North and South (Gaskell novel)/Source

NORTH AND SOUTH

by

ELIZABETH GASKELL

First published in serial form in _Household Words_ in 1854-1855
and in volume form in 1855.







VOLUME I


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;

'Beseking hym lowly, of mercy and pite, Of its rude makyng to
have compassion.'




CHAPTER I

'HASTE TO THE WEDDING'

'Wooed and married and a'.'


'Edith!' said Margaret, gently, 'Edith!'

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.

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.

'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.

'I have spared no expense in her trousseau,' were the next words
Margaret heard.

'She has all the beautiful Indian shawls and scarfs the General
gave to me, but which I shall never wear again.'

'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.

'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?'

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.

'Edith is asleep, Aunt Shaw. Is it anything I can do?'

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.

'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?'

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.

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.

'Ah Newton!' said she, 'I think we shall all be sorry to leave
this dear old room.'

'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.'

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.'

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.

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.

'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.

'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.'

'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.

'This is your last dinner-party, is it not? There are no more
before Thursday?'

'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.'

'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.'

'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.'

'Cinderella's godmother ordering the trousseau, the
wedding-breakfast, writing the notes of invitation, for
instance,' said Mr. Lennox, laughing.

'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.

'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?'

'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.'

'No, I don't think you are. The idea of stately simplicity
accords well with your character.'

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:

'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.'

'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?'

'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.'

'And flowering all the year round, especially at Christmas--make
your picture complete,' said he.

'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.'

'I am penitent,' he answered. 'Only it really sounded like a
village in a tale rather than in real life.'

'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.'

'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.'

'Oh, I can't describe my home. It is home, and I can't put its
charm into words.'

'I submit. You are rather severe to-night, Margaret.

'How?' said she, turning her large soft eyes round full upon him.
'I did not know I was.'

'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.'

'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.'

'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?'

'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.'

'Shall you garden much? That, I believe, is a proper employment
for young ladies in the country.'

'I don't know. I am afraid I shan't like such hard work.'

'Archery parties--pic-nics--race-balls--hunt-balls?'

'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.'

'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.'

'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.' 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.

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.

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.

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. After this evening all was bustle
till the wedding was over.




CHAPTER II

ROSES AND THORNS

  'By the soft green light in the woody glade,
  On the banks of moss where thy childhood played;
  By the household tree, thro' which thine eye
  First looked in love to the summer sky.'
  MRS. HEMANS.


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.

'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.

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.

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.

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. 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.

'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.'

'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.'

'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.

'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?'

'But the Gormans were neither butchers nor bakers, but very
respectable coach-builders.'

'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!'

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.

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. 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.

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.'




CHAPTER III

'THE MORE HASTE THE WORSE SPEED'

  'Learn to win a lady's faith
  Nobly, as the thing is high;
  Bravely, as for life and death--
  With a loyal gravity.

  Lead her from the festive boards,
  Point her to the starry skies,
  Guard her, by your truthful words,
  Pure from courtship's flatteries.'
  MRS. BROWNING.


'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.'

'Did not I say that I should?' asked he, in a lower tone than
that in which she had spoken.

'But I heard of you so far away in the Highlands that I never
thought Hampshire could come in.

'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.'

'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?'

'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.'

'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.

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.

'The living is evidently as small as she said. It seems strange,
for the Beresfords belong to a good family.'

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.

'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.'

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.

'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.'

'But what are we to do with him till then? It is only half-past
ten now.'

'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.'

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.

'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.'

'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?'

'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.'

'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?'

'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.'

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.

'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.'

'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.'

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.

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.

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.

Mr. Hale asked to look at their sketches.

'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.

'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.

'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.'

'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.'

'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.

'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
arriere-pensee 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.

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.

'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.

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.

'There are a few brown beurres against the south wall which are
worth all foreign fruits and preserves. Run, Margaret, and gather
us some.'

'I propose that we adjourn into the garden, and eat them there'
said Mr. Lennox.

'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.

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.

'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.'

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.

'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.

'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."'

'Scorned, Margaret That is rather a hard word.'

'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.'

'I will never do so again,' said he, warmly. They turned the
corner of the walk.

'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.

'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:

'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.'

'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.

'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.

'Ah! if you had but never got this fancy into your head! It was
such a pleasure to think of you as a friend.'

'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:

'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.'

He paused before he replied. Then, in his habitual coldness of
tone, he answered:

'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.'

'You are vexed,' said she, sadly; 'yet how can I help it?'

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:

'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!'

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. I 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.

'I am not so indifferent to her as she believes,' thought he to
himself. 'I do not give up hope.'

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.

'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!'




CHAPTER IV

DOUBTS AND DIFFICULTIES

  'Cast me upon some naked shore,
  Where I may tracke
  Only the print of some sad wracke,
  If thou be there, though the seas roare,
  I shall no gentler calm implore.'
  HABINGTON.


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.

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.

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.

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.

'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.'

'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.'

'Leave Helstone, papa! But why?'

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.

'But why, dear papa? Do tell me!'

He looked up at her suddenly, and then said with a slow and
enforced calmness:

'Because I must no longer be a minister in the Church of
England.'

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--

'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--'

'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.'

'Doubts, papa! Doubts as to religion?' asked Margaret, more
shocked than ever.

'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:

'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.

'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.'

'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.

'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.

'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,--

'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.

'Margaret, dear!' said he, drawing her closer, 'think of the
early martyrs; think of the thousands who have suffered.'

'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!'

'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!'

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,

'Margaret, I return to the old sad burden we must leave
Helstone.'

'Yes! I see. But when?'

'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.'

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.

To her surprise, her father began to walk about again before he
answered. At length he stopped and replied:

'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!

'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.

'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.

'Milton-Northern! The manufacturing town in Darkshire?'

'Yes,' said he, in the same despondent, indifferent way.

'Why there, papa?' asked she.

'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.'

'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.

'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?'

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:

'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.'

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.'

'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.'

'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.'

'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.'

Margaret resolved to keep silence. After all, what did it signify
where they went, compared to the one terrible change?

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?'

'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?'

'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.'

'How?' said Margaret.

'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.'

'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?'

'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.'

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.

'When do we go?' asked Margaret, after a short silence.

'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.

Margaret was almost stunned.

'In a fortnight!'

'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.

'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.'

'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!'

'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!'

Mr. Hale sat in rigid stillness while she spoke.

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:

'The blessing of God be upon thee, my child!'

'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.'

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.'

'Yes,' she replied, and she returned to the drawing-room in a
stunned and dizzy state.




CHAPTER V

DECISION

  'I ask Thee for a thoughtful love,
  Through constant watching wise,
  To meet the glad with joyful smiles,
  And to wipe the weeping eyes;
  And a heart at leisure from itself
  To soothe and sympathise.'
  ANON.


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.'

'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.'

'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.'

'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.'

'Not far off--it is half-past nine. You had better go to bed at
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--'

'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.'

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.

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.

'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.'

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.

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.

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:

'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.

'Mother, come round the garden with me this morning; just one
turn,' said Margaret, putting her arm round Mrs. Hale's waist.

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.

'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.

'What makes you say so?' asked Mrs. Hale, in a surprised
incredulous voice. 'Who has been telling you such nonsense?'

'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.

'I don't understand you,' she said. 'Either you have made some
great mistake, or I don't quite understand you.'

'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.

'I don't think it can be true,' said Mrs. Hale, at length. 'He
would surely have told me before it came to this.'

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.

'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.'

'When did he tell you, Margaret?'

'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.

'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.

'Can't the bishop set him right?' asked Mrs. Hale, half
impatiently.

'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.'

'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.'

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.

'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.'

'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."'

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.

'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.'

'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?'

'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.'

'Why on earth has your father fixed on Milton-Northern to live
in?'

'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.'

'Private tutor in Milton! Why can't he go to Oxford, and be a
tutor to gentlemen?'

'You forget, mamma! He is leaving the Church on account of his
opinions--his doubts would do him no good at Oxford.'

Mrs. Hale was silent for some time, quietly crying. At last she
said:--

'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!'

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--

'Oh! Richard, Richard, you should have told me sooner!'

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.

'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.

'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!"'

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!

'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.'

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:

'Mayn't I unfasten your gown, miss, and do your hair?'

'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.

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:

'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!'

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!'

'You don't think her worse to-day,' said Mr. Hale, turning
hastily.

'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.'

Mr. Hale looked infinitely distressed.

'You had better take mamma her tea while it is hot, Dixon,' said
Margaret, in a tone of quiet authority.

'Oh! I beg your pardon, miss! My thoughts was otherwise occupied
in thinking of my poor----of Mrs. Hale.'

'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?'

'No,' he replied. 'I suppose we must go into lodgings, and look
about for a house.

'And pack up the furniture so that it can be left at the railway
station, till we have met with one?'

'I suppose so. Do what you think best. Only remember, we shall
have much less money to spend.'

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.

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.

'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.'

'Is Dixon to go with us?' asked Mr. Hale, in a kind of helpless
dismay.

'Oh, yes!' said Margaret. 'Dixon quite intends it, and I don't
know what mamma would do without her.'

'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.'

'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.'

'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.'

'Well, then, I suppose it is thirty miles; that is not much!'

'Not in distance, but in--. Never mind! If you really think it
will do your mother good, let it be fixed so.'

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.




CHAPTER VI

FAREWELL

  'Unwatch'd the garden bough shall sway,
  The tender blossom flutter down,
  Unloved that beech will gather brown,
  The maple burn itself away;

  Unloved, the sun-flower, shining fair,
  Ray round with flames her disk of seed,
  And many a rose-carnation feed
  With summer spice the humming air;

  * * * * * *

  Till from the garden and the wild
  A fresh association blow,
  And year by year the landscape grow
  Familiar to the stranger's child;

  As year by year the labourer tills
  His wonted glebe, or lops the glades;
  And year by year our memory fades
  From all the circle of the hills.'
  TENNYSON.


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.

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.

'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.

'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.'

'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.'

'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.'

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 overfatigue 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.

'Have you been a very long walk to-day?' asked she, on seeing his
refusal to touch food of any kind.

'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.

'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?'

'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.

'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.'

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.

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.

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.

'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?'

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.

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.'




CHAPTER VII

NEW SCENES AND FACES

  'Mist clogs the sunshine,
  Smoky dwarf houses
  Have we round on every side.'
  MATTHEW ARNOLD.


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.

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.

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.

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 lurries 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.

'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.'

'Where is our hotel, papa?'

'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?'

'Oh, let us get our work done first.'

'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.'

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.

'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.'

'But Dixon, and the girl we are to have to help?'

'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?'

'I dare say it will. But the papers. What taste! And the
overloading such a house with colour and such heavy cornices!'

'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.'

'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.'

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:

'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.'

'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.

'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.'

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.

'Do you know where it is that Mr. Hale has gone to? Perhaps I
might be able to find him.'

'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.'

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.

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.

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.

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:

'Margaret! the landlord will persist in admiring that hideous
paper, and I am afraid we must let it remain.'

'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.

'Well, Margaret, now to luncheon, as fast we can. Have you
ordered it?'

'No, papa; that man was here when I came home, and I have never
had an opportunity.'

'Then we must take anything we can get. He must have been waiting
a long time, I'm afraid.'

'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.'

'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
neighbour hood of Milton.'

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.

'And what is your correspondent, Mr. Thornton, like?'

'Ask Margaret,' said her husband. 'She and he had a long attempt
at conversation, while I was away speaking to the landlord.'

'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?'

'I should guess about thirty.'

'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.'

'Not vulgar, or common though,' put in her father, rather jealous
of any disparagement of the sole friend he had in Milton.

'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.'

'Don't call the Milton manufacturers tradesmen, Margaret,' said
her father.

'They are very different.'

'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!'

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.




CHAPTER VIII

HOME SICKNESS

  'And it's hame, hame; hame,
  Hame fain wad I be.'


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.

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.

'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!'

'But then you knew that London itself, and friends lay behind it.
Here--well! we are desolate. Oh Dixon, what a place this is!'

'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.'

'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.'

Mr. Hale was equally out of spirits, and equally came upon
Margaret for sympathy.

'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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

'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?'

'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.

'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.'

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.

'I'm afraid you are not very strong.'

'No,' said the girl, 'nor never will be.'

'Spring is coming,' said Margaret, as if to suggest pleasant,
hopeful thoughts.

'Spring nor summer will do me good,' said the girl quietly.

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--

'I'm afeared hoo speaks truth. I'm afeared hoo's too far gone in
a waste.'

'I shall have a spring where I'm boun to, and flowers, and
amaranths, and shining robes besides.'

'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.'

Margaret was shocked by his words--shocked but not repelled;
rather attracted and interested.

'Where do you live? I think we must be neighbours, we meet so
often on this road.'

'We put up at nine Frances Street, second turn to th' left at
after yo've past th' Goulden Dragon.'

'And your name? I must not forget that.'

'I'm none ashamed o' my name. It's Nicholas Higgins. Hoo's called
Bessy Higgins. Whatten yo' asking for?'

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.

'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.

'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.'

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,

'Yo'll not forget yo're to come and see us.'

'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.'

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.




CHAPTER IX

DRESSING FOR TEA

  'Let China's earth, enrich'd with colour'd stains,
  Pencil'd with gold, and streak'd with azure veins,
  The grateful flavour of the Indian leaf,
  Or Mocho's sunburnt berry glad receive.'
  MRS. BARBAULD.


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--

'My dear! I've asked Mr. Thornton to come to tea to-night.'

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.

'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.'

'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.

'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.'

'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.'

'I don't know that you would ever like him, or think him
agreeable, Margaret. He is not a lady's man.'

Margaret wreathed her throat in a scornful curve.

'I don't particularly admire ladies' men, papa. But Mr. Thornton
comes here as your friend--as one who has appreciated you'--

'The only person in Milton,' said Mrs. Hale.

'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.'

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.

'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.

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.

'John! Is that you?'

Her son opened the door and showed himself.

'What has brought you home so early? I thought you were going to
tea with that friend of Mr. Bell's; that Mr. Hale.'

'So I am, mother; I am come home to dress!'

'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?'

'Mr. Hale is a gentleman, and his wife and daughter are ladies.'

'Wife and daughter! Do they teach too? What do they do? You have
never mentioned them.'

