"NORTH AND SOUTH\n\nby\n\nELIZABETH GASKELL\n\nFirst published in serial form in _Household Words_ in 1854-1855 and in\nvolume form in 1855.\n\n\nOn its appearance in 'Household Words,' this tale was obliged to conform\nto the conditions imposed by the requirements of a weekly publication,\nand likewise to confine itself within certain advertised limits, in\norder that faith might be kept with the public. Although these\nconditions were made as light as they well could be, the author found it\nimpossible to develope the story in the manner originally intended, and,\nmore especially, was compelled to hurry on events with an improbable\nrapidity towards the close. In some degree to remedy this obvious\ndefect, various short passages have been inserted, and several new\nchapters added. With this brief explanation, the tale is commended to\nthe kindness of the reader;\n\n    'Beseking hym lowly, of mercy and pite,\n     Of its rude makyng to have compassion.'\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\n'HASTE TO THE WEDDING'\n\n    'Wooed and married and a'.'\n\n\n'Edith!' said Margaret, gently, 'Edith!'\n\nBut, as Margaret half suspected, Edith had fallen asleep. She lay curled\nup on the sofa in the back drawing-room in Harley Street, looking very\nlovely in her white muslin and blue ribbons. If Titania had ever been\ndressed in white muslin and blue ribbons, and had fallen asleep on a\ncrimson damask sofa in a back drawing-room, Edith might have been taken\nfor her. Margaret was struck afresh by her cousin's beauty. They had\ngrown up together from childhood, and all along Edith had been remarked\nupon by every one, except Margaret, for her prettiness; but Margaret had\nnever thought about it until the last few days, when the prospect of\nsoon losing her companion seemed to give force to every sweet quality\nand charm which Edith possessed. They had been talking about wedding\ndresses, and wedding ceremonies; and Captain Lennox, and what he had\ntold Edith about her future life at Corfu, where his regiment was\nstationed; and the difficulty of keeping a piano in good tune (a\ndifficulty which Edith seemed to consider as one of the most formidable\nthat could befall her in her married life), and what gowns she should\nwant in the visits to Scotland, which would immediately succeed her\nmarriage; but the whispered tone had latterly become more drowsy; and\nMargaret, after a pause of a few minutes, found, as she fancied, that in\nspite of the buzz in the next room, Edith had rolled herself up into a\nsoft ball of muslin and ribbon, and silken curls, and gone off into a\npeaceful little after-dinner nap.\n\nMargaret had been on the point of telling her cousin of some of the\nplans and visions which she entertained as to her future life in the\ncountry parsonage, where her father and mother lived; and where her\nbright holidays had always been passed, though for the last ten years\nher aunt Shaw's house had been considered as her home. But in default of\na listener, she had to brood over the change in her life silently as\nheretofore. It was a happy brooding, although tinged with regret at\nbeing separated for an indefinite time from her gentle aunt and dear\ncousin. As she thought of the delight of filling the important post of\nonly daughter in Helstone parsonage, pieces of the conversation out of\nthe next room came upon her ears. Her aunt Shaw was talking to the five\nor six ladies who had been dining there, and whose husbands were still\nin the dining-room. They were the familiar acquaintances of the house;\nneighbours whom Mrs. Shaw called friends, because she happened to dine\nwith them more frequently than with any other people, and because if she\nor Edith wanted anything from them, or they from her, they did not\nscruple to make a call at each other's houses before luncheon. These\nladies and their husbands were invited, in their capacity of friends, to\neat a farewell dinner in honour of Edith's approaching marriage. Edith\nhad rather objected to this arrangement, for Captain Lennox was expected\nto arrive by a late train this very evening; but, although she was a\nspoiled child, she was too careless and idle to have a very strong will\nof her own, and gave way when she found that her mother had absolutely\nordered those extra delicacies of the season which are always supposed\nto be efficacious against immoderate grief at farewell dinners. She\ncontented herself by leaning back in her chair, merely playing with the\nfood on her plate, and looking grave and absent; while all around her\nwere enjoying the mots of Mr. Grey, the gentleman who always took the\nbottom of the table at Mrs. Shaw's dinner parties, and asked Edith to\ngive them some music in the drawing-room. Mr. Grey was particularly\nagreeable over this farewell dinner, and the gentlemen staid down stairs\nlonger than usual. It was very well they did--to judge from the\nfragments of conversation which Margaret overheard.\n\n'I suffered too much myself; not that I was not extremely happy with the\npoor dear General, but still disparity of age is a drawback; one that I\nwas resolved Edith should not have to encounter. Of course, without any\nmaternal partiality, I foresaw that the dear child was likely to marry\nearly; indeed, I had often said that I was sure she would be married\nbefore she was nineteen. I had quite a prophetic feeling when Captain\nLennox'--and here the voice dropped into a whisper, but Margaret could\neasily supply the blank. The course of true love in Edith's case had run\nremarkably smooth. Mrs. Shaw had given way to the presentiment, as she\nexpressed it; and had rather urged on the marriage, although it was\nbelow the expectations which many of Edith's acquaintances had formed\nfor her, a young and pretty heiress. But Mrs. Shaw said that her only\nchild should marry for love,--and sighed emphatically, as if love had\nnot been her motive for marrying the General. Mrs. Shaw enjoyed the\nromance of the present engagement rather more than her daughter. Not but\nthat Edith was very thoroughly and properly in love; still she would\ncertainly have preferred a good house in Belgravia, to all the\npicturesqueness of the life which Captain Lennox described at Corfu. The\nvery parts which made Margaret glow as she listened, Edith pretended to\nshiver and shudder at; partly for the pleasure she had in being coaxed\nout of her dislike by her fond lover, and partly because anything of a\ngipsy or make-shift life was really distasteful to her. Yet had any one\ncome with a fine house, and a fine estate, and a fine title to boot,\nEdith would still have clung to Captain Lennox while the temptation\nlasted; when it was over, it is possible she might have had little\nqualms of ill-concealed regret that Captain Lennox could not have united\nin his person everything that was desirable. In this she was but her\nmother's child; who, after deliberately marrying General Shaw with no\nwarmer feeling than respect for his character and establishment, was\nconstantly, though quietly, bemoaning her hard lot in being united to\none whom she could not love.\n\n'I have spared no expense in her trousseau,' were the next words\nMargaret heard.\n\n'She has all the beautiful Indian shawls and scarfs the General gave to\nme, but which I shall never wear again.'\n\n'She is a lucky girl,' replied another voice, which Margaret knew to be\nthat of Mrs. Gibson, a lady who was taking a double interest in the\nconversation, from the fact of one of her daughters having been married\nwithin the last few weeks.\n\n'Helen had set her heart upon an Indian shawl, but really when I found\nwhat an extravagant price was asked, I was obliged to refuse her. She\nwill be quite envious when she hears of Edith having Indian shawls. What\nkind are they? Delhi? with the lovely little borders?'\n\nMargaret heard her aunt's voice again, but this time it was as if she\nhad raised herself up from her half-recumbent position, and were looking\ninto the more dimly lighted back drawing-room. 'Edith! Edith!' cried\nshe; and then she sank as if wearied by the exertion. Margaret stepped\nforward.\n\n'Edith is asleep, Aunt Shaw. Is it anything I can do?'\n\nAll the ladies said 'Poor child!' on receiving this distressing\nintelligence about Edith; and the minute lap-dog in Mrs. Shaw's arms\nbegan to bark, as if excited by the burst of pity.\n\n'Hush, Tiny! you naughty little girl! you will waken your mistress. It\nwas only to ask Edith if she would tell Newton to bring down her shawls:\nperhaps you would go, Margaret dear?'\n\nMargaret went up into the old nursery at the very top of the house,\nwhere Newton was busy getting up some laces which were required for the\nwedding. While Newton went (not without a muttered grumbling) to undo\nthe shawls, which had already been exhibited four or five times that\nday, Margaret looked round upon the nursery; the first room in that\nhouse with which she had become familiar nine years ago, when she was\nbrought, all untamed from the forest, to share the home, the play, and\nthe lessons of her cousin Edith. She remembered the dark, dim look of\nthe London nursery, presided over by an austere and ceremonious nurse,\nwho was terribly particular about clean hands and torn frocks. She\nrecollected the first tea up there--separate from her father and aunt,\nwho were dining somewhere down below an infinite depth of stairs; for\nunless she were up in the sky (the child thought), they must be deep\ndown in the bowels of the earth. At home--before she came to live in\nHarley Street--her mother's dressing-room had been her nursery; and, as\nthey kept early hours in the country parsonage, Margaret had always had\nher meals with her father and mother. Oh! well did the tall stately girl\nof eighteen remember the tears shed with such wild passion of grief by\nthe little girl of nine, as she hid her face under the bed-clothes, in\nthat first night; and how she was bidden not to cry by the nurse,\nbecause it would disturb Miss Edith; and how she had cried as bitterly,\nbut more quietly, till her newly-seen, grand, pretty aunt had come\nsoftly upstairs with Mr. Hale to show him his little sleeping daughter.\nThen the little Margaret had hushed her sobs, and tried to lie quiet as\nif asleep, for fear of making her father unhappy by her grief, which she\ndared not express before her aunt, and which she rather thought it was\nwrong to feel at all after the long hoping, and planning, and contriving\nthey had gone through at home, before her wardrobe could be arranged so\nas to suit her grander circumstances, and before papa could leave his\nparish to come up to London, even for a few days.\n\nNow she had got to love the old nursery, though it was but a dismantled\nplace; and she looked all round, with a kind of cat-like regret, at the\nidea of leaving it for ever in three days.\n\n'Ah Newton!' said she, 'I think we shall all be sorry to leave this dear\nold room.'\n\n'Indeed, miss, I shan't for one. My eyes are not so good as they were,\nand the light here is so bad that I can't see to mend laces except just\nat the window, where there's always a shocking draught--enough to give\none one's death of cold.'\n\nWell, I dare say you will have both good light and plenty of warmth at\nNaples. You must keep as much of your darning as you can till then.\nThank you, Newton, I can take them down--you're busy.'\n\nSo Margaret went down laden with shawls, and snuffing up their spicy\nEastern smell. Her aunt asked her to stand as a sort of lay figure on\nwhich to display them, as Edith was still asleep. No one thought about\nit; but Margaret's tall, finely made figure, in the black silk dress\nwhich she was wearing as mourning for some distant relative of her\nfather's, set off the long beautiful folds of the gorgeous shawls that\nwould have half-smothered Edith. Margaret stood right under the\nchandelier, quite silent and passive, while her aunt adjusted the\ndraperies. Occasionally, as she was turned round, she caught a glimpse\nof herself in the mirror over the chimney-piece, and smiled at her own\nappearance there--the familiar features in the usual garb of a princess.\nShe touched the shawls gently as they hung around her, and took a\npleasure in their soft feel and their brilliant colours, and rather\nliked to be dressed in such splendour--enjoying it much as a child would\ndo, with a quiet pleased smile on her lips. Just then the door opened,\nand Mr. Henry Lennox was suddenly announced. Some of the ladies started\nback, as if half-ashamed of their feminine interest in dress. Mrs. Shaw\nheld out her hand to the new-comer; Margaret stood perfectly still,\nthinking she might be yet wanted as a sort of block for the shawls; but\nlooking at Mr. Lennox with a bright, amused face, as if sure of his\nsympathy in her sense of the ludicrousness at being thus surprised.\n\nHer aunt was so much absorbed in asking Mr. Henry Lennox--who had not\nbeen able to come to dinner--all sorts of questions about his brother\nthe bridegroom, his sister the bridesmaid (coming with the Captain from\nScotland for the occasion), and various other members of the Lennox\nfamily, that Margaret saw she was no more wanted as shawl-bearer, and\ndevoted herself to the amusement of the other visitors, whom her aunt\nhad for the moment forgotten. Almost immediately, Edith came in from the\nback drawing-room, winking and blinking her eyes at the stronger light,\nshaking back her slightly-ruffled curls, and altogether looking like the\nSleeping Beauty just startled from her dreams. Even in her slumber she\nhad instinctively felt that a Lennox was worth rousing herself for; and\nshe had a multitude of questions to ask about dear Janet, the future,\nunseen sister-in-law, for whom she professed so much affection, that if\nMargaret had not been very proud she might have almost felt jealous of\nthe mushroom rival. As Margaret sank rather more into the background on\nher aunt's joining the conversation, she saw Henry Lennox directing his\nlook towards a vacant seat near her; and she knew perfectly well that as\nsoon as Edith released him from her questioning, he would take\npossession of that chair. She had not been quite sure, from her aunt's\nrather confused account of his engagements, whether he would come that\nnight; it was almost a surprise to see him; and now she was sure of a\npleasant evening. He liked and disliked pretty nearly the same things\nthat she did. Margaret's face was lightened up into an honest, open\nbrightness. By-and-by he came. She received him with a smile which had\nnot a tinge of shyness or self-consciousness in it.\n\n'Well, I suppose you are all in the depths of business--ladies'\nbusiness, I mean. Very different to my business, which is the real true\nlaw business. Playing with shawls is very different work to drawing up\nsettlements.\n\n'Ah, I knew how you would be amused to find us all so occupied in\nadmiring finery. But really Indian shawls are very perfect things of\ntheir kind.'\n\n'I have no doubt they are. Their prices are very perfect, too. Nothing\nwanting.' The gentlemen came dropping in one by one, and the buzz and\nnoise deepened in tone.\n\n'This is your last dinner-party, is it not? There are no more before\nThursday?'\n\n'No. I think after this evening we shall feel at rest, which I am sure I\nhave not done for many weeks; at least, that kind of rest when the hands\nhave nothing more to do, and all the arrangements are complete for an\nevent which must occupy one's head and heart. I shall be glad to have\ntime to think, and I am sure Edith will.'\n\n'I am not so sure about her; but I can fancy that you will. Whenever I\nhave seen you lately, you have been carried away by a whirlwind of some\nother person's making.'\n\n'Yes,' said Margaret, rather sadly, remembering the never-ending\ncommotion about trifles that had been going on for more than a month\npast: 'I wonder if a marriage must always be preceded by what you call a\nwhirlwind, or whether in some cases there might not rather be a calm and\npeaceful time just before it.'\n\n'Cinderella's godmother ordering the trousseau, the wedding-breakfast,\nwriting the notes of invitation, for instance,' said Mr. Lennox,\nlaughing.\n\n'But are all these quite necessary troubles?' asked Margaret, looking up\nstraight at him for an answer. A sense of indescribable weariness of all\nthe arrangements for a pretty effect, in which Edith had been busied as\nsupreme authority for the last six weeks, oppressed her just now; and\nshe really wanted some one to help her to a few pleasant, quiet ideas\nconnected with a marriage.\n\n'Oh, of course,' he replied with a change to gravity in his tone. 'There\nare forms and ceremonies to be gone through, not so much to satisfy\noneself, as to stop the world's mouth, without which stoppage there\nwould be very little satisfaction in life. But how would you have a\nwedding arranged?'\n\n'Oh, I have never thought much about it; only I should like it to be a\nvery fine summer morning; and I should like to walk to church through\nthe shade of trees; and not to have so many bridesmaids, and to have no\nwedding-breakfast. I dare say I am resolving against the very things\nthat have given me the most trouble just now.'\n\n'No, I don't think you are. The idea of stately simplicity accords well\nwith your character.'\n\nMargaret did not quite like this speech; she winced away from it more,\nfrom remembering former occasions on which he had tried to lead her into\na discussion (in which he took the complimentary part) about her own\ncharacter and ways of going on. She cut his speech rather short by\nsaying:\n\n'It is natural for me to think of Helstone church, and the walk to it,\nrather than of driving up to a London church in the middle of a paved\nstreet.'\n\n'Tell me about Helstone. You have never described it to me. I should\nlike to have some idea of the place you will be living in, when\nninety-six Harley Street will be looking dingy and dirty, and dull, and\nshut up. Is Helstone a village, or a town, in the first place?'\n\n'Oh, only a hamlet; I don't think I could call it a village at all.\nThere is the church and a few houses near it on the green--cottages,\nrather--with roses growing all over them.'