said I; "him as was th' parson?" "Ay," said they. -"Then," said I, "there's as good a man gone as ever lived on this earth, -let who will be t' other!" And I came to see yo', and tell yo' how -grieved I were, but them women in th' kitchen wouldn't tell yo' I were -there. They said yo' were ill,—and butter me, but yo' dunnot look like -th' same wench. And yo're going to be a grand lady up i' Lunnon, aren't -yo'?'</p> - -<p>'Not a grand lady,' said Margaret, half smiling.</p> - -<p>'Well! Thornton said—says he, a day or two ago, "Higgins, have yo' seen -Miss Hale?" "No," says I; "there's a pack o' women who won't let me at -her. But I can bide my time, if she's ill. She and I knows each other -pretty well; and hoo'l not go doubting that I'm main sorry for th' oud -gentleman's death, just because I can't get at her and tell her so." And -says he, "Yo'll not have much time for to try and see her, my fine chap. -She's not for staying with us a day longer nor she can help. She's got -grand relations, and they're carrying her off; and we sha'n't see her no -more." "Measter," said I, "if I dunnot see her afore hoo goes, I'll -strive to get up to Lunnun next Whissuntide, that I will. I'll not be -baulked of saying her good-bye by any relations whatsomdever." But, -bless yo', I knowed yo'd come. It were only for to humour the measter, I -let on as if I thought yo'd mappen leave Milton without seeing me.'</p> - -<p>'You're quite right,' said Margaret. 'You only do me justice. And you'll -not forget me, I'm sure. If no one else in Milton remembers me, I'm -certain you will; and papa too. You know how good and how tender he was. -Look, Higgins! here is his bible. I have kept it for you. I can ill -spare it; but I know he would have liked you to have it. I'm sure you'll -care for it, and study what is in it, for his sake.'</p> - -<p>'Yo' may say that. If it were the deuce's own scribble, and yo' axed me -to read in it for yo'r sake, and th' oud gentleman's, I'd do it. -Whatten's this, wench? I'm not going for to take yo'r brass, so dunnot -think it. We've been great friends, 'bout the sound o' money passing -between us.'</p> - -<p>'For the children—for Boucher's children,' said Margaret, hurriedly. -'They may need it. You've no right to refuse it for them. I would not -give you a penny,' she said, smiling; 'don't think there's any of it for -you.'</p> - -<p>'Well, wench! I can nobbut say, Bless yo'! and bless yo'!—and amen.'</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLIV_EASE_NOT_PEACE" id="CHAPTER_XLIV_EASE_NOT_PEACE"></a>CHAPTER XLIV—EASE NOT PEACE</h2> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">'A dull rotation, never at a stay,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Yesterday's face twin image of to-day.'<br /></span> -<span class="i10">C<small>OWPER</small>.<br /></span> -</div></div> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">'Of what each one should be, he sees the form and rule,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">And till he reach to that, his joy can ne'er be full.'<br /></span> -<span class="i10">R<small>UCKERT</small>.<br /></span> -</div></div> - -<p>It was very well for Margaret that the extreme quiet of the Harley -Street house, during Edith's recovery from her confinement, gave her the -natural rest which she needed. It gave her time to comprehend the sudden -change which had taken place in her circumstances within the last two -months. She found herself at once an inmate of a luxurious house, where -the bare knowledge of the existence of every trouble or care seemed -scarcely to have penetrated. The wheels of the machinery of daily life -were well oiled, and went along with delicious smoothness. Mrs. Shaw and -Edith could hardly make enough of Margaret, on her return to what they -persisted in calling her home. And she felt that it was almost -ungrateful in her to have a secret feeling that the Helstone -vicarage—nay, even the poor little house at Milton, with her anxious -father and her invalid mother, and all the small household cares of -comparative poverty, composed her idea of home. Edith was impatient to -get well, in order to fill Margaret's bed-room with all the soft -comforts, and pretty nick-knacks, with which her own abounded. Mrs. Shaw -and her maid found plenty of occupation in restoring Margaret's wardrobe -to a state of elegant variety. Captain Lennox was easy, kind, and -gentlemanly; sate with his wife in her dressing-room an hour or two -every day; played with his little boy for another hour, and lounged away -the rest of his time at his club, when he was not engaged out to dinner. -Just before Margaret had recovered from her necessity for quiet and -repose—before she had begun to feel her life wanting and dull—Edith -came down-stairs and resumed her usual part in the household; and -Margaret fell into the old habit of watching, and admiring, and -ministering to her cousin. She gladly took all charge of the semblances -of duties off Edith's hands; answered notes, reminded her of -engagements, tended her when no gaiety was in prospect, and she was -consequently rather inclined to fancy herself ill. But all the rest of -the family were in the full business of the London season, and Margaret -was often left alone. Then her thoughts went back to Milton, with a -strange sense of the contrast between the life there, and here. She was -getting surfeited of the eventless ease in which no struggle or -endeavour was required. She was afraid lest she should even become -sleepily deadened into forgetfulness of anything beyond the life which -was lapping her round with luxury. There might be toilers and moilers -there in London, but she never saw them; the very servants lived in an -underground world of their own, of which she knew neither the hopes nor -the fears; they only seemed to start into existence when some want or -whim of their master and mistress needed them. There was a strange -unsatisfied vacuum in Margaret's heart and mode of life; and, once when -she had dimly hinted this to Edith, the latter, wearied with dancing the -night before, languidly stroked Margaret's cheek as she sat by her in -the old attitude,—she on a footstool by the sofa where Edith lay.</p> - -<p>'Poor child!' said Edith. 'It is a little sad for you to be left, night -after night, just at this time when all the world is so gay. But we -shall be having our dinner-parties soon—as soon as Henry comes back -from circuit—and then there will be a little pleasant variety for you. -No wonder it is moped, poor darling!'</p> - -<p>Margaret did not feel as if the dinner-parties would be a panacea. But -Edith piqued herself on her dinner-parties; 'so different,' as she said, -'from the old dowager dinners under mamma's regime;' and Mrs. Shaw -herself seemed to take exactly the same kind of pleasure in the very -different arrangements and circle of acquaintances which were to Captain -and Mrs. Lennox's taste, as she did in the more formal and ponderous -entertainments which she herself used to give. Captain Lennox was always -extremely kind and brotherly to Margaret. She was really very fond of -him, excepting when he was anxiously attentive to Edith's dress and -appearance, with a view to her beauty making a sufficient impression on -the world. Then all the latent Vashti in Margaret was roused, and she -could hardly keep herself from expressing her feelings.</p> - -<p>The course of Margaret's day was this; a quiet hour or two before a late -breakfast; an unpunctual meal, lazily eaten by weary and half-awake -people, but yet at which, in all its dragged-out length, she was -expected to be present, because, directly afterwards, came a discussion -of plans, at which, although they none of them concerned her, she was -expected to give her sympathy, if she could not assist with her advice; -an endless number of notes to write, which Edith invariably left to her, -with many caressing compliments as to her eloquence du billet; a little -play with Sholto as he returned from his morning's walk; besides the -care of the children during the servants' dinner; a drive or callers; -and some dinner or morning engagement for her aunt and cousins, which -left Margaret free, it is true, but rather wearied with the inactivity -of the day, coming upon depressed spirits and delicate health.</p> - -<p>She looked forward with longing, though unspoken interest to the homely -object of Dixon's return from Milton; where, until now, the old servant -had been busily engaged in winding up all the affairs of the Hale -family. It had appeared a sudden famine to her heart, this entire -cessation of any news respecting the people amongst whom she had lived -so long. It was true, that Dixon, in her business-letters, quoted, every -now and then, an opinion of Mr. Thornton's as to what she had better do -about the furniture, or how act in regard to the landlord of the -Crampton Terrace house. But it was only here and there that the name -came in, or any Milton name, indeed; and Margaret was sitting one -evening, all alone in the Lennoxes's drawing-room, not reading Dixon's -letters, which yet she held in her hand, but thinking over them, and -recalling the days which had been, and picturing the busy life out of -which her own had been taken and never missed; wondering if all went on -in that whirl just as if she and her father had never been; questioning -within herself, if no one in all the crowd missed her, (not Higgins, she -was not thinking of him,) when, suddenly, Mr. Bell was announced; and -Margaret hurried the letters into her work-basket, and started up, -blushing as if she had been doing some guilty thing.</p> - -<p>'Oh, Mr. Bell! I never thought of seeing you!'</p> - -<p>'But you give me a welcome, I hope, as well as that very pretty start of -surprise.'</p> - -<p>'Have you dined? How did you come? Let me order you some dinner.'</p> - -<p>'If you're going to have any. Otherwise, you know, there is no one who -cares less for eating than I do. But where are the others? Gone out to -dinner? Left you alone?'</p> - -<p>'Oh yes! and it is such a rest. I was just thinking—But will you run -the risk of dinner? I don't know if there is anything in the house.'</p> - -<p>'Why, to tell you the truth, I dined at my club. Only they don't cook as -well as they did, so I thought, if you were going to dine, I might try -and make out my dinner. But never mind, never mind! There aren't ten -cooks in England to be trusted at impromptu dinners. If their skill and -their fires will stand it, their tempers won't. You shall make me some -tea, Margaret. And now, what were you thinking of? you were going to -tell me. Whose letters were those, god-daughter, that you hid away so -speedily?'</p> - -<p>'Only Dixon's,' replied Margaret, growing very red.</p> - -<p>'Whew! is that all? Who do you think came up in the train with me?'</p> - -<p>'I don't know,' said Margaret, resolved against making a guess.</p> - -<p>'Your what d'ye call him? What's the right name for a cousin-in-law's -brother?'</p> - -<p>'Mr. Henry Lennox?' asked Margaret.</p> - -<p>'Yes,' replied Mr. Bell. 'You knew him formerly, didn't you? What sort -of a person is he, Margaret?'</p> - -<p>'I liked him long ago,' said Margaret, glancing down for a moment. And -then she looked straight up and went on in her natural manner. 'You know -we have been corresponding about Frederick since; but I have not seen -him for nearly three years, and he may be changed. What did you think of -him?'</p> - -<p>'I don't know. He was so busy trying to find out who I was, in the first -instance, and what I was in the second, that he never let out what he -was; unless indeed that veiled curiosity of his as to what manner of man -he had to talk to was not a good piece, and a fair indication of his -character. Do you call him good looking, Margaret?'</p> - -<p>'No! certainly not. Do you?'</p> - -<p>'Not I. But I thought, perhaps, you might. Is he a great deal here?'</p> - -<p>'I fancy he is when he is in town. He has been on circuit now since I -came. But—Mr. Bell—have you come from Oxford or from Milton?'</p> - -<p>'From Milton. Don't you see I'm smoke-dried?'</p> - -<p>'Certainly. But I thought that it might be the effect of the antiquities -of Oxford.'</p> - -<p>'Come now, be a sensible woman! In Oxford, I could have managed all the -landlords in the place, and had my own way, with half the trouble your -Milton landlord has given me, and defeated me after all. He won't take -the house off our hands till next June twelvemonth. Luckily, Mr. -Thornton found a tenant for it. Why don't you ask after Mr. Thornton, -Margaret? He has proved himself a very active friend of yours, I can -tell you. Taken more than half the trouble off my hands.'</p> - -<p>'And how is he? How is Mrs. Thornton?' asked Margaret hurriedly and -below her breath, though she tried to speak out.</p> - -<p>'I suppose they're well. I've been staying at their house till I was -driven out of it by the perpetual clack about that Thornton girl's -marriage. It was too much for Thornton himself, though she was his -sister. He used to go and sit in his own room perpetually. He's getting -past the age for caring for such things, either as principal or -accessory. I was surprised to find the old lady falling into the -current, and carried away by her daughter's enthusiasm for -orange-blossoms and lace. I thought Mrs. Thornton had been made of -sterner stuff.'</p> - -<p>'She would put on any assumption of feeling to veil her daughter's -weakness,' said Margaret in a low voice.</p> - -<p>'Perhaps so. You've studied her, have you? She doesn't seem over fond of -you, Margaret.'</p> - -<p>'I know it,' said Margaret. 'Oh, here is tea at last!' exclaimed she, as -if relieved. And with tea came Mr. Henry Lennox, who had walked up to -Harley Street after a late dinner, and had evidently expected to find -his brother and sister-in-law at home. Margaret suspected him of being -as thankful as she was at the presence of a third party, on this their -first meeting since the memorable day of his offer, and her refusal at -Helstone. She could hardly tell what to say at first, and was thankful -for all the tea-table occupations, which gave her an excuse for keeping -silence, and him an opportunity of recovering himself. For, to tell the -truth, he had rather forced himself up to Harley Street this evening, -with a view of getting over an awkward meeting, awkward even in the -presence of Captain Lennox and Edith, and doubly awkward now that he -found her the only lady there, and the person to whom he must naturally -and perforce address a great part of his conversation. She was the first -to recover her self-possession. She began to talk on the subject which -came uppermost in her mind, after the first flush of awkward shyness.</p> - -<p>'Mr. Lennox, I have been so much obliged to you for all you have done -about Frederick.'</p> - -<p>'I am only sorry it has been so unsuccessful,' replied he, with a quick -glance towards Mr. Bell, as if reconnoitring how much he might say -before him. Margaret, as if she read his thought, addressed herself to -Mr. Bell, both including him in the conversation, and implying that he -was perfectly aware of the endeavours that had been made to clear -Frederick.</p> - -<p>'That Horrocks—that very last witness of all, has proved as unavailing -as all the others. Mr. Lennox has discovered that he sailed for -Australia only last August; only two months before Frederick was in -England, and gave us the names of—— '</p> - -<p>'Frederick in England! you never told me that!' exclaimed Mr. Bell in -surprise.</p> - -<p>'I thought you knew. I never doubted you had been told. Of course, it -was a great secret, and perhaps I should not have named it now,' said -Margaret, a little dismayed.</p> - -<p>'I have never named it to either my brother or your cousin,' said Mr. -Lennox, with a little professional dryness of implied reproach.</p> - -<p>'Never mind, Margaret. I am not living in a talking, babbling world, nor -yet among people who are trying to worm facts out of me; you needn't -look so frightened because you have let the cat out of the bag to a -faithful old hermit like me. I shall never name his having been in -England; I shall be out of temptation, for no one will ask me. Stay!' -(interrupting himself rather abruptly) 'was it at your mother's -funeral?'</p> - -<p>'He was with mamma when she died,' said Margaret, softly.</p> - -<p>'To be sure! To be sure! Why, some one asked me if he had not been over -then, and I denied it stoutly—not many weeks ago—who could it have -been? Oh! I recollect!'</p> - -<p>But he did not say the name; and although Margaret would have given much -to know if her suspicions were right, and it had been Mr. Thornton who -had made the enquiry, she could not ask the question of Mr. Bell, much -as she longed to do so.</p> - -<p>There was a pause for a moment or two. Then Mr. Lennox said, addressing -himself to Margaret, 'I suppose as Mr. Bell is now acquainted with all -the circumstances attending your brother's unfortunate dilemma, I cannot -do better than inform him exactly how the research into the evidence we -once hoped to produce in his favour stands at present. So, if he will do -me the honour to breakfast with me to-morrow, we will go over the names -of these missing gentry.'</p> - -<p>'I should like to hear all the particulars, if I may. Cannot you come -here? I dare not ask you both to breakfast, though I am sure you would -be welcome. But let me know all I can about Frederick, even though there -may be no hope at present.'</p> - -<p>'I have an engagement at half-past eleven. But I will certainly come if -you wish it,' replied Mr. Lennox, with a little afterthought of extreme -willingness, which made Margaret shrink into herself, and almost wish -that she had not proposed her natural request. Mr. Bell got up and -looked around him for his hat, which had been removed to make room for -tea.</p> - -<p>'Well!' said he, 'I don't know what Mr. Lennox is inclined to do, but -I'm disposed to be moving off homewards. I've been a journey to-day, and -journeys begin to tell upon my sixty and odd years.'</p> - -<p>'I believe I shall stay and see my brother and sister,' said Mr. Lennox, -making no movement of departure. Margaret was seized with a shy awkward -dread of being left alone with him. The scene on the little terrace in -the Helstone garden was so present to her, that she could hardly help -believing it was so with him.</p> - -<p>'Don't go yet, please, Mr. Bell,' said she, hastily. 'I want you to see -Edith; and I want Edith to know you. Please!' said she, laying a light -but determined hand on his arm. He looked at her, and saw the confusion -stirring in her countenance; he sate down again, as if her little touch -had been possessed of resistless strength.</p> - -<p>'You see how she overpowers me, Mr. Lennox,' said he. 'And I hope you -noticed the happy choice of her expressions; she wants me to "see" this -cousin Edith, who, I am told, is a great beauty; but she has the honesty -to change her word when she comes to me—Mrs. Lennox is to "know" me. I -suppose I am not much to "see," eh, Margaret?'</p> - -<p>He joked, to give her time to recover from the slight flutter which he -had detected in her manner on his proposal to leave; and she caught the -tone, and threw the ball back. Mr. Lennox wondered how his brother, the -Captain, could have reported her as having lost all her good looks. To -be sure, in her quiet black dress, she was a contrast to Edith, dancing -in her white crape mourning, and long floating golden hair, all softness -and glitter. She dimpled and blushed most becomingly when introduced to -Mr. Bell, conscious that she had her reputation as a beauty to keep up, -and that it would not do to have a Mordecai refusing to worship and -admire, even in the shape of an old Fellow of a College, which nobody -had ever heard of. Mrs. Shaw and Captain Lennox, each in their separate -way, gave Mr. Bell a kind and sincere welcome, winning him over to like -them almost in spite of himself, especially when he saw how naturally -Margaret took her place as sister and daughter of the house.