'No! mother, because I have never seen Mrs. Hale; I have only
seen Miss Hale for half an hour.'

'Take care you don't get caught by a penniless girl, John.'

'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.'

Mrs. Thornton did not choose to yield the point to her son; or
else she had, in general, pride enough for her sex.

'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.'

Mr. Thornton's brow contracted, and he came a step forward into
the room.

'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.'

'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:--

'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.

'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!'




CHAPTER X

WROUGHT IRON AND GOLD

  'We are the trees whom shaking fastens more.'
  GEORGE HERBERT.


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.

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.

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.

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.

'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.'

'Your boast reminds me of the old lines--"I've a hundred
captains in England," he said, "As good as ever was he."'

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?

'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.'

'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 h ere 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.

'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.

'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.'

'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.'

'But I think you told me you had altered your chimneys so as to
consume the smoke, did you not?' asked Mr. Hale.

'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.'

'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?'

'Yes, mamma.'

'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.

'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.'

Margaret's lip curled, but somehow she was compelled to listen;
she could no longer abstract herself in her own thoughts.

'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.

'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.'

'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.'

'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.

'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:

'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.'

'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.'

'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.'

'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?'

'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.'

'I dare say, my remark came from the professional feeling of
there being nothing like leather,' replied Mr. Hale.

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--

'A more proud, disagreeable girl I never saw. Even her great
beauty is blotted out of one's memory by her scornful ways.'




CHAPTER XI

FIRST IMPRESSIONS

  'There's iron, they say, in all our blood,
  And a grain or two perhaps is good;
  But his, he makes me harshly feel,
  Has got a little too much of steel.'
  ANON.


'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.'

'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.'

'I am surprised at you, Margaret,' said her mother. 'You who were
always accusing people of being shoppy at Helstone! I don't I
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.'

'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.'

'That really is fine,' said Margaret. 'What a pity such a nature
should be tainted by his position as a Milton manufacturer.'

'How tainted?' asked her father.

'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.'

'Not vicious; he never said that. Improvident and self-indulgent
were his words.'

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.

'Papa, I do think Mr. Thornton a very remarkable man; but
personally I don't like him at all.'

'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.'

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.

'Well, Bessy, how are you? Better, I hope, now the wind has
changed.'

'Better and not better, if yo' know what that means.'

'Not exactly,' replied Margaret, smiling.

'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,

'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.

Bessy was silent in her turn for a minute or two. Then she
replied,

'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.'

'Why, Bessy, what kind of a life has yours been?'

'Nought worse than many others, I reckon. Only I fretted again
it, and they didn't.'

'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.'

'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.'

'I don't know who the rest are; and I've been very busy; and, to
tell the truth, I had forgotten my promise--'

'Yo' offered it! we asked none of it.'

'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.

'I ha' none so many to care for me; if yo' care yo' may come.

So they walked on together in silence. As they turned up into a
small court, opening out of a squalid street, Bessy said,

'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.'

'Don't fear, Bessy.'

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.

'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.'

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.

'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 abe, but I'm none going to have more stuff poured
into her.'

'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?'

'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.'

'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.'

But the girl only pleaded the more with Margaret.

'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.

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,--

'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!'

'I will come to-morrow, said Margaret.

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.'

Margaret went away very sad and thoughtful.

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.

'Have you met with a servant, dear?'

'No, mamma; that Anne Buckley would never have done.'

'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.'

Margaret could hardly smile at this little joke, so oppressed was
she by her visit to the Higginses.

'What would you do, papa? How would you set about it?'

'Why, I would apply to some good house-mother to recommend me one
known to herself or her servants.'

'Very good. But we must first catch our house-mother.'

'You have caught her. Or rather she is coming into the snare, and
you will catch her to-morrow, if you're skilful.'

'What do you mean, Mr. Hale?' asked his wife, her curiosity
aroused.

'Why, my paragon pupil (as Margaret calls him), has told me that
his mother intends to call on Mrs. and Miss Hale to-morrow.'

'Mrs. Thornton!' exclaimed Mrs. Hale.

'The mother of whom he spoke to us?' said Margaret.

'Mrs. Thornton; the only mother he has, I believe,' said Mr. Hale
quietly.

'I shall like to see her. She must be an uncommon person,' her
mother added.

'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.'

'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.'

'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.'

'I don't know positively that it is hers either; but from little
things I have gathered from him, I fancy so.'

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.




CHAPTER XII

MORNING CALLS

  'Well--I suppose we must.'
  FRIENDS IN COUNCIL.


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!'

'And so I would, mother, if Mr. Mason and his wife were friend
less in a strange place, like the Hales.'

'Oh! you need not speak so hastily. I am going to-morrow. I only
wanted you exactly to understand about it.'

'If you are going to-morrow, I shall order horses.'

'Nonsense, John. One would think you were made of money.'

'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.'

'I never complained of it, I'm sure.'

'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.'

'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.

'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.'

'Oh! mamma, it's such a long way, and I am so tired.'

'With what?' asked Mrs. Thornton, her brow slightly contracting.

'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.'

Mrs. Thornton did not speak; but she laid her work on the table,
and seemed to think.

'It will be a long way for her to walk back at night!' she
remarked, at last.

'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.

'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.'

'If I can find it out, I will. But I have never been ill myself,
so I am not much up to invalids' fancies.'

'Well! here is Fanny then, who is seldom without an ailment. She
will be able to suggest something, perhaps--won't you, Fan?'

'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.'

Mr. Thornton looked annoyed. His mother's eyes were bent on her
work, at which she was now stitching away busily.

'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.'

He went abruptly out of the room after saying this.

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.

'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?'

'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.'

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.

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.

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.

'I suppose you are not musical,' said Fanny, 'as I see no piano.'

'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.'

'I wonder how you can exist without one. It almost seems to me a
necessary of life.'

'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.

'You have good concerts here, I believe.'

'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.'

'Do you like new music simply for its newness, then?'

'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.'

'Yes,' said Margaret, 'I have lived there for several years.'

'Oh! London and the Alhambra are the two places I long to see!'

'London and the Alhambra!'

'Yes! ever since I read the Tales of the Alhambra. Don't you know
them?'

'I don't think I do. But surely, it is a very easy journey to
London.'

'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.'

'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.

'What are you saying about me, Miss Hale? May I inquire?'

Margaret had not the words ready for an answer to this question,
which took her a little by surprise, so Miss Thornton replied:

'Oh, mamma! we are only trying to account for your being so fond
of Milton.'

'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.'

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.

Mrs. Thornton went on after a moment's pause:

'Do you know anything of Milton, Miss Hale? Have you seen any of
our factories? our magnificent warehouses?'

'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:

'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.'

'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.'

'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.'

'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.

'I think I should like to know all about them, if I were you,'
replied Margaret quietly.

'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.'

'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.'

'Well! at any rate John must be satisfied now.'




CHAPTER XIII

A SOFT BREEZE IN A SULTRY PLACE

  'That doubt and trouble, fear and pain,
  And anguish, all, are shadows vain,
  That death itself shall not remain;

  That weary deserts we may tread,
  A dreary labyrinth may thread,
  Thro' dark ways underground be led;

  Yet, if we will one Guide obey,
  The dreariest path, the darkest way
  Shall issue out in heavenly day;

  And we, on divers shores now cast,
  Shall meet, our perilous voyage past,
  All in our Father's house at last!'
  R. C. TRENCH.


Margaret flew up stairs 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.

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.

'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?'

'In London,' said Margaret, much amused.

'London! Have yo' been in London?'

'Yes! I lived there for some years. But my home was in a forest;
in the country.

'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.

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.'

'I have never seen the sea,' murmured Bessy. 'But go on.'

'Then, here and there, there are wide commons, high up as if
above the very tops of the trees--'

'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?'

'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.'

'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.'

'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.'

Bessy moved uneasily; then she said:

'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.

'Bessy--we have a Father in Heaven.'

'I know it! I know it,' moaned she, turning her head uneasily
from side to side.

'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.'

'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.'

'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.'

'Fluff?' said Margaret, inquiringly.

'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.'

'But can't it be helped?' asked Margaret.

'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,
tone 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.'

'Did not your father know about it?' asked Margaret.

'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.'

'How old are you?' asked Margaret.

'Nineteen, come July.'

'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.

'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.'

'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.'

'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.'

'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.'

'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!'

'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.

'Ay, that will I,' said Bessy, returning the pressure.

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.

'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.'

'But, papa,' said Margaret, with hesitation, 'do you know, I
think that is the flush of pain.'

'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.'

'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.

'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?'

'No, papa,' said Margaret, sadly.

'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.'

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.




CHAPTER XIV

THE MUTINY

  'I was used
  To sleep at nights as sweetly as a child,--
  Now if the wind blew rough, it made me start,
  And think of my poor boy tossing about
  Upon the roaring seas. And then I seemed
  To feel that it was hard to take him from me
  For such a little fault.'
  SOUTHEY.


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.

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.

'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.'

'Where is Frederick now, mamma? Our letters are directed to the
care of Messrs. Barbour, at Cadiz, I know; but where is he
himself?'

'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.'

'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.'

'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.'

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.

'You see, Margaret, how from the very first he disliked Captain
Reid. He was second lieutenant in the ship--the Orion--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 Russell. 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 Russell.' 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
manoeuvres as quickly as the Avenger? You see, he says that they
had many new hands on board the Russell, while the Avenger 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.'

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.

'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 Russell, 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.'

'Don't go on, mamma. I can understand it all,' said Margaret,
leaning up caressingly against her mother's side, and kissing her
hand.

'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.

'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.'

'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.'

'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.

'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.'

'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.

'What happened to them, mamma?' asked she.

'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.'

They were silent for a long time.

'And Frederick was in South America for several years, was he
not?'

'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.'

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.




CHAPTER XV

MASTERS AND MEN

  'Thought fights with thought;
  out springs a spark of truth
  From the collision of the sword and shield.'
  W. S. LANDOR.


'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.'

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.

'Did you consult the doctor, Margaret? Did you send for him?'

'No, papa, you spoke of his corning 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.'

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:

'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!'

'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.'

'But has Dixon said anything about her?'

'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.'

'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.

'He told me he lived in Marlborough Street, I'm sure,' said Mr.
Hale, with a much perplexed air.

'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.'

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.

The lodge-door was like a common garden-door; on one side of it
were great closed gates for the ingress and egress of lurries 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.

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.

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.

'How is Mr. Thornton?' asked Mr. Hale. 'I was afraid he was not
well, from his hurried note yesterday.'

'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.'

'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.'

'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.'

'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.

'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.'

'And that is--?' asked Mr. Hale.

Her sallow cheek flushed, and her eye lightened, as she answered:

'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.' 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.

'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.'

'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.'

'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.

'It was what Mr. Thornton said himself, that made us know the
kind of man he was. Was it not, Margaret?'

Mrs. Thornton drew herself up, and said--

'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.'

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.'

'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.'

'Why?' asked Margaret, looking straight at Mrs. Thornton, in
bewilderment.

'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.'

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.

'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.'

'Young ladies have, before now,' said Mrs. Thornton, stiffly.

'I hope Miss Thornton is well,' put in Mr. Hale, desirous of
changing the current of the conversation.

'She is as well as she ever is. She is not strong,' replied Mrs.
Thornton, shortly.

'And Mr. Thornton? I suppose I may hope to see him on Thursday?'

'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.'

'A strike!' asked Margaret. 'What for? What are they going to
strike for?'

'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.'

'They are wanting higher wages, I suppose?' asked Mr. Hale.

'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.'

'Does it not make the town very rough?' asked Margaret.

'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.'

'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.'

'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.'

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.

'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.'

'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.

'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.'

'And what will that be?' asked Mr. Hale.

'I conjecture, a simultaneous strike. You will see Milton without
smoke in a few days, I imagine, Miss Hale.'

'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.'

'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.'

'A human right,' said Margaret, very low.

'I beg your pardon, I did not hear what you said.'

'I would rather not repeat it,' said she; 'it related to a
feeling which I do not think you would share.'

'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.

'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.

'I know we differ in our religious opinions; but don't you give
me credit for having some, though not the same as yours?'

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:

'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.'

'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.'

'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.'

'You think it strange. Why?'

'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.'

'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?'

Margaret reddened; then smiled as she said,

'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.'

'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.

'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.

'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.'

'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.'

'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.

Margaret did not reply. She was displeased at the personal
character Mr. Thornton affixed to what she had said.

Mr. Hale spoke next:

'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.'

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:

'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.'

'We will read Plato's Republic as soon as we have finished
Homer.'

'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.'

Margaret had re-entered the room and was sitting at her work; but
she did not speak. Mr. Hale answered--

'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.'

'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.'

'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.'

'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?'

'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.'

'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.

'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?'

'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--'

'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.

'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.'

'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.'

'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.'

'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.'

'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.'

'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.'

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.'

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--

'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?'

'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.




CHAPTER XVI

THE SHADOW OF DEATH

  'Trust in that veiled hand, which leads
  None by the path that he would go;
  And always be for change prepared,
  For the world's law is ebb and flow.'
  FROM THE ARABIC.


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.

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.

When she heard the door open, she went quickly out of the
bed-room.

'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?'

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.

But she spoke with an air of command, as she asked:--'

'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--

'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.'

'My dear young lady, your mother seems to have a most attentive
and efficient servant, who is more like her friend--'

'I am her daughter, sir.'

'But when I tell you she expressly desired that you might not be
told--'

'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.'

'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.'

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:--

'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.

A few tears--those were all she shed, before she recollected the
many questions she longed to ask.

'Will there be much suffering?'

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.'

'My father!' said Margaret, trembling all over.

'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.

'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.

Meanwhile, Margaret had returned into her father's study for a
moment, to recover strength before going upstairs into her
mother's presence.

'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.'

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.

'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'--

'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.

'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.

'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.'

'You don't know what you are asking,' said Mrs. Hale, with a
shudder.

'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.'

'My poor child! Well, you shall try. Do you know, Margaret, Dixon
and I thought you would quite shrink from me if you knew--'

'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.

'Don't be angry with Dixon,' said Mrs. Hale, anxiously. Margaret
recovered herself.

'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.'

'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.'

'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.'

'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.'

'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.'

'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!'

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.

'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!'

'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.

'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.'

'Mamma is very pretty still. Poor mamma!'

'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.'