\n\n'And flowering all the year round, especially at Christmas--make your\npicture complete,' said he.\n\n'No,' replied Margaret, somewhat annoyed, 'I am not making a picture. I\nam trying to describe Helstone as it really is. You should not have said\nthat.'\n\n'I am penitent,' he answered. 'Only it really sounded like a village in\na tale rather than in real life.'\n\n'And so it is,' replied Margaret, eagerly. 'All the other places in\nEngland that I have seen seem so hard and prosaic-looking, after the New\nForest. Helstone is like a village in a poem--in one of Tennyson's\npoems. But I won't try and describe it any more. You would only laugh at\nme if I told you what I think of it--what it really is.'\n\n'Indeed, I would not. But I see you are going to be very resolved. Well,\nthen, tell me that which I should like still better to know what the\nparsonage is like.'\n\n'Oh, I can't describe my home. It is home, and I can't put its charm\ninto words.'\n\n'I submit. You are rather severe to-night, Margaret.\n\n'How?' said she, turning her large soft eyes round full upon him. 'I did\nnot know I was.'\n\n'Why, because I made an unlucky remark, you will neither tell me what\nHelstone is like, nor will you say anything about your home, though I\nhave told you how much I want to hear about both, the latter\nespecially.'\n\n'But indeed I cannot tell you about my own home. I don't quite think it\nis a thing to be talked about, unless you knew it.'\n\n'Well, then'--pausing for a moment--'tell me what you do there. Here you\nread, or have lessons, or otherwise improve your mind, till the middle\nof the day; take a walk before lunch, go a drive with your aunt after,\nand have some kind of engagement in the evening. There, now fill up your\nday at Helstone. Shall you ride, drive, or walk?'\n\n'Walk, decidedly. We have no horse, not even for papa. He walks to the\nvery extremity of his parish. The walks are so beautiful, it would be a\nshame to drive--almost a shame to ride.'\n\n'Shall you garden much? That, I believe, is a proper employment for\nyoung ladies in the country.'\n\n'I don't know. I am afraid I shan't like such hard work.'\n\n'Archery parties--pic-nics--race-balls--hunt-balls?'\n\n'Oh no!' said she, laughing. 'Papa's living is very small; and even if\nwe were near such things, I doubt if I should go to them.'\n\n'I see, you won't tell me anything. You will only tell me that you are\nnot going to do this and that. Before the vacation ends, I think I shall\npay you a call, and see what you really do employ yourself in.'\n\n'I hope you will. Then you will see for yourself how beautiful Helstone\nis. Now I must go. Edith is sitting down to play, and I just know enough\nof music to turn over the leaves for her; and besides, Aunt Shaw won't\nlike us to talk.' Edith played brilliantly. In the middle of the piece\nthe door half-opened, and Edith saw Captain Lennox hesitating whether to\ncome in. She threw down her music, and rushed out of the room, leaving\nMargaret standing confused and blushing to explain to the astonished\nguests what vision had shown itself to cause Edith's sudden flight.\nCaptain Lennox had come earlier than was expected; or was it really so\nlate? They looked at their watches, were duly shocked, and took their\nleave.\n\nThen Edith came back, glowing with pleasure, half-shyly, half-proudly\nleading in her tall handsome Captain. His brother shook hands with him,\nand Mrs. Shaw welcomed him in her gentle kindly way, which had always\nsomething plaintive in it, arising from the long habit of considering\nherself a victim to an uncongenial marriage. Now that, the General being\ngone, she had every good of life, with as few drawbacks as possible, she\nhad been rather perplexed to find an anxiety, if not a sorrow. She had,\nhowever, of late settled upon her own health as a source of\napprehension; she had a nervous little cough whenever she thought about\nit; and some complaisant doctor ordered her just what she desired,--a\nwinter in Italy. Mrs. Shaw had as strong wishes as most people, but she\nnever liked to do anything from the open and acknowledged motive of her\nown good will and pleasure; she preferred being compelled to gratify\nherself by some other person's command or desire. She really did\npersuade herself that she was submitting to some hard external\nnecessity; and thus she was able to moan and complain in her soft\nmanner, all the time she was in reality doing just what she liked.\n\nIt was in this way she began to speak of her own journey to Captain\nLennox, who assented, as in duty bound, to all his future mother-in-law\nsaid, while his eyes sought Edith, who was busying herself in\nrearranging the tea-table, and ordering up all sorts of good things, in\nspite of his assurances that he had dined within the last two hours.\n\nMr. Henry Lennox stood leaning against the chimney-piece, amused with\nthe family scene. He was close by his handsome brother; he was the plain\none in a singularly good-looking family; but his face was intelligent,\nkeen, and mobile; and now and then Margaret wondered what it was that he\ncould be thinking about, while he kept silence, but was evidently\nobserving, with an interest that was slightly sarcastic, all that Edith\nand she were doing. The sarcastic feeling was called out by Mrs. Shaw's\nconversation with his brother; it was separate from the interest which\nwas excited by what he saw. He thought it a pretty sight to see the two\ncousins so busy in their little arrangements about the table. Edith\nchose to do most herself. She was in a humour to enjoy showing her lover\nhow well she could behave as a soldier's wife. She found out that the\nwater in the urn was cold, and ordered up the great kitchen tea-kettle;\nthe only consequence of which was that when she met it at the door, and\ntried to carry it in, it was too heavy for her, and she came in pouting,\nwith a black mark on her muslin gown, and a little round white hand\nindented by the handle, which she took to show to Captain Lennox, just\nlike a hurt child, and, of course, the remedy was the same in both\ncases. Margaret's quickly-adjusted spirit-lamp was the most efficacious\ncontrivance, though not so like the gypsy-encampment which Edith, in\nsome of her moods, chose to consider the nearest resemblance to a\nbarrack-life. After this evening all was bustle till the wedding was\nover.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\nROSES AND THORNS\n\n    'By the soft green light in the woody glade,\n     On the banks of moss where thy childhood played;\n     By the household tree, thro' which thine eye\n     First looked in love to the summer sky.'\n                MRS. HEMANS.\n\n\nMargaret was once more in her morning dress, travelling quietly home\nwith her father, who had come up to assist at the wedding. Her mother\nhad been detained at home by a multitude of half-reasons, none of which\nanybody fully understood, except Mr. Hale, who was perfectly aware that\nall his arguments in favour of a grey satin gown, which was midway\nbetween oldness and newness, had proved unavailing; and that, as he had\nnot the money to equip his wife afresh, from top to toe, she would not\nshow herself at her only sister's only child's wedding. If Mrs. Shaw had\nguessed at the real reason why Mrs. Hale did not accompany her husband,\nshe would have showered down gowns upon her; but it was nearly twenty\nyears since Mrs. Shaw had been the poor, pretty Miss Beresford, and she\nhad really forgotten all grievances except that of the unhappiness\narising from disparity of age in married life, on which she could\ndescant by the half-hour. Dearest Maria had married the man of her\nheart, only eight years older than herself, with the sweetest temper,\nand that blue-black hair one so seldom sees. Mr. Hale was one of the\nmost delightful preachers she had ever heard, and a perfect model of a\nparish priest. Perhaps it was not quite a logical deduction from all\nthese premises, but it was still Mrs. Shaw's characteristic conclusion,\nas she thought over her sister's lot: 'Married for love, what can\ndearest Maria have to wish for in this world?' Mrs. Hale, if she spoke\ntruth, might have answered with a ready-made list, 'a silver-grey glace\nsilk, a white chip bonnet, oh! dozens of things for the wedding, and\nhundreds of things for the house.' Margaret only knew that her mother\nhad not found it convenient to come, and she was not sorry to think that\ntheir meeting and greeting would take place at Helstone parsonage,\nrather than, during the confusion of the last two or three days, in the\nhouse in Harley Street, where she herself had had to play the part of\nFigaro, and was wanted everywhere at one and the same time. Her mind and\nbody ached now with the recollection of all she had done and said within\nthe last forty-eight hours. The farewells so hurriedly taken, amongst\nall the other good-byes, of those she had lived with so long, oppressed\nher now with a sad regret for the times that were no more; it did not\nsignify what those times had been, they were gone never to return.\nMargaret's heart felt more heavy than she could ever have thought it\npossible in going to her own dear home, the place and the life she had\nlonged for for years--at that time of all times for yearning and\nlonging, just before the sharp senses lose their outlines in sleep. She\ntook her mind away with a wrench from the recollection of the past to\nthe bright serene contemplation of the hopeful future. Her eyes began to\nsee, not visions of what had been, but the sight actually before her;\nher dear father leaning back asleep in the railway carriage. His\nblue-black hair was grey now, and lay thinly over his brows. The bones\nof his face were plainly to be seen--too plainly for beauty, if his\nfeatures had been less finely cut; as it was, they had a grace if not a\ncomeliness of their own. The face was in repose; but it was rather rest\nafter weariness, than the serene calm of the countenance of one who led\na placid, contented life. Margaret was painfully struck by the worn,\nanxious expression; and she went back over the open and avowed\ncircumstances of her father's life, to find the cause for the lines that\nspoke so plainly of habitual distress and depression.\n\n'Poor Frederick!' thought she, sighing. 'Oh! if Frederick had but been a\nclergyman, instead of going into the navy, and being lost to us all! I\nwish I knew all about it. I never understood it from Aunt Shaw; I only\nknew he could not come back to England because of that terrible affair.\nPoor dear papa! how sad he looks! I am so glad I am going home, to be at\nhand to comfort him and mamma.\n\nShe was ready with a bright smile, in which there was not a trace of\nfatigue, to greet her father when he awakened. He smiled back again, but\nfaintly, as if it were an unusual exertion. His face returned into its\nlines of habitual anxiety. He had a trick of half-opening his mouth as\nif to speak, which constantly unsettled the form of the lips, and gave\nthe face an undecided expression. But he had the same large, soft eyes\nas his daughter,--eyes which moved slowly and almost grandly round in\ntheir orbits, and were well veiled by their transparent white eyelids.\nMargaret was more like him than like her mother. Sometimes people\nwondered that parents so handsome should have a daughter who was so far\nfrom regularly beautiful; not beautiful at all, was occasionally said.\nHer mouth was wide; no rosebud that could only open just enough to let\nout a 'yes' and 'no,' and 'an't please you, sir.' But the wide mouth was\none soft curve of rich red lips; and the skin, if not white and fair,\nwas of an ivory smoothness and delicacy. If the look on her face was, in\ngeneral, too dignified and reserved for one so young, now, talking to\nher father, it was bright as the morning,--full of dimples, and glances\nthat spoke of childish gladness, and boundless hope in the future.\n\nIt was the latter part of July when Margaret returned home. The forest\ntrees were all one dark, full, dusky green; the fern below them caught\nall the slanting sunbeams; the weather was sultry and broodingly still.\nMargaret used to tramp along by her father's side, crushing down the\nfern with a cruel glee, as she felt it yield under her light foot, and\nsend up the fragrance peculiar to it,--out on the broad commons into the\nwarm scented light, seeing multitudes of wild, free, living creatures,\nrevelling in the sunshine, and the herbs and flowers it called forth.\nThis life--at least these walks--realised all Margaret's anticipations.\nShe took a pride in her forest. Its people were her people. She made\nhearty friends with them; learned and delighted in using their peculiar\nwords; took up her freedom amongst them; nursed their babies; talked or\nread with slow distinctness to their old people; carried dainty messes\nto their sick; resolved before long to teach at the school, where her\nfather went every day as to an appointed task, but she was continually\ntempted off to go and see some individual friend--man, woman, or\nchild--in some cottage in the green shade of the forest. Her\nout-of-doors life was perfect. Her in-doors life had its drawbacks. With\nthe healthy shame of a child, she blamed herself for her keenness of\nsight, in perceiving that all was not as it should be there. Her\nmother--her mother always so kind and tender towards her--seemed now and\nthen so much discontented with their situation; thought that the bishop\nstrangely neglected his episcopal duties, in not giving Mr. Hale a\nbetter living; and almost reproached her husband because he could not\nbring himself to say that he wished to leave the parish, and undertake\nthe charge of a larger. He would sigh aloud as he answered, that if he\ncould do what he ought in little Helstone, he should be thankful; but\nevery day he was more overpowered; the world became more bewildering. At\neach repeated urgency of his wife, that he would put himself in the way\nof seeking some preferment, Margaret saw that her father shrank more and\nmore; and she strove at such times to reconcile her mother to Helstone.\nMrs. Hale said that the near neighbourhood of so many trees affected her\nhealth; and Margaret would try to tempt her forth on to the beautiful,\nbroad, upland, sun-streaked, cloud-shadowed common; for she was sure\nthat her mother had accustomed herself too much to an in-doors life,\nseldom extending her walks beyond the church, the school, and the\nneighbouring cottages. This did good for a time; but when the autumn\ndrew on, and the weather became more changeable, her mother's idea of\nthe unhealthiness of the place increased; and she repined even more\nfrequently that her husband, who was more learned than Mr. Hume, a\nbetter parish priest than Mr. Houldsworth, should not have met with the\npreferment that these two former neighbours of theirs had done.\n\nThis marring of the peace of home, by long hours of discontent, was what\nMargaret was unprepared for. She knew, and had rather revelled in the\nidea, that she should have to give up many luxuries, which had only been\ntroubles and trammels to her freedom in Harley Street. Her keen\nenjoyment of every sensuous pleasure, was balanced finely, if not\noverbalanced, by her conscious pride in being able to do without them\nall, if need were. But the cloud never comes in that quarter of the\nhorizon from which we watch for it. There had been slight complaints and\npassing regrets on her mother's part, over some trifle connected with\nHelstone, and her father's position there, when Margaret had been\nspending her holidays at home before; but in the general happiness of\nthe recollection of those times, she had forgotten the small details\nwhich were not so pleasant. In the latter half of September, the\nautumnal rains and storms came on, and Margaret was obliged to remain\nmore in the house than she had hitherto done. Helstone was at some\ndistance from any neighbours of their own standard of cultivation.\n\n'It is undoubtedly one of the most out-of-the-way places in England,'\nsaid Mrs. Hale, in one of her plaintive moods. 'I can't help regretting\nconstantly that papa has really no one to associate with here; he is so\nthrown away; seeing no one but farmers and labourers from week's end to\nweek's end. If we only lived at the other side of the parish, it would\nbe something; there we should be almost within walking distance of the\nStansfields; certainly the Gormans would be within a walk.'\n\n'Gormans,' said Margaret. 'Are those the Gormans who made their fortunes\nin trade at Southampton? Oh! I'm glad we don't visit them. I don't like\nshoppy people. I think we are far better off, knowing only cottagers and\nlabourers, and people without pretence.'\n\n'You must not be so fastidious, Margaret, dear!' said her mother,\nsecretly thinking of a young and handsome Mr. Gorman whom she had once\nmet at Mr. Hume's.\n\n'No! I call mine a very comprehensive taste; I like all people whose\noccupations have to do with land; I like soldiers and sailors, and the\nthree learned professions, as they call them. I'm sure you don't want me\nto admire butchers and bakers, and candlestick-makers, do you, mamma?'\n\n'But the Gormans were neither butchers nor bakers, but very respectable\ncoach-builders.'\n\n'Very well. Coach-building is a trade all the same, and I think a much\nmore useless one than that of butchers or bakers. Oh! how tired I used\nto be of the drives every day in Aunt Shaw's carriage, and how I longed\nto walk!'\n\nAnd walk Margaret did, in spite of the weather. She was so happy out of\ndoors, at her father's side, that she almost danced; and with the soft\nviolence of the west wind behind her, as she crossed some heath, she\nseemed to be borne onwards, as lightly and easily as the fallen leaf\nthat was wafted along by the autumnal breeze. But the evenings were\nrather difficult to fill up agreeably. Immediately after tea her father\nwithdrew into his small library, and she and her mother were left alone.