</p> - -<p>'What a shame that we were not at home to receive you,' said Edith. -'You, too, Henry! though I don't know that we should have stayed at home -for you. And for Mr. Bell! for Margaret's Mr. Bell—— '</p> - -<p>'There is no knowing what sacrifices you would not have made,' said her -brother-in-law. 'Even a dinner-party! and the delight of wearing this -very becoming dress.'</p> - -<p>Edith did not know whether to frown or to smile. But it did not suit Mr. -Lennox to drive her to the first of these alternatives; so he went on.</p> - -<p>'Will you show your readiness to make sacrifices to-morrow morning, -first by asking me to breakfast, to meet Mr. Bell, and secondly, by -being so kind as to order it at half-past nine, instead of ten o'clock? -I have some letters and papers that I want to show to Miss Hale and Mr. -Bell.'</p> - -<p>'I hope Mr. Bell will make our house his own during his stay in London,' -said Captain Lennox. 'I am only so sorry we cannot offer him a -bed-room.'</p> - -<p>'Thank you. I am much obliged to you. You would only think me a churl if -you had, for I should decline it, I believe, in spite of all the -temptations of such agreeable company,' said Mr. Bell, bowing all round, -and secretly congratulating himself on the neat turn he had given to his -sentence, which, if put into plain language, would have been more to -this effect: 'I couldn't stand the restraints of such a proper-behaved -and civil-spoken set of people as these are: it would be like meat -without salt. I'm thankful they haven't a bed. And how well I rounded my -sentence! I am absolutely catching the trick of good manners.'</p> - -<p>His self-satisfaction lasted him till he was fairly out in the streets, -walking side by side with Henry Lennox. Here he suddenly remembered -Margaret's little look of entreaty as she urged him to stay longer, and -he also recollected a few hints given him long ago by an acquaintance of -Mr. Lennox's, as to his admiration of Margaret. It gave a new direction -to his thoughts. 'You have known Miss Hale for a long time, I believe. -How do you think her looking? She strikes me as pale and ill.'</p> - -<p>'I thought her looking remarkably well. Perhaps not when I first came -in—now I think of it. But certainly, when she grew animated, she looked -as well as ever I saw her do.'</p> - -<p>'She has had a great deal to go through,' said Mr. Bell.</p> - -<p>'Yes! I have been sorry to hear of all she has had to bear; not merely -the common and universal sorrow arising from death, but all the -annoyance which her father's conduct must have caused her, and then——'</p> - -<p>'Her father's conduct!' said Mr. Bell, in an accent of surprise. 'You -must have heard some wrong statement. He behaved in the most -conscientious manner. He showed more resolute strength than I should -ever have given him credit for formerly.'</p> - -<p>'Perhaps I have been wrongly informed. But I have been told, by his -successor in the living—a clever, sensible man, and a thoroughly active -clergyman—that there was no call upon Mr. Hale to do what he did, -relinquish the living, and throw himself and his family on the tender -mercies of private teaching in a manufacturing town; the bishop had -offered him another living, it is true, but if he had come to entertain -certain doubts, he could have remained where he was, and so had no -occasion to resign. But the truth is, these country clergymen live such -isolated lives—isolated, I mean, from all intercourse with men of equal -cultivation with themselves, by whose minds they might regulate their -own, and discover when they were going either too fast or too slow—that -they are very apt to disturb themselves with imaginary doubts as to the -articles of faith, and throw up certain opportunities of doing good for -very uncertain fancies of their own.'</p> - -<p>'I differ from you. I do not think they are very apt to do as my poor -friend Hale did.' Mr. Bell was inwardly chafing.</p> - -<p>'Perhaps I used too general an expression, in saying "very apt." But -certainly, their lives are such as very often to produce either -inordinate self-sufficiency, or a morbid state of conscience,' replied -Mr. Lennox with perfect coolness.</p> - -<p>'You don't meet with any self-sufficiency among the lawyers, for -instance?' asked Mr. Bell. 'And seldom, I imagine, any cases of morbid -conscience.' He was becoming more and more vexed, and forgetting his -lately-caught trick of good manners. Mr. Lennox saw now that he had -annoyed his companion; and as he had talked pretty much for the sake of -saying something, and so passing the time while their road lay together, -he was very indifferent as to the exact side he took upon the question, -and quietly came round by saying: 'To be sure, there is something fine -in a man of Mr. Hale's age leaving his home of twenty years, and giving -up all settled habits, for an idea which was probably erroneous—but -that does not matter—an untangible thought. One cannot help admiring -him, with a mixture of pity in one's admiration, something like what one -feels for Don Quixote. Such a gentleman as he was too! I shall never -forget the refined and simple hospitality he showed to me that last day -at Helstone.'</p> - -<p>Only half mollified, and yet anxious, in order to lull certain qualms of -his own conscience, to believe that Mr. Hale's conduct had a tinge of -Quixotism in it, Mr. Bell growled out—'Aye! And you don't know Milton. -Such a change from Helstone! It is years since I have been at -Helstone—but I'll answer for it, it is standing there yet—every stick -and every stone as it has done for the last century, while Milton! I go -there every four or five years—and I was born there—yet I do assure -you, I often lose my way—aye, among the very piles of warehouses that -are built upon my father's orchard. Do we part here? Well, good night, -sir; I suppose we shall meet in Harley Street to-morrow morning.'</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLV_NOT_ALL_A_DREAM" id="CHAPTER_XLV_NOT_ALL_A_DREAM"></a>CHAPTER XLV—NOT ALL A DREAM</h2> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">'Where are the sounds that swam along<br /></span> -<span class="i1">The buoyant air when I was young?<br /></span> -<span class="i1">The last vibration now is o'er,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">And they who listened are no more;<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Ah! let me close my eyes and dream.'<br /></span> -<span class="i10">W. S. LANDOR.<br /></span> -</div></div> - -<p>The idea of Helstone had been suggested to Mr. Bell's waking mind by his -conversation with Mr. Lennox, and all night long it ran riot through his -dreams. He was again the tutor in the college where he now held the rank -of Fellow; it was again a long vacation, and he was staying with his -newly married friend, the proud husband, and happy Vicar of Helstone. -Over babbling brooks they took impossible leaps, which seemed to keep -them whole days suspended in the air. Time and space were not, though -all other things seemed real. Every event was measured by the emotions -of the mind, not by its actual existence, for existence it had none. But -the trees were gorgeous in their autumnal leafiness—the warm odours of -flower and herb came sweet upon the sense—the young wife moved about -her house with just that mixture of annoyance at her position, as -regarded wealth, with pride in her handsome and devoted husband, which -Mr. Bell had noticed in real life a quarter of a century ago. The dream -was so like life that, when he awoke, his present life seemed like a -dream. Where was he? In the close, handsomely furnished room of a London -hotel! Where were those who spoke to him, moved around him, touched him, -not an instant ago? Dead! buried! lost for evermore, as far as earth's -for evermore would extend. He was an old man, so lately exultant in the -full strength of manhood. The utter loneliness of his life was -insupportable to think about. He got up hastily, and tried to forget -what never more might be, in a hurried dressing for the breakfast in -Harley Street.</p> - -<p>He could not attend to all the lawyer's details, which, as he saw, made -Margaret's eyes dilate, and her lips grow pale, as one by one fate -decreed, or so it seemed, every morsel of evidence which would exonerate -Frederick, should fall from beneath her feet and disappear. Even Mr. -Lennox's well-regulated professional voice took a softer, tenderer tone, -as he drew near to the extinction of the last hope. It was not that -Margaret had not been perfectly aware of the result before. It was only -that the details of each successive disappointment came with such -relentless minuteness to quench all hope, that she at last fairly gave -way to tears. Mr. Lennox stopped reading.</p> - -<p>'I had better not go on,' said he, in a concerned voice. 'It was a -foolish proposal of mine. Lieutenant Hale,' and even this giving him the -title of the service from which he had so harshly been expelled, was -soothing to Margaret, 'Lieutenant Hale is happy now; more secure in -fortune and future prospects than he could ever have been in the navy; -and has, doubtless, adopted his wife's country as his own.'</p> - -<p>'That is it,' said Margaret. 'It seems so selfish in me to regret it,' -trying to smile, 'and yet he is lost to me, and I am so lonely.' Mr. -Lennox turned over his papers, and wished that he were as rich and -prosperous as he believed he should be some day. Mr. Bell blew his nose, -but, otherwise, he also kept silence; and Margaret, in a minute or two, -had apparently recovered her usual composure. She thanked Mr. Lennox -very courteously for his trouble; all the more courteously and -graciously because she was conscious that, by her behaviour, he might -have probably been led to imagine that he had given her needless pain. -Yet it was pain she would not have been without.</p> - -<p>Mr. Bell came up to wish her good-bye.</p> - -<p>'Margaret!' said he, as he fumbled with his gloves. 'I am going down to -Helstone to-morrow, to look at the old place. Would you like to come -with me? Or would it give you too much pain? Speak out, don't be -afraid.'</p> - -<p>'Oh, Mr. Bell,' said she—and could say no more. But she took his old -gouty hand, and kissed it.</p> - -<p>'Come, come; that's enough,' said he, reddening with awkwardness. 'I -suppose your aunt Shaw will trust you with me. We'll go to-morrow -morning, and we shall get there about two o'clock, I fancy. We'll take a -snack, and order dinner at the little inn—the Lennard Arms, it used to -be,—and go and get an appetite in the forest. Can you stand it, -Margaret? It will be a trial, I know, to both of us, but it will be a -pleasure to me, at least. And there we'll dine—it will be but -doe-venison, if we can get it at all—and then I'll take my nap while -you go out and see old friends. I'll give you back safe and sound, -barring railway accidents, and I'll insure your life for a thousand -pounds before starting, which may be some comfort to your relations; but -otherwise, I'll bring you back to Mrs. Shaw by lunch-time on Friday. So, -if you say yes, I'll just go up-stairs and propose it.'</p> - -<p>'It's no use my trying to say how much I shall like it,' said Margaret, -through her tears.</p> - -<p>'Well, then, prove your gratitude by keeping those fountains of yours -dry for the next two days. If you don't, I shall feel queer myself about -the lachrymal ducts, and I don't like that.'</p> - -<p>'I won't cry a drop,' said Margaret, winking her eyes to shake the tears -off her eye-lashes, and forcing a smile.</p> - -<p>'There's my good girl. Then we'll go up-stairs and settle it all.' -Margaret was in a state of almost trembling eagerness, while Mr. Bell -discussed his plan with her aunt Shaw, who was first startled, then -doubtful and perplexed, and in the end, yielding rather to the rough -force of Mr. Bell's words than to her own conviction; for to the last, -whether it was right or wrong, proper or improper, she could not settle -to her own satisfaction, till Margaret's safe return, the happy -fulfilment of the project, gave her decision enough to say, 'she was -sure it had been a very kind thought of Mr. Bell's, and just what she -herself had been wishing for Margaret, as giving her the very change -which she required, after all the anxious time she had had.'</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLVI_ONCE_AND_NOW" id="CHAPTER_XLVI_ONCE_AND_NOW"></a>CHAPTER XLVI—ONCE AND NOW</h2> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">'So on those happy days of yore<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Oft as I dare to dwell once more,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Still must I miss the friends so tried,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Whom Death has severed from my side.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i1">But ever when true friendship binds,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Spirit it is that spirit finds;<br /></span> -<span class="i1">In spirit then our bliss we found,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">In spirit yet to them I'm bound.'<br /></span> -<span class="i10">U<small>HLAND</small>.<br /></span> -</div></div> - -<p>Margaret was ready long before the appointed time, and had leisure -enough to cry a little, quietly, when unobserved, and to smile brightly -when any one looked at her. Her last alarm was lest they should be too -late and miss the train; but no! they were all in time; and she breathed -freely and happily at length, seated in the carriage opposite to Mr. -Bell, and whirling away past the well-known stations; seeing the old -south country-towns and hamlets sleeping in the warm light of the pure -sun, which gave a yet ruddier colour to their tiled roofs, so different -to the cold slates of the north. Broods of pigeons hovered around these -peaked quaint gables, slowly settling here and there, and ruffling their -soft, shiny feathers, as if exposing every fibre to the delicious -warmth. There were few people about at the stations, it almost seemed as -if they were too lazily content to wish to travel; none of the bustle -and stir that Margaret had noticed in her two journeys on the London and -North-Western line. Later on in the year, this line of railway should be -stirring and alive with rich pleasure-seekers; but as to the constant -going to and fro of busy trades-people it would always be widely -different from the northern lines. Here a spectator or two stood -lounging at nearly every station, with his hands in his pockets, so -absorbed in the simple act of watching, that it made the travellers -wonder what he could find to do when the train whirled away, and only -the blank of a railway, some sheds, and a distant field or two were left -for him to gaze upon. The hot air danced over the golden stillness of -the land, farm after farm was left behind, each reminding Margaret of -German Idyls—of Herman and Dorothea—of Evangeline. From this waking -dream she was roused. It was the place to leave the train and take the -fly to Helstone. And now sharper feelings came shooting through her -heart, whether pain or pleasure she could hardly tell. Every mile was -redolent of associations, which she would not have missed for the world, -but each of which made her cry upon 'the days that are no more,' with -ineffable longing. The last time she had passed along this road was when -she had left it with her father and mother—the day, the season, had -been gloomy, and she herself hopeless, but they were there with her. Now -she was alone, an orphan, and they, strangely, had gone away from her, -and vanished from the face of the earth. It hurt her to see the Helstone -road so flooded in the sun-light, and every turn and every familiar tree -so precisely the same in its summer glory as it had been in former -years. Nature felt no change, and was ever young.</p> - -<p>Mr. Bell knew something of what would be passing through her mind, and -wisely and kindly held his tongue. They drove up to the Lennard Arms; -half farm-house, half-inn, standing a little apart from the road, as -much as to say, that the host did not so depend on the custom of -travellers, as to have to court it by any obtrusiveness; they, rather, -must seek him out. The house fronted the village green; and right before -it stood an immemorial lime-tree benched all round, in some hidden -recesses of whose leafy wealth hung the grim escutcheon of the Lennards. -The door of the inn stood wide open, but there was no hospitable hurry -to receive the travellers. When the landlady did appear—and they might -have abstracted many an article first—she gave them a kind welcome, -almost as if they had been invited guests, and apologised for her coming -having been so delayed, by saying, that it was hay-time, and the -provisions for the men had to be sent a-field, and she had been too busy -packing up the baskets to hear the noise of wheels over the road, which, -since they had left the highway, ran over soft short turf.</p> - -<p>'Why, bless me!' exclaimed she, as at the end of her apology, a glint of -sunlight showed her Margaret's face, hitherto unobserved in that shady -parlour. 'It's Miss Hale, Jenny,' said she, running to the door, and -calling to her daughter. 'Come here, come directly, it's Miss Hale!' And -then she went up to Margaret, and shook her hands with motherly -fondness.</p> - -<p>'And how are you all? How's the Vicar and Miss Dixon? The Vicar above -all! God bless him! We've never ceased to be sorry that he left.'</p> - -<p>Margaret tried to speak and tell her of her father's death; of her -mother's it was evident that Mrs. Purkis was aware, from her omission of -her name. But she choked in the effort, and could only touch her deep -mourning, and say the one word, 'Papa.'</p> - -<p>'Surely, sir, it's never so!' said Mrs. Purkis, turning to Mr. Bell for -confirmation of the sad suspicion that now entered her mind. 'There was -a gentleman here in the spring—it might have been as long ago as last -winter—who told us a deal of Mr. Hale and Miss Margaret; and he said -Mrs. Hale was gone, poor lady. But never a word of the Vicar's being -ailing!'</p> - -<p>'It is so, however,' said Mr. Bell. 'He died quite suddenly, when on a -visit to me at Oxford. He was a good man, Mrs. Purkis, and there's many -of us that might be thankful to have as calm an end as his. Come -Margaret, my dear! Her father was my oldest friend, and she's my -god-daughter, so I thought we would just come down together and see the -old place; and I know of old you can give us comfortable rooms and a -capital dinner. You don't remember me I see, but my name is Bell, and -once or twice when the parsonage has been full, I've slept here, and -tasted your good ale.'</p> - -<p>'To be sure; I ask your pardon; but you see I was taken up with Miss -Hale. Let me show you to a room, Miss Margaret, where you can take off -your bonnet, and wash your face. It's only this very morning I plunged -some fresh-gathered roses head downward in the water-jug, for, thought -I, perhaps some one will be coming, and there's nothing so sweet as -spring-water scented by a musk rose or two. To think of the Vicar being -dead! Well, to be sure, we must all die; only that gentleman said, he -was quite picking up after his trouble about Mrs. Hale's death.'</p> - -<p>'Come down to me, Mrs. Purkis, after you have attended to Miss Hale. I -want to have a consultation with you about dinner.'</p> - -<p>The little casement window in Margaret's bed-chamber was almost filled -up with rose and vine branches; but pushing them aside, and stretching a -little out, she could see the tops of the parsonage chimneys above the -trees; and distinguish many a well-known line through the leaves.