'Oh, Dixon!' said Margaret, 'how often I've been cross with you,
not knowing what a terrible secret you had to bear!'

'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.'

'Well, Dixon, I won't shoot you, and I'll try not to be cross
again.'

'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.'

'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.

'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--!'




CHAPTER XVII

WHAT IS A STRIKE?

  'There are briars besetting every path,
  Which call for patient care;
  There is a cross in every lot,
  And an earnest need for prayer.'
  ANON.


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.

Nicholas Higgins was sitting by the fire smoking, as she went in.
Bessy was rocking herself on the other side.

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.

'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.'

'This is th' third strike I've seen,' said she, sighing, as if
that was answer and explanation enough.

'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.'

'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.'

'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.'

'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.'

'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.'

'Well?' said he. He had resumed his pipe, and put his 'well' in
the form of an interrogation.

'Why,' she went on, 'what would become of the farmers.'

He puffed away. 'I reckon they'd have either to give up their
farms, or to give fair rate of wage.'

'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?'

Still puffing away. At last he said:

'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!'

'I wish I lived down South,' said Bessy.

'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.'

'But it's out of doors,' said Bessy. 'And away from the endless,
endless noise, and sickening heat.'

'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.'

'I thought yo' were so taken wi' the ways of the South country.'

'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.'

'And yo' say they never strike down there?' asked Nicholas,
abruptly.

'No!' said Margaret; 'I think they have too much sense.'

'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.'

'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.'

'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.'

'But all this time you've not told me what you're striking for,'
said Margaret, again.

'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.'

'And so you plan dying, in order to be revenged upon them!'

'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?'

'But,' said Margaret, 'a soldier dies in the cause of the
Nation--in the cause of others.'

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?'

'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.'

'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.'

'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.

'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!'

'Thornton!' said Margaret. 'Mr. Thornton of Marlborough Street?'

'Aye! Thornton o' Marlborough Mill, as we call him.'

'He is one of the masters you are striving with, is he not? What
sort of a master is he?'

'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.'

'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.'

'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!'

'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?'

'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.'

'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.'

'Tobacco-smoke chokes me!' said she, querulously.

'Then I'll never smoke no more i' th' house!' he replied,
tenderly. 'But why didst thou not tell me afore, thou foolish
wench?'

She did not speak for a while, and then so low that only Margaret
heard her:

'I reckon, he'll want a' the comfort he can get out o' either
pipe or drink afore he's done.'

Her father went out of doors, evidently to finish his pipe.

Bessy said passionately,

'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.'

'But does your father drink?' asked Margaret.

'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.'

'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.'

'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.'

'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.'

'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.'

'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.'

'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.'

'Let me come and read you some of my favourite chapters.'

'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.'

'Where is your sister?'

'Gone fustian-cutting. I were loth to let her go; but somehow we
must live; and th' Union can't afford us much.'

'Now I must go. You have done me good, Bessy.'

'I done you good!'

'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.'

'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'.'

'You won't do it if you think about it. But you'll only puzzle
yourself if you do, that's one comfort.'

'Yo're not like no one I ever seed. I dunno what to make of yo'.'

'Nor I of myself. Good-bye!'

Bessy stilled her rocking to gaze after her.

'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.'




CHAPTER XVIII

LIKES AND DISLIKES

  'My heart revolts within me, and two voices
  Make themselves audible within my bosom.'
  WALLENSTEIN.

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:

'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.'

Margaret hesitated. Her father's looks became more grave and
anxious:

'He does not think her seriously ill?'

'Not at present; she needs care, he says; he was very kind, and
said he would call again, and see how his medicines worked.'

'Only care--he did not recommend change of air?--he did not say
this smoky town was doing her any harm, did he, Margaret?'

'No! not a word,' she replied, gravely. 'He was anxious, I
think.'

'Doctors have that anxious manner; it's professional,' said he.

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.

'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.'

'He did not say anything about diet, did he?'

'It was to be nourishing, and digestible. Mamma's appetite is
pretty good, I think.'

'Yes! and that makes it all the more strange he should have
thought of speaking about diet.'

'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?'

'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?'

'I hope so,' said Margaret,--but so sadly, that her father took
notice of it. He pinched her cheek.

'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.'

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.

'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.'

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.

'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.

'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.

'I do think she is better since last night,' said she. 'Her eyes
look brighter, and her complexion clearer.'

'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.'

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.

'Well, mother,' asked Mr. Thornton that night, 'who have accepted
your invitations for the twenty-first?'

'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.'

'Very good. Do you know, I'm really afraid Mrs. Hale is very far
from well, from what Dr. Donaldson says.'

'It's strange of them to accept a dinner-invitation if she's very
ill,' said Fanny.

'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.

'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.'

'I'm sure that motive would not influence them. No! I think I
understand how it is.'

'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?'

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.

'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.'

'And she's not accomplished, mamma. She can't play.'

'Go on, Fanny. What else does she want to bring her up to your
standard?'

'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.'

'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.

'Mother,' said he, stopping, and bravely speaking out the truth,
'I wish you would like Miss Hale.'

'Why?' asked she, startled by his earnest, yet tender manner.
'You're never thinking of marrying her?--a girl without a penny.'

'She would never have me,' said he, with a short laugh.

'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:

'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.'

'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----'

'Nay, mother; I have never yet put myself, and I mean never to
put myself, within reach of her contempt.'

'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.'

'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!'

'To be sure! and at her too, with her fine notions and haughty
tosses!'

'I only wonder why you talk so much about her, then,' said Fanny.
'I'm sure, I'm tired enough of the subject.'

'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?'

'Have the hands actually turned out?' asked Mrs. Thornton, with
vivid interest.

'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.'

'The law expenses would have been more than the hands them selves
were worth--a set of ungrateful naughts!' said his mother.

'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.'

'I hope there are not many orders in hand?'

'Of course there are. They know that well enough. But they don't
quite understand all, though they think they do.'

'What do you mean, John?'

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.

'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.'

'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.'

'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.'

'If there is to be all this extra expense, I'm sorry we're giving
a dinner just now.'

'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.'

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:

'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.'




CHAPTER XIX

ANGEL VISITS

  'As angels in some brighter dreams
  Call to the soul when man doth sleep,
  So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes,
  And into glory peep.'
  HENRY VAUGHAN.


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.

'Then you think you shall wear your white silk. Are you sure it
will fit? It's nearly a year since Edith was married!'

'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.'

'Hadn't you better let Dixon see it? It may have gone yellow with
lying by.'

'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.'

'No! but it may have faded.'

'Well! then I've a green silk. I feel more as if it was the
embarrassment of riches.'

'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?'

'But--yes! perhaps that will be best.'

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.

'Dear! and are you going to dine at Thornton's at Marlborough
Mills?'

'Yes, Bessy. Why are you so surprised?'

'Oh, I dunno. But they visit wi' a' th' first folk in Milton.'

'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.

'Well,' said she, 'yo' see, they thinken a deal o' money here and
I reckon yo've not getten much.'

'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.'

'But can yo' give dinners back, in yo'r small house? Thornton's
house is three times as big.'

'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.'

'I never thought yo'd be dining with Thorntons,' repeated I
Bessy. 'Why, the mayor hissel' dines there; and the members of
Parliament and all.'

'I think I could support the honour of meeting the mayor of
Milton.

'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.
'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.'

'What win yo' wear?' asked Bessy, somewhat relieved.

'White silk,' said Margaret. 'A gown I had for a cousin's
wedding, a year ago.

'That'll do!' said Bessy, falling back in her chair. 'I should be
loth to have yo' looked down upon.

'Oh! I'll be fine enough, if that will save me from being looked
down upon in Milton.'

'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'.'

'Nonsense, Bessy!'

'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'!'

'Nay, Bessy,' said Margaret, gently, 'it was but a dream.'

'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.'

'My dear Bessy, it is quite a fancy of yours.'

'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'.'

'Oh Bessy! you may come and welcome; but don't talk so--it really
makes me sorry. It does indeed.'

'Then I'll keep it to mysel', if I bite my tongue out. Not but
what it's true for all that.'

Margaret was silent. At last she said,

'Let us talk about it sometimes, if you think it true. But not
now. Tell me, has your father turned out?'

'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!'

'Don't speak so!' said Margaret. 'You'll make me feel wicked and
guilty in going to this dinner.'

'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.'

'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,

'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.'

'And do they think the strike will mend this?' asked Margaret.

'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.

'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.'

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,--

'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?'

Before Margaret could answer, Higgins broke out,

'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!'

'Good-bye!' said Margaret, hastily. 'Good-bye, Bessy! I shall
look to see you on the twenty-first, if you're well enough.'

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.

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.

'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.

'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.'

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.'

Nicholas had his hand on the lock of the door--he stopped and
turned round on Boucher, close following:

'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!'

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,

'I never thought to hear father call on God again. But yo' heard
him say, "So help me God!"'

'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.'

Bessy lay back without taking any notice of what Margaret said.
She did not cry--she only quivered up her breath,

'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.'

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.

'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.'

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.

'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.'




CHAPTER XX

MEN AND GENTLEMEN

  'Old and young, boy, let 'em all eat, I have it;
  Let 'em have ten tire of teeth a-piece, I care not.'
  ROLLO, DUKE OF NORMANDY.


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.

'And can your factory friend come on Thursday to see you
dressed?'

'She was so ill I never thought of asking her,' said Margaret,
dolefully.

'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?'

'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.

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:

'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?'

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.

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.

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.

'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.'

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.

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.

'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.'

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.

'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.

'I would rather stay at home with you,--much rather, mamma.'

'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.'

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. 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.

'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?'

Mr. Hale was standing at one of the windows as Mrs. Thornton
spoke. He turned away, saying,

'Don't you find such close neighbourhood to the mill rather
unpleasant at times?'

She drew herself up:

'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.'

'I meant that the smoke and the noise--the constant going out and
coming in of the work-people, might be annoying!'

'I agree with you, Mr. Hale!' said Fanny. 'There is a continual
smell of steam, and oily machinery--and the noise is perfectly
deafening.'

'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.

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.

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:

'I could see you were on our side in our discussion at
dinner,--were you not, Miss Hale?'

'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?'

'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.'

'I suspect my "gentleman" includes your "true man."'

'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.'

'What do you mean?' asked Margaret. 'We must understand the words
differently.'

'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.'

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:

'That has been done.' Then came a hurried murmur, in which two or
three joined.

'All those arrangements have been made.'

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:

'I take the risk. You need not join in it unless you choose.'
Still some more fears were urged.

'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.'

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.

'A Milton lady?' asked he, as the name was given.

'No! from the south of England--Hampshire, I believe,' was the
cold, indifferent answer.

Mrs. Slickson was catechising Fanny on the same subject.

'Who is that fine distinguished-looking girl? a sister of Mr.
Horsfall's?'

'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.'

'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?'

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.




CHAPTER XXI

THE DARK NIGHT

  'On earth is known to none
  The smile that is not sister to a tear.'
  ELLIOTT.


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.

'I rather think Thornton is not quite easy in his mind about this
strike. He seemed very anxious to-night.'

'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.'

'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.'

'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.'

'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.'

'Oh, papa!'

'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.'

'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.'

'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.'

'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.'

'What do you mean, child?' asked Mr. Hale.

'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.'

'You will be as proud of your one servant when you get her, if
all is true about her that Mrs. Thornton says.'

'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.'

'Even I was mistaken enough to think you looked like a lady my
dear,' said Mr. Hale, quietly smiling.

But smiles were changed to white and trembling looks, when they
saw Dixon's face, as she opened the door.

'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.'

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.

'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.

'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.'

'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.

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.

'Speak to him, Miss Hale. We must rouse him.'

'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.

'Margaret, did you know of this? Oh, it was cruel of you!'

'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.'

'But not the disease?'

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.

'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!'

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.

'What must we do?' asked he. 'Tell us both. Margaret is my
staff--my right hand.'

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.

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.

'What can we do to spare mamma such another night?' asked
Margaret on the third day.

'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.'

'Certainly,' said Margaret. 'I could go while mamma is asleep
this afternoon. I'm sure Mrs. Thornton would lend it to us.'

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.

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.

The porter opened the door cautiously, not nearly wide enough to
admit her.

'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.

'Th' folk are all coming up here I reckon?' asked he.

'I don't know. Something unusual seemed going on; but this street
is quite empty, I think.'

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.




CHAPTER XXII

A BLOW AND ITS CONSEQUENCES

  'But work grew scarce, while bread grew dear,
  And wages lessened, too;
  For Irish hordes were bidders here,
  Our half-paid work to do.'
  CORN LAW RHYMES.


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.

Fanny came in at last.

'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!'

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--

'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!'

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.

Mr. Thornton came frankly forwards:

'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.

'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:

'Where are the poor imported work-people? In the factory there?'

'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.'

'When can the soldiers be here?' asked his mother, in a low but
not unsteady voice.

He took out his watch with the same measured composure with which
he did everything. He made some little calculation:

'Supposing Williams got straight off when I told him, and hadn't
to dodge about amongst them--it must be twenty minutes yet.'

'Twenty minutes!' said his mother, for the first time showing her
terror in the tones of her voice.

'Shut down the windows instantly, mother,' exclaimed he: 'the
gates won't bear such another shock. Shut down that window, Miss
Hale.'

Margaret shut down her window, and then went to assist Mrs.
Thornton's trembling fingers.

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.

Fanny raised herself up:

'Are they gone?' asked she, in a whisper.

'Gone!' replied he. 'Listen!'

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.

'Thank God!' said Mr. Thornton, as he watched her out. 'Had you
not better go upstairs, Miss Hale?'

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.

'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.'

'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!'

'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.

'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.'

'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.'

'The soldiers will be here directly, and that will bring them to
reason.'

'To reason!' said Margaret, quickly. 'What kind of reason?'

'The only reason that does with men that make themselves into
wild beasts. By heaven! they've turned to the mill-door!'

'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.'

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.

'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.'

'Oh! Mr. Thornton! I do not know--I may be wrong--only--'

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
any-thing 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.

'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.

'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.'

'Shall them Irish blackguards be packed back again?' asked one
from out the crowd, with fierce threatening in his voice.

'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.

'Go away,' said he, in his deep voice. 'This is no place for
you.'

'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:'

'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.

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:

'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:

'Th' stone were meant for thee; but thou wert sheltered behind a
woman!'