\nMrs. Hale had never cared much for books, and had discouraged her\nhusband, very early in their married life, in his desire of reading\naloud to her, while she worked. At one time they had tried backgammon as\na resource; but as Mr. Hale grew to take an increasing interest in his\nschool and his parishioners, he found that the interruptions which arose\nout of these duties were regarded as hardships by his wife, not to be\naccepted as the natural conditions of his profession, but to be\nregretted and struggled against by her as they severally arose. So he\nwithdrew, while the children were yet young, into his library, to spend\nhis evenings (if he were at home), in reading the speculative and\nmetaphysical books which were his delight.\n\nWhen Margaret had been here before, she had brought down with her a\ngreat box of books, recommended by masters or governess, and had found\nthe summer's day all too short to get through the reading she had to do\nbefore her return to town. Now there were only the well-bound\nlittle-read English Classics, which were weeded out of her father's\nlibrary to fill up the small book-shelves in the drawing-room. Thomson's\nSeasons, Hayley's Cowper, Middleton's Cicero, were by far the lightest,\nnewest, and most amusing. The book-shelves did not afford much resource.\nMargaret told her mother every particular of her London life, to all of\nwhich Mrs. Hale listened with interest, sometimes amused and\nquestioning, at others a little inclined to compare her sister's\ncircumstances of ease and comfort with the narrower means at Helstone\nvicarage. On such evenings Margaret was apt to stop talking rather\nabruptly, and listen to the drip-drip of the rain upon the leads of the\nlittle bow-window. Once or twice Margaret found herself mechanically\ncounting the repetition of the monotonous sound, while she wondered if\nshe might venture to put a question on a subject very near to her heart,\nand ask where Frederick was now; what he was doing; how long it was\nsince they had heard from him. But a consciousness that her mother's\ndelicate health, and positive dislike to Helstone, all dated from the\ntime of the mutiny in which Frederick had been engaged,--the full\naccount of which Margaret had never heard, and which now seemed doomed\nto be buried in sad oblivion,--made her pause and turn away from the\nsubject each time she approached it. When she was with her mother, her\nfather seemed the best person to apply to for information; and when with\nhim, she thought that she could speak more easily to her mother.\nProbably there was nothing much to be heard that was new. In one of the\nletters she had received before leaving Harley Street, her father had\ntold her that they had heard from Frederick; he was still at Rio, and\nvery well in health, and sent his best love to her; which was dry bones,\nbut not the living intelligence she longed for. Frederick was always\nspoken of, in the rare times when his name was mentioned, as 'Poor\nFrederick.' His room was kept exactly as he had left it; and was\nregularly dusted, and put into order by Dixon, Mrs. Hale's maid, who\ntouched no other part of the household work, but always remembered the\nday when she had been engaged by Lady Beresford as ladies' maid to Sir\nJohn's wards, the pretty Miss Beresfords, the belles of Rutlandshire.\nDixon had always considered Mr. Hale as the blight which had fallen upon\nher young lady's prospects in life. If Miss Beresford had not been in\nsuch a hurry to marry a poor country clergyman, there was no knowing\nwhat she might not have become. But Dixon was too loyal to desert her in\nher affliction and downfall (alias her married life). She remained with\nher, and was devoted to her interests; always considering herself as the\ngood and protecting fairy, whose duty it was to baffle the malignant\ngiant, Mr. Hale. Master Frederick had been her favorite and pride; and\nit was with a little softening of her dignified look and manner, that\nshe went in weekly to arrange the chamber as carefully as if he might be\ncoming home that very evening. Margaret could not help believing that\nthere had been some late intelligence of Frederick, unknown to her\nmother, which was making her father anxious and uneasy. Mrs. Hale did\nnot seem to perceive any alteration in her husband's looks or ways. His\nspirits were always tender and gentle, readily affected by any small\npiece of intelligence concerning the welfare of others. He would be\ndepressed for many days after witnessing a death-bed, or hearing of any\ncrime. But now Margaret noticed an absence of mind, as if his thoughts\nwere pre-occupied by some subject, the oppression of which could not be\nrelieved by any daily action, such as comforting the survivors, or\nteaching at the school in hope of lessening the evils in the generation\nto come. Mr. Hale did not go out among his parishioners as much as\nusual; he was more shut up in his study; was anxious for the village\npostman, whose summons to the house-hold was a rap on the back-kitchen\nwindow-shutter--a signal which at one time had often to be repeated\nbefore any one was sufficiently alive to the hour of the day to\nunderstand what it was, and attend to him. Now Mr. Hale loitered about\nthe garden if the morning was fine, and if not, stood dreamily by the\nstudy window until the postman had called, or gone down the lane, giving\na half-respectful, half-confidential shake of the head to the parson,\nwho watched him away beyond the sweet-briar hedge, and past the great\narbutus, before he turned into the room to begin his day's work, with\nall the signs of a heavy heart and an occupied mind.\n\nBut Margaret was at an age when any apprehension, not absolutely based\non a knowledge of facts, is easily banished for a time by a bright sunny\nday, or some happy outward circumstance. And when the brilliant fourteen\nfine days of October came on, her cares were all blown away as lightly\nas thistledown, and she thought of nothing but the glories of the\nforest. The fern-harvest was over, and now that the rain was gone, many\na deep glade was accessible, into which Margaret had only peeped in July\nand August weather. She had learnt drawing with Edith; and she had\nsufficiently regretted, during the gloom of the bad weather, her idle\nrevelling in the beauty of the woodlands while it had yet been fine, to\nmake her determined to sketch what she could before winter fairly set\nin. Accordingly, she was busy preparing her board one morning, when\nSarah, the housemaid, threw wide open the drawing-room door and\nannounced, 'Mr. Henry Lennox.'\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\n'THE MORE HASTE THE WORSE SPEED'\n\n    'Learn to win a lady's faith\n     Nobly, as the thing is high;\n     Bravely, as for life and death--\n     With a loyal gravity.\n\n     Lead her from the festive boards,\n     Point her to the starry skies,\n     Guard her, by your truthful words,\n     Pure from courtship's flatteries.'\n             MRS. BROWNING.\n\n\n'Mr. Henry Lennox.' Margaret had been thinking of him only a moment\nbefore, and remembering his inquiry into her probable occupations at\nhome. It was 'parler du soleil et l'on en voit les rayons;' and the\nbrightness of the sun came over Margaret's face as she put down her\nboard, and went forward to shake hands with him. 'Tell mamma, Sarah,'\nsaid she. 'Mamma and I want to ask you so many questions about Edith; I\nam so much obliged to you for coming.'\n\n'Did not I say that I should?' asked he, in a lower tone than that in\nwhich she had spoken.\n\n'But I heard of you so far away in the Highlands that I never thought\nHampshire could come in.\n\n'Oh!' said he, more lightly, 'our young couple were playing such foolish\npranks, running all sorts of risks, climbing this mountain, sailing on\nthat lake, that I really thought they needed a Mentor to take care of\nthem. And indeed they did; they were quite beyond my uncle's management,\nand kept the old gentleman in a panic for sixteen hours out of the\ntwenty-four. Indeed, when I once saw how unfit they were to be trusted\nalone, I thought it my duty not to leave them till I had seen them\nsafely embarked at Plymouth.'\n\n'Have you been at Plymouth? Oh! Edith never named that. To be sure, she\nhas written in such a hurry lately. Did they really sail on Tuesday?'\n\n'Really sailed, and relieved me from many responsibilities. Edith gave\nme all sorts of messages for you. I believe I have a little diminutive\nnote somewhere; yes, here it is.'\n\n'Oh! thank you,' exclaimed Margaret; and then, half wishing to read it\nalone and unwatched, she made the excuse of going to tell her mother\nagain (Sarah surely had made some mistake) that Mr. Lennox was there.\n\nWhen she had left the room, he began in his scrutinising way to look\nabout him. The little drawing-room was looking its best in the streaming\nlight of the morning sun. The middle window in the bow was opened, and\nclustering roses and the scarlet honeysuckle came peeping round the\ncorner; the small lawn was gorgeous with verbenas and geraniums of all\nbright colours. But the very brightness outside made the colours within\nseem poor and faded. The carpet was far from new; the chintz had been\noften washed; the whole apartment was smaller and shabbier than he had\nexpected, as back-ground and frame-work for Margaret, herself so\nqueenly. He took up one of the books lying on the table; it was the\nParadiso of Dante, in the proper old Italian binding of white vellum and\ngold; by it lay a dictionary, and some words copied out in Margaret's\nhand-writing. They were a dull list of words, but somehow he liked\nlooking at them. He put them down with a sigh.\n\n'The living is evidently as small as she said. It seems strange, for the\nBeresfords belong to a good family.'\n\nMargaret meanwhile had found her mother. It was one of Mrs. Hale's\nfitful days, when everything was a difficulty and a hardship; and Mr.\nLennox's appearance took this shape, although secretly she felt\ncomplimented by his thinking it worth while to call.\n\n'It is most unfortunate! We are dining early to-day, and having nothing\nbut cold meat, in order that the servants may get on with their ironing;\nand yet, of course, we must ask him to dinner--Edith's brother-in-law\nand all. And your papa is in such low spirits this morning about\nsomething--I don't know what. I went into the study just now, and he had\nhis face on the table, covering it with his hands. I told him I was sure\nHelstone air did not agree with him any more than with me, and he\nsuddenly lifted up his head, and begged me not to speak a word more\nagainst Helstone, he could not bear it; if there was one place he loved\non earth it was Helstone. But I am sure, for all that, it is the damp\nand relaxing air.'\n\nMargaret felt as if a thin cold cloud had come between her and the sun.\nShe had listened patiently, in hopes that it might be some relief to her\nmother to unburden herself; but now it was time to draw her back to Mr.\nLennox.\n\n'Papa likes Mr. Lennox; they got on together famously at the wedding\nbreakfast. I dare say his coming will do papa good. And never mind the\ndinner, dear mamma. Cold meat will do capitally for a lunch, which is\nthe light in which Mr. Lennox will most likely look upon a two o'clock\ndinner.'\n\n'But what are we to do with him till then? It is only half-past ten\nnow.'\n\n'I'll ask him to go out sketching with me. I know he draws, and that\nwill take him out of your way, mamma. Only do come in now; he will think\nit so strange if you don't.'\n\nMrs. Hale took off her black silk apron, and smoothed her face. She\nlooked a very pretty lady-like woman, as she greeted Mr. Lennox with the\ncordiality due to one who was almost a relation. He evidently expected\nto be asked to spend the day, and accepted the invitation with a glad\nreadiness that made Mrs. Hale wish she could add something to the cold\nbeef. He was pleased with everything; delighted with Margaret's idea of\ngoing out sketching together; would not have Mr. Hale disturbed for the\nworld, with the prospect of so soon meeting him at dinner. Margaret\nbrought out her drawing materials for him to choose from; and after the\npaper and brushes had been duly selected, the two set out in the\nmerriest spirits in the world.\n\n'Now, please, just stop here for a minute or two, said Margaret. 'These\nare the cottages that haunted me so during the rainy fortnight,\nreproaching me for not having sketched them.'\n\n'Before they tumbled down and were no more seen. Truly, if they are to\nbe sketched--and they are very picturesque--we had better not put it off\ntill next year. But where shall we sit?'\n\n'Oh! You might have come straight from chambers in the Temple,' instead\nof having been two months in the Highlands! Look at this beautiful trunk\nof a tree, which the wood-cutters have left just in the right place for\nthe light. I will put my plaid over it, and it will be a regular forest\nthrone.'\n\n'With your feet in that puddle for a regal footstool! Stay, I will move,\nand then you can come nearer this way. Who lives in these cottages?'\n\n'They were built by squatters fifty or sixty years ago. One is\nuninhabited; the foresters are going to take it down, as soon as the old\nman who lives in the other is dead, poor old fellow! Look--there he\nis--I must go and speak to him. He is so deaf you will hear all our\nsecrets.'\n\nThe old man stood bareheaded in the sun, leaning on his stick at the\nfront of his cottage. His stiff features relaxed into a slow smile as\nMargaret went up and spoke to him. Mr. Lennox hastily introduced the two\nfigures into his sketch, and finished up the landscape with a\nsubordinate reference to them--as Margaret perceived, when the time came\nfor getting up, putting away water, and scraps of paper, and exhibiting\nto each other their sketches. She laughed and blushed: Mr. Lennox\nwatched her countenance.\n\n'Now, I call that treacherous,' said she. 'I little thought you were\nmaking old Isaac and me into subjects, when you told me to ask him the\nhistory of these cottages.'\n\n'It was irresistible. You can't know how strong a temptation it was. I\nhardly dare tell you how much I shall like this sketch.'\n\nHe was not quite sure whether she heard this latter sentence before she\nwent to the brook to wash her palette. She came back rather flushed, but\nlooking perfectly innocent and unconscious. He was glad of it, for the\nspeech had slipped from him unawares--a rare thing in the case of a man\nwho premeditated his actions so much as Henry Lennox.\n\nThe aspect of home was all right and bright when they reached it. The\nclouds on her mother's brow had cleared off under the propitious\ninfluence of a brace of carp, most opportunely presented by a neighbour.\nMr. Hale had returned from his morning's round, and was awaiting his\nvisitor just outside the wicket gate that led into the garden. He looked\na complete gentleman in his rather threadbare coat and well-worn hat.\n\nMargaret was proud of her father; she had always a fresh and tender\npride in seeing how favourably he impressed every stranger; still her\nquick eye sought over his face and found there traces of some unusual\ndisturbance, which was only put aside, not cleared away.\n\nMr. Hale asked to look at their sketches.\n\n'I think you have made the tints on the thatch too dark, have you not?'\nas he returned Margaret's to her, and held out his hand for Mr.\nLennox's, which was withheld from him one moment, no more.\n\n'No, papa! I don't think I have. The house-leek and stone-crop have\ngrown so much darker in the rain. Is it not like, papa?' said she,\npeeping over his shoulder, as he looked at the figures in Mr. Lennox's\ndrawing.\n\n'Yes, very like. Your figure and way of holding yourself is capital. And\nit is just poor old Isaac's stiff way of stooping his long rheumatic\nback. What is this hanging from the branch of the tree? Not a bird's\nnest, surely.'\n\n'Oh no! that is my bonnet. I never can draw with my bonnet on; it makes\nmy head so hot. I wonder if I could manage figures. There are so many\npeople about here whom I should like to sketch.'\n\n'I should say that a likeness you very much wish to take you would\nalways succeed in,' said Mr. Lennox. 'I have great faith in the power of\nwill. I think myself I have succeeded pretty well in yours.' Mr. Hale\nhad preceded them into the house, while Margaret was lingering to pluck\nsome roses, with which to adorn her morning gown for dinner.\n\n'A regular London girl would understand the implied meaning of that\nspeech,' thought Mr. Lennox. 'She would be up to looking through every\nspeech that a young man made her for the arriere-pensee of a compliment.\nBut I don't believe Margaret,--Stay!' exclaimed he, 'Let me help you;'\nand he gathered for her some velvety cramoisy roses that were above her\nreach, and then dividing the spoil he placed two in his button-hole, and\nsent her in, pleased and happy, to arrange her flowers.\n\nThe conversation at dinner flowed on quietly and agreeably. There were\nplenty of questions to be asked on both sides--the latest intelligence\nwhich each could give of Mrs. Shaw's movements in Italy to be exchanged;\nand in the interest of what was said, the unpretending simplicity of the\nparsonage-ways--above all, in the neighbourhood of Margaret, Mr. Lennox\nforgot the little feeling of disappointment with which he had at first\nperceived that she had spoken but the simple truth when she had\ndescribed her father's living as very small.\n\n'Margaret, my child, you might have gathered us some pears for our\ndessert,' said Mr. Hale, as the hospitable luxury of a freshly-decanted\nbottle of wine was placed on the table.\n\nMrs. Hale was hurried. It seemed as if desserts were impromptu and\nunusual things at the parsonage; whereas, if Mr. Hale would only have\nlooked behind him, he would have seen biscuits and marmalade, and what\nnot, all arranged in formal order on the sideboard. But the idea of\npears had taken possession of Mr. Hale's mind, and was not to be got rid\nof.\n\n'There are a few brown beurres against the south wall which are worth\nall foreign fruits and preserves. Run, Margaret, and gather us some.'\n\n'I propose that we adjourn into the garden, and eat them there' said Mr.\nLennox.