</p> - -<p>'Aye!' said Mrs. Purkis, smoothing down the bed, and despatching Jenny -for an armful of lavender-scented towels, 'times is changed, miss; our -new Vicar has seven children, and is building a nursery ready for more, -just out where the arbour and tool-house used to be in old times. And he -has had new grates put in, and a plate-glass window in the drawing-room. -He and his wife are stirring people, and have done a deal of good; at -least they say it's doing good; if it were not, I should call it turning -things upside down for very little purpose. The new Vicar is a -teetotaller, miss, and a magistrate, and his wife has a deal of receipts -for economical cooking, and is for making bread without yeast; and they -both talk so much, and both at a time, that they knock one down as it -were, and it's not till they're gone, and one's a little at peace, that -one can think that there were things one might have said on one's own -side of the question. He'll be after the men's cans in the hay-field, -and peeping in; and then there'll be an ado because it's not ginger -beer, but I can't help it. My mother and my grandmother before me sent -good malt liquor to haymakers; and took salts and senna when anything -ailed them; and I must e'en go on in their ways, though Mrs. Hepworth -does want to give me comfits instead of medicine, which, as she says, is -a deal pleasanter, only I've no faith in it. But I must go, miss, though -I'm wanting to hear many a thing; I'll come back to you before long.</p> - -<p>Mr. Bell had strawberries and cream, a loaf of brown bread, and a jug of -milk, (together with a Stilton cheese and a bottle of port for his own -private refreshment,) ready for Margaret on her coming down stairs; and -after this rustic luncheon they set out to walk, hardly knowing in what -direction to turn, so many old familiar inducements were there in each.</p> - -<p>'Shall we go past the vicarage?' asked Mr. Bell.</p> - -<p>'No, not yet. We will go this way, and make a round so as to come back -by it,' replied Margaret.</p> - -<p>Here and there old trees had been felled the autumn before; or a -squatter's roughly-built and decaying cottage had disappeared. Margaret -missed them each and all, and grieved over them like old friends. They -came past the spot where she and Mr. Lennox had sketched. The white, -lightning-scarred trunk of the venerable beech, among whose roots they -had sate down was there no more; the old man, the inhabitant of the -ruinous cottage, was dead; the cottage had been pulled down, and a new -one, tidy and respectable, had been built in its stead. There was a -small garden on the place where the beech-tree had been.</p> - -<p>'I did not think I had been so old,' said Margaret after a pause of -silence; and she turned away sighing.</p> - -<p>'Yes!' said Mr. Bell. 'It is the first changes among familiar things -that make such a mystery of time to the young, afterwards we lose the -sense of the mysterious. I take changes in all I see as a matter of -course. The instability of all human things is familiar to me, to you it -is new and oppressive.'</p> - -<p>'Let us go on to see little Susan,' said Margaret, drawing her companion -up a grassy road-way, leading under the shadow of a forest glade.</p> - -<p>'With all my heart, though I have not an idea who little Susan may be. -But I have a kindness for all Susans, for simple Susan's sake.'</p> - -<p>'My little Susan was disappointed when I left without wishing her -goodbye; and it has been on my conscience ever since, that I gave her -pain which a little more exertion on my part might have prevented. But -it is a long way. Are you sure you will not be tired?'</p> - -<p>'Quite sure. That is, if you don't walk so fast. You see, here there are -no views that can give one an excuse for stopping to take breath. You -would think it romantic to be walking with a person "fat and scant o' -breath" if I were Hamlet, Prince of Denmark. Have compassion on my -infirmities for his sake.'</p> - -<p>'I will walk slower for your own sake. I like you twenty times better -than Hamlet.'</p> - -<p>'On the principle that a living ass is better than a dead lion?'</p> - -<p>'Perhaps so. I don't analyse my feelings.'</p> - -<p>'I am content to take your liking me, without examining too curiously -into the materials it is made of. Only we need not walk at a snail's' -pace.'</p> - -<p>'Very well. Walk at your own pace, and I will follow. Or stop still and -meditate, like the Hamlet you compare yourself to, if I go too fast.'</p> - -<p>'Thank you. But as my mother has not murdered my father, and afterwards -married my uncle, I shouldn't know what to think about, unless it were -balancing the chances of our having a well-cooked dinner or not. What do -you think?'</p> - -<p>'I am in good hopes. She used to be considered a famous cook as far as -Helstone opinion went.'</p> - -<p>'But have you considered the distraction of mind produced by all this -haymaking?'</p> - -<p>Margaret felt all Mr. Bell's kindness in trying to make cheerful talk -about nothing, to endeavour to prevent her from thinking too curiously -about the past. But she would rather have gone over these dear-loved -walks in silence, if indeed she were not ungrateful enough to wish that -she might have been alone.</p> - -<p>They reached the cottage where Susan's widowed mother lived. Susan was -not there. She was gone to the parochial school. Margaret was -disappointed, and the poor woman saw it, and began to make a kind of -apology.</p> - -<p>'Oh! it is quite right,' said Margaret. 'I am very glad to hear it. I -might have thought of it. Only she used to stop at home with you.'</p> - -<p>'Yes, she did; and I miss her sadly. I used to teach her what little I -knew at nights. It were not much to be sure. But she were getting such a -handy girl, that I miss her sore. But she's a deal above me in learning -now.' And the mother sighed.</p> - -<p>'I'm all wrong,' growled Mr. Bell. 'Don't mind what I say. I'm a hundred -years behind the world. But I should say, that the child was getting a -better and simpler, and more natural education stopping at home, and -helping her mother, and learning to read a chapter in the New Testament -every night by her side, than from all the schooling under the sun.'</p> - -<p>Margaret did not want to encourage him to go on by replying to him, and -so prolonging the discussion before the mother. So she turned to her and -asked,</p> - -<p>'How is old Betty Barnes?'</p> - -<p>'I don't know,' said the woman rather shortly. 'We'se not friends.'</p> - -<p>'Why not?' asked Margaret, who had formerly been the peacemaker of the -village.</p> - -<p>'She stole my cat.'</p> - -<p>'Did she know it was yours?'</p> - -<p>'I don't know. I reckon not.'</p> - -<p>'Well! could not you get it back again when you told her it was yours?'</p> - -<p>'No! for she'd burnt it.'</p> - -<p>'Burnt it!' exclaimed both Margaret and Mr. Bell.</p> - -<p>'Roasted it!' explained the woman.</p> - -<p>It was no explanation. By dint of questioning, Margaret extracted from -her the horrible fact that Betty Barnes, having been induced by a gypsy -fortune-teller to lend the latter her husband's Sunday clothes, on -promise of having them faithfully returned on the Saturday night before -Goodman Barnes should have missed them, became alarmed by their -non-appearance, and her consequent dread of her husband's anger, and as, -according to one of the savage country superstitions, the cries of a -cat, in the agonies of being boiled or roasted alive, compelled (as it -were) the powers of darkness to fulfil the wishes of the executioner, -resort had been had to the charm. The poor woman evidently believed in -its efficacy; her only feeling was indignation that her cat had been -chosen out from all others for a sacrifice. Margaret listened in horror; -and endeavoured in vain to enlighten the woman's mind; but she was -obliged to give it up in despair. Step by step she got the woman to -admit certain facts, of which the logical connexion and sequence was -perfectly clear to Margaret; but at the end, the bewildered woman simply -repeated her first assertion, namely, that 'it were very cruel for sure, -and she should not like to do it; but that there were nothing like it -for giving a person what they wished for; she had heard it all her life; -but it were very cruel for all that.' Margaret gave it up in despair, -and walked away sick at heart.</p> - -<p>'You are a good girl not to triumph over me,' said Mr. Bell.</p> - -<p>'How? What do you mean?'</p> - -<p>'I own, I am wrong about schooling. Anything rather than have that child -brought up in such practical paganism.'</p> - -<p>'Oh! I remember. Poor little Susan! I must go and see her; would you -mind calling at the school?'</p> - -<p>'Not a bit. I am curious to see something of the teaching she is to -receive.'</p> - -<p>They did not speak much more, but thridded their way through many a -bosky dell, whose soft green influence could not charm away the shock -and the pain in Margaret's heart, caused by the recital of such cruelty; -a recital too, the manner of which betrayed such utter want of -imagination, and therefore of any sympathy with the suffering animal.</p> - -<p>The buzz of voices, like the murmur of a hive of busy human bees, made -itself heard as soon as they emerged from the forest on the more open -village-green on which the school was situated. The door was wide open, -and they entered. A brisk lady in black, here, there, and everywhere, -perceived them, and bade them welcome with somewhat of the hostess-air -which, Margaret remembered, her mother was wont to assume, only in a -more soft and languid manner, when any rare visitors strayed in to -inspect the school. She knew at once it was the present Vicar's wife, -her mother's successor; and she would have drawn back from the interview -had it been possible; but in an instant she had conquered this feeling, -and modestly advanced, meeting many a bright glance of recognition, and -hearing many a half-suppressed murmur of 'It's Miss Hale.' The Vicar's -lady heard the name, and her manner at once became more kindly. Margaret -wished she could have helped feeling that it also became more -patronising. The lady held out a hand to Mr. Bell, with—</p> - -<p>'Your father, I presume, Miss Hale. I see it by the likeness. I am sure -I am very glad to see you, sir, and so will the Vicar be.'</p> - -<p>Margaret explained that it was not her father, and stammered out the -fact of his death; wondering all the time how Mr. Hale could have borne -coming to revisit Helstone, if it had been as the Vicar's lady supposed. -She did not hear what Mrs. Hepworth was saying, and left it to Mr. Bell -to reply, looking round, meanwhile, for her old acquaintances.</p> - -<p>'Ah! I see you would like to take a class, Miss Hale. I know it by -myself. First class stand up for a parsing lesson with Miss Hale.'</p> - -<p>Poor Margaret, whose visit was sentimental, not in any degree -inspective, felt herself taken in; but as in some way bringing her in -contact with little eager faces, once well-known, and who had received -the solemn rite of baptism from her father, she sate down, half losing -herself in tracing out the changing features of the girls, and holding -Susan's hand for a minute or two, unobserved by all, while the first -class sought for their books, and the Vicar's lady went as near as a -lady could towards holding Mr. Bell by the button, while she explained -the Phonetic system to him, and gave him a conversation she had had with -the Inspector about it.</p> - -<p>Margaret bent over her book, and seeing nothing but that—hearing the -buzz of children's voices, old times rose up, and she thought of them, -and her eyes filled with tears, till all at once there was a pause—one -of the girls was stumbling over the apparently simple word 'a,' -uncertain what to call it.</p> - -<p>'A, an indefinite article,' said Margaret, mildly.</p> - -<p>'I beg your pardon,' said the Vicar's wife, all eyes and ears; 'but we -are taught by Mr. Milsome to call "a" an—who can remember?'</p> - -<p>'An adjective absolute,' said half-a-dozen voices at once. And Margaret -sate abashed. The children knew more than she did. Mr. Bell turned away, -and smiled.</p> - -<p>Margaret spoke no more during the lesson. But after it was over, she -went quietly round to one or two old favourites, and talked to them a -little. They were growing out of children into great girls; passing out -of her recollection in their rapid development, as she, by her three -years' absence, was vanishing from theirs. Still she was glad to have -seen them all again, though a tinge of sadness mixed itself with her -pleasure. When school was over for the day, it was yet early in the -summer afternoon; and Mrs. Hepworth proposed to Margaret that she and -Mr. Bell should accompany her to the parsonage, and see the—the word -'improvements' had half slipped out of her mouth, but she substituted -the more cautious term 'alterations' which the present Vicar was making. -Margaret did not care a straw about seeing the alterations, which jarred -upon her fond recollection of what her home had been; but she longed to -see the old place once more, even though she shivered away from the pain -which she knew she should feel.</p> - -<p>The parsonage was so altered, both inside and out, that the real pain -was less than she had anticipated. It was not like the same place. The -garden, the grass-plat, formerly so daintily trim that even a stray -rose-leaf seemed like a fleck on its exquisite arrangement and -propriety, was strewed with children's things; a bag of marbles here, a -hoop there; a straw-hat forced down upon a rose-tree as on a peg, to the -destruction of a long beautiful tender branch laden with flowers, which -in former days would have been trained up tenderly, as if beloved. The -little square matted hall was equally filled with signs of merry healthy -rough childhood.</p> - -<p>'Ah!' said Mrs. Hepworth, 'you must excuse this untidiness, Miss Hale. -When the nursery is finished, I shall insist upon a little order. We are -building a nursery out of your room, I believe. How did you manage, Miss -Hale, without a nursery?'</p> - -<p>'We were but two,' said Margaret. 'You have many children, I presume?'</p> - -<p>'Seven. Look here! we are throwing out a window to the road on this -side. Mr. Hepworth is spending an immense deal of money on this house; -but really it was scarcely habitable when we came—for so large a family -as ours I mean, of course.' Every room in the house was changed, besides -the one of which Mrs. Hepworth spoke, which had been Mr. Hale's study -formerly; and where the green gloom and delicious quiet of the place had -conduced, as he had said, to a habit of meditation, but, perhaps, in -some degree to the formation of a character more fitted for thought than -action. The new window gave a view of the road, and had many advantages, -as Mrs. Hepworth pointed out. From it the wandering sheep of her -husband's flock might be seen, who straggled to the tempting beer-house, -unobserved as they might hope, but not unobserved in reality; for the -active Vicar kept his eye on the road, even during the composition of -his most orthodox sermons, and had a hat and stick hanging ready at hand -to seize, before sallying out after his parishioners, who had need of -quick legs if they could take refuge in the 'Jolly Forester' before the -teetotal Vicar had arrested them. The whole family were quick, brisk, -loud-talking, kind-hearted, and not troubled with much delicacy of -perception. Margaret feared that Mrs. Hepworth would find out that Mr. -Bell was playing upon her, in the admiration he thought fit to express -for everything that especially grated on his taste. But no! she took it -all literally, and with such good faith, that Margaret could not help -remonstrating with him as they walked slowly away from the parsonage -back to their inn.</p> - -<p>'Don't scold, Margaret. It was all because of you. If she had not shown -you every change with such evident exultation in their superior sense, -in perceiving what an improvement this and that would be, I could have -behaved well. But if you must go on preaching, keep it till after -dinner, when it will send me to sleep, and help my digestion.'</p> - -<p>They were both of them tired, and Margaret herself so much so, that she -was unwilling to go out as she had proposed to do, and have another -ramble among the woods and fields so close to the home of her childhood. -And, somehow, this visit to Helstone had not been all—had not been -exactly what she had expected. There was change everywhere; slight, yet -pervading all. Households were changed by absence, or death, or -marriage, or the natural mutations brought by days and months and years, -which carry us on imperceptibly from childhood to youth, and thence -through manhood to age, whence we drop like fruit, fully ripe, into the -quiet mother earth. Places were changed—a tree gone here, a bough -there, bringing in a long ray of light where no light was before—a road -was trimmed and narrowed, and the green straggling pathway by its side -enclosed and cultivated. A great improvement it was called; but Margaret -sighed over the old picturesqueness, the old gloom, and the grassy -wayside of former days. She sate by the window on the little settle, -sadly gazing out upon the gathering shades of night, which harmonised -well with her pensive thought. Mr. Bell slept soundly, after his unusual -exercise through the day. At last he was roused by the entrance of the -tea-tray, brought in by a flushed-looking country-girl, who had -evidently been finding some variety from her usual occupation of waiter, -in assisting this day in the hayfield.</p> - -<p>'Hallo! Who's there! Where are we? Who's that,—Margaret? Oh, now I -remember all. I could not imagine what woman was sitting there in such a -doleful attitude, with her hands clasped straight out upon her knees, -and her face looking so steadfastly before her. What were you looking -at?' asked Mr. Bell, coming to the window, and standing behind Margaret.</p> - -<p>'Nothing,' said she, rising up quickly, and speaking as cheerfully as -she could at a moment's notice.</p> - -<p>'Nothing indeed! A bleak back-ground of trees, some white linen hung out -on the sweet-briar hedge, and a great waft of damp air. Shut the window, -and come in and make tea.'</p> - -<p>Margaret was silent for some time. She played with her teaspoon, and did -not attend particularly to what Mr. Bell said. He contradicted her, and -she took the same sort of smiling notice of his opinion as if he had -agreed with her. Then she sighed, and putting down her spoon, she began, -apropos of nothing at all, and in the high-pitched voice which usually -shows that the speaker has been thinking for some time on the subject -that they wish to introduce—'Mr. Bell, you remember what we were saying -about Frederick last night, don't you?'</p> - -<p>'Last night. Where was I? Oh, I remember! Why it seems a week ago. Yes, -to be sure, I recollect we talked about him, poor fellow.'</p> - -<p>'Yes—and do you not remember that Mr. Lennox spoke about his having -been in England about the time of dear mamma's death?' asked Margaret, -her voice now lower than usual.</p> - -<p>'I recollect. I hadn't heard of it before.'</p> - -<p>'And I thought—I always thought that papa had told you about it.'</p> - -<p>'No! he never did. But what about it, Margaret?'</p> - -<p>'I want to tell you of something I did that was very wrong, about that -time,' said Margaret, suddenly looking up at him with her clear honest -eyes. 'I told a lie;' and her face became scarlet.