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.

'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.

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.

'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.

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:

'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.

'Miss Hale is hurt, mother. A stone has grazed her temple. She
has lost a good deal of blood, I'm afraid.'

'She looks very seriously hurt,--I could almost fancy her dead,'
said Mrs. Thornton, a good deal alarmed.

'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.

'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. And so he had to think,
and talk, and reason.

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.

'She has had a terrible blow,' said Mrs. Thornton. 'Is there any
one who will go for a doctor?'

'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.'

'I will not run the chance. She was hurt in our house. If you are
a coward, Jane, I am not. I will go.'

'Pray, ma'am, let me send one of the police. There's ever so many
come up, and soldiers too.'

'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.'

'Couldn't Hannah go, ma'am?'

'Why Hannah? Why any but you? No, Jane, if you don't go, I do.'

Mrs. Thornton went first to the room in which she had left Fanny
stretched on the bed. She started up as her mother entered.

'Oh, mamma, how you terrified me! I thought you were a man that
had got into the house.'

'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.'

'Oh! don't, mamma! they'll murder you.' She clung to her mother's
gown. Mrs. Thornton wrenched it away with no gentle hand.

'Find me some one else to go but that girl must not bleed to
death.'

'Bleed! oh, how horrid! How has she got hurt?'

'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.'

'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.

'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?'

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.

Jane paused in her bathing, to reply to Miss Thornton's question.

'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.'

'Where was she, then?' said Fanny, drawing nearer by slow
degrees, as she became accustomed to the sight of Margaret's pale
face.

'Just before the front door--with master!' said Jane,
significantly.

'With John! with my brother! How did she get there?'

'Nay, miss, that's not for me to say,' answered Jane, with a
slight toss of her head. 'Sarah did'----

'Sarah what?' said Fanny, with impatient curiosity.

Jane resumed her bathing, as if what Sarah did or said was not
exactly the thing she liked to repeat.

'Sarah what?' asked Fanny, sharply. 'Don't speak in these half
sentences, or I can't understand you.'

'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.'

'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.'

'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.'

'Oh, I wish mamma would come!' said Fanny, wringing her hands. 'I
never was in the room with a dead person before.'

'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!'

'Are you better now?' asked Fanny, in a quavering voice.

No answer; no sign of recognition; but a faint pink colour
returned to her lips, although the rest of her face was ashen
pale.

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.'

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. 'I am better now,' said she, in a very
low, faint voice. I was a little sick.' 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.

'It is not much, I think. I am better now. I must go home.'

'Not until I have applied some strips of plaster; and you have
rested a little.'

She sat down hastily, without another word, and allowed it to be
bound up.

'Now, if you please,' said she, 'I must go. Mamma will not see
it, I think. It is under the hair, is it not?'

'Quite; no one could tell.'

'But you must not go,' said Mrs. Thornton, impatiently. 'You are
not fit to go.

'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?'

'You are quite flushed and feverish,' observed Mr. Lowe.

'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.

'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.'

'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.'

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.

Mr. Lowe returned in the cab.

'If you will allow me, I will see you home, Miss Hale. The
streets are not very quiet yet.'

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.




CHAPTER XXIII

MISTAKES

  'Which when his mother saw, she in her mind
  Was troubled sore, ne wist well what to ween.'
  SPENSER.


Margaret had not been gone five minutes when Mr. Thornton came
in, his face all a-glow.

'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.

'Gone home,' said she, rather shortly.

'Gone home!'

'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.'

'I am sorry she is gone home,' said he, walking uneasily about.
'She could not have been fit for it.'

'She said she was; and Mr. Lowe said she was. I went for him
myself.'

'Thank you, mother.' He stopped, and partly held out his hand to
give her a grateful shake. But she did not notice the movement.

'What have you done with your Irish people?'

'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.'

'She had a cab. Everything was done properly, even to the paying.
Let us talk of something else. She has caused disturbance
enough.'

'I don't know where I should have been but for her.'

'Are you become so helpless as to have to be defended by a girl?'
asked Mrs. Thornton, scornfully.

He reddened. 'Not many girls would have taken the blows on
herself which were meant for me;--meant with right down
good-will, too.'

'A girl in love will do a good deal,' replied Mrs. Thornton,
shortly.

'Mother!' He made a step forwards; stood still; heaved with
passion.

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.

'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!'

'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.'

'But won't they come back to-night?'

'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.'

'You must have some tea first.'

'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.'

'You expect me to go to bed before I have seen you safe, do you?'

'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:

'Why are you going round by Crampton?'

'To ask after Miss Hale.'

'I will send. Williams must take the water-bed she came to ask
for. He shall inquire how she is.'

'I must go myself.'

'Not merely to ask how Miss Hale is?'

'No, not merely for that. I want to thank her for the way in
which she stood between me and the mob.'

'What made you go down at all? It was putting your head into the
lion's mouth!' 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:

'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.'

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.

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.

'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.

'You will come back here before you go to the Hales', said she,
in a low, anxious voice.

'I know what I know,' said Fanny to herself.

'Why? Will it be too late to disturb them?'

'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.

'I will return straight here after I have done my business You
will be sure to inquire after them?--after her?'

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.

'Mother! You know what I have got to say to Miss Hale,
to-morrow?' The question came upon her suddenly, during a pause
in which she, at least, had forgotten Margaret.

She looked up at him.

'Yes! I do. You can hardly do otherwise.'

'Do otherwise! I don't understand you.'

'I mean that, after allowing her feelings so to overcome her, I
consider you bound in honour--'

'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?'

'Nay, John, there is no need to be angry. Did she not rush down,
and cling to you to save you from danger?'

'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.'

'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!'

'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.'

'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.

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.

'Mrs. Thornton will send the water-bed, mamma.'

'Dear, how tired you look! Is it very hot, Margaret?'

'Very hot, and the streets are rather rough with the strike.'

Margaret's colour came back vivid and bright as ever; but it
faded away instantly.

'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.'

'Yes!' said Margaret. 'I am tired, I cannot go.'

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.

'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.

'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.

'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!'

She looked up, and a noble peace seemed to descend and calm her
face, till it was 'stiller than chiselled marble.'

Dixon came in:

'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.'

'Very,' said Margaret. 'You must send our best thanks.'

Dixon left the room for a moment.

'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.'

'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.

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.

'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!'

'Good-night, papa.'

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.

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.




CHAPTER XXIV

MISTAKES CLEARED UP

  'Your beauty was the first that won the place,
  And scal'd the walls of my undaunted heart,
  Which, captive now, pines in a caitive case,
  Unkindly met with rigour for desert;--
  Yet not the less your servant shall abide,
  In spite of rude repulse or silent pride.'
  WILLIAM FOWLER.


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.

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.

Dixon opened the door very softly, and stole on tiptoe up to
Margaret, sitting by the shaded window.

'Mr. Thornton, Miss Margaret. He is in the drawing-room.'

Margaret dropped her sewing.

'Did he ask for me? Isn't papa come in?'

'He asked for you, miss; and master is out.'

'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.

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.

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.

'Miss Hale, I was very ungrateful yesterday--'

'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.'

'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.

'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.'

'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.

'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--'

'How!' exclaimed he. 'Offends you! I am indeed most unfortunate.'

'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.'

'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.'

'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.'

'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.'

'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.

'No, I see you do not. You are unfair and unjust.'

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.

'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.'

'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.

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.

'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.'




CHAPTER XXV

FREDERICK

  'Revenge may have her own;
  Roused discipline aloud proclaims their cause,
  And injured navies urge their broken laws.'
  BYRON.


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--

'His strong idea wandered through her thought.'

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!

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. 'Fais ce que dois,
advienne que pourra.'

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.

And away she went.

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.

'I thought I should na' ha' seen yo' again,' said she, at last,
looking wistfully in Margaret's face.

'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.

'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.'

'Shall I read you a chapter, now?'

'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.'

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.'

'Your father was not there, was he?' said Margaret, colouring
deep.

'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.'

'But why?' asked Margaret. 'I don't understand.'

'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.'

'That's not true,' said Margaret. 'It was not Boucher that threw
the stone'--she went first red, then white.

'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.

'Yes. Never mind. Go on. Only it was not Boucher that threw the
stone. But what did he answer to your father?'

'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.'

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.

'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?'

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.'

'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! Every body 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.'

'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.'

'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.'

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.

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.

'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!'

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.

'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.'

'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.'

'But, mamma, papa is out.'

'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.'

'Oh, mamma!' said Margaret.

'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.

'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.

'Only wait till papa comes in. Let us ask him how best to do it.'

'You promised, Margaret, not a quarter of an hour ago;--you said
he should come.'

'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.'

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.

'And where have you been, my pretty maid?' asked he.

'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:

'You should have waited till I came in, Margaret.'

'I tried to persuade her--' and then she was silent.

'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.'

'All these years since the mutiny, papa?'

'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.'

'Oh, papa, what have I done! And yet it seemed so right at the
time. I'm sure Frederick himself, would run the risk.'

'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.'

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.




CHAPTER XXVI

MOTHER AND SON

  'I have found that holy place of rest
  Still changeless.'
  MRS. HEMANS.


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.

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 every body 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!

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.

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.

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.

_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.

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?'

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:

'No one loves me,--no one cares for me, but you, mother.'

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.

'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.

'I am not fit for her, mother; I knew I was not.'

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.

'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.'

'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.'

'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.'

'With all my heart. I only wish that she, and all belonging to
her, were swept back to the place they came from.'

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.

'Warrants are out against three men for conspiracy, mother. The
riot yesterday helped to knock up the strike.'

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.




CHAPTER XXVII

FRUIT-PIECE

  'For never any thing can be amiss
  When simpleness and duty tender it.'
  MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM.


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:--

'I care for nobody--Nobody cares for me.'

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.

'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!'

'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.'

'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.'

'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.'

'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.'

Mr. Thornton was silent. The vaunted steadiness of pulse failed
him for an instant.

'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?'

'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.'

'You will tell me, if there is anything I can do, I'm sure,
replied Mr. Thornton. 'I rely upon you.'

'Oh! never fear! I'll not spare your purse,--I know it's deep
enough. I wish you'd give me carte-blanche for all my patients,
and all their wants.'

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?'

There was no reply. 'To Marlborough Mills, I suppose, sir?'

'No!' Mr. Thornton said. 'Give the basket to me,--I'll take it.'

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.

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.'

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--

'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.

'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!

'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.'

He was gone. Not one word: not one look to Margaret. 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!

'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?'

'Yes!' said Margaret, quietly.

'Margaret!' said Mrs. Hale, rather querulously, 'you won't like
anything Mr. Thornton does. I never saw anybody so prejudiced.'

Mr. Hale had been peeling a peach for his wife; and, cutting off
a small piece for himself, he said:

'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?'

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.

'Bless me, miss! How you startled me! Missus is not worse, is
she? Is anything the matter?'

'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.'

Dixon did not speak, but went on rummaging. The scent of lavender
came out and perfumed the room.

At last Dixon found what she wanted; what it was Margaret could
not see. Dixon faced round, and spoke to her:

'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.'

'What is the matter? Pray, tell me, Dixon, at once.'

'That young woman you go to see--Higgins, I mean.'

'Well?'

'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.'

'Oh! let me find one,' said Margaret, in the midst of her tears.
'Poor Bessy! I never thought I should not see her again.'

'Why, that's another thing. This girl down-stairs wanted me to
ask you, if you would like to see her.'

'But she's dead!' said Margaret, turning a little pale. 'I never
saw a dead person. No! I would rather not.'

'I should never have asked you, if you hadn't come in. I told her
you wouldn't.'

'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.

'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.

'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.'

Margaret shrank a little from answering.

'Yes, perhaps I may. Yes, I will. I'll come before tea. But
where's your father, Mary?'

Mary shook her head, and stood up to be going.

'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.'

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.

'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.




CHAPTER XXVIII

COMFORT IN SORROW

  'Through cross to crown!--And though thy spirit's life
  Trials untold assail with giant strength,
  Good cheer! good cheer! Soon ends the bitter strife,
  And thou shalt reign in peace with Christ at length.'
  KOSEGARTEN.

  'Ay sooth, we feel too strong in weal, to need Thee on that road;
  But woe being come, the soul is dumb, that crieth not on "God."'
  MRS. BROWNING.


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.'

Slowly, slowly Margaret turned away from the bed. Mary was humbly
sobbing in the back-ground. They went down stairs without a word.

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.'

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.

Mary sat down on the first chair she came to, and throwing her
apron over her head, began to cry.

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:

'Were yo' with her? Did yo' see her die?'

'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.

'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.'

'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.

'She is dead!' she said.

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.

'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.

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.

'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!'

But Margaret stood in the doorway, silent yet commanding. He
looked up at her defyingly.

'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.

'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.'

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.

'Come with me,' she said. 'Come and see her!'

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.

She and he stood by the corpse.

'Her last words to Mary were, "Keep my father fro' drink."'

'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.'

'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.'

He shook his head, glancing sideways up at Margaret as he did so.
His pale, haggard face struck her painfully.

'You are sorely tired. Where have you been all day--not at work?'

'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.

'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?'

No answer. In fact, where was he to look for comfort?

'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.'

'Yo'r father's a parson?' asked he, with a sudden turn in his
ideas.

'He was,' said Margaret, shortly.

'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.'

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.

'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.'

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--

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.

'I'm going to take my tea wi' her father, I am!'

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.

As he got near the street in which he knew she lived, he looked
down at his clothes, his hands, and shoes.

'I should m'appen ha' cleaned mysel', first?'

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.

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.

'How is mamma?--where is papa?'

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.

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.

'Oh, papa! he really is a man you will not dislike--if you won't
be shocked to begin with.'

'But, Margaret, to bring a drunken man home--and your mother so
ill!'

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.

'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.'

'Oh, yes--thank you.' But as Mr. Hale was leaving the room, she
ran after him:

'Papa--you must not wonder at what he says: he's an----I mean he
does not believe in much of what we do.'

'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.'

Margaret went into her mother's room. Mrs. Hale lifted herself up
from a doze.

'When did you write to Frederick, Margaret? Yesterday, or the day
before?'

'Yesterday, mamma.'

'Yesterday. And the letter went?'

'Yes. I took it myself'

'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.'

'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?'