\n\n'Nothing is so delicious as to set one's teeth into the crisp, juicy\nfruit, warm and scented by the sun. The worst is, the wasps are impudent\nenough to dispute it with one, even at the very crisis and summit of\nenjoyment.\n\nHe rose, as if to follow Margaret, who had disappeared through the\nwindow he only awaited Mrs. Hale's permission. She would rather have\nwound up the dinner in the proper way, and with all the ceremonies which\nhad gone on so smoothly hitherto, especially as she and Dixon had got\nout the finger-glasses from the store-room on purpose to be as correct\nas became General Shaw's widow's sister, but as Mr. Hale got up\ndirectly, and prepared to accompany his guest, she could only submit.\n\n'I shall arm myself with a knife,' said Mr. Hale: 'the days of eating\nfruit so primitively as you describe are over with me. I must pare it\nand quarter it before I can enjoy it.'\n\nMargaret made a plate for the pears out of a beetroot leaf, which threw\nup their brown gold colour admirably. Mr. Lennox looked more at her than\nat the pears; but her father, inclined to cull fastidiously the very\nzest and perfection of the hour he had stolen from his anxiety, chose\ndaintily the ripest fruit, and sat down on the garden bench to enjoy it\nat his leisure. Margaret and Mr. Lennox strolled along the little\nterrace-walk under the south wall, where the bees still hummed and\nworked busily in their hives.\n\n'What a perfect life you seem to live here! I have always felt rather\ncontemptuously towards the poets before, with their wishes, \"Mine be a\ncot beside a hill,\" and that sort of thing: but now I am afraid that the\ntruth is, I have been nothing better than a cockney. Just now I feel as\nif twenty years' hard study of law would be amply rewarded by one year\nof such an exquisite serene life as this--such skies!' looking up--'such\ncrimson and amber foliage, so perfectly motionless as that!' pointing to\nsome of the great forest trees which shut in the garden as if it were a\nnest.\n\n'You must please to remember that our skies are not always as deep a\nblue as they are now. We have rain, and our leaves do fall, and get\nsodden: though I think Helstone is about as perfect a place as any in\nthe world. Recollect how you rather scorned my description of it one\nevening in Harley Street: \"a village in a tale.\"'\n\n'Scorned, Margaret! That is rather a hard word.'\n\n'Perhaps it is. Only I know I should have liked to have talked to you of\nwhat I was very full at the time, and you--what must I call it,\nthen?--spoke disrespectfully of Helstone as a mere village in a tale.'\n\n'I will never do so again,' said he, warmly. They turned the corner of\nthe walk.\n\n'I could almost wish, Margaret---- ' he stopped and hesitated. It was so\nunusual for the fluent lawyer to hesitate that Margaret looked up at\nhim, in a little state of questioning wonder; but in an instant--from\nwhat about him she could not tell--she wished herself back with her\nmother--her father--anywhere away from him, for she was sure he was\ngoing to say something to which she should not know what to reply. In\nanother moment the strong pride that was in her came to conquer her\nsudden agitation, which she hoped he had not perceived. Of course she\ncould answer, and answer the right thing; and it was poor and despicable\nof her to shrink from hearing any speech, as if she had not power to put\nan end to it with her high maidenly dignity.\n\n'Margaret,' said he, taking her by surprise, and getting sudden\npossession of her hand, so that she was forced to stand still and\nlisten, despising herself for the fluttering at her heart all the time;\n'Margaret, I wish you did not like Helstone so much--did not seem so\nperfectly calm and happy here. I have been hoping for these three months\npast to find you regretting London--and London friends, a little--enough\nto make you listen more kindly' (for she was quietly, but firmly,\nstriving to extricate her hand from his grasp) 'to one who has not much\nto offer, it is true--nothing but prospects in the future--but who does\nlove you, Margaret, almost in spite of himself. Margaret, have I\nstartled you too much? Speak!' For he saw her lips quivering almost as\nif she were going to cry. She made a strong effort to be calm; she would\nnot speak till she had succeeded in mastering her voice, and then she\nsaid:\n\n'I was startled. I did not know that you cared for me in that way. I\nhave always thought of you as a friend; and, please, I would rather go\non thinking of you so. I don't like to be spoken to as you have been\ndoing. I cannot answer you as you want me to do, and yet I should feel\nso sorry if I vexed you.'\n\n'Margaret,' said he, looking into her eyes, which met his with their\nopen, straight look, expressive of the utmost good faith and reluctance\nto give pain.\n\n'Do you'--he was going to say--'love any one else?' But it seemed as if\nthis question would be an insult to the pure serenity of those eyes.\n'Forgive me I have been too abrupt. I am punished. Only let me hope.\nGive me the poor comfort of telling me you have never seen any one whom\nyou could---- ' Again a pause. He could not end his sentence. Margaret\nreproached herself acutely as the cause of his distress.\n\n'Ah! if you had but never got this fancy into your head! It was such a\npleasure to think of you as a friend.'\n\n'But I may hope, may I not, Margaret, that some time you will think of\nme as a lover? Not yet, I see--there is no hurry--but some time---- '\nShe was silent for a minute or two, trying to discover the truth as it\nwas in her own heart, before replying; then she said:\n\n'I have never thought of--you, but as a friend. I like to think of you\nso; but I am sure I could never think of you as anything else. Pray, let\nus both forget that all this' ('disagreeable,' she was going to say, but\nstopped short) 'conversation has taken place.'\n\nHe paused before he replied. Then, in his habitual coldness of tone, he\nanswered:\n\n'Of course, as your feelings are so decided, and as this conversation\nhas been so evidently unpleasant to you, it had better not be\nremembered. That is all very fine in theory, that plan of forgetting\nwhatever is painful, but it will be somewhat difficult for me, at least,\nto carry it into execution.'\n\n'You are vexed,' said she, sadly; 'yet how can I help it?'\n\nShe looked so truly grieved as she said this, that he struggled for a\nmoment with his real disappointment, and then answered more cheerfully,\nbut still with a little hardness in his tone:\n\n'You should make allowances for the mortification, not only of a lover,\nMargaret, but of a man not given to romance in general--prudent,\nworldly, as some people call me--who has been carried out of his usual\nhabits by the force of a passion--well, we will say no more of that; but\nin the one outlet which he has formed for the deeper and better feelings\nof his nature, he meets with rejection and repulse. I shall have to\nconsole myself with scorning my own folly. A struggling barrister to\nthink of matrimony!'\n\nMargaret could not answer this. The whole tone of it annoyed her. It\nseemed to touch on and call out all the points of difference which had\noften repelled her in him; while yet he was the pleasantest man, the\nmost sympathising friend, the person of all others who understood her\nbest in Harley Street. She felt a tinge of contempt mingle itself with\nher pain at having refused him. Her beautiful lip curled in a slight\ndisdain. It was well that, having made the round of the garden, they\ncame suddenly upon Mr. Hale, whose whereabouts had been quite forgotten\nby them. He had not yet finished the pear, which he had delicately\npeeled in one long strip of silver-paper thinness, and which he was\nenjoying in a deliberate manner. It was like the story of the eastern\nking, who dipped his head into a basin of water, at the magician's\ncommand, and ere he instantly took it out went through the experience of\na lifetime. Margaret felt stunned, and unable to recover her\nself-possession enough to join in the trivial conversation that ensued\nbetween her father and Mr. Lennox. She was grave, and little disposed to\nspeak; full of wonder when Mr. Lennox would go, and allow her to relax\ninto thought on the events of the last quarter of an hour. He was almost\nas anxious to take his departure as she was for him to leave; but a few\nminutes light and careless talking, carried on at whatever effort, was a\nsacrifice which he owed to his mortified vanity, or his self-respect. He\nglanced from time to time at her sad and pensive face.\n\n'I am not so indifferent to her as she believes,' thought he to himself.\n'I do not give up hope.'\n\nBefore a quarter of an hour was over, he had fallen into a way of\nconversing with quiet sarcasm; speaking of life in London and life in\nthe country, as if he were conscious of his second mocking self, and\nafraid of his own satire. Mr. Hale was puzzled. His visitor was a\ndifferent man to what he had seen him before at the wedding-breakfast,\nand at dinner to-day; a lighter, cleverer, more worldly man, and, as\nsuch, dissonant to Mr. Hale. It was a relief to all three when Mr.\nLennox said that he must go directly if he meant to catch the five\no'clock train. They proceeded to the house to find Mrs. Hale, and wish\nher good-bye. At the last moment, Henry Lennox's real self broke through\nthe crust.\n\n'Margaret, don't despise me; I have a heart, notwithstanding all this\ngood-for-nothing way of talking. As a proof of it, I believe I love you\nmore than ever--if I do not hate you--for the disdain with which you\nhave listened to me during this last half-hour. Good-bye,\nMargaret--Margaret!'\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\nDOUBTS AND DIFFICULTIES\n\n    'Cast me upon some naked shore,\n     Where I may tracke\n     Only the print of some sad wracke,\n     If thou be there, though the seas roare,\n     I shall no gentler calm implore.'\n             HABINGTON.\n\n\nHe was gone. The house was shut up for the evening. No more deep blue\nskies or crimson and amber tints. Margaret went up to dress for the\nearly tea, finding Dixon in a pretty temper from the interruption which\na visitor had naturally occasioned on a busy day. She showed it by\nbrushing away viciously at Margaret's hair, under pretence of being in a\ngreat hurry to go to Mrs. Hale. Yet, after all, Margaret had to wait a\nlong time in the drawing-room before her mother came down. She sat by\nherself at the fire, with unlighted candles on the table behind her,\nthinking over the day, the happy walk, happy sketching, cheerful\npleasant dinner, and the uncomfortable, miserable walk in the garden.\n\nHow different men were to women! Here was she disturbed and unhappy,\nbecause her instinct had made anything but a refusal impossible; while\nhe, not many minutes after he had met with a rejection of what ought to\nhave been the deepest, holiest proposal of his life, could speak as if\nbriefs, success, and all its superficial consequences of a good house,\nclever and agreeable society, were the sole avowed objects of his\ndesires. Oh dear! how she could have loved him if he had but been\ndifferent, with a difference which she felt, on reflection, to be one\nthat went low--deep down. Then she took it into her head that, after\nall, his lightness might be but assumed, to cover a bitterness of\ndisappointment which would have been stamped on her own heart if she had\nloved and been rejected.\n\nHer mother came into the room before this whirl of thoughts was adjusted\ninto anything like order. Margaret had to shake off the recollections of\nwhat had been done and said through the day, and turn a sympathising\nlistener to the account of how Dixon had complained that the\nironing-blanket had been burnt again; and how Susan Lightfoot had been\nseen with artificial flowers in her bonnet, thereby giving evidence of a\nvain and giddy character. Mr. Hale sipped his tea in abstracted silence;\nMargaret had the responses all to herself. She wondered how her father\nand mother could be so forgetful, so regardless of their companion\nthrough the day, as never to mention his name. She forgot that he had\nnot made them an offer.\n\nAfter tea Mr. Hale got up, and stood with his elbow on the\nchimney-piece, leaning his head on his hand, musing over something, and\nfrom time to time sighing deeply. Mrs. Hale went out to consult with\nDixon about some winter clothing for the poor. Margaret was preparing\nher mother's worsted work, and rather shrinking from the thought of the\nlong evening, and wishing bed-time were come that she might go over the\nevents of the day again.\n\n'Margaret!' said Mr. Hale, at last, in a sort of sudden desperate way,\nthat made her start. 'Is that tapestry thing of immediate consequence? I\nmean, can you leave it and come into my study? I want to speak to you\nabout something very serious to us all.'\n\n'Very serious to us all.' Mr. Lennox had never had the opportunity of\nhaving any private conversation with her father after her refusal, or\nelse that would indeed be a very serious affair. In the first place,\nMargaret felt guilty and ashamed of having grown so much into a woman as\nto be thought of in marriage; and secondly, she did not know if her\nfather might not be displeased that she had taken upon herself to\ndecline Mr. Lennox's proposal. But she soon felt it was not about\nanything, which having only lately and suddenly occurred, could have\ngiven rise to any complicated thoughts, that her father wished to speak\nto her. He made her take a chair by him; he stirred the fire, snuffed\nthe candles, and sighed once or twice before he could make up his mind\nto say--and it came out with a jerk after all--'Margaret! I am going to\nleave Helstone.'\n\n'Leave Helstone, papa! But why?'\n\nMr. Hale did not answer for a minute or two. He played with some papers\non the table in a nervous and confused manner, opening his lips to speak\nseveral times, but closing them again without having the courage to\nutter a word. Margaret could not bear the sight of the suspense, which\nwas even more distressing to her father than to herself.\n\n'But why, dear papa? Do tell me!'\n\nHe looked up at her suddenly, and then said with a slow and enforced\ncalmness:\n\n'Because I must no longer be a minister in the Church of England.'\n\nMargaret had imagined nothing less than that some of the preferments\nwhich her mother so much desired had befallen her father at\nlast--something that would force him to leave beautiful, beloved\nHelstone, and perhaps compel him to go and live in some of the stately\nand silent Closes which Margaret had seen from time to time in cathedral\ntowns. They were grand and imposing places, but if, to go there, it was\nnecessary to leave Helstone as a home for ever, that would have been a\nsad, long, lingering pain. But nothing to the shock she received from\nMr. Hale's last speech. What could he mean? It was all the worse for\nbeing so mysterious. The aspect of piteous distress on his face, almost\nas imploring a merciful and kind judgment from his child, gave her a\nsudden sickening. Could he have become implicated in anything Frederick\nhad done? Frederick was an outlaw. Had her father, out of a natural love\nfor his son, connived at any--\n\n'Oh! what is it? do speak, papa! tell me all! Why can you no longer be a\nclergyman? Surely, if the bishop were told all we know about Frederick,\nand the hard, unjust--'\n\n'It is nothing about Frederick; the bishop would have nothing to do with\nthat. It is all myself. Margaret, I will tell you about it. I will\nanswer any questions this once, but after to-night let us never speak of\nit again. I can meet the consequences of my painful, miserable doubts;\nbut it is an effort beyond me to speak of what has caused me so much\nsuffering.'\n\n'Doubts, papa! Doubts as to religion?' asked Margaret, more shocked than\never.\n\n'No! not doubts as to religion; not the slightest injury to that.' He\npaused. Margaret sighed, as if standing on the verge of some new horror.\nHe began again, speaking rapidly, as if to get over a set task:\n\n'You could not understand it all, if I told you--my anxiety, for years\npast, to know whether I had any right to hold my living--my efforts to\nquench my smouldering doubts by the authority of the Church. Oh!\nMargaret, how I love the holy Church from which I am to be shut out!' He\ncould not go on for a moment or two. Margaret could not tell what to\nsay; it seemed to her as terribly mysterious as if her father were about\nto turn Mahometan.\n\n'I have been reading to-day of the two thousand who were ejected from\ntheir churches,'--continued Mr. Hale, smiling faintly,--'trying to steal\nsome of their bravery; but it is of no use--no use--I cannot help\nfeeling it acutely.'\n\n'But, papa, have you well considered? Oh! it seems so terrible, so\nshocking,' said Margaret, suddenly bursting into tears. The one staid\nfoundation of her home, of her idea of her beloved father, seemed\nreeling and rocking. What could she say? What was to be done? The sight\nof her distress made Mr. Hale nerve himself, in order to try and comfort\nher. He swallowed down the dry choking sobs which had been heaving up\nfrom his heart hitherto, and going to his bookcase he took down a\nvolume, which he had often been reading lately, and from which he\nthought he had derived strength to enter upon the course in which he was\nnow embarked.\n\n'Listen, dear Margaret,' said he, putting one arm round her waist. She\ntook his hand in hers and grasped it tight, but she could not lift up\nher head; nor indeed could she attend to what he read, so great was her\ninternal agitation.