</p> - -<p>'True, that was bad I own; not but what I have told a pretty round -number in my life, not all in downright words, as I suppose you did, but -in actions, or in some shabby circumlocutory way, leading people either -to disbelieve the truth, or believe a falsehood. You know who is the -father of lies, Margaret? Well! a great number of folk, thinking -themselves very good, have odd sorts of connexion with lies, left-hand -marriages, and second cousins-once-removed. The tainting blood of -falsehood runs through us all. I should have guessed you as far from it -as most people. What! crying, child? Nay, now we'll not talk of it, if -it ends in this way. I dare say you have been sorry for it, and that you -won't do it again, and it's long ago now, and in short I want you to be -very cheerful, and not very sad, this evening.'</p> - -<p>Margaret wiped her eyes, and tried to talk about something else, but -suddenly she burst out afresh.</p> - -<p>'Please, Mr. Bell, let me tell you about it—you could perhaps help me a -little; no, not help me, but if you knew the truth, perhaps you could -put me to rights—that is not it, after all,' said she, in despair at -not being able to express herself more exactly as she wished.</p> - -<p>Mr. Bell's whole manner changed. 'Tell me all about it, child,' said he.</p> - -<p>'It's a long story; but when Fred came, mamma was very ill, and I was -undone with anxiety, and afraid, too, that I might have drawn him into -danger; and we had an alarm just after her death, for Dixon met some one -in Milton—a man called Leonards—who had known Fred, and who seemed to -owe him a grudge, or at any rate to be tempted by the recollection of -the reward offered for his apprehension; and with this new fright, I -thought I had better hurry off Fred to London, where, as you would -understand from what we said the other night, he was to go to consult -Mr. Lennox as to his chances if he stood the trial. So we—that is, he -and I,—went to the railway station; it was one evening, and it was just -getting rather dusk, but still light enough to recognise and be -recognised, and we were too early, and went out to walk in a field just -close by; I was always in a panic about this Leonards, who was, I knew, -somewhere in the neighbourhood; and then, when we were in the field, the -low red sunlight just in my face, some one came by on horseback in the -road just below the field-style by which we stood. I saw him look at me, -but I did not know who it was at first, the sun was so in my eyes, but -in an instant the dazzle went off, and I saw it was Mr. Thornton, and we -bowed,'——</p> - -<p>'And he saw Frederick of course,' said Mr. Bell, helping her on with her -story, as he thought.</p> - -<p>'Yes; and then at the station a man came up—tipsy and reeling—and he -tried to collar Fred, and over-balanced himself as Fred wrenched himself -away, and fell over the edge of the platform; not far, not deep; not -above three feet; but oh! Mr. Bell, somehow that fall killed him!'</p> - -<p>'How awkward. It was this Leonards, I suppose. And how did Fred get -off?'</p> - -<p>'Oh! he went off immediately after the fall, which we never thought -could have done the poor fellow any harm, it seemed so slight an -injury.'</p> - -<p>'Then he did not die directly?'</p> - -<p>'No! not for two or three days. And then—oh, Mr. Bell! now comes the -bad part,' said she, nervously twining her fingers together. 'A police -inspector came and taxed me with having been the companion of the young -man, whose push or blow had occasioned Leonards' death; that was a false -accusation, you know, but we had not heard that Fred had sailed, he -might still be in London and liable to be arrested on this false charge, -and his identity with the Lieutenant Hale, accused of causing that -mutiny, discovered, he might be shot; all this flashed through my mind, -and I said it was not me. I was not at the railway station that night. I -knew nothing about it. I had no conscience or thought but to save -Frederick.'</p> - -<p>'I say it was right. I should have done the same. You forgot yourself in -thought for another. I hope I should have done the same.'</p> - -<p>'No, you would not. It was wrong, disobedient, faithless. At that very -time Fred was safely out of England, and in my blindness I forgot that -there was another witness who could testify to my being there.'</p> - -<p>'Who?'</p> - -<p>'Mr. Thornton. You know he had seen me close to the station; we had -bowed to each other.'</p> - -<p>'Well! he would know nothing of this riot about the drunken fellow's -death. I suppose the inquiry never came to anything.'</p> - -<p>'No! the proceedings they had begun to talk about on the inquest were -stopped. Mr. Thornton did know all about it. He was a magistrate, and he -found out that it was not the fall that had caused the death. But not -before he knew what I had said. Oh, Mr. Bell!' She suddenly covered her -face with her hands, as if wishing to hide herself from the presence of -the recollection.</p> - -<p>'Did you have any explanation with him? Did you ever tell him the -strong, instinctive motive?'</p> - -<p>'The instinctive want of faith, and clutching at a sin to keep myself -from sinking,' said she bitterly. 'No! How could I? He knew nothing of -Frederick. To put myself to rights in his good opinion, was I to tell -him of the secrets of our family, involving, as they seemed to do, the -chances of poor Frederick's entire exculpation? Fred's last words had -been to enjoin me to keep his visit a secret from all. You see, papa -never told, even you. No! I could bear the shame—I thought I could at -least. I did bear it. Mr. Thornton has never respected me since.'</p> - -<p>'He respects you, I am sure,' said Mr. Bell. 'To be sure, it accounts a -little for——. But he always speaks of you with regard and esteem, -though now I understand certain reservations in his manner.'</p> - -<p>Margaret did not speak; did not attend to what Mr. Bell went on to say; -lost all sense of it. By-and-by she said:</p> - -<p>'Will you tell me what you refer to about "reservations" in his manner -of speaking of me?'</p> - -<p>'Oh! simply he has annoyed me by not joining in my praises of you. Like -an old fool, I thought that every one would have the same opinions as I -had; and he evidently could not agree with me. I was puzzled at the -time. But he must be perplexed, if the affair has never been in the -least explained. There was first your walking out with a young man in -the dark—'</p> - -<p>'But it was my brother!' said Margaret, surprised.</p> - -<p>'True. But how was he to know that?'</p> - -<p>'I don't know. I never thought of anything of that kind,' said Margaret, -reddening, and looking hurt and offended.</p> - -<p>'And perhaps he never would, but for the lie,—which, under the -circumstances, I maintain, was necessary.'</p> - -<p>'It was not. I know it now. I bitterly repent it.'</p> - -<p>There was a long pause of silence. Margaret was the first to speak.</p> - -<p>'I am not likely ever to see Mr. Thornton again,'—and there she -stopped.</p> - -<p>'There are many things more unlikely, I should say,' replied Mr. Bell.</p> - -<p>'But I believe I never shall. Still, somehow one does not like to have -sunk so low in—in a friend's opinion as I have done in his.' Her eyes -were full of tears, but her voice was steady, and Mr. Bell was not -looking at her. 'And now that Frederick has given up all hope, and -almost all wish of ever clearing himself, and returning to England, it -would be only doing myself justice to have all this explained. If you -please, and if you can, if there is a good opportunity, (don't force an -explanation upon him, pray,) but if you can, will you tell him the whole -circumstances, and tell him also that I gave you leave to do so, because -I felt that for papa's sake I should not like to lose his respect, -though we may never be likely to meet again?'</p> - -<p>'Certainly. I think he ought to know. I do not like you to rest even -under the shadow of an impropriety; he would not know what to think of -seeing you alone with a young man.'</p> - -<p>'As for that,' said Margaret, rather haughtily, 'I hold it is "Honi soit -qui mal y pense." Yet still I should choose to have it explained, if any -natural opportunity for easy explanation occurs. But it is not to clear -myself of any suspicion of improper conduct that I wish to have him -told—if I thought that he had suspected me, I should not care for his -good opinion—no! it is that he may learn how I was tempted, and how I -fell into the snare; why I told that falsehood, in short.'</p> - -<p>'Which I don't blame you for. It is no partiality of mine, I assure -you.'</p> - -<p>'What other people may think of the rightness or wrongness is nothing in -comparison to my own deep knowledge, my innate conviction that it was -wrong. But we will not talk of that any more, if you please. It is -done—my sin is sinned. I have now to put it behind me, and be truthful -for evermore, if I can.'</p> - -<p>'Very well. If you like to be uncomfortable and morbid, be so. I always -keep my conscience as tight shut up as a jack-in-a-box, for when it -jumps into existence it surprises me by its size. So I coax it down -again, as the fisherman coaxed the genie. "Wonderful," say I, "to think -that you have been concealed so long, and in so small a compass, that I -really did not know of your existence. Pray, sir, instead of growing -larger and larger every instant, and bewildering me with your misty -outlines, would you once more compress yourself into your former -dimensions?" And when I've got him down, don't I clap the seal on the -vase, and take good care how I open it again, and how I go against -Solomon, wisest of men, who confined him there.'</p> - -<p>But it was no smiling matter to Margaret. She hardly attended to what -Mr. Bell was saying. Her thoughts ran upon the idea, before entertained, -but which now had assumed the strength of a conviction, that Mr. -Thornton no longer held his former good opinion of her—that he was -disappointed in her. She did not feel as if any explanation could ever -reinstate her—not in his love, for that and any return on her part she -had resolved never to dwell upon, and she kept rigidly to her -resolution—but in the respect and high regard which she had hoped would -have ever made him willing, in the spirit of Gerald Griffin's beautiful -lines,</p> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">'To turn and look back when thou hearest<br /></span> -<span class="i1">The sound of my name.'<br /></span> -</div></div> - -<p>She kept choking and swallowing all the time that she thought about it. -She tried to comfort herself with the idea, that what he imagined her to -be, did not alter the fact of what she was. But it was a truism, a -phantom, and broke down under the weight of her regret. She had twenty -questions on the tip of her tongue to ask Mr. Bell, but not one of them -did she utter. Mr. Bell thought that she was tired, and sent her early -to her room, where she sate long hours by the open window, gazing out on -the purple dome above, where the stars arose, and twinkled and -disappeared behind the great umbrageous trees before she went to bed. -All night long too, there burnt a little light on earth; a candle in her -old bedroom, which was the nursery with the present inhabitants of the -parsonage, until the new one was built. A sense of change, of individual -nothingness, of perplexity and disappointment, over-powered Margaret. -Nothing had been the same; and this slight, all-pervading instability, -had given her greater pain than if all had been too entirely changed for -her to recognise it.</p> - -<p>'I begin to understand now what heaven must be—and, oh! the grandeur -and repose of the words—"The same yesterday, to-day, and for ever." -Everlasting! "From everlasting to everlasting, Thou art God." That sky -above me looks as though it could not change, and yet it will. I am so -tired—so tired of being whirled on through all these phases of my life, -in which nothing abides by me, no creature, no place; it is like the -circle in which the victims of earthly passion eddy continually. I am in -the mood in which women of another religion take the veil. I seek -heavenly steadfastness in earthly monotony. If I were a Roman Catholic -and could deaden my heart, stun it with some great blow, I might become -a nun. But I should pine after my kind; no, not my kind, for love for my -species could never fill my heart to the utter exclusion of love for -individuals. Perhaps it ought to be so, perhaps not; I cannot decide -to-night.'</p> - -<p>Wearily she went to bed, wearily she arose in four or five hours' time. -But with the morning came hope, and a brighter view of things.</p> - -<p>'After all it is right,' said she, hearing the voices of children at -play while she was dressing. 'If the world stood still, it would -retrograde and become corrupt, if that is not Irish. Looking out of -myself, and my own painful sense of change, the progress all around me -is right and necessary. I must not think so much of how circumstances -affect me myself, but how they affect others, if I wish to have a right -judgment, or a hopeful trustful heart.' And with a smile ready in her -eyes to quiver down to her lips, she went into the parlour and greeted -Mr. Bell.</p> - -<p>'Ah, Missy! you were up late last night, and so you're late this -morning. Now I've got a little piece of news for you. What do you think -of an invitation to dinner? a morning call, literally in the dewy -morning. Why, I've had the Vicar here already, on his way to the school. -How much the desire of giving our hostess a teetotal lecture for the -benefit of the haymakers, had to do with his earliness, I don't know; -but here he was, when I came down just before nine; and we are asked to -dine there to-day.'</p> - -<p>'But Edith expects me back—I cannot go,' said Margaret, thankful to -have so good an excuse.</p> - -<p>'Yes! I know; so I told him. I thought you would not want to go. Still -it is open, if you would like it.'</p> - -<p>'Oh, no!' said Margaret. 'Let us keep to our plan. Let us start at -twelve. It is very good and kind of them; but indeed I could not go.'</p> - -<p>'Very well. Don't fidget yourself, and I'll arrange it all.'</p> - -<p>Before they left Margaret stole round to the back of the Vicarage -garden, and gathered a little straggling piece of honeysuckle. She would -not take a flower the day before, for fear of being observed, and her -motives and feelings commented upon. But as she returned across the -common, the place was reinvested with the old enchanting atmosphere. The -common sounds of life were more musical there than anywhere else in the -whole world, the light more golden, the life more tranquil and full of -dreamy delight. As Margaret remembered her feelings yesterday, she said -to herself:</p> - -<p>'And I too change perpetually—now this, now that—now disappointed and -peevish because all is not exactly as I had pictured it, and now -suddenly discovering that the reality is far more beautiful than I had -imagined it. Oh, Helstone! I shall never love any place like you.</p> - -<p>A few days afterwards, she had found her level, and decided that she was -very glad to have been there, and that she had seen it again, and that -to her it would always be the prettiest spot in the world, but that it -was so full of associations with former days, and especially with her -father and mother, that if it were all to come over again, she should -shrink back from such another visit as that which she had paid with Mr. -Bell.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLVII_SOMETHING_WANTING" id="CHAPTER_XLVII_SOMETHING_WANTING"></a>CHAPTER XLVII—SOMETHING WANTING</h2> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">'Experience, like a pale musician, holds<br /></span> -<span class="i1">A dulcimer of patience in his hand;<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Whence harmonies we cannot understand,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Of God's will in His worlds, the strain unfolds<br /></span> -<span class="i1">In sad, perplexed minors.'<br /></span> -<span class="i10">M<small>RS</small>. B<small>ROWNING</small>.<br /></span> -</div></div> - -<p>About this time Dixon returned from Milton, and assumed her post as -Margaret's maid. She brought endless pieces of Milton gossip: How Martha -had gone to live with Miss Thornton, on the latter's marriage; with an -account of the bridesmaids, dresses and breakfasts, at that interesting -ceremony; how people thought that Mr. Thornton had made too grand a -wedding of it, considering he had lost a deal by the strike, and had had -to pay so much for the failure of his contracts; how little money -articles of furniture—long cherished by Dixon—had fetched at the sale, -which was a shame considering how rich folks were at Milton; how Mrs. -Thornton had come one day and got two or three good bargains, and Mr. -Thornton had come the next, and in his desire to obtain one or two -things, had bid against himself, much to the enjoyment of the -bystanders, so as Dixon observed, that made things even; if Mrs. -Thornton paid too little, Mr. Thornton paid too much. Mr. Bell had sent -all sorts of orders about the books; there was no understanding him, he -was so particular; if he had come himself it would have been all right, -but letters always were and always will be more puzzling than they are -worth. Dixon had not much to tell about the Higginses. Her memory had an -aristocratic bias, and was very treacherous whenever she tried to recall -any circumstance connected with those below her in life. Nicholas was -very well she believed. He had been several times at the house asking -for news of Miss Margaret—the only person who ever did ask, except once -Mr. Thornton. And Mary? oh! of course she was very well, a great, stout, -slatternly thing! She did hear, or perhaps it was only a dream of hers, -though it would be strange if she had dreamt of such people as the -Higginses, that Mary had gone to work at Mr. Thornton's mill, because -her father wished her to know how to cook; but what nonsense that could -mean she didn't know. Margaret rather agreed with her that the story was -incoherent enough to be like a dream. Still it was pleasant to have some -one now with whom she could talk of Milton, and Milton people. Dixon was -not over-fond of the subject, rather wishing to leave that part of her -life in shadow. She liked much more to dwell upon speeches of Mr. -Bell's, which had suggested an idea to her of what was really his -intention—making Margaret his heiress. But her young lady gave her no -encouragement, nor in any way gratified her insinuating enquiries, -however disguised in the form of suspicions or assertions.</p> - -<p>All this time, Margaret had a strange undefined longing to hear that Mr. -Bell had gone to pay one of his business visits to Milton; for it had -been well understood between them, at the time of their conversation at -Helstone, that the explanation she had desired should only be given to -Mr. Thornton by word of mouth, and even in that manner should be in -nowise forced upon him. Mr. Bell was no great correspondent, but he -wrote from time to time long or short letters, as the humour took him, -and although Margaret was not conscious of any definite hope, on -receiving them, yet she always put away his notes with a little feeling -of disappointment. He was not going to Milton; he said nothing about it -at any rate. Well! she must be patient. Sooner or later the mists would -be cleared away. Mr. Bell's letters were hardly like his usual self; -they were short, and complaining, with every now and then a little touch -of bitterness that was unusual. He did not look forward to the future; -he rather seemed to regret the past, and be weary of the present. -Margaret fancied that he could not be well; but in answer to some -enquiry of hers as to his health, he sent her a short note, saying there -was an old-fashioned complaint called the spleen; that he was suffering -from that, and it was for her to decide if it was more mental or -physical; but that he should like to indulge himself in grumbling, -without being obliged to send a bulletin every time.