'They'll be clever if they come in past me!' said Dixon, showing
her teeth at the bare idea.

'And he need not go out, except in the dusk, poor fellow!'

'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?'

'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.

'I always dislike that doing things in such a hurry,' said Mrs.
Hale.

Margaret was silent.

'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.'

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.

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.

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.

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.

'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.'

'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.'

'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.'

'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.'

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:

'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'----

Margaret touched his arm very softly. She had not spoken before,
nor had he heard her rise.

'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.'

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.

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.'

'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.'

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.

'And so the strike is at an end,' said Margaret.

'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.'

'You'll get work, shan't you?' asked Margaret. 'You're a famous
workman, are not you?'

'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.

'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.

'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.'

'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.'

'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.'

'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?'

'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.

'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!'

'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.

'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.'

'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.'

'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.'

'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.'

'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.'

Higgins's brow clouded. He was silent for a minute or two. Then he
said, shortly enough:

'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.'

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.

'And what are the Union's ways and means?'

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.

'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.'

'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!'

'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.'

'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.'

'I reckon it's time for me to be going, sir,' said Higgins, as
the clock struck ten.

'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.'

'I do trust you most thoroughly, Nicholas.'

'Stay!' said Mr. Hale, hurrying to the book-shelves. 'Mr.
Higgins! I'm sure you'll join us in family prayer?'

Higgins looked at Margaret, doubtfully. Hey grave sweet eyes met
his; there was no compulsion, only deep interest in them. He did
not speak, but he kept his place.

Margaret the Churchwoman, her father the Dissenter, Higgins the
Infidel, knelt down together. It did them no harm.




CHAPTER XXIX

A RAY OF SUNSHINE

  'Some wishes crossed my mind and dimly cheered it,
  And one or two poor melancholy pleasures,
  Each in the pale unwarming light of hope,
  Silvering its flimsy wing, flew silent by--
  Moths in the moonbeam!'
  COLERIDGE.


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:--

'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!'

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.

'What were you laughing at, Margaret?' asked she, as soon as she
had recovered from the exertion of settling herself on the sofa.

'A letter I have had this morning from Edith. Shall I read it
you, mamma?'

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.

'Do you know, Margaret, I really begin quite to like Mr.
Thornton.'

No answer at first. Then Margaret forced out an icy 'Do you?'

'Yes! I think he is really getting quite polished in his
manners.'

Margaret's voice was more in order now. She replied,

'He is very kind and attentive,--there is no doubt of that.'

'I wonder Mrs. Thornton never calls. She must know I am ill,
because of the water-bed.'

'I dare say, she hears how you are from her son.'

'Still, I should like to see her You have so few friends here,
Margaret.'

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.

'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.'

'I will do anything, if you wish it, mamma,--but if--but when
Frederick comes----'

'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.'

'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.'

'When can we hear from him?'

'Not for a week yet, certainly,--perhaps more.'

'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.'

'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.'

'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?'

'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.'

'But yours is factory slang.'

'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.'

'Not I, child. I only know it has a very vulgar sound and I don't
want to hear you using it.'

'Very well, dearest mother, I won't. Only I shall have to use a
whole explanatory sentence instead.'

'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.'

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.

'Mamma is accusing me of having picked up a great deal of
vulgarity since we came to Milton.'

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.

'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?'

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.

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.

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.




CHAPTER XXX

HOME AT LAST

  'The saddest birds a season find to sing.'
  SOUTHWELL.

  'Never to fold the robe o'er secret pain,
  Never, weighed down by memory's clouds again,
  To bow thy head! Thou art gone home!'
  MRS. HEMANS.


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.

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,--

'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'----

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.

'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.

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.

'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'----

'Call her Margaret!' gasped Mrs. Hale.

'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'----

'But Margaret never does wrong--not wilfully wrong,' pleaded Mrs.
Hale. Mrs. Thornton went on as before; as if she had not heard:

'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.'

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:

'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.'

'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.

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.

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.

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.

'Is this Mr. Hale's?' said he, in a clear, full, delicate voice.

Margaret trembled all over; at first she did not answer. In a
moment she sighed out,

'Frederick!' and stretched out both her hands to catch his, and
draw him in.

'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,--

'My mother! is she alive?'

'Yes, she is alive, dear, dear brother! She--as ill as she can be
she is; but alive! She is alive!'

'Thank God!' said he.

'Papa is utterly prostrate with this great grief.'

'You expect me, don't you?'

'No, we have had no letter.'

'Then I have come before it. But my mother knows I am coming?'

'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.'

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.

'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.

'Papa! guess who is here!'

He looked at her; she saw the idea of the truth glimmer into
their filmy sadness, and be dismissed thence as a wild
imagination.

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.

'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!'

Her father did not change his attitude, but he seemed to be
trying to understand the fact.

'Where is he?' asked he at last, his face still hidden in his
prostrate arms.

'In your study, quite alone. I lighted the taper, and ran up to
tell you. He is quite alone, and will be wondering why--'

'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.

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.

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.

'Dixon says it is a gift to light a fire; not an art to be
acquired.'

'Poeta nascitur, non fit,' murmured Mr. Hale; and Margaret was
glad to hear a quotation once more, however languidly given.

'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.'

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.

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.

'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.

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.

'I am very selfish,' said she; 'but it will not be for long.'
Frederick bent down and kissed the feeble hand that imprisoned
his.

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.

Margaret told him what Dr. Donaldson said.

'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?'

'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.'

Frederick began to walk up and down the room impatiently.

'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.'

'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!'

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.

'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!'

Margaret choked in trying to speak, and when she did it was very
low.

'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!'

'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."'

'Not excluding mischief,' said Margaret, smiling faintly through
her tears.

'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.'

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.

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.

Before the morning came all was over.

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.

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.




CHAPTER XXXI

'SHOULD AULD ACQUAINTANCE BE FORGOT?'

  'Show not that manner, and these features all,
  The serpent's cunning, and the sinner's fall?'
  CRABBE.


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.

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.

'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.

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.

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.

'Ask Mr. Bell,' said he in a hollow voice.

'Mr. Bell!' said she, a little surprised. 'Mr. Bell of Oxford?'

'Mr. Bell,' he repeated. 'Yes. He was my groom's-man.'

Margaret understood the association.

'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.

Towards evening, Dixon said to her:

'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 Orion at the same time as Master Frederick, I
know; though I don't recollect if he was there at the mutiny.'

'Did he know you?' said Margaret, eagerly.

'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.'

'But you did not tell him anything about us--about Frederick?'

'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.'

Margaret was made very uncomfortable by this account of Dixon's.

'Have you told Frederick?' asked she.

'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.'

'Oh, I'm not afraid of Mr. Bell; but I am afraid of this
Leonards. I must tell Frederick. What did Leonards look like?'

'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.'

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.

'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.'

'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.

Margaret told him all that Dixon had related of her interview
with young Leonards. Frederick's lips closed with a long whew of
dismay.

'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?'

'Yes, mamma told me.'

'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!'

'Oh, Frederick, hush! Don't talk so.'

Mr. Hale came towards them, eager and trembling. He had overheard
what they were saying. He took Frederick's hand in both of his:

'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.'

'Oh, papa, must he go?' said Margaret, pleading against her own
conviction of necessity.

'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.'

'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.'

'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.

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:

'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?'

'Very likely,' said Margaret, indifferently. 'There was a little
quiet man who came up for orders about two o'clock.'

'But this was not a little man--a great powerful fellow; and it
was past four when he was here.'

'It was Mr. Thornton,' said Mr. Hale. They were glad to have
drawn him into the conversation.

'Mr. Thornton!' said Margaret, a little surprised. 'I
thought----'

'Well, little one, what did you think?' asked Frederick, as she
did not finish her sentence.

'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.'

'He looked like some one of that kind,' said Frederick,
carelessly. 'I took him for a shopman, and he turns out a
manufacturer.'

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.

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.'

'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.

'A very kind friend,' said Margaret, when her father did not
answer.

Frederick was silent for a time. At last he spoke:

'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.'

'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.'

'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.'

'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.'

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:

'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.'

Mr. Hale roused himself up to listen to his son's answer.

'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.'

'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.'

'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.'

'Will you consult a lawyer as to your chances of exculpation?'
asked Margaret, looking up, and turning very red.

'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.'

'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.'

'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.'

'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.'

'Yes; I must go to-morrow,' said Frederick decidedly.

Mr. Hale groaned. 'I can't bear to part with you, and yet I am
miserable with anxiety as long as you stop here.'

'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.'

'I will write down a list of all the names I can remember on
board the Orion. 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.'

'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?'

'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.'

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.

'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.'




CHAPTER XXXII

MISCHANCES

  'What! remain to be
  Denounced--dragged, it may be, in chains.'
  WERNER.


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:

'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?'

'Certainly,' said Margaret. 'I shall like it, if you won't be
lonely without me, papa.'

'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?'

'Ten minutes past six; very nearly dark. So what will you do,
Margaret?'

'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.'

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.

Margaret's hand lay in Frederick's arm. He took hold of it
affectionately.

'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.'

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:

'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:

'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.

'Who is that?' said Frederick, almost before he was out of
hearing. Margaret was a little drooping, a little flushed, as she
replied:

'Mr. Thornton; you saw him before, you know.'

'Only his back. He is an unprepossessing-looking fellow. What a
scowl he has!'

'Something has happened to vex him,' said Margaret,
apologetically. 'You would not have thought him unprepossessing
if you had seen him with mamma.'

'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.'

'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.'

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.

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.

'By your leave, miss!' said he, pushing Margaret rudely on one
side, and seizing Frederick by the collar.

'Your name is Hale, I believe?'

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.

'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 t 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.

'So Leonards has been drinking again!' said one, seemingly in
authority. 'He'll need all his boasted influence to keep his
place this time.'

'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.

'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.'

'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.'

'Catch me! I knew better what his London meant. Why, he has never
paid me off that five shillings'--and so they went on.

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'.




CHAPTER XXXIII

PEACE

  'Sleep on, my love, in thy cold bed,
  Never to be disquieted!
  My last Good Night--thou wilt not wake
  Till I thy fate shall overtake.'
  DR. KING.


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.

'I suppose we shall hear from Mr. Bell to-morrow,' said Margaret.

'Yes,' replied her father. 'I suppose so.'

'If he can come, he will be here to-morrow evening, I should
think.'

'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.'

'Don't ask Mr. Thornton, papa. Let me go with you,' said
Margaret, impetuously.

'You! My dear, women do not generally go.'

'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.'

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.

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.

'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.'

'I thought you were so extremely averse to his going, Margaret,'
said Mr. Hale in some surprise.

'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.

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.'

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.

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.

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.

'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.'

'Of course, sir. They are much as is to be expected. Master is
terribly broke down. Miss Hale bears up better than likely.'

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.

'I suppose I may call,' said he coldly. 'On Mr. Hale, I mean. He
will perhaps admit me after to-morrow or so.'

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.

'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.'

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.




CHAPTER XXXIV

FALSE AND TRUE

  'Truth will fail thee never, never!
  Though thy bark be tempest-driven,
  Though each plank be rent and riven,
  Truth will bear thee on for ever!'
  ANON.


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.

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.

Presently Dixon came to the door and said, 'Miss Hale, you are
wanted.'

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.

'What is it, Dixon?' asked Margaret, the moment she had shut the
drawing-room door.

'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.'

'Did he name--' asked Margaret, almost inaudibly.

'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.'

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.'

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.

'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.'

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!'

'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--'

'I was not there,' said Margaret, still keeping her
expressionless eyes fixed on his face, with the unconscious look
of a sleep-walker.

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.

'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?'

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.

'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.

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.

'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:

'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.'

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.

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.




CHAPTER XXXV

EXPIATION

  'There's nought so finely spun
  But it cometh to the sun.'


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,

'Of death, and of the heavy lull,
And of the brain that has grown dull.'

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?

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.

'E par che de la sua labbia si mova Uno spirto soave e pien
d'amore, Chi va dicendo a l'anima: sospira!'

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.

She was roused by Dixon's entrance into the room; she had just
been letting out Mr. Thornton.

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.

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.

'My name is Watson--George Watson, sir, that you got----'

'Ah, yes! I recollect. Why you are getting on famously, I hear.'

'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.'

'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?'

'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.'

'Yes!' said Mr. Thornton, turning sharp round and looking into
the inspector's face with sudden interest. 'What about it?'

'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.'

'Miss Hale denies she was there!' repeated Mr. Thornton, in an
altered voice. 'Tell me, what evening was it? What time?'

'About six o'clock, on the evening of Thursday, the
twenty-sixth.'

They walked on, side by side, in silence for a minute or two. The
inspector was the first to speak.

'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.'

'And she denied having been at the station that evening!'
repeated Mr. Thornton, in a low, brooding tone.

'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.'

'You were quite right,' said Mr. Thornton. 'Don't take any steps
till you have seen me again.'

'The young lady will expect me to call, from what I said.'

'I only want to delay you an hour. It's now three. Come to my
warehouse at four.'

'Very well, sir!'

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.

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.

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:--

'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 he
calls.'

The note contained these words:

'There will be no inquest. Medical evidence not sufficient to
justify it. Take no further steps. I have not seen the corner;
but I will take the responsibility.'

'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.'

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.

She stood by her father, holding on to the back of his chair.

'You will go to bed soon, papa, won't you? Don't sit up alone!'

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.

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.

'Don't come; I will open the door. I know it is him--I can--I
must manage it all myself.'

'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.'

'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.

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.

'You are late!' said she. 'Well?' She held her breath for the
answer.

'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.'

'Then it is ended,' said Margaret. 'There is to be no further
enquiry.'

'I believe I've got Mr. Thornton's note about me,' said the
Inspector, fumbling in his pocket-book.

'Mr. Thornton's!' said Margaret.

'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.

'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--'

'Mr. Thornton!' said Margaret, again.

'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.'

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.

'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?'

He read it aloud to her.

'Thank you. You told Mr. Thornton that I was not there?'

'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.'

'Good night.' She rang the bell for Dixon to show him out. As
Dixon returned up the passage Margaret passed her swiftly.

'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.

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.

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.

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.

'Here's something to do you good, miss. A letter from Master
Frederick.'

'Thank you, Dixon. How late it is!'

She spoke very languidly, and suffered Dixon to lay it on the
counterpane before her, without putting out a hand to lake it.