\n\n'This is the soliloquy of one who was once a clergyman in a country\nparish, like me; it was written by a Mr. Oldfield, minister of\nCarsington, in Derbyshire, a hundred and sixty years ago, or more. His\ntrials are over. He fought the good fight.' These last two sentences he\nspoke low, as if to himself. Then he read aloud,--\n\n'When thou canst no longer continue in thy work without dishonour to\nGod, discredit to religion, foregoing thy integrity, wounding\nconscience, spoiling thy peace, and hazarding the loss of thy salvation;\nin a word, when the conditions upon which thou must continue (if thou\nwilt continue) in thy employments are sinful, and unwarranted by the\nword of God, thou mayest, yea, thou must believe that God will turn thy\nvery silence, suspension, deprivation, and laying aside, to His glory,\nand the advancement of the Gospel's interest. When God will not use thee\nin one kind, yet He will in another. A soul that desires to serve and\nhonour Him shall never want opportunity to do it; nor must thou so limit\nthe Holy One of Israel as to think He hath but one way in which He can\nglorify Himself by thee. He can do it by thy silence as well as by thy\npreaching; thy laying aside as well as thy continuance in thy work. It\nis not pretence of doing God the greatest service, or performing the\nweightiest duty, that will excuse the least sin, though that sin\ncapacitated or gave us the opportunity for doing that duty. Thou wilt\nhave little thanks, O my soul! if, when thou art charged with corrupting\nGod's worship, falsifying thy vows, thou pretendest a necessity for it\nin order to a continuance in the ministry. As he read this, and glanced\nat much more which he did not read, he gained resolution for himself,\nand felt as if he too could be brave and firm in doing what he believed\nto be right; but as he ceased he heard Margaret's low convulsive sob;\nand his courage sank down under the keen sense of suffering.\n\n'Margaret, dear!' said he, drawing her closer, 'think of the early\nmartyrs; think of the thousands who have suffered.'\n\n'But, father,' said she, suddenly lifting up her flushed, tear-wet face,\n'the early martyrs suffered for the truth, while you--oh! dear, dear\npapa!'\n\n'I suffer for conscience' sake, my child,' said he, with a dignity that\nwas only tremulous from the acute sensitiveness of his character; 'I\nmust do what my conscience bids. I have borne long with self-reproach\nthat would have roused any mind less torpid and cowardly than mine.' He\nshook his head as he went on. 'Your poor mother's fond wish, gratified\nat last in the mocking way in which over-fond wishes are too often\nfulfilled--Sodom apples as they are--has brought on this crisis, for\nwhich I ought to be, and I hope I am thankful. It is not a month since\nthe bishop offered me another living; if I had accepted it, I should\nhave had to make a fresh declaration of conformity to the Liturgy at my\ninstitution. Margaret, I tried to do it; I tried to content myself with\nsimply refusing the additional preferment, and stopping quietly\nhere,--strangling my conscience now, as I had strained it before. God\nforgive me!'\n\nHe rose and walked up and down the room, speaking low words of\nself-reproach and humiliation, of which Margaret was thankful to hear\nbut few. At last he said,\n\n'Margaret, I return to the old sad burden we must leave Helstone.'\n\n'Yes! I see. But when?'\n\n'I have written to the bishop--I dare say I have told you so, but I\nforget things just now,' said Mr. Hale, collapsing into his depressed\nmanner as soon as he came to talk of hard matter-of-fact details,\n'informing him of my intention to resign this vicarage. He has been most\nkind; he has used arguments and expostulations, all in vain--in vain.\nThey are but what I have tried upon myself, without avail. I shall have\nto take my deed of resignation, and wait upon the bishop myself, to bid\nhim farewell. That will be a trial, but worse, far worse, will be the\nparting from my dear people. There is a curate appointed to read\nprayers--a Mr. Brown. He will come to stay with us to-morrow. Next\nSunday I preach my farewell sermon.'\n\nWas it to be so sudden then? thought Margaret; and yet perhaps it was as\nwell. Lingering would only add stings to the pain; it was better to be\nstunned into numbness by hearing of all these arrangements, which seemed\nto be nearly completed before she had been told. 'What does mamma say?'\nasked she, with a deep sigh.\n\nTo her surprise, her father began to walk about again before he\nanswered. At length he stopped and replied:\n\n'Margaret, I am a poor coward after all. I cannot bear to give pain. I\nknow so well your mother's married life has not been all she hoped--all\nshe had a right to expect--and this will be such a blow to her, that I\nhave never had the heart, the power to tell her. She must be told\nthough, now,' said he, looking wistfully at his daughter. Margaret was\nalmost overpowered with the idea that her mother knew nothing of it all,\nand yet the affair was so far advanced!\n\n'Yes, indeed she must,' said Margaret. 'Perhaps, after all, she may\nnot--Oh yes! she will, she must be shocked'--as the force of the blow\nreturned upon herself in trying to realise how another would take it.\n'Where are we to go to?' said she at last, struck with a fresh wonder as\nto their future plans, if plans indeed her father had.\n\n'To Milton-Northern,' he answered, with a dull indifference, for he had\nperceived that, although his daughter's love had made her cling to him,\nand for a moment strive to soothe him with her love, yet the keenness of\nthe pain was as fresh as ever in her mind.\n\n'Milton-Northern! The manufacturing town in Darkshire?'\n\n'Yes,' said he, in the same despondent, indifferent way.\n\n'Why there, papa?' asked she.\n\n'Because there I can earn bread for my family. Because I know no one\nthere, and no one knows Helstone, or can ever talk to me about it.'\n\n'Bread for your family! I thought you and mamma had'--and then she\nstopped, checking her natural interest regarding their future life, as\nshe saw the gathering gloom on her father's brow. But he, with his quick\nintuitive sympathy, read in her face, as in a mirror, the reflections of\nhis own moody depression, and turned it off with an effort.\n\n'You shall be told all, Margaret. Only help me to tell your mother. I\nthink I could do anything but that: the idea of her distress turns me\nsick with dread. If I tell you all, perhaps you could break it to her\nto-morrow. I am going out for the day, to bid Farmer Dobson and the poor\npeople on Bracy Common good-bye. Would you dislike breaking it to her\nvery much, Margaret?'\n\nMargaret did dislike it, did shrink from it more than from anything she\nhad ever had to do in her life before. She could not speak, all at once.\nHer father said, 'You dislike it very much, don't you, Margaret?' Then\nshe conquered herself, and said, with a bright strong look on her face:\n\n'It is a painful thing, but it must be done, and I will do it as well as\never I can. You must have many painful things to do.'\n\nMr. Hale shook his head despondingly: he pressed her hand in token of\ngratitude. Margaret was nearly upset again into a burst of crying. To\nturn her thoughts, she said: 'Now tell me, papa, what our plans are. You\nand mamma have some money, independent of the income from the living,\nhave not you? Aunt Shaw has, I know.'\n\n'Yes. I suppose we have about a hundred and seventy pounds a year of our\nown. Seventy of that has always gone to Frederick, since he has been\nabroad. I don't know if he wants it all,' he continued in a hesitating\nmanner. 'He must have some pay for serving with the Spanish army.'\n\n'Frederick must not suffer,' said Margaret, decidedly; 'in a foreign\ncountry; so unjustly treated by his own. A hundred is left. Could not\nyou, and I, and mamma live on a hundred a year in some very cheap--very\nquiet part of England? Oh! I think we could.'\n\n'No!' said Mr. Hale. 'That would not answer. I must do something. I must\nmake myself busy, to keep off morbid thoughts. Besides, in a country\nparish I should be so painfully reminded of Helstone, and my duties\nhere. I could not bear it, Margaret. And a hundred a year would go a\nvery little way, after the necessary wants of housekeeping are met,\ntowards providing your mother with all the comforts she has been\naccustomed to, and ought to have. No: we must go to Milton. That is\nsettled. I can always decide better by myself, and not influenced by\nthose whom I love,' said he, as a half apology for having arranged so\nmuch before he had told any one of his family of his intentions. 'I\ncannot stand objections. They make me so undecided.'\n\nMargaret resolved to keep silence. After all, what did it signify where\nthey went, compared to the one terrible change?\n\nMr. Hale continued: 'A few months ago, when my misery of doubt became\nmore than I could bear without speaking, I wrote to Mr. Bell--you\nremember Mr. Bell, Margaret?'\n\n'No; I never saw him, I think. But I know who he is. Frederick's\ngodfather--your old tutor at Oxford, don't you mean?'\n\n'Yes. He is a Fellow of Plymouth College there. He is a native of\nMilton-Northern, I believe. At any rate, he has property there, which\nhas very much increased in value since Milton has become such a large\nmanufacturing town. Well, I had reason to suspect--to imagine--I had\nbetter say nothing about it, however. But I felt sure of sympathy from\nMr. Bell. I don't know that he gave me much strength. He has lived an\neasy life in his college all his days. But he has been as kind as can\nbe. And it is owing to him we are going to Milton.'\n\n'How?' said Margaret.\n\n'Why he has tenants, and houses, and mills there; so, though he dislikes\nthe place--too bustling for one of his habits--he is obliged to keep up\nsome sort of connection; and he tells me that he hears there is a good\nopening for a private tutor there.'\n\n'A private tutor!' said Margaret, looking scornful: 'What in the world\ndo manufacturers want with the classics, or literature, or the\naccomplishments of a gentleman?'\n\n'Oh,' said her father, 'some of them really seem to be fine fellows,\nconscious of their own deficiencies, which is more than many a man at\nOxford is. Some want resolutely to learn, though they have come to man's\nestate. Some want their children to be better instructed than they\nthemselves have been. At any rate, there is an opening, as I have said,\nfor a private tutor. Mr. Bell has recommended me to a Mr. Thornton, a\ntenant of his, and a very intelligent man, as far as I can judge from\nhis letters. And in Milton, Margaret, I shall find a busy life, if not a\nhappy one, and people and scenes so different that I shall never be\nreminded of Helstone.'\n\nThere was the secret motive, as Margaret knew from her own feelings. It\nwould be different. Discordant as it was--with almost a detestation for\nall she had ever heard of the North of England, the manufacturers, the\npeople, the wild and bleak country--there was this one\nrecommendation--it would be different from Helstone, and could never\nremind them of that beloved place.\n\n'When do we go?' asked Margaret, after a short silence.\n\n'I do not know exactly. I wanted to talk it over with you. You see, your\nmother knows nothing about it yet: but I think, in a fortnight;--after\nmy deed of resignation is sent in, I shall have no right to remain.\n\nMargaret was almost stunned.\n\n'In a fortnight!'\n\n'No--no, not exactly to a day. Nothing is fixed,' said her father, with\nanxious hesitation, as he noticed the filmy sorrow that came over her\neyes, and the sudden change in her complexion. But she recovered herself\nimmediately.\n\n'Yes, papa, it had better be fixed soon and decidedly, as you say. Only\nmamma to know nothing about it! It is that that is the great\nperplexity.'\n\n'Poor Maria!' replied Mr. Hale, tenderly. 'Poor, poor Maria! Oh, if I\nwere not married--if I were but myself in the world, how easy it would\nbe! As it is--Margaret, I dare not tell her!'\n\n'No,' said Margaret, sadly, 'I will do it. Give me till to-morrow\nevening to choose my time Oh, papa,' cried she, with sudden passionate\nentreaty, 'say--tell me it is a night-mare--a horrid dream--not the real\nwaking truth! You cannot mean that you are really going to leave the\nChurch--to give up Helstone--to be for ever separate from me, from\nmamma--led away by some delusion--some temptation! You do not really\nmean it!'\n\nMr. Hale sat in rigid stillness while she spoke.\n\nThen he looked her in the face, and said in a slow, hoarse, measured\nway--'I do mean it, Margaret. You must not deceive yourself into\ndoubting the reality of my words--my fixed intention and resolve.' He\nlooked at her in the same steady, stony manner, for some moments after\nhe had done speaking. She, too, gazed back with pleading eyes before she\nwould believe that it was irrevocable. Then she arose and went, without\nanother word or look, towards the door. As her fingers were on the\nhandle he called her back. He was standing by the fireplace, shrunk and\nstooping; but as she came near he drew himself up to his full height,\nand, placing his hands on her head, he said, solemnly:\n\n'The blessing of God be upon thee, my child!'\n\n'And may He restore you to His Church,' responded she, out of the\nfulness of her heart. The next moment she feared lest this answer to his\nblessing might be irreverent, wrong--might hurt him as coming from his\ndaughter, and she threw her arms round his neck. He held her to him for\na minute or two. She heard him murmur to himself, 'The martyrs and\nconfessors had even more pain to bear--I will not shrink.'\n\nThey were startled by hearing Mrs. Hale inquiring for her daughter. They\nstarted asunder in the full consciousness of all that was before them.\nMr. Hale hurriedly said--'Go, Margaret, go. I shall be out all\nto-morrow. Before night you will have told your mother.'\n\n'Yes,' she replied, and she returned to the drawing-room in a stunned\nand dizzy state.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\nDECISION\n\n    'I ask Thee for a thoughtful love,\n     Through constant watching wise,\n     To meet the glad with joyful smiles,\n     And to wipe the weeping eyes;\n     And a heart at leisure from itself\n         To soothe and sympathise.'\n             ANON.\n\n\nMargaret made a good listener to all her mother's little plans for\nadding some small comforts to the lot of the poorer parishioners. She\ncould not help listening, though each new project was a stab to her\nheart. By the time the frost had set in, they should be far away from\nHelstone. Old Simon's rheumatism might be bad and his eyesight worse;\nthere would be no one to go and read to him, and comfort him with little\nporringers of broth and good red flannel: or if there was, it would be a\nstranger, and the old man would watch in vain for her. Mary Domville's\nlittle crippled boy would crawl in vain to the door and look for her\ncoming through the forest. These poor friends would never understand why\nshe had forsaken them; and there were many others besides. 'Papa has\nalways spent the income he derived from his living in the parish. I am,\nperhaps, encroaching upon the next dues, but the winter is likely to be\nsevere, and our poor old people must be helped.'\n\n'Oh, mamma, let us do all we can,' said Margaret eagerly, not seeing the\nprudential side of the question, only grasping at the idea that they\nwere rendering such help for the last time; 'we may not be here long.'\n\n'Do you feel ill, my darling?' asked Mrs. Hale, anxiously,\nmisunderstanding Margaret's hint of the uncertainty of their stay at\nHelstone. 'You look pale and tired. It is this soft, damp, unhealthy\nair.'\n\n'No--no, mamma, it is not that: it is delicious air. It smells of the\nfreshest, purest fragrance, after the smokiness of Harley Street. But I\nam tired: it surely must be near bedtime.'\n\n'Not far off--it is half-past nine. You had better go to bed at once dear.\nAsk Dixon for some gruel. I will come and see you as soon as you are in\nbed. I am afraid you have taken cold; or the bad air from some of the\nstagnant ponds--'\n\n'Oh, mamma,' said Margaret, faintly smiling as she kissed her mother, 'I\nam quite well--don't alarm yourself about me; I am only tired.'\n\nMargaret went upstairs. To soothe her mother's anxiety she submitted to\na basin of gruel. She was lying languidly in bed when Mrs. Hale came up\nto make some last inquiries and kiss her before going to her own room\nfor the night. But the instant she heard her mother's door locked, she\nsprang out of bed, and throwing her dressing-gown on, she began to pace\nup and down the room, until the creaking of one of the boards reminded\nher that she must make no noise. She went and curled herself up on the\nwindow-seat in the small, deeply-recessed window. That morning when she\nhad looked out, her heart had danced at seeing the bright clear lights\non the church tower, which foretold a fine and sunny day. This\nevening--sixteen hours at most had past by--she sat down, too full of\nsorrow to cry, but with a dull cold pain, which seemed to have pressed\nthe youth and buoyancy out of her heart, never to return. Mr. Henry\nLennox's visit--his offer--was like a dream, a thing beside her actual\nlife. The hard reality was, that her father had so admitted tempting\ndoubts into his mind as to become a schismatic--an outcast; all the\nchanges consequent upon this grouped themselves around that one great\nblighting fact.\n\nShe looked out upon the dark-gray lines of the church tower, square and\nstraight in the centre of the view, cutting against the deep blue\ntransparent depths beyond, into which she gazed, and felt that she might\ngaze for ever, seeing at every moment some farther distance, and yet no\nsign of God! It seemed to her at the moment, as if the earth was more\nutterly desolate than if girt in by an iron dome, behind which there\nmight be the ineffaceable peace and glory of the Almighty: those\nnever-ending depths of space, in their still serenity, were more mocking\nto her than any material bounds could be--shutting in the cries of\nearth's sufferers, which now might ascend into that infinite splendour\nof vastness and be lost--lost for ever, before they reached His throne.\nIn this mood her father came in unheard. The moonlight was strong enough\nto let him see his daughter in her unusual place and attitude. He came\nto her and touched her shoulder before she was aware that he was there.\n\n'Margaret, I heard you were up. I could not help coming in to ask you to\npray with me--to say the Lord's Prayer; that will do good to both of\nus.'