</p> - -<p>In consequence of this note, Margaret made no more enquiries about his -health. One day Edith let out accidentally a fragment of a conversation -which she had had with Mr. Bell, when he was last in London, which -possessed Margaret with the idea that he had some notion of taking her -to pay a visit to her brother and new sister-in-law, at Cadiz, in the -autumn. She questioned and cross-questioned Edith, till the latter was -weary, and declared that there was nothing more to remember; all he had -said was that he half-thought he should go, and hear for himself what -Frederick had to say about the mutiny; and that it would be a good -opportunity for Margaret to become acquainted with her new -sister-in-law; that he always went somewhere during the long vacation, -and did not see why he should not go to Spain as well as anywhere else. -That was all. Edith hoped Margaret did not want to leave them, that she -was so anxious about all this. And then, having nothing else particular -to do, she cried, and said that she knew she cared much more for -Margaret than Margaret did for her. Margaret comforted her as well as -she could, but she could hardly explain to her how this idea of Spain, -mere <i>château en Espagne</i> as it might be, charmed and delighted her. Edith -was in the mood to think that any pleasure enjoyed away from her was a -tacit affront, or at best a proof of indifference. So Margaret had to -keep her pleasure to herself, and could only let it escape by the -safety-valve of asking Dixon, when she dressed for dinner, if she would -not like to see Master Frederick and his new wife very much indeed?</p> - -<p>'She's a Papist, Miss, isn't she?'</p> - -<p>'I believe—oh yes, certainly!' said Margaret, a little damped for an -instant at this recollection.</p> - -<p>'And they live in a Popish country?'</p> - -<p>'Yes.'</p> - -<p>'Then I'm afraid I must say, that my soul is dearer to me than even -Master Frederick, his own dear self. I should be in a perpetual terror, -Miss, lest I should be converted.'</p> - -<p>'Oh' said Margaret, 'I do not know that I am going; and if I go, I am -not such a fine lady as to be unable to travel without you. No! dear old -Dixon, you shall have a long holiday, if we go. But I'm afraid it is a -long "if."'</p> - -<p>Now Dixon did not like this speech. In the first place, she did not like -Margaret's trick of calling her 'dear old Dixon' whenever she was -particularly demonstrative. She knew that Miss Hale was apt to call all -people that she liked 'old,' as a sort of term of endearment; but Dixon -always winced away from the application of the word to herself, who, -being not much past fifty, was, she thought, in the very prime of life. -Secondly, she did not like being so easily taken at her word; she had, -with all her terror, a lurking curiosity about Spain, the Inquisition, -and Popish mysteries. So, after clearing her throat, as if to show her -willingness to do away with difficulties, she asked Miss Hale, whether -she thought if she took care never to see a priest, or enter into one of -their churches, there would be so very much danger of her being -converted? Master Frederick, to be sure, had gone over unaccountable.</p> - -<p>'I fancy it was love that first predisposed him to conversion,' said -Margaret, sighing.</p> - -<p>'Indeed, Miss!' said Dixon; 'well! I can preserve myself from priests, -and from churches; but love steals in unawares! I think it's as well I -should not go.'</p> - -<p>Margaret was afraid of letting her mind run too much upon this Spanish -plan. But it took off her thoughts from too impatiently dwelling upon -her desire to have all explained to Mr. Thornton. Mr. Bell appeared for -the present to be stationary at Oxford, and to have no immediate purpose -of going to Milton, and some secret restraint seemed to hang over -Margaret, and prevent her from even asking, or alluding again to any -probability of such a visit on his part. Nor did she feel at liberty to -name what Edith had told her of the idea he had entertained,—it might -be but for five minutes,—of going to Spain. He had never named it at -Helstone, during all that sunny day of leisure; it was very probably but -the fancy of a moment,—but if it were true, what a bright outlet it -would be from the monotony of her present life, which was beginning to -fall upon her.</p> - -<p>One of the great pleasures of Margaret's life at this time, was in -Edith's boy. He was the pride and plaything of both father and mother, -as long as he was good; but he had a strong will of his own, and as soon -as he burst out into one of his stormy passions, Edith would throw -herself back in despair and fatigue, and sigh out, 'Oh dear, what shall -I do with him! Do, Margaret, please ring the bell for Hanley.'</p> - -<p>But Margaret almost liked him better in these manifestations of -character than in his good blue-sashed moods. She would carry him off -into a room, where they two alone battled it out; she with a firm power -which subdued him into peace, while every sudden charm and wile she -possessed, was exerted on the side of right, until he would rub his -little hot and tear-smeared face all over hers, kissing and caressing -till he often fell asleep in her arms or on her shoulder. Those were -Margaret's sweetest moments. They gave her a taste of the feeling that -she believed would be denied to her for ever.</p> - -<p>Mr. Henry Lennox added a new and not disagreeable element to the course -of the household life by his frequent presence. Margaret thought him -colder, if more brilliant than formerly; but there were strong -intellectual tastes, and much and varied knowledge, which gave flavour -to the otherwise rather insipid conversation. Margaret saw glimpses in -him of a slight contempt for his brother and sister-in-law, and for -their mode of life, which he seemed to consider as frivolous and -purposeless. He once or twice spoke to his brother, in Margaret's -presence, in a pretty sharp tone of enquiry, as to whether he meant -entirely to relinquish his profession; and on Captain Lennox's reply, -that he had quite enough to live upon, she had seen Mr. Lennox's curl of -the lip as he said, 'And is that all you live for?'</p> - -<p>But the brothers were much attached to each other, in the way that any -two persons are, when the one is cleverer and always leads the other, -and this last is patiently content to be led. Mr. Lennox was pushing on -in his profession; cultivating, with profound calculation, all those -connections that might eventually be of service to him; keen-sighted, -far-seeing, intelligent, sarcastic, and proud. Since the one long -conversation relating to Frederick's affairs, which she had with him the -first evening in Mr. Bell's presence, she had had no great intercourse -with him, further than that which arose out of their close relations -with the same household. But this was enough to wear off the shyness on -her side, and any symptoms of mortified pride and vanity on his. They -met continually, of course, but she thought that he rather avoided being -alone with her; she fancied that he, as well as she, perceived that they -had drifted strangely apart from their former anchorage, side by side, -in many of their opinions, and all their tastes.</p> - -<p>And yet, when he had spoken unusually well, or with remarkable -epigrammatic point, she felt that his eye sought the expression of her -countenance first of all, if but for an instant; and that, in the family -intercourse which constantly threw them together, her opinion was the -one to which he listened with a deference,—the more complete, because -it was reluctantly paid, and concealed as much as possible.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLVIII_NEER_TO_BE_FOUND_AGAIN" id="CHAPTER_XLVIII_NEER_TO_BE_FOUND_AGAIN"></a>CHAPTER XLVIII—'NE'ER TO BE FOUND AGAIN'</h2> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">'My own, my father's friend!<br /></span> -<span class="i1">I cannot part with thee!<br /></span> -<span class="i1">I ne'er have shown, thou ne'er hast known,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">How dear thou art to me.'<br /></span> -<span class="i10">A<small>NON</small>.<br /></span> -</div></div> - -<p>The elements of the dinner-parties which Mrs. Lennox gave, were these; -her friends contributed the beauty, Captain Lennox the easy knowledge of -the subjects of the day; and Mr. Henry Lennox and the sprinkling of -rising men who were received as his friends, brought the wit, the -cleverness, the keen and extensive knowledge of which they knew well -enough how to avail themselves without seeming pedantic, or burdening -the rapid flow of conversation.</p> - -<p>These dinners were delightful; but even here Margaret's dissatisfaction -found her out. Every talent, every feeling, every acquirement; nay, even -every tendency towards virtue was used up as materials for fireworks; -the hidden, sacred fire, exhausted itself in sparkle and crackle. They -talked about art in a merely sensuous way, dwelling on outside effects, -instead of allowing themselves to learn what it has to teach. They -lashed themselves up into an enthusiasm about high subjects in company, -and never thought about them when they were alone; they squandered their -capabilities of appreciation into a mere flow of appropriate words. One -day, after the gentlemen had come up into the drawing-room, Mr. Lennox -drew near to Margaret, and addressed her in almost the first voluntary -words he had spoken to her since she had returned to live in Harley -Street.</p> - -<p>'You did not look pleased at what Shirley was saying at dinner.'</p> - -<p>'Didn't I? My face must be very expressive,' replied Margaret.</p> - -<p>'It always was. It has not lost the trick of being eloquent.'</p> - -<p>'I did not like,' said Margaret, hastily, 'his way of advocating what he -knew to be wrong—so glaringly wrong—even in jest.'</p> - -<p>'But it was very clever. How every word told! Do you remember the happy -epithets?'</p> - -<p>'Yes.'</p> - -<p>'And despise them, you would like to add. Pray don't scruple, though he -is my friend.'</p> - -<p>'There! that is the exact tone in you, that—' she stopped short.</p> - -<p>He listened for a moment to see if she would finish her sentence; but -she only reddened, and turned away; before she did so, however, she -heard him say, in a very low, clear voice,—</p> - -<p>'If my tones, or modes of thought, are what you dislike, will you do me -the justice to tell me so, and so give me the chance of learning to -please you?'</p> - -<p>All these weeks there was no intelligence of Mr. Bell's going to Milton. -He had spoken of it at Helstone as of a journey which he might have to -take in a very short time from then; but he must have transacted his -business by writing, Margaret thought, ere now, and she knew that if he -could, he would avoid going to a place which he disliked, and moreover -would little understand the secret importance which she affixed to the -explanation that could only be given by word of mouth. She knew that he -would feel that it was necessary that it should be done; but whether in -summer, autumn, or winter, it would signify very little. It was now -August, and there had been no mention of the Spanish journey to which he -had alluded to Edith, and Margaret tried to reconcile herself to the -fading away of this illusion.</p> - -<p>But one morning she received a letter, saying that next week he meant to -come up to town; he wanted to see her about a plan which he had in his -head; and, moreover, he intended to treat himself to a little doctoring, -as he had begun to come round to her opinion, that it would be -pleasanter to think that his health was more in fault than he, when he -found himself irritable and cross. There was altogether a tone of forced -cheerfulness in the letter, as Margaret noticed afterwards; but at the -time her attention was taken up by Edith's exclamations.</p> - -<p>'Coming up to town! Oh dear! and I am so worn out by the heat that I -don't believe I have strength enough in me for another dinner. Besides, -everybody has left but our dear stupid selves, who can't settle where to -go to. There would be nobody to meet him.'</p> - -<p>'I'm sure he would much rather come and dine with us quite alone than -with the most agreeable strangers you could pick up. Besides, if he is -not well he won't wish for invitations. I am glad he has owned it at -last. I was sure he was ill from the whole tone of his letters, and yet -he would not answer me when I asked him, and I had no third person to -whom I could apply for news.'</p> - -<p>'Oh! he is not very ill, or he would not think of Spain.'</p> - -<p>'He never mentions Spain.'</p> - -<p>'No! but his plan that is to be proposed evidently relates to that. But -would you really go in such weather as this?'</p> - -<p>'Oh! it will get cooler every day. Yes! Think of it! I am only afraid I -have thought and wished too much—in that absorbing wilful way which is -sure to be disappointed—or else gratified, to the letter, while in the -spirit it gives no pleasure.'</p> - -<p>'But that's superstitious, I'm sure, Margaret.'</p> - -<p>'No, I don't think it is. Only it ought to warn me, and check me from -giving way to such passionate wishes. It is a sort of "Give me children, -or else I die." I'm afraid my cry is, "Let me go to Cadiz, or else I -die."'</p> - -<p>'My dear Margaret! You'll be persuaded to stay there; and then what -shall I do? Oh! I wish I could find somebody for you to marry here, that -I could be sure of you!'</p> - -<p>'I shall never marry.'</p> - -<p>'Nonsense, and double nonsense! Why, as Sholto says, you're such an -attraction to the house, that he knows ever so many men who will be glad -to visit here next year for your sake.'</p> - -<p>Margaret drew herself up haughtily. 'Do you know, Edith, I sometimes -think your Corfu life has taught you—— '</p> - -<p>'Well!'</p> - -<p>'Just a shade or two of coarseness.'</p> - -<p>Edith began to sob so bitterly, and to declare so vehemently that -Margaret had lost all love for her, and no longer looked upon her as a -friend, that Margaret came to think that she had expressed too harsh an -opinion for the relief of her own wounded pride, and ended by being -Edith's slave for the rest of the day; while that little lady, overcome -by wounded feeling, lay like a victim on the sofa, heaving occasionally -a profound sigh, till at last she fell asleep.</p> - -<p>Mr. Bell did not make his appearance even on the day to which he had for -a second time deferred his visit. The next morning there came a letter -from Wallis, his servant, stating that his master had not been feeling -well for some time, which had been the true reason of his putting off -his journey; and that at the very time when he should have set out for -London, he had been seized with an apoplectic fit; it was, indeed, -Wallis added, the opinion of the medical men—that he could not survive -the night; and more than probable, that by the time Miss Hale received -this letter his poor master would be no more.</p> - -<p>Margaret received this letter at breakfast-time, and turned very pale as -she read it; then silently putting it into Edith's hands, she left the -room.</p> - -<p>Edith was terribly shocked as she read it, and cried in a sobbing, -frightened, childish way, much to her husband's distress. Mrs. Shaw was -breakfasting in her own room, and upon him devolved the task of -reconciling his wife to the near contact into which she seemed to be -brought with death, for the first time that she could remember in her -life. Here was a man who was to have dined with them to-day lying dead -or dying instead! It was some time before she could think of Margaret. -Then she started up, and followed her upstairs into her room. Dixon was -packing up a few toilette articles, and Margaret was hastily putting on -her bonnet, shedding tears all the time, and her hands trembling so that -she could hardly tie the strings.</p> - -<p>'Oh, dear Margaret! how shocking! What are you doing? Are you going out? -Sholto would telegraph or do anything you like.'</p> - -<p>'I am going to Oxford. There is a train in half-an-hour. Dixon has -offered to go with me, but I could have gone by myself. I must see him -again. Besides, he may be better, and want some care. He has been like a -father to me. Don't stop me, Edith.'</p> - -<p>'But I must. Mamma won't like it at all. Come and ask her about it, -Margaret. You don't know where you're going. I should not mind if he had -a house of his own; but in his Fellow's rooms! Come to mamma, and do ask -her before you go. It will not take a minute.'</p> - -<p>Margaret yielded, and lost her train. In the suddenness of the event, -Mrs. Shaw became bewildered and hysterical, and so the precious time -slipped by. But there was another train in a couple of hours; and after -various discussions on propriety and impropriety, it was decided that -Captain Lennox should accompany Margaret, as the one thing to which she -was constant was her resolution to go, alone or otherwise, by the next -train, whatever might be said of the propriety or impropriety of the -step. Her father's friend, her own friend, was lying at the point of -death; and the thought of this came upon her with such vividness, that -she was surprised herself at the firmness with which she asserted -something of her right to independence of action; and five minutes -before the time for starting, she found herself sitting in a -railway-carriage opposite to Captain Lennox.</p> - -<p>It was always a comfort to her to think that she had gone, though it was -only to hear that he had died in the night. She saw the rooms that he -had occupied, and associated them ever after most fondly in her memory -with the idea of her father, and his one cherished and faithful friend.</p> - -<p>They had promised Edith before starting, that if all had ended as they -feared, they would return to dinner; so that long, lingering look around -the room in which her father had died, had to be interrupted, and a -quiet farewell taken of the kind old face that had so often come out -with pleasant words, and merry quips and cranks.</p> - -<p>Captain Lennox fell asleep on their journey home; and Margaret could cry -at leisure, and bethink her of this fatal year, and all the woes it had -brought to her. No sooner was she fully aware of one loss than another -came—not to supersede her grief for the one before, but to re-open -wounds and feelings scarcely healed. But at the sound of the tender -voices of her aunt and Edith, of merry little Sholto's glee at her -arrival, and at the sight of the well-lighted rooms, with their mistress -pretty in her paleness and her eager sorrowful interest, Margaret roused -herself from her heavy trance of almost superstitious hopelessness, and -began to feel that even around her joy and gladness might gather. She -had Edith's place on the sofa; Sholto was taught to carry aunt -Margaret's cup of tea very carefully to her; and by the time she went up -to dress, she could thank God for having spared her dear old friend a -long or a painful illness.