'You want your breakfast, I'm sure. I will bring it you in a
minute. Master has got the tray all ready, I know.'

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.'

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, 'Fais ce que dois, advienne que
pourra?' 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?

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.

'You are sadly overdone, Margaret. It is no wonder. But you must
let me nurse you now.'

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.

'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.

At last she smiled; a poor, weak little smile; but it gave him
the truest pleasure.

'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.

'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.'

'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.'

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.'

'No, papa, I won't go without you. Who is to take care of you
when I am gone?'

'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.'

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.'

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:

'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.'

'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.'

'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.'

Towards evening Mr. Hale said:

'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.'

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.

Late in the evening, the expected book arrived, 'with Mr.
Thornton's kind regards, and wishes to know how Mr. Hale is.'

'Say that I am much better, Dixon, but that Miss Hale--'

'No, papa,' said Margaret, eagerly--'don't say anything about me.
He does not ask.'

'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!'

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.

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.




CHAPTER XXXVI

UNION NOT ALWAYS STRENGTH

  'The steps of the bearers, heavy and slow,
  The sobs of the mourners, deep and low.'
  SHELLEY.


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.

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.

'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.

'We thought we should have a good chance of finding you, just
after dinner-time,' said Margaret.

'We have had our sorrow too, since we saw you,' said Mr. Hale.

'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.'

'Are you out of work?' asked Margaret.

'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.'

'We owe Mary some money,' said Mr. Hale, before Margaret's sharp
pressure on his arm could arrest the words.

'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'.'

'But we owe her many thanks for her kind service,' began Mr. Hale
again.

'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'.'

'Is it because of the strike you're out of work?' asked Margaret
gently.

'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.'

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.

'And good words are--?'

'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.'

'And bad words are refusing you work when you ask for it.'

'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.'

'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.'

He looked up again, with a sharp glance at the questioner; and
then tittered a low and bitter laugh.

'Measter! if it's no offence, I'll ask yo' a question or two in
my turn.'

'You're quite welcome,' said Mr. Hale.

'I reckon yo'n some way of earning your bread. Folk seldom lives
i' Milton just for pleasure, if they can live anywhere else.'

'You are quite right. I have some independent property, but my
intention in settling in Milton was to become a private tutor.'

'To teach folk. Well! I reckon they pay yo' for teaching them,
dunnot they?'

'Yes,' replied Mr. Hale, smiling. 'I teach in order to get paid.'

'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?'

'No; to be sure not!'

'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?'

'No: to be sure not!'

'Would yo' stand it if they did?'

'It would be some very hard pressure that would make me even
think of submitting to such dictation.'

'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.'

'Is that rule about not contributing to the Union in force at all
the mills?' asked Margaret.

'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.'

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.

'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.'

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.

'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.'

'He did you harm?' asked Margaret.

'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.'

'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.'

'Margaret,' said her father, in a low and warning tone, for he
saw the cloud gathering on Higgins's face.

'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.'

'Why? What has he been doing? Anything fresh?'

'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!'

'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!'

Made him what he is! What was he?

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.

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.

'We found him i' th' brook in the field beyond there.'

'Th' brook!--why there's not water enough to drown him!'

'He was a determined chap. He lay with his face downwards. He was
sick enough o' living, choose what cause he had for it.'

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.'

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.

'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.'

'I canna go,' said Higgins. 'Dunnot ask me. I canna face her.'

'Thou knows her best,' said the man. 'We'n done a deal in
bringing him here--thou take thy share.'

'I canna do it,' said Higgins. 'I'm welly felled wi' seeing him.
We wasn't friends; and now he's dead.'

'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.'

'Papa, do you go,' said Margaret, in a low voice.

'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.

'I will go,' said she.

'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.'

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.

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.

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.

'How are you, Mrs. Boucher? But very poorly, I'm afraid.'

'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.'

'How long is it since he went away?'

'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----'

'Oh, don't blame him,' said Margaret. 'He felt it deeply, I'm
sure----'

'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.

Margaret laid her hand on the woman's arm to arrest her
attention. Their eyes met.

'Poor little fellow!' said Margaret, slowly; 'he _was_ his
father's darling.'

'He _is_ 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 _is_ 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.

'He loved him,' said she.

'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.'

'But he is dead--he is drowned!'

'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!'

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.

The mother quivered as she lay in Margaret's arms. Margaret heard
a noise at the door.

'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.'

'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.'

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.

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.

'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.'

Margaret was kneeling down by Mrs. Boucher and bathing he 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.

'What is it?' asked she.

'Only our good friend here,' replied her father, 'hit on a
capital expedient for clearing the place.'

'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?'

'No,' said Margaret; 'I could not tell her all at once.'

'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?'

'No; you, you,' said Margaret.

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.

'Neighbour,' said she, 'your man is dead. Guess yo' how he died?'

'He were drowned,' said Mrs. Boucher, feebly, beginning to cry
for the first time, at this rough probing of her sorrows.

'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.'

'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.

'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.

'Who has promised to be a father to the fatherless?' continued
he.

'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.

'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.'

'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.

'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.'

As Margaret and her father went slowly up the street, she paused
at Higgins's closed door.

'Shall we go in?' asked her father. 'I was thinking of him too.'

They knocked. There was no answer, so they tried the door. It was
bolted, but they thought they heard him moving within.

'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.

'Nicholas!' said Margaret again. 'It is only us. Won't you let us
come in?'

'No,' said he. 'I spoke as plain as I could, 'bout using words,
when I bolted th' door. Let me be, this day.'

Mr. Hale would have urged their desire, but Margaret placed her
finger on his lips.

'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.'




CHAPTER XXXVII

LOOKING SOUTH

  'A spade! a rake! a hoe!
  A pickaxe or a bill!
  A hook to reap, or a scythe to mow,
  A flail, or what ye will--
  And here's a ready hand
  To ply the needful tool,
  And skill'd enough, by lessons rough,
  In Labour's rugged school.'
  HOOD.


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.

'Is yon thing upstairs really him? it doesna look like him. I'm
feared on it, and I never was feared o' daddy.'

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.

Margaret heard enough of this unreasonableness to dishearten her;
and when they came away she found it impossible to cheer her
father.

'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.'

'But people must live in towns. And in the country some get such
stagnant habits of mind that they are almost fatalists.'

'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.'

'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.'

'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!'

'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!'

'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.

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?'

'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.

'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.

'He had better come up here, Dixon; and then he can see us both,
and choose which he likes for his listener.'

'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.

'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.

'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.'

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.

Mr. Hale's ever-ready sympathy with anything of shyness or
hesitation, or want of self-possession, made him come to his aid.

'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?'

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.

'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.'

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.

'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.

'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.

'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.'

'Yes, I know now,' said Mr. Hale. 'Go back to what you were
saying: you'd not speak in haste----'

'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.'

'God bless you!' said Mr. Hale, starting up; then, calming down,
he said breathlessly, 'What do you mean? Tell me out.'

'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.'

Mr. Hale got hold of Higgins's hand and shook it heartily,
without speaking. Higgins looked awkward and ashamed.

'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?'

'Help you! How? I would do anything,--but what can I do?'

'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.'

'But what kind of work could you do, my man?'

'Well, I reckon I could spade a bit----'

'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; may be ten, at the
outside. Food is much the same as here, except that you might
have a little garden----'

'The childer could work at that,' said he. 'I'm sick o' Milton
anyways, and Milton is sick o' me.'

'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.'

'I'se nought particular about my meat,' said he, as if offended.

'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.'

'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?'

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?'

'Thornton's?' asked he. 'Ay, I've been at Thornton's.'

'And what did he say?'

'Such a chap as me is not like to see the measter. Th' o'erlooker
bid me go and be d----d.'

'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.'

'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.'

'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.'

'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.

'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.'

'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.'

'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.'

'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'.'

'You'll find your shoe's by the kitchen fire; I took them there
to dry,' said Margaret.

He turned round and looked at her steadily, and then he brushed
his lean hand across his eyes and went his way.

'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.

'He is,' said Margaret; 'but what grand makings of a man there
are in him, pride and all.'

'It's amusing to see how he evidently respects the part in Mr.
Thornton's character which is like his own.'

'There's granite in all these northern people, papa, is there
not?'

'There was none in poor Boucher, I am afraid; none in his wife
either.'

'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--'

'You are getting to do Mr. Thornton justice at last, Margaret,'
said her father, pinching her ear.

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.'




CHAPTER XXXVIII

PROMISES FULFILLED

  'Then proudly, proudly up she rose,
  Tho' the tear was in her e'e,
  "Whate'er ye say, think what ye may,
  Ye's get na word frae me!"'
  SCOTCH BALLAD.


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.

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.

'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.'

He sat down instantly, on a chair against the wall.

'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.'

'Very well. I suppose other cooks are to be met with.'

'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.'

'Miss Hale is no friend of mine. Mr. Hale is my friend.'

'I am glad to hear you say so, for if she had been your friend,
what Betsy says would have annoyed you.'

'Let me hear it,' said he, with the extreme quietness of manner
he had been assuming for the last few days.

'Betsy says, that the night on which her lover--I forget his
name--for she always calls him "he"----'

'Leonards.'

'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.'

'Leonards was not killed by any blow or push.'

'How do you know?'

'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.'

'The fall! What fall?'

'Caused by the blow or push of which Betsy speaks.'

'Then there was a blow or push?'

'I believe so.'

'And who did it?'

'As there was no inquest, in consequence of the doctor's opinion,
I cannot tell you.'

'But Miss Hale was there?'

No answer.

'And with a young man?'

Still no answer. At last he said: 'I tell you, mother, that there
was no inquest--no inquiry. No judicial inquiry, I mean.'

'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.'

'I don't see what we have to do with that. Miss Hale is at
liberty to please herself.'

'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.'

'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.

'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?'

'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.'

'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.'

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:

'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.'

'For God's sake, John!' said his mother, now really shocked,
'what do you mean? What do you mean? What do you know?'

He did not reply to her.

'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.'

'Not against her, mother! I _could_ not speak against her.'

'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.'

'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!'

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.'

'She will never bear it,' said he passionately.

'She will have to bear it, if I speak in her dead mother's name.'

'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.'

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.

'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.

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.

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:

'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.'

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.

Mrs. Thornton went on:

'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----'

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.

'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.'

'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.'

'Insult, Miss Hale!'

'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----'

'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.'

Margaret's face was still hidden in her hands, the fingers of
which were wet with tears. Mrs. Thornton was a little mollified.

'Come, Miss Hale. There may be circumstances, I'll allow, that,
if explained, may take off from the seeming impropriety.'

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.

'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----'

'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.'

'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----'

'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.'

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!'

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.

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.

'I want for to speak to yo', sir.'

'Can't stay now, my man. I'm too late as it is.'

'Well, sir, I reckon I can wait till yo' come back.'

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.

'What! you there still!'

'Ay, sir. I mun speak to yo'.'

'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.

He stopped to speak to the overlooker. The latter said in a low
tone:

'I suppose you know, sir, that that man is Higgins, one of the
leaders of the Union; he that made that speech in Hurstfield.'

'No, I didn't,' said Mr. Thornton, looking round sharply at his
follower. Higgins was known to him by name as a turbulent spirit.

'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.'

'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.

'My name is Higgins'--

'I know that,' broke in Mr. Thornton. 'What do you want, Mr.
Higgins? That's the question.'

'I want work.'

'Work! You're a pretty chap to come asking me for work. You don't
want impudence, that's very clear.'

'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.

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?'

'An answer to the question I axed.'

'I gave it you before. Don't waste any more of your time.'

'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.'

'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.'

'I'd take th' risk. Worst they could say of me is, that I did
what I thought best, even to my own wrong.'

'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.'

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.

'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.'

'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?'

'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.'

'That you may have more money laid up for another strike, I
suppose?'

'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.'

'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.'

'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.'

'A pretty navvy you'd make! why, you couldn't do half a day's
work at digging against an Irishman.'

'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.'

'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.'

'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.'

'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.'

'I'm obleeged to yo' for a' yo'r kindness, measter, and most of
a' for yo'r civil way o' saying good-bye.'

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:

'How long has that man Higgins been waiting to speak to me?'

'He was outside the gate before eight o'clock, sir. I think he's
been there ever since.'

'And it is now--?'

'Just one, sir.'

'Five hours,' thought Mr. Thornton; 'it's a long time for a man
to wait, doing nothing but first hoping and then fearing.'




CHAPTER XXXIX

MAKING FRIENDS

  'Nay, I have done; you get no more of me:
  And I am glad, yea glad with all my heart,
  That thus so clearly I myself am free.'
  DRAYTON.


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:

'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!'

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.

'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 _will_ 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.'

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.

'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.'

She went out, going rapidly towards the country, and trying to
drown reflection by swiftness of motion.

As she stood on the door-step, at her return, her father came up:

'Good girl!' said he. 'You've been to Mrs. Boucher's. I was just
meaning to go there, if I had time, before dinner.'

'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.

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.

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.

'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.

The look on his face changed instantly.

'Ay!' said he. 'I've seen and heerd too much on him.'

'He refused you, then?' said Margaret, sorrowfully.

'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.'

'I am sorry I asked you. Was he angry? He did not speak to you as
Hamper did, did he?'

'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'.'

'You told him I sent you?'

'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.'

'And he--?' asked Margaret.

'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.'

Margaret put the struggling Johnnie out of her arms, back into
his former place on the dresser.

'I am sorry I asked you to go to Mr. Thornton's. I am
disappointed in him.'

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.

'So that was the lady you spoke of as a woman?' said he
indignantly to Higgins. 'You might have told me who she was.

'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.'

'Of course you told that to Miss Hale?'

'In coorse I did. Leastways, I reckon I did. I telled her she
weren't to meddle again in aught that concerned yo'.'

'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.

'They're not mine, and they are mine.'

'They are the children you spoke of to me this morning?'

'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.'

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.'

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.

'Yo've no business to go prying into what happened between
Boucher and me. He's dead, and I'm sorry. That's enough.'

'So it is. Will you take work with me? That's what I came to
ask.'

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.

'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?'

'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.'

'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.

'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.'

'Yo' spoke of my wisdom this morning. I reckon I may bring it wi'
me; or would yo' rayther have me 'bout my brains?'

Bout your brains if you use them for meddling with my business;
with your brains if you can keep them to your own.'