\n\nMr. Hale and Margaret knelt by the window-seat--he looking up, she bowed\ndown in humble shame. God was there, close around them, hearing her\nfather's whispered words. Her father might be a heretic; but had not\nshe, in her despairing doubts not five minutes before, shown herself a\nfar more utter sceptic? She spoke not a word, but stole to bed after her\nfather had left her, like a child ashamed of its fault. If the world was\nfull of perplexing problems she would trust, and only ask to see the one\nstep needful for the hour. Mr. Lennox--his visit, his proposal--the\nremembrance of which had been so rudely pushed aside by the subsequent\nevents of the day--haunted her dreams that night. He was climbing up\nsome tree of fabulous height to reach the branch whereon was slung her\nbonnet: he was falling, and she was struggling to save him, but held\nback by some invisible powerful hand. He was dead. And yet, with a\nshifting of the scene, she was once more in the Harley Street\ndrawing-room, talking to him as of old, and still with a consciousness\nall the time that she had seen him killed by that terrible fall.\n\nMiserable, unresting night! Ill preparation for the coming day! She\nawoke with a start, unrefreshed, and conscious of some reality worse\neven than her feverish dreams. It all came back upon her; not merely the\nsorrow, but the terrible discord in the sorrow. Where, to what distance\napart, had her father wandered, led by doubts which were to her\ntemptations of the Evil One? She longed to ask, and yet would not have\nheard for all the world.\n\nThe fine crisp morning made her mother feel particularly well and happy\nat breakfast-time. She talked on, planning village kindnesses, unheeding\nthe silence of her husband and the monosyllabic answers of Margaret.\nBefore the things were cleared away, Mr. Hale got up; he leaned one hand\non the table, as if to support himself:\n\n'I shall not be at home till evening. I am going to Bracy Common, and\nwill ask Farmer Dobson to give me something for dinner. I shall be back\nto tea at seven.' He did not look at either of them, but Margaret knew\nwhat he meant. By seven the announcement must be made to her mother. Mr.\nHale would have delayed making it till half-past six, but Margaret was\nof different stuff. She could not bear the impending weight on her mind\nall the day long: better get the worst over; the day would be too short\nto comfort her mother. But while she stood by the window, thinking how\nto begin, and waiting for the servant to have left the room, her mother\nhad gone up-stairs to put on her things to go to the school. She came\ndown ready equipped, in a brisker mood than usual.\n\n'Mother, come round the garden with me this morning; just one turn,'\nsaid Margaret, putting her arm round Mrs. Hale's waist.\n\nThey passed through the open window. Mrs. Hale spoke--said\nsomething--Margaret could not tell what. Her eye caught on a bee\nentering a deep-belled flower: when that bee flew forth with his spoil\nshe would begin--that should be the sign. Out he came.\n\n'Mamma! Papa is going to leave Helstone!' she blurted forth. 'He's going\nto leave the Church, and live in Milton-Northern.' There were the three\nhard facts hardly spoken.\n\n'What makes you say so?' asked Mrs. Hale, in a surprised incredulous\nvoice. 'Who has been telling you such nonsense?'\n\n'Papa himself,' said Margaret, longing to say something gentle and\nconsoling, but literally not knowing how. They were close to a\ngarden-bench. Mrs. Hale sat down, and began to cry.\n\n'I don't understand you,' she said. 'Either you have made some great\nmistake, or I don't quite understand you.'\n\n'No, mother, I have made no mistake. Papa has written to the bishop,\nsaying that he has such doubts that he cannot conscientiously remain a\npriest of the Church of England, and that he must give up Helstone. He\nhas also consulted Mr. Bell--Frederick's godfather, you know, mamma; and\nit is arranged that we go to live in Milton-Northern.' Mrs. Hale looked\nup in Margaret's face all the time she was speaking these words: the\nshadow on her countenance told that she, at least, believed in the truth\nof what she said.\n\n'I don't think it can be true,' said Mrs. Hale, at length. 'He would\nsurely have told me before it came to this.'\n\nIt came strongly upon Margaret's mind that her mother ought to have been\ntold: that whatever her faults of discontent and repining might have\nbeen, it was an error in her father to have left her to learn his change\nof opinion, and his approaching change of life, from her better-informed\nchild. Margaret sat down by her mother, and took her unresisting head on\nher breast, bending her own soft cheeks down caressingly to touch her\nface.\n\n'Dear, darling mamma! we were so afraid of giving you pain. Papa felt so\nacutely--you know you are not strong, and there must have been such\nterrible suspense to go through.'\n\n'When did he tell you, Margaret?'\n\n'Yesterday, only yesterday,' replied Margaret, detecting the jealousy\nwhich prompted the inquiry. 'Poor papa!'--trying to divert her mother's\nthoughts into compassionate sympathy for all her father had gone\nthrough. Mrs. Hale raised her head.\n\n'What does he mean by having doubts?' she asked. 'Surely, he does not\nmean that he thinks differently--that he knows better than the Church.'\nMargaret shook her head, and the tears came into her eyes, as her mother\ntouched the bare nerve of her own regret.\n\n'Can't the bishop set him right?' asked Mrs. Hale, half impatiently.\n\n'I'm afraid not,' said Margaret. 'But I did not ask. I could not bear to\nhear what he might answer. It is all settled at any rate. He is going to\nleave Helstone in a fortnight. I am not sure if he did not say he had\nsent in his deed of resignation.'\n\n'In a fortnight!' exclaimed Mrs. Hale, 'I do think this is very\nstrange--not at all right. I call it very unfeeling,' said she,\nbeginning to take relief in tears. 'He has doubts, you say, and gives up\nhis living, and all without consulting me. I dare say, if he had told me\nhis doubts at the first I could have nipped them in the bud.'\n\nMistaken as Margaret felt her father's conduct to have been, she could\nnot bear to hear it blamed by her mother. She knew that his very reserve\nhad originated in a tenderness for her, which might be cowardly, but was\nnot unfeeling.\n\n'I almost hoped you might have been glad to leave Helstone, mamma,' said\nshe, after a pause. 'You have never been well in this air, you know.'\n\n'You can't think the smoky air of a manufacturing town, all chimneys and\ndirt like Milton-Northern, would be better than this air, which is pure\nand sweet, if it is too soft and relaxing. Fancy living in the middle of\nfactories, and factory people! Though, of course, if your father leaves\nthe Church, we shall not be admitted into society anywhere. It will be\nsuch a disgrace to us! Poor dear Sir John! It is well he is not alive to\nsee what your father has come to! Every day after dinner, when I was a\ngirl, living with your aunt Shaw, at Beresford Court, Sir John used to\ngive for the first toast--\"Church and King, and down with the Rump.\"'\n\nMargaret was glad that her mother's thoughts were turned away from the\nfact of her husband's silence to her on the point which must have been\nso near his heart. Next to the serious vital anxiety as to the nature of\nher father's doubts, this was the one circumstance of the case that gave\nMargaret the most pain.\n\n'You know, we have very little society here, mamma. The Gormans, who are\nour nearest neighbours (to call society--and we hardly ever see them),\nhave been in trade just as much as these Milton-Northern people.'\n\n'Yes,' said Mrs. Hale, almost indignantly, 'but, at any rate, the\nGormans made carriages for half the gentry of the county, and were\nbrought into some kind of intercourse with them; but these factory\npeople, who on earth wears cotton that can afford linen?'\n\n'Well, mamma, I give up the cotton-spinners; I am not standing up for\nthem, any more than for any other trades-people. Only we shall have\nlittle enough to do with them.'\n\n'Why on earth has your father fixed on Milton-Northern to live in?'\n\n'Partly,' said Margaret, sighing, 'because it is so very different from\nHelstone--partly because Mr. Bell says there is an opening there for a\nprivate tutor.'\n\n'Private tutor in Milton! Why can't he go to Oxford, and be a tutor to\ngentlemen?'\n\n'You forget, mamma! He is leaving the Church on account of his\nopinions--his doubts would do him no good at Oxford.'\n\nMrs. Hale was silent for some time, quietly crying. At last she said:--\n\n'And the furniture--How in the world are we to manage the removal? I\nnever removed in my life, and only a fortnight to think about it!'\n\nMargaret was inexpressibly relieved to find that her mother's anxiety\nand distress was lowered to this point, so insignificant to herself, and\non which she could do so much to help. She planned and promised, and led\nher mother on to arrange fully as much as could be fixed before they\nknew somewhat more definitively what Mr. Hale intended to do. Throughout\nthe day Margaret never left her mother; bending her whole soul to\nsympathise in all the various turns her feelings took; towards evening\nespecially, as she became more and more anxious that her father should\nfind a soothing welcome home awaiting him, after his return from his day\nof fatigue and distress. She dwelt upon what he must have borne in\nsecret for long; her mother only replied coldly that he ought to have\ntold her, and that then at any rate he would have had an adviser to give\nhim counsel; and Margaret turned faint at heart when she heard her\nfather's step in the hall. She dared not go to meet him, and tell him\nwhat she had done all day, for fear of her mother's jealous annoyance.\nShe heard him linger, as if awaiting her, or some sign of her; and she\ndared not stir; she saw by her mother's twitching lips, and changing\ncolour, that she too was aware that her husband had returned. Presently\nhe opened the room-door, and stood there uncertain whether to come in.\nHis face was gray and pale; he had a timid, fearful look in his eyes;\nsomething almost pitiful to see in a man's face; but that look of\ndespondent uncertainty, of mental and bodily languor, touched his wife's\nheart. She went to him, and threw herself on his breast, crying out--\n\n'Oh! Richard, Richard, you should have told me sooner!'\n\nAnd then, in tears, Margaret left her, as she rushed up-stairs to throw\nherself on her bed, and hide her face in the pillows to stifle the\nhysteric sobs that would force their way at last, after the rigid\nself-control of the whole day. How long she lay thus she could not tell.\nShe heard no noise, though the housemaid came in to arrange the room.\nThe affrighted girl stole out again on tip-toe, and went and told Mrs.\nDixon that Miss Hale was crying as if her heart would break: she was\nsure she would make herself deadly ill if she went on at that rate. In\nconsequence of this, Margaret felt herself touched, and started up into\na sitting posture; she saw the accustomed room, the figure of Dixon in\nshadow, as the latter stood holding the candle a little behind her, for\nfear of the effect on Miss Hale's startled eyes, swollen and blinded as\nthey were.\n\n'Oh, Dixon! I did not hear you come into the room!' said Margaret,\nresuming her trembling self-restraint. 'Is it very late?' continued she,\nlifting herself languidly off the bed, yet letting her feet touch the\nground without fairly standing down, as she shaded her wet ruffled hair\noff her face, and tried to look as though nothing were the matter; as if\nshe had only been asleep.\n\n'I hardly can tell what time it is,' replied Dixon, in an aggrieved tone\nof voice. 'Since your mamma told me this terrible news, when I dressed\nher for tea, I've lost all count of time. I'm sure I don't know what is\nto become of us all. When Charlotte told me just now you were sobbing,\nMiss Hale, I thought, no wonder, poor thing! And master thinking of\nturning Dissenter at his time of life, when, if it is not to be said\nhe's done well in the Church, he's not done badly after all. I had a\ncousin, miss, who turned Methodist preacher after he was fifty years of\nage, and a tailor all his life; but then he had never been able to make\na pair of trousers to fit, for as long as he had been in the trade, so\nit was no wonder; but for master! as I said to missus, \"What would poor\nSir John have said? he never liked your marrying Mr. Hale, but if he\ncould have known it would have come to this, he would have sworn worse\noaths than ever, if that was possible!\"'\n\nDixon had been so much accustomed to comment upon Mr. Hale's proceedings\nto her mistress (who listened to her, or not, as she was in the humour),\nthat she never noticed Margaret's flashing eye and dilating nostril. To\nhear her father talked of in this way by a servant to her face!\n\n'Dixon,' she said, in the low tone she always used when much excited,\nwhich had a sound in it as of some distant turmoil, or threatening storm\nbreaking far away. 'Dixon! you forget to whom you are speaking.' She\nstood upright and firm on her feet now, confronting the waiting-maid,\nand fixing her with her steady discerning eye. 'I am Mr. Hale's\ndaughter. Go! You have made a strange mistake, and one that I am sure\nyour own good feeling will make you sorry for when you think about it.'\n\nDixon hung irresolutely about the room for a minute or two. Margaret\nrepeated, 'You may leave me, Dixon. I wish you to go.' Dixon did not\nknow whether to resent these decided words or to cry; either course\nwould have done with her mistress: but, as she said to herself, 'Miss\nMargaret has a touch of the old gentleman about her, as well as poor\nMaster Frederick; I wonder where they get it from?' and she, who would\nhave resented such words from any one less haughty and determined in\nmanner, was subdued enough to say, in a half humble, half injured tone:\n\n'Mayn't I unfasten your gown, miss, and do your hair?'\n\n'No! not to-night, thank you.' And Margaret gravely lighted her out of\nthe room, and bolted the door. From henceforth Dixon obeyed and admired\nMargaret. She said it was because she was so like poor Master Frederick;\nbut the truth was, that Dixon, as do many others, liked to feel herself\nruled by a powerful and decided nature.\n\nMargaret needed all Dixon's help in action, and silence in words; for,\nfor some time, the latter thought it her duty to show her sense of\naffront by saying as little as possible to her young lady; so the energy\ncame out in doing rather than in speaking. A fortnight was a very short\ntime to make arrangements for so serious a removal; as Dixon said, 'Any\none but a gentleman--indeed almost any other gentleman--' but catching a\nlook at Margaret's straight, stern brow just here, she coughed the\nremainder of the sentence away, and meekly took the horehound drop that\nMargaret offered her, to stop the 'little tickling at my chest, miss.'\nBut almost any one but Mr. Hale would have had practical knowledge\nenough to see, that in so short a time it would be difficult to fix on\nany house in Milton-Northern, or indeed elsewhere, to which they could\nremove the furniture that had of necessity to be taken out of Helstone\nvicarage. Mrs. Hale, overpowered by all the troubles and necessities for\nimmediate household decisions that seemed to come upon her at once,\nbecame really ill, and Margaret almost felt it as a relief when her\nmother fairly took to her bed, and left the management of affairs to\nher. Dixon, true to her post of body-guard, attended most faithfully to\nher mistress, and only emerged from Mrs. Hale's bed-room to shake her\nhead, and murmur to herself in a manner which Margaret did not choose to\nhear. For, the one thing clear and straight before her, was the\nnecessity for leaving Helstone. Mr. Hale's successor in the living was\nappointed; and, at any rate, after her father's decision; there must be\nno lingering now, for his sake, as well as from every other\nconsideration. For he came home every evening more and more depressed,\nafter the necessary leave-taking which he had resolved to have with\nevery individual parishioner. Margaret, inexperienced as she was in all\nthe necessary matter-of-fact business to be got through, did not know to\nwhom to apply for advice. The cook and Charlotte worked away with\nwilling arms and stout hearts at all the moving and packing; and as far\nas that went, Margaret's admirable sense enabled her to see what was\nbest, and to direct how it should be done. But where were they to go to?\nIn a week they must be gone. Straight to Milton, or where? So many\narrangements depended on this decision that Margaret resolved to ask her\nfather one evening, in spite of his evident fatigue and low spirits. He\nanswered:\n\n'My dear! I have really had too much to think about to settle this. What\ndoes your mother say? What does she wish? Poor Maria!'\n\nHe met with an echo even louder than his sigh. Dixon had just come into\nthe room for another cup of tea for Mrs. Hale, and catching Mr. Hale's\nlast words, and protected by his presence from Margaret's upbraiding\neyes, made bold to say, 'My poor mistress!'\n\n'You don't think her worse to-day,' said Mr. Hale, turning hastily.\n\n'I'm sure I can't say, sir. It's not for me to judge. The illness seems\nso much more on the mind than on the body.'\n\nMr. Hale looked infinitely distressed.\n\n'You had better take mamma her tea while it is hot, Dixon,' said\nMargaret, in a tone of quiet authority.\n\n'Oh! I beg your pardon, miss! My thoughts was otherwise occupied in\nthinking of my poor---- of Mrs. Hale.'\n\n'Papa!' said Margaret, 'it is this suspense that is bad for you both. Of\ncourse, mamma must feel your change of opinions: we can't help that,'\nshe continued, softly; 'but now the course is clear, at least to a\ncertain point. And I think, papa, that I could get mamma to help me in\nplanning, if you could tell me what to plan for. She has never expressed\nany wish in any way, and only thinks of what can't be helped. Are we to\ngo straight to Milton? Have you taken a house there?'\n\n'No,' he replied. 'I suppose we must go into lodgings, and look about\nfor a house.