</p> - -<p>But when night came—solemn night, and all the house was quiet, Margaret -still sate watching the beauty of a London sky at such an hour, on such -a summer evening; the faint pink reflection of earthly lights on the -soft clouds that float tranquilly into the white moonlight, out of the -warm gloom which lies motionless around the horizon. Margaret's room had -been the day nursery of her childhood, just when it merged into -girlhood, and when the feelings and conscience had been first awakened -into full activity. On some such night as this she remembered promising -to herself to live as brave and noble a life as any heroine she ever -read or heard of in romance, a life sans peur et sans reproche; it had -seemed to her then that she had only to will, and such a life would be -accomplished. And now she had learnt that not only to will, but also to -pray, was a necessary condition in the truly heroic. Trusting to -herself, she had fallen. It was a just consequence of her sin, that all -excuses for it, all temptation to it, should remain for ever unknown to -the person in whose opinion it had sunk her lowest. She stood face to -face at last with her sin. She knew it for what it was; Mr. Bell's -kindly sophistry that nearly all men were guilty of equivocal actions, -and that the motive ennobled the evil, had never had much real weight -with her. Her own first thought of how, if she had known all, she might -have fearlessly told the truth, seemed low and poor. Nay, even now, her -anxiety to have her character for truth partially excused in Mr. -Thornton's eyes, as Mr. Bell had promised to do, was a very small and -petty consideration, now that she was afresh taught by death what life -should be. If all the world spoke, acted, or kept silence with intent to -deceive,—if dearest interests were at stake, and dearest lives in -peril,—if no one should ever know of her truth or her falsehood to -measure out their honour or contempt for her by, straight alone where -she stood, in the presence of God, she prayed that she might have -strength to speak and act the truth for evermore.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLIX_BREATHING_TRANQUILLITY" id="CHAPTER_XLIX_BREATHING_TRANQUILLITY"></a>CHAPTER XLIX—BREATHING TRANQUILLITY</h2> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">'And down the sunny beach she paces slowly,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">With many doubtful pauses by the way;<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Grief hath an influence so hush'd and holy.'<br /></span> -<span class="i10">H<small>OOD</small>.<br /></span> -</div></div> - -<p>'Is not Margaret the heiress?' whispered Edith to her husband, as they -were in their room alone at night after the sad journey to Oxford. She -had pulled his tall head down, and stood upon tiptoe, and implored him -not to be shocked, before she had ventured to ask this question. Captain -Lennox was, however, quite in the dark; if he had ever heard, he had -forgotten; it could not be much that a Fellow of a small college had to -leave; but he had never wanted her to pay for her board; and two hundred -and fifty pounds a year was something ridiculous, considering that she -did not take wine. Edith came down upon her feet a little bit sadder; -with a romance blown to pieces.</p> - -<p>A week afterwards, she came prancing towards her husband, and made him a -low curtsey:</p> - -<p>'I am right, and you are wrong, most noble Captain. Margaret has had a -lawyer's letter, and she is residuary legatee—the legacies being about -two thousand pounds, and the remainder about forty thousand, at the -present value of property in Milton.'</p> - -<p>'Indeed! and how does she take her good fortune?'</p> - -<p>'Oh, it seems she knew she was to have it all along; only she had no -idea it was so much. She looks very white and pale, and says she's -afraid of it; but that's nonsense, you know, and will soon go off. I -left mamma pouring congratulations down her throat, and stole away to -tell you.'</p> - -<p>It seemed to be supposed, by general consent, that the most natural -thing was to consider Mr. Lennox henceforward as Margaret's legal -adviser. She was so entirely ignorant of all forms of business that in -nearly everything she had to refer to him. He chose out her attorney; he -came to her with papers to be signed. He was never so happy as when -teaching her of what all these mysteries of the law were the signs and -types.</p> - -<p>'Henry,' said Edith, one day, archly; 'do you know what I hope and -expect all these long conversations with Margaret will end in?'</p> - -<p>'No, I don't,' said he, reddening. 'And I desire you not to tell me.'</p> - -<p>'Oh, very well; then I need not tell Sholto not to ask Mr. Montagu so -often to the house.'</p> - -<p>'Just as you choose,' said he with forced coolness. 'What you are -thinking of, may or may not happen; but this time, before I commit -myself, I will see my ground clear. Ask whom you choose. It may not be -very civil, Edith, but if you meddle in it you will mar it. She has been -very <i>farouche</i> with me for a long time; and is only just beginning to -thaw a little from her Zenobia ways. She has the making of a Cleopatra -in her, if only she were a little more pagan.'</p> - -<p>'For my part,' said Edith, a little maliciously, 'I am very glad she is -a Christian. I know so very few!'</p> - -<p>There was no Spain for Margaret that autumn; although to the last she -hoped that some fortunate occasion would call Frederick to Paris, -whither she could easily have met with a convoy. Instead of Cadiz, she -had to content herself with Cromer. To that place her aunt Shaw and the -Lennoxes were bound. They had all along wished her to accompany them, -and, consequently, with their characters, they made but lazy efforts to -forward her own separate wish. Perhaps Cromer was, in one sense of the -expression, the best for her. She needed bodily strengthening and -bracing as well as rest.</p> - -<p>Among other hopes that had vanished, was the hope, the trust she had -had, that Mr. Bell would have given Mr. Thornton the simple facts of the -family circumstances which had preceded the unfortunate accident that -led to Leonards' death. Whatever opinion—however changed it might be -from what Mr. Thornton had once entertained, she had wished it to be -based upon a true understanding of what she had done; and why she had -done it. It would have been a pleasure to her; would have given her rest -on a point on which she should now all her life be restless, unless she -could resolve not to think upon it. It was now so long after the time of -these occurrences, that there was no possible way of explaining them -save the one which she had lost by Mr. Bell's death. She must just -submit, like many another, to be misunderstood; but, though reasoning -herself into the belief that in this hers was no uncommon lot, her heart -did not ache the less with longing that some time—years and years -hence—before he died at any rate, he might know how much she had been -tempted. She thought that she did not want to hear that all was -explained to him, if only she could be sure that he would know. But this -wish was vain, like so many others; and when she had schooled herself -into this conviction, she turned with all her heart and strength to the -life that lay immediately before her, and resolved to strive and make -the best of that.</p> - -<p>She used to sit long hours upon the beach, gazing intently on the waves -as they chafed with perpetual motion against the pebbly shore,—or she -looked out upon the more distant heave, and sparkle against the sky, and -heard, without being conscious of hearing, the eternal psalm, which went -up continually. She was soothed without knowing how or why. Listlessly -she sat there, on the ground, her hands clasped round her knees, while -her aunt Shaw did small shoppings, and Edith and Captain Lennox rode far -and wide on shore and inland. The nurses, sauntering on with their -charges, would pass and repass her, and wonder in whispers what she -could find to look at so long, day after day. And when the family -gathered at dinner-time, Margaret was so silent and absorbed that Edith -voted her moped, and hailed a proposal of her husband's with great -satisfaction, that Mr. Henry Lennox should be asked to take Cromer for a -week, on his return from Scotland in October.</p> - -<p>But all this time for thought enabled Margaret to put events in their -right places, as to origin and significance, both as regarded her past -life and her future. Those hours by the sea-side were not lost, as any -one might have seen who had had the perception to read, or the care to -understand, the look that Margaret's face was gradually acquiring. Mr. -Henry Lennox was excessively struck by the change.</p> - -<p>'The sea has done Miss Hale an immense deal of good, I should fancy,' -said he, when she first left the room after his arrival in their family -circle. 'She looks ten years younger than she did in Harley Street.'</p> - -<p>'That's the bonnet I got her!' said Edith, triumphantly. 'I knew it -would suit her the moment I saw it.'</p> - -<p>'I beg your pardon,' said Mr. Lennox, in the half-contemptuous, -half-indulgent tone he generally used to Edith. 'But I believe I know -the difference between the charms of a dress and the charms of a woman. -No mere bonnet would have made Miss Hale's eyes so lustrous and yet so -soft, or her lips so ripe and red—and her face altogether so full of -peace and light.—She is like, and yet more,'—he dropped his -voice,—'like the Margaret Hale of Helstone.'</p> - -<p>From this time the clever and ambitious man bent all his powers to -gaining Margaret. He loved her sweet beauty. He saw the latent sweep of -her mind, which could easily (he thought) be led to embrace all the -objects on which he had set his heart. He looked upon her fortune only -as a part of the complete and superb character of herself and her -position: yet he was fully aware of the rise which it would immediately -enable him, the poor barrister, to take. Eventually he would earn such -success, and such honours, as would enable him to pay her back, with -interest, that first advance in wealth which he should owe to her. He -had been to Milton on business connected with her property, on his -return from Scotland; and with the quick eye of a skilled lawyer, ready -ever to take in and weigh contingencies, he had seen that much -additional value was yearly accruing to the lands and tenements which -she owned in that prosperous and increasing town. He was glad to find -that the present relationship between Margaret and himself, of client -and legal adviser, was gradually superseding the recollection of that -unlucky, mismanaged day at Helstone. He had thus unusual opportunities -of intimate intercourse with her, besides those that arose from the -connection between the families.</p> - -<p>Margaret was only too willing to listen as long as he talked of Milton, -though he had seen none of the people whom she more especially knew. It -had been the tone with her aunt and cousin to speak of Milton with -dislike and contempt; just such feelings as Margaret was ashamed to -remember she had expressed and felt on first going to live there. But -Mr. Lennox almost exceeded Margaret in his appreciation of the character -of Milton and its inhabitants. Their energy, their power, their -indomitable courage in struggling and fighting; their lurid vividness of -existence, captivated and arrested his attention. He was never tired of -talking about them; and had never perceived how selfish and material -were too many of the ends they proposed to themselves as the result of -all their mighty, untiring endeavour, till Margaret, even in the midst -of her gratification, had the candour to point this out, as the tainting -sin in so much that was noble, and to be admired. Still, when other -subjects palled upon her, and she gave but short answers to many -questions, Henry Lennox found out that an enquiry as to some Darkshire -peculiarity of character, called back the light into her eye, the glow -into her cheek.</p> - -<p>When they returned to town, Margaret fulfilled one of her sea-side -resolves, and took her life into her own hands. Before they went to -Cromer, she had been as docile to her aunt's laws as if she were still -the scared little stranger who cried herself to sleep that first night -in the Harley Street nursery. But she had learnt, in those solemn hours -of thought, that she herself must one day answer for her own life, and -what she had done with it; and she tried to settle that most difficult -problem for women, how much was to be utterly merged in obedience to -authority, and how much might be set apart for freedom in working. Mrs. -Shaw was as good-tempered as could be; and Edith had inherited this -charming domestic quality; Margaret herself had probably the worst -temper of the three, for her quick perceptions, and over-lively -imagination made her hasty, and her early isolation from sympathy had -made her proud; but she had an indescribable childlike sweetness of -heart, which made her manners, even in her rarely wilful moods, -irresistible of old; and now, chastened even by what the world called -her good fortune, she charmed her reluctant aunt into acquiescence with -her will. So Margaret gained the acknowledgment of her right to follow -her own ideas of duty.</p> - -<p>'Only don't be strong-minded,' pleaded Edith. 'Mamma wants you to have a -footman of your own; and I'm sure you're very welcome, for they're great -plagues. Only to please me, darling, don't go and have a strong mind; -it's the only thing I ask. Footman or no footman, don't be -strong-minded.'</p> - -<p>'Don't be afraid, Edith. I'll faint on your hands at the servants' -dinner-time, the very first opportunity; and then, what with Sholto -playing with the fire, and the baby crying, you'll begin to wish for a -strong-minded woman, equal to any emergency.'</p> - -<p>'And you'll not grow too good to joke and be merry?'</p> - -<p>'Not I. I shall be merrier than I have ever been, now I have got my own -way.'</p> - -<p>'And you'll not go a figure, but let me buy your dresses for you?'</p> - -<p>'Indeed I mean to buy them for myself. You shall come with me if you -like; but no one can please me but myself.'</p> - -<p>'Oh! I was afraid you'd dress in brown and dust-colour, not to show the -dirt you'll pick up in all those places. I'm glad you're going to keep -one or two vanities, just by way of specimens of the old Adam.'</p> - -<p>'I'm going to be just the same, Edith, if you and my aunt could but -fancy so. Only as I have neither husband nor child to give me natural -duties, I must make myself some, in addition to ordering my gowns.'</p> - -<p>In the family conclave, which was made up of Edith, her mother, and her -husband, it was decided that perhaps all these plans of hers would only -secure her the more for Henry Lennox. They kept her out of the way of -other friends who might have eligible sons or brothers; and it was also -agreed that she never seemed to take much pleasure in the society of any -one but Henry, out of their own family. The other admirers, attracted by -her appearance or the reputation of her fortune, were swept away, by her -unconscious smiling disdain, into the paths frequented by other beauties -less fastidious, or other heiresses with a larger amount of gold. Henry -and she grew slowly into closer intimacy; but neither he nor she were -people to brook the slightest notice of their proceedings.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_L_CHANGES_AT_MILTON" id="CHAPTER_L_CHANGES_AT_MILTON"></a>CHAPTER L—CHANGES AT MILTON</h2> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">'Here we go up, up, up;<br /></span> -<span class="i1">And here we go down, down, downee!'<br /></span> -<span class="i10">N<small>URSERY</small> S<small>ONG</small>.<br /></span> -</div></div> - -<p>Meanwhile, at Milton the chimneys smoked, the ceaseless roar and mighty -beat, and dizzying whirl of machinery, struggled and strove perpetually. -Senseless and purposeless were wood and iron and steam in their endless -labours; but the persistence of their monotonous work was rivalled in -tireless endurance by the strong crowds, who, with sense and with -purpose, were busy and restless in seeking after—What? In the streets -there were few loiterers,—none walking for mere pleasure; every man's -face was set in lines of eagerness or anxiety; news was sought for with -fierce avidity; and men jostled each other aside in the Mart and in the -Exchange, as they did in life, in the deep selfishness of competition. -There was gloom over the town. Few came to buy, and those who did were -looked at suspiciously by the sellers; for credit was insecure, and the -most stable might have their fortunes affected by the sweep in the great -neighbouring port among the shipping houses. Hitherto there had been no -failures in Milton; but, from the immense speculations that had come to -light in making a bad end in America, and yet nearer home, it was known -that some Milton houses of business must suffer so severely that every -day men's faces asked, if their tongues did not, 'What news? Who is -gone? How will it affect me?' And if two or three spoke together, they -dwelt rather on the names of those who were safe than dared to hint at -those likely, in their opinion, to go; for idle breath may, at such -times, cause the downfall of some who might otherwise weather the storm; -and one going down drags many after. 'Thornton is safe,' say they. 'His -business is large—extending every year; but such a head as he has, and -so prudent with all his daring!' Then one man draws another aside, and -walks a little apart, and, with head inclined into his neighbour's ear, -he says, 'Thornton's business is large; but he has spent his profits in -extending it; he has no capital laid by; his machinery is new within -these two years, and has cost him—we won't say what!—a word to the -wise!' But that Mr. Harrison was a croaker,—a man who had succeeded to -his father's trade-made fortune, which he had feared to lose by altering -his mode of business to any having a larger scope; yet he grudged every -penny made by others more daring and far-sighted.</p> - -<p>But the truth was, Mr. Thornton was hard pressed. He felt it acutely in -his vulnerable point—his pride in the commercial character which he had -established for himself. Architect of his own fortunes, he attributed -this to no special merit or qualities of his own, but to the power, -which he believed that commerce gave to every brave, honest, and -persevering man, to raise himself to a level from which he might see and -read the great game of worldly success, and honestly, by such -far-sightedness, command more power and influence than in any other mode -of life. Far away, in the East and in the West, where his person would -never be known, his name was to be regarded, and his wishes to be -fulfilled, and his word pass like gold. That was the idea of -merchant-life with which Mr. Thornton had started. 'Her merchants be -like princes,' said his mother, reading the text aloud, as if it were a -trumpet-call to invite her boy to the struggle. He was but like many -others—men, women, and children—alive to distant, and dead to near -things. He sought to possess the influence of a name in foreign -countries and far-away seas,—to become the head of a firm that should -be known for generations; and it had taken him long silent years to come -even to a glimmering of what he might be now, to-day, here in his own -town, his own factory, among his own people. He and they had led -parallel lives—very close, but never touching—till the accident (or so -it seemed) of his acquaintance with Higgins. Once brought face to face, -man to man, with an individual of the masses around him, and (take -notice) out of the character of master and workman, in the first -instance, they had each begun to recognise that 'we have all of us one -human heart.' It was the fine point of the wedge; and until now, when -the apprehension of losing his connection with two or three of the -workmen whom he had so lately begun to know as men,—of having a plan or -two, which were experiments lying very close to his heart, roughly -nipped off without trial,—gave a new poignancy to the subtle fear that -came over him from time to time; until now, he had never recognised how -much and how deep was the interest he had grown of late to feel in his -position as manufacturer, simply because it led him into such close -contact, and gave him the opportunity of so much power, among a race of -people strange, shrewd, ignorant; but, above all, full of character and -strong human feeling.