'I shall need a deal o' brains to settle where my business ends
and yo'rs begins.'

'Your business has not begun yet, and mine stands still for me.
So good afternoon.'

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.

'Allow me to say, Miss Hale, that you were rather premature in
expressing your disappointment. I have taken Higgins on.'

'I am glad of it,' said she, coldly.

'He tells me, he repeated to you, what I said this morning
about--' Mr. Thornton hesitated. Margaret took it up:

'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.

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.'

Margaret was silent. She was wondering whether an explanation of
any kind would be consistent with her loyalty to Frederick.

'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.'

'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.'

'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?'

'Yes,' said Margaret, quietly and sadly.

'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.

'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.'

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 for-get 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.




CHAPTER XL

OUT OF TUNE

  'I have no wrong, where I can claim no right,
  Naught ta'en me fro, where I have nothing had,
  Yet of my woe I cannot so be quite;
  Namely, since that another may be glad
  With that, that thus in sorrow makes me sad.'
  WYATT.


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.

'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.'

'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--'

'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.'

'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.'

'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.

'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.'

'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.'

'It might be good for the Miltoners. Many things might be good
for them which would be very disagreeable for other people.'

'Are you not a Milton man yourself?' asked Margaret. 'I should
have thought you would have been proud of your town.'

'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.'

'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.'

'I don't want to be more liberal-minded, thank you,' said Mr.
Bell.

'Is Mr. Thornton coming to tea, papa?' asked Margaret in a low
voice.

'Either to tea or soon after. He could not tell. He told us not
to wait.'

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.

'A letter from Henry Lennox. It makes Margaret very hopeful.'

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.

'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.'

'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?'

Mr. Thornton had not a notion what they were talking about, and
disdained to inquire. Mr. Hale politely enlightened him.

'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.'

'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?'

'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.'

'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.'

'By living, I suppose you mean enjoyment.'

'Yes, enjoyment,--I don't specify of what, because I trust we
should both consider mere pleasure as very poor enjoyment.'

'I would rather have the nature of the enjoyment defined.'

'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?'

Mr. Thornton was silent. Then he said, 'I really don't know. But
money is not what _I_ strive for.'

'What then?'

'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.'

'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.'

'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?'

'I don't know Oxford. But there is a difference between being the
representative of a city and the representative man of its
inhabitants.'

'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--

'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.

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.

'I don't set up Milton as a model of a town.'

'Not in architecture?' slyly asked Mr. Bell.

'No! We've been too busy to attend to mere outward appearances.'

'Don't say _mere_ outward appearances,' said Mr. Hale, gently.
'They impress us all, from childhood upward--every day of our
life.'

'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.'

'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.'

'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!"'

'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.'

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.'

'A respectable strike!' said Mr. Bell. 'That sounds as if you
were far gone in the worship of Thor.'

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.

'Edith says she finds the printed calicoes in Corfu better and
cheaper than in London.'

'Does she?' said her father. 'I think that must be one of Edith's
exaggerations. Are you sure of it, Margaret?'

'I am sure she says so, papa.'

'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.'

'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.

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.

'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.'

'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.'

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,--

'Hale! did it ever strike you that Thornton and your daughter
have what the French call a tendresse for each other?'

'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.'

'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!'

'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.'

'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.'

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.

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,--

'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.'

'I beg you'll do no such thing. Remember the misfortunes that
ensued; and besides, I can't spare Margaret.'

'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?'

'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.'

'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!'

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.

'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.'

'And does he not answer you?' asked Mr. Hale.

'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.'

'What are they'--began Mr. Hale; but Margaret, touching his arm,
showed him her watch.

'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.

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.

He startled Margaret, one evening as she sate at her work, by
suddenly asking:

'Margaret! had you ever any reason for thinking that Mr. Thornton
cared for you?'

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.

Margaret did not answer immediately; but by the bent drooping of
her head, he guessed what her reply would be.

'Yes; I believe--oh papa, I should have told you.' And she
dropped her work, and hid her face in her hands.

'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?'

No answer at first; but by-and-by a little gentle reluctant
'Yes.'

'And you refused him?'

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:

'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.

'I too, am sorry, my dear. Mr. Bell quite startled me when he
said, some idea of the kind--'

'Mr. Bell! Oh, did Mr. Bell see it?'

'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.'

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.

'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!'

'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.'

'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.'

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.




CHAPTER XLI

THE JOURNEY'S END

  'I see my way as birds their trackless way--
  I shall arrive! what time, what circuit first,
  I ask not: but unless God send his hail
  Or blinding fire-balls, sleet, or stifling snow,
  In some time--his good time--I shall arrive;
  He guides me and the bird. In His good time!'
  BROWNING'S PARACELSUS.


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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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:--

  'Je ne voudrois pas reprendre mon coeur 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 coeur, nous
  voila tombez dans la fosse, laquelle nous avions tant
  resolu d' eschapper. 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'humilite. Courage,
  soyons meshuy sur nos gardes, Dieu nous aydera.'

'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.'

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.

'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.'

'Miss Fanny going to be married!' exclaimed Margaret.

'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.'

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.

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.

'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.'

'Is that the reason you're so soon at home to-night?' asked
Margaret innocently.

'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!'

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.

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.

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.

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.

'I'm afraid we've done too much,' said Mr. Bell. 'You're
suffering now from having lived so long in that Milton air.

'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.'

'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.'

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:

'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 _she_ 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.

Mr. Bell blew his nose ostentatiously before answering. Then he
said:

'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!'

There was a pause. Mr. Hale spoke first, in continuation of his
thought:

'About Margaret.'

'Well! about Margaret. What then?'

'If I die----'

'Nonsense!'

'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.'

'A very common fault. What sort of people are the Lennoxes?'

'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.'

'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.'

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.

Mr. Bell was stunned by the shock; and only recovered when the
time came for being angry at every suggestion of his man's.

'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.'

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!

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.

'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.

'I'm going to Milton, bound on a melancholy errand. Going to
break to Hale's daughter the news of his sudden death!'

'Death! Mr. Hale dead!'

'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.'

'Where? I don't understand!'

'At Oxford. He came to stay with me; hadn't been in Oxford this
seventeen years--and this is the end of it.'

Not one word was spoken for above a quarter of an hour. Then Mr.
Thornton said:

'And she!' and stopped full short.

'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.'

Mr. Thornton made one or two fruitless attempts to speak, before
he could get out the words:

'What will become of her!'

'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!'

'Who are they?' asked Mr. Thornton with trembling interest.

'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!'

'What brother? A brother of her aunt's?'

'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.'

'How?' asked Mr. Thornton, too earnestly curious to be aware of
the impertinence of his question.

'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.'

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.

'Where have you been?' asked Mr. Bell, at length.

'To Havre. Trying to detect the secret of the great rise in the
price of cotton.'

'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?'

'Yes.' (Very shortly).

'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?'

'I have seen it. It was a great change to leave it and come to
Milton.'

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.

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.

'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!'




CHAPTER XLII

ALONE! ALONE!

  'When some beloved voice that was to you
  Both sound and sweetness, faileth suddenly,
  And silence, against which you dare not cry,
  Aches round you like a strong disease and new--
  What hope? what help? what music will undo
  That silence to your sense?'
  MRS. BROWNING.


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.

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.

'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.'

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.

'Well! I suppose we must have Mrs. Shaw; she's come back to
England, isn't she?'

'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.

'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.'

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:

'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.'

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.'

'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 savoir-faire from a resident Fellow. Dear,
darling Margaret! won't it be nice to have her here, again? You
were both great allies, years ago.'

'Were we?' asked he indifferently, with an appearance of being
interested in a passage in the Review.

'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.'

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.

'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.

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.

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:

'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.

'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!'

'Is Mrs.--is her aunt come?' asked Mr. Thornton.

'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.'

'You must not go to the Clarendon. We have five or six empty
bed-rooms at home.'

'Well aired?'

'I think you may trust my mother for that.'

'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.'

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.

When they had set out upon their walk, Mr. Bell said:

'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.'

He paused, as if asking a question; but he received no answer
from his companion, the echo of whose thoughts kept repeating--

'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.

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.

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.

'How is Miss Hale?' she asked.

'About as broken down by this last stroke as she can be.'

'I am sure it is very well for her that she has such a friend as
you.'

'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.'

'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.

'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.'

'Frederick!' exclaimed Mr. Thornton. 'Who is he? What right--?'
He stopped short in his vehement question.

'Frederick,' said Mr. Bell in surprise. 'Why don't you know? He's
her brother. Have you not heard--'

'I never heard his name before. Where is he? Who is he?'

'Surely I told you about him, when the family first came to
Milton--the son who was concerned in that mutiny.'

'I never heard of him till this moment. Where does he live?'

'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.'

'I hope I may be allowed to go?'

'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.'

'But about Frederick. Does he never come to England?'

'Never.'

'He was not over here about the time of Mrs. Hale's death?'

'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?'

'I saw a young man walking with Miss Hale one day,' replied Mr.
Thornton, 'and I think it was about that time.'

'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?'

No answer. No change of countenance.

'And so did poor Hale. Not at first, and not till I had put it
into his head.'

'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.

'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?'

Mr. Thornton's eyes glowed like red embers.

'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.

'What is that heap of brick and mortar we came against in the
yard? Any repairs wanted?'

'No, none, thank you.'

'Are you building on your own account? If you are, I'm very much
obliged to you.'

'I'm building a dining-room--for the men I mean--the hands.'

'I thought you were hard to please, if this room wasn't good
enough to satisfy you, a bachelor.'

'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.'

'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.'

'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.'

'Do you taste each dish as it goes in, in virtue of your office?
I hope you have a white wand.'

'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.'

'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.'

'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.'

'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!'

'Indeed I have no theory; I hate theories.'

'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?'

'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.'

'People will talk about any new plan. You can't help that.'

'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.'




CHAPTER XLIII

MARGARET'S FLITTIN'

  'The meanest thing to which we bid adieu,
  Loses its meanness in the parting hour.'
  ELLIOTT.


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.

'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
_no thanks_.'

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.

'My dearest child! Has that letter vexed or troubled you?'

'No!' said Margaret feebly. 'I shall be better when to-morrow is
over.'

'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.'

'Where could I go to? I could not leave papa and mamma.'

'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.'

'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.

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.

'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:

'DEAR SIR,--The accompanying book I am sure will be valued by you
for the sake of my father, to whom it belonged.

'Yours sincerely,

'MARGARET HALE.'

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.

At breakfast time the next day, she expressed her wish to go and
bid one or two friends good-bye. Mrs. Shaw objected:

'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.'

'But to-day is my only day; if Captain Lennox comes this
afternoon, and if we must--if I must really go to-morrow----'

'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?'

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.

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.

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.

As she was leaving the place, she stopped and looked round; then
hesitated a little before she said:

'I should like to have some little thing to remind me of Bessy.'

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:

'Oh, take summut better; that only cost fourpence!'

'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.

'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.

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.

'What an icy room!' she said.

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.

'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.'

Mrs. Shaw looked extremely perplexed by what Margaret had said.
Thanks for kindness! and apologies for failure in good manners!
But Mrs. Thornton replied:

'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.'

'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?'

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.

'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?'

'With my aunt,' replied Margaret, turning towards Mrs. Shaw.

'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.'

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,

'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.'

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.

'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.'

'You are going then!' said he, in a low voice.

'Yes,' said Margaret. 'We leave to-morrow.'

'My son-in-law comes this evening to escort us,' said Mrs. Shaw.

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!'

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.

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:

'Oh! let us go. I cannot be patient here. I shall not get well
here. I want to forget.'

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.

'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'?'

'Not a grand lady,' said Margaret, half smiling.

'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.'

'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.'

'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.'

'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.'

'Well, wench! I can nobbut say, Bless yo'! and bless yo'!--and
amen.'




CHAPTER XLIV

EASE NOT PEACE

  'A dull rotation, never at a stay,
  Yesterday's face twin image of to-day.'
  COWPER.

  'Of what each one should be, he sees the form and rule,
  And till he reach to that, his joy can ne'er be full.'
  RUCKERT.


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.

'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!'

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.

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.

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.

'Oh, Mr. Bell! I never thought of seeing you!'

'But you give me a welcome, I hope, as well as that very pretty
start of surprise.'

'Have you dined? How did you come? Let me order you some dinner.'

'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?'

'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.'

'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?'

'Only Dixon's,' replied Margaret, growing very red.

'Whew! is that all? Who do you think came up in the train with
me?'

'I don't know,' said Margaret, resolved against making a guess.

'Your what d'ye call him? What's the right name for a
cousin-in-law's brother?'

'Mr. Henry Lennox?' asked Margaret.

'Yes,' replied Mr. Bell. 'You knew him formerly, didn't you? What
sort of a person is he, Margaret?'

'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?'

'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?'

'No! certainly not. Do you?'

'Not I. But I thought, perhaps, you might. Is he a great deal
here?'

'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?'

'From Milton. Don't you see I'm smoke-dried?'

'Certainly. But I thought that it might be the effect of the
antiquities of Oxford.'

'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.'

'And how is he? How is Mrs. Thornton?' asked Margaret hurriedly
and below her breath, though she tried to speak out.

'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.'

'She would put on any assumption of feeling to veil her
daughter's weakness,' said Margaret in a low voice.

'Perhaps so. You've studied her, have you? She doesn't seem over
fond of you, Margaret.'

'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.

'Mr. Lennox, I have been so much obliged to you for all you have
done about Frederick.'

'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.

'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----'

'Frederick in England! you never told me that!' exclaimed Mr.
Bell in surprise.

'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.

'I have never named it to either my brother or your cousin,' said
Mr. Lennox, with a little professional dryness of implied
reproach.

'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?'

'He was with mamma when she died,' said Margaret, softly.

'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!'

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.

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.'

'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.'

'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.

'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.'

'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.

'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.

'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?'

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.

'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----'

'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.'

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.

'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.'

'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.'

'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.'

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.'

'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.'

'She has had a great deal to go through,' said Mr. Bell.

'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----'

'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.'

'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.'

'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.

'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.

'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.'

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.'




CHAPTER XLV

NOT ALL A DREAM

  'Where are the sounds that swam along
  The buoyant air when I was young?
  The last vibration now is o'er,
  And they who listened are no more;
  Ah! let me close my eyes and dream.'
  W. S. LANDOR.