\n\n'And pack up the furniture so that it can be left at the railway\nstation, till we have met with one?'\n\n'I suppose so. Do what you think best. Only remember, we shall have much\nless money to spend.'\n\nThey had never had much superfluity, as Margaret knew. She felt that it\nwas a great weight suddenly thrown upon her shoulders. Four months ago,\nall the decisions she needed to make were what dress she would wear for\ndinner, and to help Edith to draw out the lists of who should take down\nwhom in the dinner parties at home. Nor was the household in which she\nlived one that called for much decision. Except in the one grand case of\nCaptain Lennox's offer, everything went on with the regularity of\nclockwork. Once a year, there was a long discussion between her aunt and\nEdith as to whether they should go to the Isle of Wight, abroad, or to\nScotland; but at such times Margaret herself was secure of drifting,\nwithout any exertion of her own, into the quiet harbour of home. Now,\nsince that day when Mr. Lennox came, and startled her into a decision,\nevery day brought some question, momentous to her, and to those whom she\nloved, to be settled.\n\nHer father went up after tea to sit with his wife. Margaret remained\nalone in the drawing-room. Suddenly she took a candle and went into her\nfather's study for a great atlas, and lugging it back into the\ndrawing-room, she began to pore over the map of England. She was ready\nto look up brightly when her father came down stairs.\n\n'I have hit upon such a beautiful plan. Look here--in Darkshire, hardly\nthe breadth of my finger from Milton, is Heston, which I have often\nheard of from people living in the north as such a pleasant little\nbathing-place. Now, don't you think we could get mamma there with Dixon,\nwhile you and I go and look at houses, and get one all ready for her in\nMilton? She would get a breath of sea air to set her up for the winter,\nand be spared all the fatigue, and Dixon would enjoy taking care of\nher.'\n\n'Is Dixon to go with us?' asked Mr. Hale, in a kind of helpless dismay.\n\n'Oh, yes!' said Margaret. 'Dixon quite intends it, and I don't know what\nmamma would do without her.'\n\n'But we shall have to put up with a very different way of living, I am\nafraid. Everything is so much dearer in a town. I doubt if Dixon can\nmake herself comfortable. To tell you the truth Margaret, I sometimes\nfeel as if that woman gave herself airs.'\n\n'To be sure she does, papa,' replied Margaret; 'and if she has to put up\nwith a different style of living, we shall have to put up with her airs,\nwhich will be worse. But she really loves us all, and would be miserable\nto leave us, I am sure--especially in this change; so, for mamma's sake,\nand for the sake of her faithfulness, I do think she must go.'\n\n'Very well, my dear. Go on. I am resigned. How far is Heston from\nMilton? The breadth of one of your fingers does not give me a very clear\nidea of distance.'\n\n'Well, then, I suppose it is thirty miles; that is not much!'\n\n'Not in distance, but in--. Never mind! If you really think it will do\nyour mother good, let it be fixed so.'\n\nThis was a great step. Now Margaret could work, and act, and plan in\ngood earnest. And now Mrs. Hale could rouse herself from her languor,\nand forget her real suffering in thinking of the pleasure and the\ndelight of going to the sea-side. Her only regret was that Mr. Hale\ncould not be with her all the fortnight she was to be there, as he had\nbeen for a whole fortnight once, when they were engaged, and she was\nstaying with Sir John and Lady Beresford at Torquay.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\nFAREWELL\n\n    'Unwatch'd the garden bough shall sway,\n     The tender blossom flutter down,\n     Unloved that beech will gather brown,\n     The maple burn itself away;\n\n     Unloved, the sun-flower, shining fair,\n     Ray round with flames her disk of seed,\n     And many a rose-carnation feed\n     With summer spice the humming air;\n\n               * * * * * *\n\n     Till from the garden and the wild\n     A fresh association blow,\n     And year by year the landscape grow\n     Familiar to the stranger's child;\n\n     As year by year the labourer tills\n     His wonted glebe, or lops the glades;\n     And year by year our memory fades\n     From all the circle of the hills.'\n             TENNYSON.\n\n\nThe last day came; the house was full of packing-cases, which were being\ncarted off at the front door, to the nearest railway station. Even the\npretty lawn at the side of the house was made unsightly and untidy by\nthe straw that had been wafted upon it through the open door and\nwindows. The rooms had a strange echoing sound in them,--and the light\ncame harshly and strongly in through the uncurtained windows,--seeming\nalready unfamiliar and strange. Mrs. Hale's dressing-room was left\nuntouched to the last; and there she and Dixon were packing up clothes,\nand interrupting each other every now and then to exclaim at, and turn\nover with fond regard, some forgotten treasure, in the shape of some\nrelic of the children while they were yet little. They did not make much\nprogress with their work. Down-stairs, Margaret stood calm and\ncollected, ready to counsel or advise the men who had been called in to\nhelp the cook and Charlotte. These two last, crying between whiles,\nwondered how the young lady could keep up so this last day, and settled\nit between them that she was not likely to care much for Helstone,\nhaving been so long in London. There she stood, very pale and quiet,\nwith her large grave eyes observing everything,--up to every present\ncircumstance, however small. They could not understand how her heart was\naching all the time, with a heavy pressure that no sighs could lift off\nor relieve, and how constant exertion for her perceptive faculties was\nthe only way to keep herself from crying out with pain. Moreover, if she\ngave way, who was to act? Her father was examining papers, books,\nregisters, what not, in the vestry with the clerk; and when he came in,\nthere were his own books to pack up, which no one but himself could do\nto his satisfaction. Besides, was Margaret one to give way before\nstrange men, or even household friends like the cook and Charlotte! Not\nshe. But at last the four packers went into the kitchen to their tea;\nand Margaret moved stiffly and slowly away from the place in the hall\nwhere she had been standing so long, out through the bare echoing\ndrawing-room, into the twilight of an early November evening. There was\na filmy veil of soft dull mist obscuring, but not hiding, all objects,\ngiving them a lilac hue, for the sun had not yet fully set; a robin was\nsinging,--perhaps, Margaret thought, the very robin that her father had\nso often talked of as his winter pet, and for which he had made, with\nhis own hands, a kind of robin-house by his study-window. The leaves\nwere more gorgeous than ever; the first touch of frost would lay them\nall low on the ground. Already one or two kept constantly floating down,\namber and golden in the low slanting sun-rays.\n\nMargaret went along the walk under the pear-tree wall. She had never\nbeen along it since she paced it at Henry Lennox's side. Here, at this\nbed of thyme, he began to speak of what she must not think of now. Her\neyes were on that late-blowing rose as she was trying to answer; and she\nhad caught the idea of the vivid beauty of the feathery leaves of the\ncarrots in the very middle of his last sentence. Only a fortnight ago!\nAnd all so changed! Where was he now? In London,--going through the old\nround; dining with the old Harley Street set, or with gayer young\nfriends of his own. Even now, while she walked sadly through that damp\nand drear garden in the dusk, with everything falling and fading, and\nturning to decay around her, he might be gladly putting away his\nlaw-books after a day of satisfactory toil, and freshening himself up,\nas he had told her he often did, by a run in the Temple Gardens, taking\nin the while the grand inarticulate mighty roar of tens of thousands of\nbusy men, nigh at hand, but not seen, and catching ever, at his quick\nturns, glimpses of the lights of the city coming up out of the depths of\nthe river. He had often spoken to Margaret of these hasty walks,\nsnatched in the intervals between study and dinner. At his best times\nand in his best moods had he spoken of them; and the thought of them had\nstruck upon her fancy. Here there was no sound. The robin had gone away\ninto the vast stillness of night. Now and then, a cottage door in the\ndistance was opened and shut, as if to admit the tired labourer to his\nhome; but that sounded very far away. A stealthy, creeping, cranching\nsound among the crisp fallen leaves of the forest, beyond the garden,\nseemed almost close at hand. Margaret knew it was some poacher. Sitting\nup in her bed-room this past autumn, with the light of her candle\nextinguished, and purely revelling in the solemn beauty of the heavens\nand the earth, she had many a time seen the light noiseless leap of the\npoachers over the garden-fence, their quick tramp across the dewy\nmoonlit lawn, their disappearance in the black still shadow beyond. The\nwild adventurous freedom of their life had taken her fancy; she felt\ninclined to wish them success; she had no fear of them. But to-night she\nwas afraid, she knew not why. She heard Charlotte shutting the windows,\nand fastening up for the night, unconscious that any one had gone out\ninto the garden. A small branch--it might be of rotten wood, or it might\nbe broken by force--came heavily down in the nearest part of the forest,\nMargaret ran, swift as Camilla, down to the window, and rapped at it\nwith a hurried tremulousness which startled Charlotte within.\n\n'Let me in! Let me in! It is only me, Charlotte!' Her heart did not\nstill its fluttering till she was safe in the drawing-room, with the\nwindows fastened and bolted, and the familiar walls hemming her round,\nand shutting her in. She had sate down upon a packing case; cheerless,\nChill was the dreary and dismantled room--no fire nor other light, but\nCharlotte's long unsnuffed candle. Charlotte looked at Margaret with\nsurprise; and Margaret, feeling it rather than seeing it, rose up.\n\n'I was afraid you were shutting me out altogether, Charlotte,' said she,\nhalf-smiling. 'And then you would never have heard me in the kitchen,\nand the doors into the lane and churchyard are locked long ago.'\n\n'Oh, miss, I should have been sure to have missed you soon. The men\nwould have wanted you to tell them how to go on. And I have put tea in\nmaster's study, as being the most comfortable room, so to speak.'\n\n'Thank you, Charlotte. You are a kind girl. I shall be sorry to leave\nyou. You must try and write to me, if I can ever give you any little\nhelp or good advice. I shall always be glad to get a letter from\nHelstone, you know. I shall be sure and send you my address when I know\nit.'\n\nThe study was all ready for tea. There was a good blazing fire, and\nunlighted candles on the table. Margaret sat down on the rug, partly to\nwarm herself, for the dampness of the evening hung about her dress, and\nover-fatigue had made her chilly. She kept herself balanced by clasping\nher hands together round her knees; her head dropped a little towards\nher chest; the attitude was one of despondency, whatever her frame of\nmind might be. But when she heard her father's step on the gravel\noutside, she started up, and hastily shaking her heavy black hair back,\nand wiping a few tears away that had come on her cheeks she knew not\nhow, she went out to open the door for him. He showed far more\ndepression than she did. She could hardly get him to talk, although she\ntried to speak on subjects that would interest him, at the cost of an\neffort every time which she thought would be her last.\n\n'Have you been a very long walk to-day?' asked she, on seeing his\nrefusal to touch food of any kind.\n\n'As far as Fordham Beeches. I went to see Widow Maltby; she is sadly\ngrieved at not having wished you good-bye. She says little Susan has\nkept watch down the lane for days past.--Nay, Margaret, what is the\nmatter, dear?' The thought of the little child watching for her, and\ncontinually disappointed--from no forgetfulness on her part, but from\nsheer inability to leave home--was the last drop in poor Margaret's cup,\nand she was sobbing away as if her heart would break. Mr. Hale was\ndistressingly perplexed. He rose, and walked nervously up and down the\nroom. Margaret tried to check herself, but would not speak until she\ncould do so with firmness. She heard him talking, as if to himself.\n\n'I cannot bear it. I cannot bear to see the sufferings of others. I\nthink I could go through my own with patience. Oh, is there no going\nback?'\n\n'No, father,' said Margaret, looking straight at him, and speaking low\nand steadily. 'It is bad to believe you in error. It would be infinitely\nworse to have known you a hypocrite.' She dropped her voice at the last\nfew words, as if entertaining the idea of hypocrisy for a moment in\nconnection with her father savoured of irreverence.\n\n'Besides,' she went on, 'it is only that I am tired to-night; don't\nthink that I am suffering from what you have done, dear papa. We can't\neither of us talk about it to-night, I believe,' said she, finding that\ntears and sobs would come in spite of herself. 'I had better go and take\nmamma up this cup of tea. She had hers very early, when I was too busy\nto go to her, and I am sure she will be glad of another now.'\n\nRailroad time inexorably wrenched them away from lovely, beloved\nHelstone, the next morning. They were gone; they had seen the last of\nthe long low parsonage home, half-covered with China-roses and\npyracanthus--more homelike than ever in the morning sun that glittered\non its windows, each belonging to some well-loved room. Almost before\nthey had settled themselves into the car, sent from Southampton to fetch\nthem to the station, they were gone away to return no more. A sting at\nMargaret's heart made her strive to look out to catch the last glimpse\nof the old church tower at the turn where she knew it might be seen\nabove a wave of the forest trees; but her father remembered this too,\nand she silently acknowledged his greater right to the one window from\nwhich it could be seen. She leant back and shut her eyes, and the tears\nwelled forth, and hung glittering for an instant on the shadowing\neye-lashes before rolling slowly down her cheeks, and dropping,\nunheeded, on her dress.\n\nThey were to stop in London all night at some quiet hotel. Poor Mrs.\nHale had cried in her way nearly all day long; and Dixon showed her\nsorrow by extreme crossness, and a continual irritable attempt to keep\nher petticoats from even touching the unconscious Mr. Hale, whom she\nregarded as the origin of all this suffering.\n\nThey went through the well-known streets, past houses which they had\noften visited, past shops in which she had lounged, impatient, by her\naunt's side, while that lady was making some important and interminable\ndecision-nay, absolutely past acquaintances in the streets; for though\nthe morning had been of an incalculable length to them, and they felt as\nif it ought long ago to have closed in for the repose of darkness, it\nwas the very busiest time of a London afternoon in November when they\narrived there. It was long since Mrs. Hale had been in London; and she\nroused up, almost like a child, to look about her at the different\nstreets, and to gaze after and exclaim at the shops and carriages.\n\n'Oh, there's Harrison's, where I bought so many of my wedding-things.\nDear! how altered! They've got immense plate-glass windows, larger than\nCrawford's in Southampton. Oh, and there, I declare--no, it is not--yes,\nit is--Margaret, we have just passed Mr. Henry Lennox. Where can he be\ngoing, among all these shops?'\n\nMargaret started forwards, and as quickly fell back, half-smiling at\nherself for the sudden motion. They were a hundred yards away by this\ntime; but he seemed like a relic of Helstone--he was associated with a\nbright morning, an eventful day, and she should have liked to have seen\nhim, without his seeing her,--without the chance of their speaking.\n\nThe evening, without employment, passed in a room high up in an hotel,\nwas long and heavy. Mr. Hale went out to his bookseller's, and to call\non a friend or two. Every one they saw, either in the house or out in\nthe streets, appeared hurrying to some appointment, expected by, or\nexpecting somebody. They alone seemed strange and friendless, and\ndesolate. Yet within a mile, Margaret knew of house after house, where\nshe for her own sake, and her mother for her aunt Shaw's, would be\nwelcomed, if they came in gladness, or even in peace of mind. If they\ncame sorrowing, and wanting sympathy in a complicated trouble like the\npresent, then they would be felt as a shadow in all these houses of\nintimate acquaintances, not friends. London life is too whirling and\nfull to admit of even an hour of that deep silence of feeling which the\nfriends of Job showed, when 'they sat with him on the ground seven days\nand seven nights, and none spake a word unto him; for they saw that his\ngrief was very great.'\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\nNEW SCENES AND FACES\n\n    'Mist clogs the sunshine,\n     Smoky dwarf houses\n     Have we round on every side.'\n             MATTHEW ARNOLD.\n\n\nThe next afternoon, about twenty miles from Milton-Northern, they\nentered on the little branch railway that led to Heston. Heston itself\nwas one long straggling street, running parallel to the seashore. It had\na character of its own, as different from the little bathing-places in\nthe south of England as they again from those of the continent. To use a\nScotch word, every thing looked more 'purposelike.' The country carts\nhad more iron, and less wood and leather about the horse-gear; the\npeople in the streets, although on pleasure bent, had yet a busy mind.