</p> - -<p>He reviewed his position as a Milton manufacturer. The strike a year and -a half ago,—or more, for it was now untimely wintry weather, in a late -spring,—that strike, when he was young, and he now was old—had -prevented his completing some of the large orders he had then on hand. -He had locked up a good deal of his capital in new and expensive -machinery, and he had also bought cotton largely, for the fulfilment of -these orders, taken under contract. That he had not been able to -complete them, was owing in some degree to the utter want of skill on -the part of the Irish hands whom he had imported; much of their work was -damaged and unfit to be sent forth by a house which prided itself on -turning out nothing but first-rate articles. For many months, the -embarrassment caused by the strike had been an obstacle in Mr. -Thornton's way; and often, when his eye fell on Higgins, he could have -spoken angrily to him without any present cause, just from feeling how -serious was the injury that had arisen from this affair in which he was -implicated. But when he became conscious of this sudden, quick -resentment, he resolved to curb it. It would not satisfy him to avoid -Higgins; he must convince himself that he was master over his own anger, -by being particularly careful to allow Higgins access to him, whenever -the strict rules of business, or Mr. Thornton's leisure permitted. And -by-and-bye, he lost all sense of resentment in wonder how it was, or -could be, that two men like himself and Higgins, living by the same -trade, working in their different ways at the same object, could look -upon each other's position and duties in so strangely different a way. -And thence arose that intercourse, which though it might not have the -effect of preventing all future clash of opinion and action, when the -occasion arose, would, at any rate, enable both master and man to look -upon each other with far more charity and sympathy, and bear with each -other more patiently and kindly. Besides this improvement of feeling, -both Mr. Thornton and his workmen found out their ignorance as to -positive matters of fact, known heretofore to one side, but not to the -other.</p> - -<p>But now had come one of those periods of bad trade, when the market -falling brought down the value of all large stocks; Mr. Thornton's fell -to nearly half. No orders were coming in; so he lost the interest of the -capital he had locked up in machinery; indeed, it was difficult to get -payment for the orders completed; yet there was the constant drain of -expenses for working the business. Then the bills became due for the -cotton he had purchased; and money being scarce, he could only borrow at -exorbitant interest, and yet he could not realise any of his property. -But he did not despair; he exerted himself day and night to foresee and -to provide for all emergencies; he was as calm and gentle to the women -in his home as ever; to the workmen in his mill he spoke not many words, -but they knew him by this time; and many a curt, decided answer was -received by them rather with sympathy for the care they saw pressing -upon him, than with the suppressed antagonism which had formerly been -smouldering, and ready for hard words and hard judgments on all -occasions. 'Th' measter's a deal to potter him,' said Higgins, one day, -as he heard Mr. Thornton's short, sharp inquiry, why such a command had -not been obeyed; and caught the sound of the suppressed sigh which he -heaved in going past the room where some of the men were working. -Higgins and another man stopped over-hours that night, unknown to any -one, to get the neglected piece of work done; and Mr. Thornton never -knew but that the overlooker, to whom he had given the command in the -first instance, had done it himself.</p> - -<p>'Eh! I reckon I know who'd ha' been sorry for to see our measter sitting -so like a piece o' grey calico! Th' ou'd parson would ha' fretted his -woman's heart out, if he'd seen the woeful looks I have seen on our -measter's face,' thought Higgins, one day, as he was approaching Mr. -Thornton in Marlborough Street.</p> - -<p>'Measter,' said he, stopping his employer in his quick resolved walk, -and causing that gentleman to look up with a sudden annoyed start, as if -his thoughts had been far away.</p> - -<p>'Have yo' heerd aught of Miss Marget lately?'</p> - -<p>'Miss—who?' replied Mr. Thornton.</p> - -<p>'Miss Marget—Miss Hale—th' oud parson's daughter—yo known who I mean -well enough, if yo'll only think a bit—' (there was nothing -disrespectful in the tone in which this was said).</p> - -<p>'Oh yes!' and suddenly, the wintry frost-bound look of care had left Mr. -Thornton's face, as if some soft summer gale had blown all anxiety away -from his mind; and though his mouth was as much compressed as before, -his eyes smiled out benignly on his questioner.</p> - -<p>'She's my landlord now, you know, Higgins. I hear of her through her -agent here, every now and then. She's well and among friends—thank you, -Higgins.' That 'thank you' that lingered after the other words, and yet -came with so much warmth of feeling, let in a new light to the acute -Higgins. It might be but a will-o'-th'-wisp, but he thought he would -follow it and ascertain whither it would lead him.</p> - -<p>'And she's not getten married, measter?'</p> - -<p>'Not yet.' The face was cloudy once more. 'There is some talk of it, as -I understand, with a connection of the family.'</p> - -<p>'Then she'll not be for coming to Milton again, I reckon.'</p> - -<p>'No!'</p> - -<p>'Stop a minute, measter.' Then going up confidentially close, he said, -'Is th' young gentleman cleared?' He enforced the depth of his -intelligence by a wink of the eye, which only made things more -mysterious to Mr. Thornton.</p> - -<p>'Th' young gentleman, I mean—Master Frederick, they ca'ad him—her -brother as was over here, yo' known.'</p> - -<p>'Over here.'</p> - -<p>'Ay, to be sure, at th' missus's death. Yo' need na be feared of my -telling; for Mary and me, we knowed it all along, only we held our -peace, for we got it through Mary working in th' house.'</p> - -<p>'And he was over. It was her brother!'</p> - -<p>'Sure enough, and I reckoned yo' knowed it or I'd never ha' let on. Yo' -knowed she had a brother?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, I know all about him. And he was over at Mrs. Hale's death?'</p> - -<p>'Nay! I'm not going for to tell more. I've maybe getten them into -mischief already, for they kept it very close. I nobbut wanted to know -if they'd getten him cleared?'</p> - -<p>'Not that I know of. I know nothing. I only hear of Miss Hale, now, as -my landlord, and through her lawyer.'</p> - -<p>He broke off from Higgins, to follow the business on which he had been -bent when the latter first accosted him; leaving Higgins baffled in his -endeavour.</p> - -<p>'It was her brother,' said Mr. Thornton to himself. 'I am glad. I may -never see her again; but it is a comfort—a relief—to know that much. I -knew she could not be unmaidenly; and yet I yearned for conviction. Now -I am glad!'</p> - -<p>It was a little golden thread running through the dark web of his -present fortunes; which were growing ever gloomier and more gloomy. His -agent had largely trusted a house in the American trade, which went -down, along with several others, just at this time, like a pack of -cards, the fall of one compelling other failures. What were Mr. -Thornton's engagements? Could he stand?</p> - -<p>Night after night he took books and papers into his own private room, -and sate up there long after the family were gone to bed. He thought -that no one knew of this occupation of the hours he should have spent in -sleep. One morning, when daylight was stealing in through the crevices -of his shutters, and he had never been in bed, and, in hopeless -indifference of mind, was thinking that he could do without the hour or -two of rest, which was all that he should be able to take before the -stir of daily labour began again, the door of his room opened, and his -mother stood there, dressed as she had been the day before. She had -never laid herself down to slumber any more than he. Their eyes met. -Their faces were cold and rigid, and wan, from long watching.</p> - -<p>'Mother! why are not you in bed?'</p> - -<p>'Son John,' said she, 'do you think I can sleep with an easy mind, while -you keep awake full of care? You have not told me what your trouble is; -but sore trouble you have had these many days past.'</p> - -<p>'Trade is bad.'</p> - -<p>'And you dread—'</p> - -<p>'I dread nothing,' replied he, drawing up his head, and holding it -erect. 'I know now that no man will suffer by me. That was my anxiety.'</p> - -<p>'But how do you stand? Shall you—will it be a failure?' her steady -voice trembling in an unwonted manner.</p> - -<p>'Not a failure. I must give up business, but I pay all men. I might -redeem myself—I am sorely tempted—'</p> - -<p>'How? Oh, John! keep up your name—try all risks for that. How redeem -it?'</p> - -<p>'By a speculation offered to me, full of risk; but, if successful, -placing me high above water-mark, so that no one need ever know the -strait I am in. Still, if it fails—'</p> - -<p>'And if it fails,' said she, advancing, and laying her hand on his arm, -her eyes full of eager light. She held her breath to hear the end of his -speech.</p> - -<p>'Honest men are ruined by a rogue,' said he gloomily. 'As I stand now, -my creditors, money is safe—every farthing of it; but I don't know -where to find my own—it may be all gone, and I penniless at this -moment. Therefore, it is my creditors' money that I should risk.'</p> - -<p>'But if it succeeded, they need never know. Is it so desperate a -speculation? I am sure it is not, or you would never have thought of it. -If it succeeded—'</p> - -<p>'I should be a rich man, and my peace of conscience would be gone!'</p> - -<p>'Why! You would have injured no one.'</p> - -<p>'No; but I should have run the risk of ruining many for my own paltry -aggrandisement. Mother, I have decided! You won't much grieve over our -leaving this house, shall you, dear mother?'</p> - -<p>'No! but to have you other than what you are will break my heart. What -can you do?'</p> - -<p>'Be always the same John Thornton in whatever circumstances; -endeavouring to do right, and making great blunders; and then trying to -be brave in setting to afresh. But it is hard, mother. I have so worked -and planned. I have discovered new powers in my situation too late—and -now all is over. I am too old to begin again with the same heart. It is -hard, mother.'</p> - -<p>He turned away from her, and covered his face with his hands.</p> - -<p>'I can't think,' said she, with gloomy defiance in her tone, 'how it -comes about. Here is my boy—good son, just man, tender heart—and he -fails in all he sets his mind upon: he finds a woman to love, and she -cares no more for his affection than if he had been any common man; he -labours, and his labour comes to nought. Other people prosper and grow -rich, and hold their paltry names high and dry above shame.'</p> - -<p>'Shame never touched me,' said he, in a low tone: but she went on.</p> - -<p>'I sometimes have wondered where justice was gone to, and now I don't -believe there is such a thing in the world,—now you are come to this; -you, my own John Thornton, though you and I may be beggars together—my -own dear son!'</p> - -<p>She fell upon his neck, and kissed him through her tears.</p> - -<p>'Mother!' said he, holding her gently in his arms, 'who has sent me my -lot in life, both of good and of evil?'</p> - -<p>She shook her head. She would have nothing to do with religion just -then.</p> - -<p>'Mother,' he went on, seeing that she would not speak, 'I, too, have -been rebellious; but I am striving to be so no longer. Help me, as you -helped me when I was a child. Then you said many good words—when my -father died, and we were sometimes sorely short of comforts—which we -shall never be now; you said brave, noble, trustful words then, mother, -which I have never forgotten, though they may have lain dormant. Speak -to me again in the old way, mother. Do not let us have to think that the -world has too much hardened our hearts. If you would say the old good -words, it would make me feel something of the pious simplicity of my -childhood. I say them to myself, but they would come differently from -you, remembering all the cares and trials you have had to bear.'</p> - -<p>'I have had a many,' said she, sobbing, 'but none so sore as this. To -see you cast down from your rightful place! I could say it for myself, -John, but not for you. Not for you! God has seen fit to be very hard on -you, very.'</p> - -<p>She shook with the sobs that come so convulsively when an old person -weeps. The silence around her struck her at last; and she quieted -herself to listen. No sound. She looked. Her son sate by the table, his -arms thrown half across it, his head bent face downwards.</p> - -<p>'Oh, John!' she said, and she lifted his face up. Such a strange, pallid -look of gloom was on it, that for a moment it struck her that this look -was the forerunner of death; but, as the rigidity melted out of the -countenance and the natural colour returned, and she saw that he was -himself once again, all worldly mortification sank to nothing before the -consciousness of the great blessing that he himself by his simple -existence was to her. She thanked God for this, and this alone, with a -fervour that swept away all rebellious feelings from her mind.</p> - -<p>He did not speak readily; but he went and opened the shutters, and let -the ruddy light of dawn flood the room. But the wind was in the east; -the weather was piercing cold, as it had been for weeks; there would be -no demand for light summer goods this year. That hope for the revival of -trade must utterly be given up.</p> - -<p>It was a great comfort to have had this conversation with his mother; -and to feel sure that, however they might henceforward keep silence on -all these anxieties, they yet understood each other's feelings, and -were, if not in harmony, at least not in discord with each other, in -their way of viewing them. Fanny's husband was vexed at Thornton's -refusal to take any share in the speculation which he had offered to -him, and withdrew from any possibility of being supposed able to assist -him with the ready money, which indeed the speculator needed for his own -venture.</p> - -<p>There was nothing for it at last, but that which Mr. Thornton had -dreaded for many weeks; he had to give up the business in which he had -been so long engaged with so much honour and success; and look out for a -subordinate situation. Marlborough Mills and the adjacent dwelling were -held under a long lease; they must, if possible, be relet. There was an -immediate choice of situations offered to Mr. Thornton. Mr. Hamper would -have been only too glad to have secured him as a steady and experienced -partner for his son, whom he was setting up with a large capital in a -neighbouring town; but the young man was half-educated as regarded -information, and wholly uneducated as regarded any other responsibility -than that of getting money, and brutalised both as to his pleasures and -his pains. Mr. Thornton declined having any share in a partnership, -which would frustrate what few plans he had that survived the wreck of -his fortunes. He would sooner consent to be only a manager, where he -could have a certain degree of power beyond the mere money-getting part, -than have to fall in with the tyrannical humours of a moneyed partner -with whom he felt sure that he should quarrel in a few months.</p> - -<p>So he waited, and stood on one side with profound humility, as the news -swept through the Exchange, of the enormous fortune which his -brother-in-law had made by his daring speculation. It was a nine days' -wonder. Success brought with it its worldly consequence of extreme -admiration. No one was considered so wise and far-seeing as Mr. Watson.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_LI_MEETING_AGAIN" id="CHAPTER_LI_MEETING_AGAIN"></a>CHAPTER LI—MEETING AGAIN</h2> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">'Bear up, brave heart! we will be calm and strong;<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Sure, we can master eyes, or cheek, or tongue,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Nor let the smallest tell-tale sign appear<br /></span> -<span class="i1">She ever was, and is, and will be dear.'<br /></span> -<span class="i10">R<small>HYMING</small> P<small>LAY</small>.<br /></span> -</div></div> - -<p>It was a hot summer's evening. Edith came into Margaret's bedroom, the -first time in her habit, the second ready dressed for dinner. No one was -there at first; the next time Edith found Dixon laying out Margaret's -dress on the bed; but no Margaret. Edith remained to fidget about.</p> - -<p>'Oh, Dixon! not those horrid blue flowers to that dead gold-coloured -gown. What taste! Wait a minute, and I will bring you some pomegranate -blossoms.'</p> - -<p>'It's not a dead gold-colour, ma'am. It's a straw-colour. And blue -always goes with straw-colour.' But Edith had brought the brilliant -scarlet flowers before Dixon had got half through her remonstrance.</p> - -<p>'Where is Miss Hale?' asked Edith, as soon as she had tried the effect -of the garniture. 'I can't think,' she went on, pettishly, 'how my aunt -allowed her to get into such rambling habits in Milton! I'm sure I'm -always expecting to hear of her having met with something horrible among -all those wretched places she pokes herself into. I should never dare to -go down some of those streets without a servant. They're not fit for -ladies.'</p> - -<p>Dixon was still huffed about her despised taste; so she replied, rather -shortly:</p> - -<p>'It's no wonder to my mind, when I hear ladies talk such a deal about -being ladies—and when they're such fearful, delicate, dainty ladies -too—I say it's no wonder to me that there are no longer any saints on -earth—— '</p> - -<p>'Oh, Margaret! here you are! I have been so wanting you. But how your -cheeks are flushed with the heat, poor child! But only think what that -tiresome Henry has done; really, he exceeds brother-in-law's limits. -Just when my party was made up so beautifully—fitted in so precisely -for Mr. Colthurst—there has Henry come, with an apology it is true, and -making use of your name for an excuse, and asked me if he may bring that -Mr. Thornton of Milton—your tenant, you know—who is in London about -some law business. It will spoil my number, quite.'</p> - -<p>'I don't mind dinner. I don't want any,' said Margaret, in a low voice. -'Dixon can get me a cup of tea here, and I will be in the drawing-room -by the time you come up. I shall really be glad to lie down.'</p> - -<p>'No, no! that will never do. You do look wretchedly white, to be sure; -but that is just the heat, and we can't do without you possibly. (Those -flowers a little lower, Dixon. They look glorious flames, Margaret, in -your black hair.) You know we planned you to talk about Milton to Mr. -Colthurst. Oh! to be sure! and this man comes from Milton. I believe it -will be capital, after all. Mr. Colthurst can pump him well on all the -subjects in which he is interested, and it will be great fun to trace -out your experiences, and this Mr. Thornton's wisdom, in Mr. Colthurst's -next speech in the House. Really, I think it is a happy hit of Henry's. -I asked him if he was a man one would be ashamed of; and he replied, -"Not if you've any sense in you, my little sister." So I suppose he is -able to sound his h's, which is not a common Darkshire -accomplishment—eh, Margaret?'</p> - -<p>'Mr. Lennox did not say why Mr. Thornton was come up to town? Was it law -business connected with the property?' asked Margaret, in a constrained -voice.