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.

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.

'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.'

'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.

Mr. Bell came up to wish her good-bye.

'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.'

'Oh, Mr. Bell,' said she--and could say no more. But she took his
old gouty hand, and kissed it.

'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.'

'It's no use my trying to say how much I shall like it,' said
Margaret, through her tears.

'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.'

'I won't cry a drop,' said Margaret, winking her eyes to shake
the tears off her eye-lashes, and forcing a smile.

'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.'




CHAPTER XLVI

ONCE AND NOW

  'So on those happy days of yore
  Oft as I dare to dwell once more,
  Still must I miss the friends so tried,
  Whom Death has severed from my side.

  But ever when true friendship binds,
  Spirit it is that spirit finds;
  In spirit then our bliss we found,
  In spirit yet to them I'm bound.'
  UHLAND.


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.

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.

'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.

'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.'

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.'

'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!'

'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.'

'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.'

'Come down to me, Mrs. Purkis, after you have attended to Miss
Hale. I want to have a consultation with you about dinner.'

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.

'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.

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.

'Shall we go past the vicarage?' asked Mr. Bell.

'No, not yet. We will go this way, and make a round so as to come
back by it,' replied Margaret.

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.

'I did not think I had been so old,' said Margaret after a pause
of silence; and she turned away sighing.

'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.'

'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.

'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.'

'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?'

'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.'

'I will walk slower for your own sake. I like you twenty times
better than Hamlet.'

'On the principle that a living ass is better than a dead lion?'

'Perhaps so. I don't analyse my feelings.'

'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.'

'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.'

'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?'

'I am in good hopes. She used to be considered a famous cook as
far as Helstone opinion went.'

'But have you considered the distraction of mind produced by all
this haymaking?'

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.

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.

'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.'

'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.

'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.'

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,

'How is old Betty Barnes?'

'I don't know,' said the woman rather shortly. 'We'se not
friends.'

'Why not?' asked Margaret, who had formerly been the peacemaker
of the village.

'She stole my cat.'

'Did she know it was yours?'

'I don't know. I reckon not.'

'Well! could not you get it back again when you told her it was
yours?'

'No! for she'd burnt it.'

'Burnt it!' exclaimed both Margaret and Mr. Bell.

'Roasted it!' explained the woman.

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.

'You are a good girl not to triumph over me,' said Mr. Bell.

'How? What do you mean?'

'I own, I am wrong about schooling. Anything rather than have
that child brought up in such practical paganism.'

'Oh! I remember. Poor little Susan! I must go and see her; would
you mind calling at the school?'

'Not a bit. I am curious to see something of the teaching she is
to receive.'

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.

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--

'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.'

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.

'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.'

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.

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.

'A, an indefinite article,' said Margaret, mildly.

'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?'

'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.

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.

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.

'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?'

'We were but two,' said Margaret. 'You have many children, I
presume?'

'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.

'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.'

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.

'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.

'Nothing,' said she, rising up quickly, and speaking as
cheerfully as she could at a moment's notice.

'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.'

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?'

'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.'

'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.

'I recollect. I hadn't heard of it before.'

'And I thought--I always thought that papa had told you about
it.'

'No! he never did. But what about it, Margaret?'

'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.

'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.'

Margaret wiped her eyes, and tried to talk about something else,
but suddenly she burst out afresh.

'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.

Mr. Bell's whole manner changed. 'Tell me all about it, child,'
said he.

'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,'----

'And he saw Frederick of course,' said Mr. Bell, helping her on
with her story, as he thought.

'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!'

'How awkward. It was this Leonards, I suppose. And how did Fred
get off?'

'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.'

'Then he did not die directly?'

'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.'

'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.'

'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.'

'Who?'

'Mr. Thornton. You know he had seen me close to the station; we
had bowed to each other.'

'Well! he would know nothing of this riot about the drunken
fellow's death. I suppose the inquiry never came to anything.'

'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.

'Did you have any explanation with him? Did you ever tell him the
strong, instinctive motive?'

'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.'

'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.'

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:

'Will you tell me what you refer to about "reservations" in his
manner of speaking of me?'

'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--'

'But it was my brother!' said Margaret, surprised.

'True. But how was he to know that?'

'I don't know. I never thought of anything of that kind,' said
Margaret, reddening, and looking hurt and offended.

'And perhaps he never would, but for the lie,--which, under the
circumstances, I maintain, was necessary.'

'It was not. I know it now. I bitterly repent it.'

There was a long pause of silence. Margaret was the first to
speak.

'I am not likely ever to see Mr. Thornton again,'--and there she
stopped.

'There are many things more unlikely, I should say,' replied Mr.
Bell.

'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?'

'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.'

'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.'

'Which I don't blame you for. It is no partiality of mine, I
assure you.'

'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.'

'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.'

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,

'To turn and look back when thou hearest The sound of my name.'

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.

'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.'

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.

'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.

'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.'

'But Edith expects me back--I cannot go,' said Margaret, thankful
to have so good an excuse.

'Yes! I know; so I told him. I thought you would not want to go.
Still it is open, if you would like it.'

'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.'

'Very well. Don't fidget yourself, and I'll arrange it all.'

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:

'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.

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.




CHAPTER XLVII

SOMETHING WANTING

  'Experience, like a pale musician, holds
  A dulcimer of patience in his hand;
  Whence harmonies we cannot understand,
  Of God's will in His worlds, the strain unfolds
  In sad, perplexed minors.'
  MRS. BROWNING.


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.

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.

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 Chateau en
Espagne 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?

'She's a Papist, Miss, isn't she?'

'I believe--oh yes, certainly!' said Margaret, a little damped
for an instant at this recollection.

'And they live in a Popish country?'

'Yes.'

'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.'

'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."'

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.

'I fancy it was love that first predisposed him to conversion,'
said Margaret, sighing.

'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.'

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.

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.'

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.

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?'

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.

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.




CHAPTER XLVIII

'NE'ER TO BE FOUND AGAIN'

  'My own, my father's friend!
  I cannot part with thee!
  I ne'er have shown, thou ne'er hast known,
  How dear thou art to me.'
  ANON.


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.

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.

'You did not look pleased at what Shirley was saying at dinner.'

'Didn't I? My face must be very expressive,' replied Margaret.

'It always was. It has not lost the trick of being eloquent.'

'I did not like,' said Margaret, hastily, 'his way of advocating
what he knew to be wrong--so glaringly wrong--even in jest.'

'But it was very clever. How every word told! Do you remember the
happy epithets?'

'Yes.'

'And despise them, you would like to add. Pray don't scruple,
though he is my friend.'

'There! that is the exact tone in you, that--' she stopped short.

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,--

'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?'

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.

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.

'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.'

'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.'

'Oh! he is not very ill, or he would not think of Spain.'

'He never mentions Spain.'

'No! but his plan that is to be proposed evidently relates to
that. But would you really go in such weather as this?'

'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.'

'But that's superstitious, I'm sure, Margaret.'

'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."'

'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!'

'I shall never marry.'

'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.'

Margaret drew herself up haughtily. 'Do you know, Edith, I
sometimes think your Corfu life has taught you----'

'Well!'

'Just a shade or two of coarseness.'

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.

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.

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.

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.

'Oh, dear Margaret! how shocking! What are you doing? Are you
going out? Sholto would telegraph or do anything you like.'

'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.'

'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.'

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.




CHAPTER XLIX

BREATHING TRANQUILLITY

  'And down the sunny beach she paces slowly,
  With many doubtful pauses by the way;
  Grief hath an influence so hush'd and holy.'
  HOOD.


'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.

A week afterwards, she came prancing towards her husband, and
made him a low curtsey:

'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.'

'Indeed! and how does she take her good fortune?'

'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.'

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.

'Henry,' said Edith, one day, archly; 'do you know what I hope
and expect all these long conversations with Margaret will end
in?'

'No, I don't,' said he, reddening. 'And I desire you not to tell
me.'

'Oh, very well; then I need not tell Sholto not to ask Mr.
Montagu so often to the house.'

'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 farouche 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.'

'For my part,' said Edith, a little maliciously, 'I am very glad
she is a Christian. I know so very few!'

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.

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.

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.

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.

'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.'

'That's the bonnet I got her!' said Edith, triumphantly. 'I knew
it would suit her the moment I saw it.'

'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.'

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.

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.

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.

'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.'

'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.'

'And you'll not grow too good to joke and be merry?'

'Not I. I shall be merrier than I have ever been, now I have got
my own way.'

'And you'll not go a figure, but let me buy your dresses for
you?'

'Indeed I mean to buy them for myself. You shall come with me if
you like; but no one can please me but myself.'

'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.'

'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.'

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.




CHAPTER L

CHANGES AT MILTON

  'Here we go up, up, up;
  And here we go down, down, downee!'
  NURSERY SONG.


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.

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.

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.

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.

'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.

'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.

'Have yo' heerd aught of Miss Marget lately?'

'Miss--who?' replied Mr. Thornton.

'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).

'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.

'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.

'And she's not getten married, measter?'

'Not yet.' The face was cloudy once more. 'There is some talk of
it, as I understand, with a connection of the family.'

'Then she'll not be for coming to Milton again, I reckon.'

'No!'

'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.

'Th' young gentleman, I mean--Master Frederick, they ca'ad
him--her brother as was over here, yo' known.'

'Over here.'

'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.'

'And he was over. It was her brother!'

'Sure enough, and I reckoned yo' knowed it or I'd never ha' let
on. Yo' knowed she had a brother?'

'Yes, I know all about him. And he was over at Mrs. Hale's
death?'

'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?'

'Not that I know of. I know nothing. I only hear of Miss Hale,
now, as my landlord, and through her lawyer.'

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.

'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!'

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?

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.

'Mother! why are not you in bed?'

'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.'

'Trade is bad.'

'And you dread--'

'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.'

'But how do you stand? Shall you--will it be a failure?' her
steady voice trembling in an unwonted manner.

'Not a failure. I must give up business, but I pay all men. I
might redeem myself--I am sorely tempted--'

'How? Oh, John! keep up your name--try all risks for that. How
redeem it?'

'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--'

'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.

'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.'

'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--'

'I should be a rich man, and my peace of conscience would be
gone!'

'Why! You would have injured no one.'

'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?'

'No! but to have you other than what you are will break my heart.
What can you do?'

'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.'

He turned away from her, and covered his face with his hands.

'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.'

'Shame never touched me,' said he, in a low tone: but she went
on.

'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!'

She fell upon his neck, and kissed him through her tears.

'Mother!' said he, holding her gently in his arms, 'who has sent
me my lot in life, both of good and of evil?'

She shook her head. She would have nothing to do with religion
just then.

'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.'

'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.'

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.

'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.

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.

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.

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.

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.




CHAPTER LI

MEETING AGAIN

  'Bear up, brave heart! we will be calm and strong;
  Sure, we can master eyes, or cheek, or tongue,
  Nor let the smallest tell-tale sign appear
  She ever was, and is, and will be dear.'
  RHYMING PLAY.


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.

'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.'

'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.

'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.'

Dixon was still huffed about her despised taste; so she replied,
rather shortly:

'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----'

'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.'

'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.'

'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?'

'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.

'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.'

'But about Mr. Thornton?'

'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.'

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.

'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.

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.

'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.

'We!' Who? They two alone?

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.

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:

'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.'

'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.

'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.

'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.'

'You say "were." I trust you are intending to pursue the same
course?'

'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.

'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.'

'You call them "experiments" I notice,' said Mr. Colthurst, with
a delicate increase of respect in his manner.

'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.'

'And you think they may prevent the recurrence of strikes?'

'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.'

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:

'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?'

'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.'

As Mr. Lennox took his departure, Margaret said, with a blush
that she could not repress, and with some hesitation,

'Can I speak to you to-morrow? I want your help
about--something.'

'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.'

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.




CHAPTER LII

'PACK CLOUDS AWAY'

  'For joy or grief, for hope or fear,
  For all hereafter, as for here,
  In peace or strife, in storm or shine.'
  ANON.


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.

'Well, Henry?' said she, with a look of interrogation.

'Well!' said he, rather shortly.

'Come in to lunch!'

'No, thank you, I can't. I've lost too much time here already.'

'Then it's not all settled,' said Edith despondingly.

'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.'

'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.'

'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.'

'Then, what have you been talking about?'

'A thousand things you would not understand: investments, and
leases, and value of land.'

'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.'

'Very well. I'm coming again to-morrow, and bringing Mr. Thornton
with me, to have some more talk with Miss Hale.'

'Mr. Thornton! What has he to do with it?'

'He is Miss Hale's tenant,' said Mr. Lennox, turning away. 'And
he wishes to give up his lease.'

'Oh! very well. I can't understand details, so don't give them
me.'

'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.'

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.

She began hurriedly:

'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'----

'I am sorry that I came, if it troubles you. Shall I go to Mr.
Lennox's chambers and try and find him?'

'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'----

'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.'

'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:--

'Margaret!'

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.

'Margaret!'

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:--

'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!--'

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:

'Oh, Mr. Thornton, I am not good enough!'

'Not good enough! Don't mock my own deep feeling of
unworthiness.'

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.

'Do you remember, love?' he murmured. 'And how I requited you
with my insolence the next day?'

'I remember how wrongly I spoke to you,--that is all.'

'Look here! Lift up your head. I have something to show you!' She
slowly faced him, glowing with beautiful shame.

'Do you know these roses?' he said, drawing out his pocket-book,
in which were treasured up some dead flowers.

'No!' she replied, with innocent curiosity. 'Did I give them to
you?'

'No! Vanity; you did not. You may have worn sister roses very
probably.'

She looked at them, wondering for a minute, then she smiled a
little as she said--

'They are from Helstone, are they not? I know the deep
indentations round the leaves. Oh! have you been there? When were
you there?'

'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.'

'You must give them to me,' she said, trying to take them out of
his hand with gentle violence.

'Very well. Only you must pay me for them!'

'How shall I ever tell Aunt Shaw?' she whispered, after some time
of delicious silence.

'Let me speak to her.'

'Oh, no! I owe to her,--but what will she say?'

'I can guess. Her first exclamation will be, "That man!"'

'Hush!' said Margaret, 'or I shall try and show you your mother's
indignant tones as she says, "That woman!"'