</p> - -<p>'Oh! he's failed, or something of the kind, that Henry told you of that -day you had such a headache,—what was it? (There, that's capital, -Dixon. Miss Hale does us credit, does she not?) I wish I was as tall as -a queen, and as brown as a gipsy, Margaret.'</p> - -<p>'But about Mr. Thornton?'</p> - -<p>'Oh I really have such a terrible head for law business. Henry will like -nothing better than to tell you all about it. I know the impression he -made upon me was, that Mr. Thornton is very badly off, and a very -respectable man, and that I'm to be very civil to him; and as I did not -know how, I came to you to ask you to help me. And now come down with -me, and rest on the sofa for a quarter of an hour.'</p> - -<p>The privileged brother-in-law came early and Margaret reddening as she -spoke, began to ask him the questions she wanted to hear answered about -Mr. Thornton.</p> - -<p>'He came up about this sub-letting the property—Marlborough Mills, and -the house and premises adjoining, I mean. He is unable to keep it on; -and there are deeds and leases to be looked over, and agreements to be -drawn up. I hope Edith will receive him properly; but she was rather put -out, as I could see, by the liberty I had taken in begging for an -invitation for him. But I thought you would like to have some attention -shown him: and one would be particularly scrupulous in paying every -respect to a man who is going down in the world.' He had dropped his -voice to speak to Margaret, by whom he was sitting; but as he ended he -sprang up, and introduced Mr. Thornton, who had that moment entered, to -Edith and Captain Lennox.</p> - -<p>Margaret looked with an anxious eye at Mr. Thornton while he was thus -occupied. It was considerably more than a year since she had seen him; -and events had occurred to change him much in that time. His fine figure -yet bore him above the common height of men; and gave him a -distinguished appearance, from the ease of motion which arose out of it, -and was natural to him; but his face looked older and care-worn; yet a -noble composure sate upon it, which impressed those who had just been -hearing of his changed position, with a sense of inherent dignity and -manly strength. He was aware, from the first glance he had given round -the room, that Margaret was there; he had seen her intent look of -occupation as she listened to Mr. Henry Lennox; and he came up to her -with the perfectly regulated manner of an old friend. With his first -calm words a vivid colour flashed into her cheeks, which never left them -again during the evening. She did not seem to have much to say to him. -She disappointed him by the quiet way in which she asked what seemed to -him to be the merely necessary questions respecting her old -acquaintances, in Milton; but others came in—more intimate in the house -than he—and he fell into the background, where he and Mr. Lennox talked -together from time to time.</p> - -<p>'You think Miss Hale looking well,' said Mr. Lennox, 'don't you? Milton -didn't agree with her, I imagine; for when she first came to London, I -thought I had never seen any one so much changed. To-night she is -looking radiant. But she is much stronger. Last autumn she was fatigued -with a walk of a couple of miles. On Friday evening we walked up to -Hampstead and back. Yet on Saturday she looked as well as she does now.'</p> - -<p>'We!' Who? They two alone?</p> - -<p>Mr. Colthurst was a very clever man, and a rising member of parliament. -He had a quick eye at discerning character, and was struck by a remark -which Mr. Thornton made at dinner-time. He enquired from Edith who that -gentleman was; and, rather to her surprise, she found, from the tone of -his 'Indeed!' that Mr. Thornton of Milton was not such an unknown name -to him as she had imagined it would be. Her dinner was going off well. -Henry was in good humour, and brought out his dry caustic wit admirably. -Mr. Thornton and Mr. Colthurst found one or two mutual subjects of -interest, which they could only touch upon then, reserving them for more -private after-dinner talk. Margaret looked beautiful in the pomegranate -flowers; and if she did lean back in her chair and speak but little, -Edith was not annoyed, for the conversation flowed on smoothly without -her. Margaret was watching Mr. Thornton's face. He never looked at her; -so she might study him unobserved, and note the changes which even this -short time had wrought in him. Only at some unexpected mot of Mr. -Lennox's, his face flashed out into the old look of intense enjoyment; -the merry brightness returned to his eyes, the lips just parted to -suggest the brilliant smile of former days; and for an instant, his -glance instinctively sought hers, as if he wanted her sympathy. But when -their eyes met, his whole countenance changed; he was grave and anxious -once more; and he resolutely avoided even looking near her again during -dinner.</p> - -<p>There were only two ladies besides their own party, and as these were -occupied in conversation by her aunt and Edith, when they went up into -the drawing-room, Margaret languidly employed herself about some work. -Presently the gentlemen came up, Mr. Colthurst and Mr. Thornton in close -conversation. Mr. Lennox drew near to Margaret, and said in a low voice:</p> - -<p>'I really think Edith owes me thanks for my contribution to her party. -You've no idea what an agreeable, sensible fellow this tenant of yours -is. He has been the very man to give Colthurst all the facts he wanted -coaching in. I can't conceive how he contrived to mismanage his -affairs.'</p> - -<p>'With his powers and opportunities you would have succeeded,' said -Margaret. He did not quite relish the tone in which she spoke, although -the words but expressed a thought which had passed through his own mind. -As he was silent, they caught a swell in the sound of conversation going -on near the fire-place between Mr. Colthurst and Mr. Thornton.</p> - -<p>'I assure you, I heard it spoken of with great interest—curiosity as to -its result, perhaps I should rather say. I heard your name frequently -mentioned during my short stay in the neighbourhood.' Then they lost -some words; and when next they could hear Mr. Thornton was speaking.</p> - -<p>'I have not the elements for popularity—if they spoke of me in that -way, they were mistaken. I fall slowly into new projects; and I find it -difficult to let myself be known, even by those whom I desire to know, -and with whom I would fain have no reserve. Yet, even with all these -drawbacks, I felt that I was on the right path, and that, starting from -a kind of friendship with one, I was becoming acquainted with many. The -advantages were mutual: we were both unconsciously and consciously -teaching each other.'</p> - -<p>'You say "were." I trust you are intending to pursue the same course?'</p> - -<p>'I must stop Colthurst,' said Henry Lennox, hastily. And by an abrupt, -yet apropos question, he turned the current of the conversation, so as -not to give Mr. Thornton the mortification of acknowledging his want of -success and consequent change of position. But as soon as the -newly-started subject had come to a close, Mr. Thornton resumed the -conversation just where it had been interrupted, and gave Mr. Colthurst -the reply to his inquiry.</p> - -<p>'I have been unsuccessful in business, and have had to give up my -position as a master. I am on the look out for a situation in Milton, -where I may meet with employment under some one who will be willing to -let me go along my own way in such matters as these. I can depend upon -myself for having no go-ahead theories that I would rashly bring into -practice. My only wish is to have the opportunity of cultivating some -intercourse with the hands beyond the mere "cash nexus." But it might be -the point Archimedes sought from which to move the earth, to judge from -the importance attached to it by some of our manufacturers, who shake -their heads and look grave as soon as I name the one or two experiments -that I should like to try.'</p> - -<p>'You call them "experiments" I notice,' said Mr. Colthurst, with a -delicate increase of respect in his manner.</p> - -<p>'Because I believe them to be such. I am not sure of the consequences -that may result from them. But I am sure they ought to be tried. I have -arrived at the conviction that no mere institutions, however wise, and -however much thought may have been required to organise and arrange -them, can attach class to class as they should be attached, unless the -working out of such institutions bring the individuals of the different -classes into actual personal contact. Such intercourse is the very -breath of life. A working man can hardly be made to feel and know how -much his employer may have laboured in his study at plans for the -benefit of his workpeople. A complete plan emerges like a piece of -machinery, apparently fitted for every emergency. But the hands accept -it as they do machinery, without understanding the intense mental labour -and forethought required to bring it to such perfection. But I would -take an idea, the working out of which would necessitate personal -intercourse; it might not go well at first, but at every hitch interest -would be felt by an increasing number of men, and at last its success in -working come to be desired by all, as all had borne a part in the -formation of the plan; and even then I am sure that it would lose its -vitality, cease to be living, as soon as it was no longer carried on by -that sort of common interest which invariably makes people find means -and ways of seeing each other, and becoming acquainted with each others' -characters and persons, and even tricks of temper and modes of speech. -We should understand each other better, and I'll venture to say we -should like each other more.'</p> - -<p>'And you think they may prevent the recurrence of strikes?'</p> - -<p>'Not at all. My utmost expectation only goes so far as this—that they -may render strikes not the bitter, venomous sources of hatred they have -hitherto been. A more hopeful man might imagine that a closer and more -genial intercourse between classes might do away with strikes. But I am -not a hopeful man.'</p> - -<p>Suddenly, as if a new idea had struck him, he crossed over to where -Margaret was sitting, and began, without preface, as if he knew she had -been listening to all that had passed:</p> - -<p>'Miss Hale, I had a round-robin from some of my men—I suspect in -Higgins' handwriting—stating their wish to work for me, if ever I was -in a position to employ men again on my own behalf. That was good, -wasn't it?'</p> - -<p>'Yes. Just right. I am glad of it,' said Margaret, looking up straight -into his face with her speaking eyes, and then dropping them under his -eloquent glance. He gazed back at her for a minute, as if he did not -know exactly what he was about. Then sighed; and saying, 'I knew you -would like it,' he turned away, and never spoke to her again until he -bid her a formal 'good night.'</p> - -<p>As Mr. Lennox took his departure, Margaret said, with a blush that she -could not repress, and with some hesitation,</p> - -<p>'Can I speak to you to-morrow? I want your help about—something.'</p> - -<p>'Certainly. I will come at whatever time you name. You cannot give me a -greater pleasure than by making me of any use. At eleven? Very well.'</p> - -<p>His eye brightened with exultation. How she was learning to depend upon -him! It seemed as if any day now might give him the certainty, without -having which he had determined never to offer to her again.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_LII_PACK_CLOUDS_AWAY" id="CHAPTER_LII_PACK_CLOUDS_AWAY"></a>CHAPTER LII—'PACK CLOUDS AWAY'</h2> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">'For joy or grief, for hope or fear,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">For all hereafter, as for here,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">In peace or strife, in storm or shine.'<br /></span> -<span class="i10">A<small>NON</small>.<br /></span> -</div></div> - -<p>Edith went about on tip-toe, and checked Sholto in all loud speaking -that next morning, as if any sudden noise would interrupt the conference -that was taking place in the drawing-room. Two o'clock came; and they -still sate there with closed doors. Then there was a man's footstep -running down stairs; and Edith peeped out of the drawing-room.</p> - -<p>'Well, Henry?' said she, with a look of interrogation.</p> - -<p>'Well!' said he, rather shortly.</p> - -<p>'Come in to lunch!'</p> - -<p>'No, thank you, I can't. I've lost too much time here already.'</p> - -<p>'Then it's not all settled,' said Edith despondingly.</p> - -<p>'No! not at all. It never will be settled, if the "it" is what I -conjecture you mean. That will never be, Edith, so give up thinking -about it.'</p> - -<p>'But it would be so nice for us all,' pleaded Edith. 'I should always -feel comfortable about the children, if I had Margaret settled down near -me. As it is, I am always afraid of her going off to Cadiz.'</p> - -<p>'I will try, when I marry, to look out for a young lady who has a -knowledge of the management of children. That is all I can do. Miss Hale -would not have me. And I shall not ask her.'</p> - -<p>'Then, what have you been talking about?'</p> - -<p>'A thousand things you would not understand: investments, and leases, -and value of land.'</p> - -<p>'Oh, go away if that's all. You and she will be unbearably stupid, if -you've been talking all this time about such weary things.'</p> - -<p>'Very well. I'm coming again to-morrow, and bringing Mr. Thornton with -me, to have some more talk with Miss Hale.'</p> - -<p>'Mr. Thornton! What has he to do with it?'</p> - -<p>'He is Miss Hale's tenant,' said Mr. Lennox, turning away. 'And he -wishes to give up his lease.'</p> - -<p>'Oh! very well. I can't understand details, so don't give them me.'</p> - -<p>'The only detail I want you to understand is, to let us have the back -drawing-room undisturbed, as it was to-day. In general, the children and -servants are so in and out, that I can never get any business -satisfactorily explained; and the arrangements we have to make to-morrow -are of importance.'</p> - -<p>No one ever knew why Mr. Lennox did not keep to his appointment on the -following day. Mr. Thornton came true to his time; and, after keeping -him waiting for nearly an hour, Margaret came in looking very white and -anxious.</p> - -<p>She began hurriedly:</p> - -<p>'I am so sorry Mr. Lennox is not here,—he could have done it so much -better than I can. He is my adviser in this'——</p> - -<p>'I am sorry that I came, if it troubles you. Shall I go to Mr. Lennox's -chambers and try and find him?'</p> - -<p>'No, thank you. I wanted to tell you, how grieved I was to find that I -am to lose you as a tenant. But, Mr. Lennox says, things are sure to -brighten'——</p> - -<p>'Mr. Lennox knows little about it,' said Mr. Thornton quietly. 'Happy -and fortunate in all a man cares for, he does not understand what it is -to find oneself no longer young—yet thrown back to the starting-point -which requires the hopeful energy of youth—to feel one half of life -gone, and nothing done—nothing remaining of wasted opportunity, but the -bitter recollection that it has been. Miss Hale, I would rather not hear -Mr. Lennox's opinion of my affairs. Those who are happy and successful -themselves are too apt to make light of the misfortunes of others.'</p> - -<p>'You are unjust,' said Margaret, gently. 'Mr. Lennox has only spoken of -the great probability which he believes there to be of your -redeeming—your more than redeeming what you have lost—don't speak till -I have ended—pray don't!' And collecting herself once more, she went on -rapidly turning over some law papers, and statements of accounts in a -trembling hurried manner. 'Oh! here it is! and—he drew me out a -proposal—I wish he was here to explain it—showing that if you would -take some money of mine, eighteen thousand and fifty-seven pounds, lying -just at this moment unused in the bank, and bringing me in only two and -a half per cent.—you could pay me much better interest, and might go on -working Marlborough Mills.' Her voice had cleared itself and become more -steady. Mr. Thornton did not speak, and she went on looking for some -paper on which were written down the proposals for security; for she was -most anxious to have it all looked upon in the light of a mere business -arrangement, in which the principal advantage would be on her side. -While she sought for this paper, her very heart-pulse was arrested by -the tone in which Mr. Thornton spoke. His voice was hoarse, and -trembling with tender passion, as he said:—</p> - -<p>'Margaret!'</p> - -<p>For an instant she looked up; and then sought to veil her luminous eyes -by dropping her forehead on her hands. Again, stepping nearer, he -besought her with another tremulous eager call upon her name.</p> - -<p>'Margaret!'</p> - -<p>Still lower went the head; more closely hidden was the face, almost -resting on the table before her. He came close to her. He knelt by her -side, to bring his face to a level with her ear; and whispered-panted -out the words:—</p> - -<p>'Take care.—If you do not speak—I shall claim you as my own in some -strange presumptuous way.—Send me away at once, if I must -go;—Margaret!—'</p> - -<p>At that third call she turned her face, still covered with her small -white hands, towards him, and laid it on his shoulder, hiding it even -there; and it was too delicious to feel her soft cheek against his, for -him to wish to see either deep blushes or loving eyes. He clasped her -close. But they both kept silence. At length she murmured in a broken -voice:</p> - -<p>'Oh, Mr. Thornton, I am not good enough!'</p> - -<p>'Not good enough! Don't mock my own deep feeling of unworthiness.'</p> - -<p>After a minute or two, he gently disengaged her hands from her face, and -laid her arms as they had once before been placed to protect him from -the rioters.</p> - -<p>'Do you remember, love?' he murmured. 'And how I requited you with my -insolence the next day?'</p> - -<p>'I remember how wrongly I spoke to you,—that is all.'</p> - -<p>'Look here! Lift up your head. I have something to show you!' She slowly -faced him, glowing with beautiful shame.</p> - -<p>'Do you know these roses?' he said, drawing out his pocket-book, in -which were treasured up some dead flowers.</p> - -<p>'No!' she replied, with innocent curiosity. 'Did I give them to you?'</p> - -<p>'No! Vanity; you did not. You may have worn sister roses very probably.'</p> - -<p>She looked at them, wondering for a minute, then she smiled a little as -she said—</p> - -<p>'They are from Helstone, are they not? I know the deep indentations -round the leaves. Oh! have you been there? When were you there?'</p> - -<p>'I wanted to see the place where Margaret grew to what she is, even at -the worst time of all, when I had no hope of ever calling her mine. I -went there on my return from Havre.'</p> - -<p>'You must give them to me,' she said, trying to take them out of his -hand with gentle violence.</p> - -<p>'Very well. Only you must pay me for them!'</p> - -<p>'How shall I ever tell Aunt Shaw?' she whispered, after some time of -delicious silence.</p> - -<p>'Let me speak to her.'</p> - -<p>'Oh, no! I owe to her,—but what will she say?'</p> - -<p>'I can guess. Her first exclamation will be, "That man!"'</p> - -<p>'Hush!' said Margaret, 'or I shall try and show you your mother's -indignant tones as she says, "That woman!"'</p> - -<hr class="full" /> - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's North and South, by Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NORTH AND SOUTH *** - -***** This file should be named 4276-h.htm or 4276-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/4/2/7/4276/ - -Produced by Charles Aldarondo - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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