\nThe colours looked grayer--more enduring, not so gay and pretty. There\nwere no smock-frocks, even among the country folk; they retarded motion,\nand were apt to catch on machinery, and so the habit of wearing them had\ndied out. In such towns in the south of England, Margaret had seen the\nshopmen, when not employed in their business, lounging a little at their\ndoors, enjoying the fresh air, and the look up and down the street.\nHere, if they had any leisure from customers, they made themselves\nbusiness in the shop--even, Margaret fancied, to the unnecessary\nunrolling and rerolling of ribbons. All these differences struck upon\nher mind, as she and her mother went out next morning to look for\nlodgings.\n\nTheir two nights at hotels had cost more than Mr. Hale had anticipated,\nand they were glad to take the first clean, cheerful rooms they met with\nthat were at liberty to receive them. There, for the first time for many\ndays, did Margaret feel at rest. There was a dreaminess in the rest,\ntoo, which made it still more perfect and luxurious to repose in. The\ndistant sea, lapping the sandy shore with measured sound; the nearer\ncries of the donkey-boys; the unusual scenes moving before her like\npictures, which she cared not in her laziness to have fully explained\nbefore they passed away; the stroll down to the beach to breathe the\nsea-air, soft and warm on that sandy shore even to the end of November;\nthe great long misty sea-line touching the tender-coloured sky; the\nwhite sail of a distant boat turning silver in some pale sunbeam:--it\nseemed as if she could dream her life away in such luxury of\npensiveness, in which she made her present all in all, from not daring\nto think of the past, or wishing to contemplate the future.\n\nBut the future must be met, however stern and iron it be. One evening it\nwas arranged that Margaret and her father should go the next day to\nMilton-Northern, and look out for a house. Mr. Hale had received several\nletters from Mr. Bell, and one or two from Mr. Thornton, and he was\nanxious to ascertain at once a good many particulars respecting his\nposition and chances of success there, which he could only do by an\ninterview with the latter gentleman. Margaret knew that they ought to be\nremoving; but she had a repugnance to the idea of a manufacturing town,\nand believed that her mother was receiving benefit from Heston air, so\nshe would willingly have deferred the expedition to Milton.\n\nFor several miles before they reached Milton, they saw a deep\nlead-coloured cloud hanging over the horizon in the direction in which\nit lay. It was all the darker from contrast with the pale gray-blue of\nthe wintry sky; for in Heston there had been the earliest signs of\nfrost. Nearer to the town, the air had a faint taste and smell of smoke;\nperhaps, after all, more a loss of the fragrance of grass and herbage\nthan any positive taste or smell. Quick they were whirled over long,\nstraight, hopeless streets of regularly-built houses, all small and of\nbrick. Here and there a great oblong many-windowed factory stood up,\nlike a hen among her chickens, puffing out black 'unparliamentary'\nsmoke, and sufficiently accounting for the cloud which Margaret had\ntaken to foretell rain. As they drove through the larger and wider\nstreets, from the station to the hotel, they had to stop constantly;\ngreat loaded lorries blocked up the not over-wide thoroughfares.\nMargaret had now and then been into the city in her drives with her\naunt. But there the heavy lumbering vehicles seemed various in their\npurposes and intent; here every van, every waggon and truck, bore\ncotton, either in the raw shape in bags, or the woven shape in bales of\ncalico. People thronged the footpaths, most of them well-dressed as\nregarded the material, but with a slovenly looseness which struck\nMargaret as different from the shabby, threadbare smartness of a similar\nclass in London.\n\n'New Street,' said Mr. Hale. 'This, I believe, is the principal street\nin Milton. Bell has often spoken to me about it. It was the opening of\nthis street from a lane into a great thoroughfare, thirty years ago,\nwhich has caused his property to rise so much in value. Mr. Thornton's\nmill must be somewhere not very far off, for he is Mr. Bell's tenant.\nBut I fancy he dates from his warehouse.'\n\n'Where is our hotel, papa?'\n\n'Close to the end of this street, I believe. Shall we have lunch before\nor after we have looked at the houses we marked in the Milton Times?'\n\n'Oh, let us get our work done first.'\n\n'Very well. Then I will only see if there is any note or letter for me\nfrom Mr. Thornton, who said he would let me know anything he might hear\nabout these houses, and then we will set off. We will keep the cab; it\nwill be safer than losing ourselves, and being too late for the train\nthis afternoon.'\n\nThere were no letters awaiting him. They set out on their house-hunting.\nThirty pounds a-year was all they could afford to give, but in Hampshire\nthey could have met with a roomy house and pleasant garden for the\nmoney. Here, even the necessary accommodation of two sitting-rooms and\nfour bed-rooms seemed unattainable. They went through their list,\nrejecting each as they visited it. Then they looked at each other in\ndismay.\n\n'We must go back to the second, I think. That one,--in Crampton, don't\nthey call the suburb? There were three sitting-rooms; don't you remember\nhow we laughed at the number compared with the three bed-rooms? But I\nhave planned it all. The front room down-stairs is to be your study and\nour dining-room (poor papa!), for, you know, we settled mamma is to have\nas cheerful a sitting-room as we can get; and that front room up-stairs,\nwith the atrocious blue and pink paper and heavy cornice, had really a\npretty view over the plain, with a great bend of river, or canal, or\nwhatever it is, down below. Then I could have the little bed-room\nbehind, in that projection at the head of the first flight of\nstairs--over the kitchen, you know--and you and mamma the room behind\nthe drawing-room, and that closet in the roof will make you a splendid\ndressing-room.'\n\n'But Dixon, and the girl we are to have to help?'\n\n'Oh, wait a minute. I am overpowered by the discovery of my own genius\nfor management. Dixon is to have--let me see, I had it once--the back\nsitting-room. I think she will like that. She grumbles so much about the\nstairs at Heston; and the girl is to have that sloping attic over your\nroom and mamma's. Won't that do?'\n\n'I dare say it will. But the papers. What taste! And the overloading\nsuch a house with colour and such heavy cornices!'\n\n'Never mind, papa! Surely, you can charm the landlord into re-papering\none or two of the rooms--the drawing-room and your bed-room--for mamma\nwill come most in contact with them; and your book-shelves will hide a\ngreat deal of that gaudy pattern in the dining-room.'\n\n'Then you think it the best? If so, I had better go at once and call on\nthis Mr. Donkin, to whom the advertisement refers me. I will take you\nback to the hotel, where you can order lunch, and rest, and by the time\nit is ready, I shall be with you. I hope I shall be able to get new\npapers.'\n\nMargaret hoped so too, though she said nothing. She had never come\nfairly in contact with the taste that loves ornament, however bad, more\nthan the plainness and simplicity which are of themselves the framework\nof elegance. Her father took her through the entrance of the hotel, and\nleaving her at the foot of the staircase, went to the address of the\nlandlord of the house they had fixed upon. Just as Margaret had her hand\non the door of their sitting-room, she was followed by a quick-stepping\nwaiter:\n\n'I beg your pardon, ma'am. The gentleman was gone so quickly, I had no\ntime to tell him. Mr. Thornton called almost directly after you left;\nand, as I understood from what the gentleman said, you would be back in\nan hour, I told him so, and he came again about five minutes ago, and\nsaid he would wait for Mr. Hale. He is in your room now, ma'am.'\n\n'Thank you. My father will return soon, and then you can tell him.'\nMargaret opened the door and went in with the straight, fearless,\ndignified presence habitual to her. She felt no awkwardness; she had too\nmuch the habits of society for that. Here was a person come on business\nto her father; and, as he was one who had shown himself obliging, she\nwas disposed to treat him with a full measure of civility. Mr. Thornton\nwas a good deal more surprised and discomfited than she. Instead of a\nquiet, middle-aged clergyman, a young lady came forward with frank\ndignity,--a young lady of a different type to most of those he was in\nthe habit of seeing. Her dress was very plain: a close straw bonnet of\nthe best material and shape, trimmed with white ribbon; a dark silk\ngown, without any trimming or flounce; a large Indian shawl, which hung\nabout her in long heavy folds, and which she wore as an empress wears\nher drapery. He did not understand who she was, as he caught the simple,\nstraight, unabashed look, which showed that his being there was of no\nconcern to the beautiful countenance, and called up no flush of surprise\nto the pale ivory of the complexion. He had heard that Mr. Hale had a\ndaughter, but he had imagined that she was a little girl.\n\n'Mr. Thornton, I believe!' said Margaret, after a half-instant's pause,\nduring which his unready words would not come. 'Will you sit down. My\nfather brought me to the door, not a minute ago, but unfortunately he\nwas not told that you were here, and he has gone away on some business.\nBut he will come back almost directly. I am sorry you have had the\ntrouble of calling twice.'\n\nMr. Thornton was in habits of authority himself, but she seemed to\nassume some kind of rule over him at once. He had been getting impatient\nat the loss of his time on a market-day, the moment before she appeared,\nyet now he calmly took a seat at her bidding.\n\n'Do you know where it is that Mr. Hale has gone to? Perhaps I might be\nable to find him.'\n\n'He has gone to a Mr. Donkin's in Canute Street. He is the land-lord of\nthe house my father wishes to take in Crampton.'\n\nMr. Thornton knew the house. He had seen the advertisement, and been to\nlook at it, in compliance with a request of Mr. Bell's that he would\nassist Mr. Hale to the best of his power: and also instigated by his own\ninterest in the case of a clergyman who had given up his living under\ncircumstances such as those of Mr. Hale. Mr. Thornton had thought that\nthe house in Crampton was really just the thing; but now that he saw\nMargaret, with her superb ways of moving and looking, he began to feel\nashamed of having imagined that it would do very well for the Hales, in\nspite of a certain vulgarity in it which had struck him at the time of\nhis looking it over.\n\nMargaret could not help her looks; but the short curled upper lip, the\nround, massive up-turned chin, the manner of carrying her head, her\nmovements, full of a soft feminine defiance, always gave strangers the\nimpression of haughtiness. She was tired now, and would rather have\nremained silent, and taken the rest her father had planned for her; but,\nof course, she owed it to herself to be a gentlewoman, and to speak\ncourteously from time to time to this stranger; not over-brushed, nor\nover-polished, it must be confessed, after his rough encounter with\nMilton streets and crowds. She wished that he would go, as he had once\nspoken of doing, instead of sitting there, answering with curt sentences\nall the remarks she made. She had taken off her shawl, and hung it over\nthe back of her chair. She sat facing him and facing the light; her full\nbeauty met his eye; her round white flexile throat rising out of the\nfull, yet lithe figure; her lips, moving so slightly as she spoke, not\nbreaking the cold serene look of her face with any variation from the\none lovely haughty curve; her eyes, with their soft gloom, meeting his\nwith quiet maiden freedom. He almost said to himself that he did not\nlike her, before their conversation ended; he tried so to compensate\nhimself for the mortified feeling, that while he looked upon her with an\nadmiration he could not repress, she looked at him with proud\nindifference, taking him, he thought, for what, in his irritation, he\ntold himself he was--a great rough fellow, with not a grace or a\nrefinement about him. Her quiet coldness of demeanour he interpreted\ninto contemptuousness, and resented it in his heart to the pitch of\nalmost inclining him to get up and go away, and have nothing more to do\nwith these Hales, and their superciliousness.\n\nJust as Margaret had exhausted her last subject of conversation--and yet\nconversation that could hardly be called which consisted of so few and\nsuch short speeches--her father came in, and with his pleasant\ngentlemanly courteousness of apology, reinstated his name and family in\nMr. Thornton's good opinion.\n\nMr. Hale and his visitor had a good deal to say respecting their mutual\nfriend, Mr. Bell; and Margaret, glad that her part of entertaining the\nvisitor was over, went to the window to try and make herself more\nfamiliar with the strange aspect of the street. She got so much absorbed\nin watching what was going on outside that she hardly heard her father\nwhen he spoke to her, and he had to repeat what he said:\n\n'Margaret! the landlord will persist in admiring that hideous paper, and\nI am afraid we must let it remain.'\n\n'Oh dear! I am sorry!' she replied, and began to turn over in her mind\nthe possibility of hiding part of it, at least, by some of her sketches,\nbut gave up the idea at last, as likely only to make bad worse. Her\nfather, meanwhile, with his kindly country hospitality, was pressing Mr.\nThornton to stay to luncheon with them. It would have been very\ninconvenient to him to do so, yet he felt that he should have yielded,\nif Margaret by word or look had seconded her father's invitation; he was\nglad she did not, and yet he was irritated at her for not doing it. She\ngave him a low, grave bow when he left, and he felt more awkward and\nself-conscious in every limb than he had ever done in all his life\nbefore.\n\n'Well, Margaret, now to luncheon, as fast we can. Have you ordered it?'\n\n'No, papa; that man was here when I came home, and I have never had an\nopportunity.'\n\n'Then we must take anything we can get. He must have been waiting a long\ntime, I'm afraid.'\n\n'It seemed exceedingly long to me. I was just at the last gasp when you\ncame in. He never went on with any subject, but gave little, short,\nabrupt answers.'\n\n'Very much to the point though, I should think. He is a clearheaded\nfellow. He said (did you hear?) that Crampton is on gravelly soil, and\nby far the most healthy suburb in the neighbourhood of Milton.'\n\nWhen they returned to Heston, there was the day's account to be given to\nMrs. Hale, who was full of questions which they answered in the\nintervals of tea-drinking.\n\n'And what is your correspondent, Mr. Thornton, like?'\n\n'Ask Margaret,' said her husband. 'She and he had a long attempt at\nconversation, while I was away speaking to the landlord.'\n\n'Oh! I hardly know what he is like,' said Margaret, lazily; too tired to\ntax her powers of description much. And then rousing herself, she said,\n'He is a tall, broad-shouldered man, about--how old, papa?'\n\n'I should guess about thirty.'\n\n'About thirty--with a face that is neither exactly plain, nor yet\nhandsome, nothing remarkable--not quite a gentleman; but that was hardly\nto be expected.'\n\n'Not vulgar, or common though,' put in her father, rather jealous of any\ndisparagement of the sole friend he had in Milton.\n\n'Oh no!' said Margaret. 'With such an expression of resolution and\npower, no face, however plain in feature, could be either vulgar or\ncommon. I should not like to have to bargain with him; he looks very\ninflexible. Altogether a man who seems made for his niche, mamma;\nsagacious, and strong, as becomes a great tradesman.'\n\n'Don't call the Milton manufacturers tradesmen, Margaret,' said her\nfather. 'They are very different.'\n\n'Are they? I apply the word to all who have something tangible to sell;\nbut if you think the term is not correct, papa, I won't use it. But, oh\nmamma! speaking of vulgarity and commonness, you must prepare yourself\nfor our drawing-room paper. Pink and blue roses, with yellow leaves! And\nsuch a heavy cornice round the room!'\n\nBut when they removed to their new house in Milton, the obnoxious papers\nwere gone. The landlord received their thanks very composedly; and let\nthem think, if they liked, that he had relented from his expressed\ndetermination not to repaper. There was no particular need to tell them,\nthat what he did not care to do for a Reverend Mr. Hale, unknown in\nMilton, he was only too glad to do at the one short sharp remonstrance\nof Mr. Thornton, the wealthy manufacturer.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\nHOME SICKNESS\n\n    'And it's hame, hame; hame,\n     Hame fain wad I be.'\n\n\nIt needed the pretty light papering of the rooms to reconcile them to\nMilton. It needed more--more that could not be had. The thick yellow\nNovember fogs had come on; and the view of the plain in the valley, made\nby the sweeping bend of the river, was all shut out when Mrs. Hale\narrived at her new home.\n\nMargaret and Dixon had been at work for two days, unpacking and\narranging, but everything inside the house still looked in disorder; and\noutside a thick fog crept up to the very windows, and was driven in to\nevery open door in choking white wreaths of unwholesome mist.\n\n'Oh, Margaret! are we to live here?' asked Mrs. Hale in blank dismay.\nMargaret's heart echoed the dreariness of the tone in which this\nquestion was put. She could scarcely command herself enough to say, 'Oh,\nthe fogs in London are sometimes far worse!'\n\n'But then you knew that London itself, and friends lay behind it.\nHere--well! we are desolate. Oh Dixon, what a place this is!'\n\n'Indeed, ma'am, I'm sure it will be your death before long, and then I\nknow who'll--stay! Miss Hale, that's far too heavy for you to lift.'\n\n'Not at all, thank you, Dixon,' replied Margaret, coldly. 'The best\nthing we can do for mamma is to get her room quite ready for her to go\nto bed, while I go and bring her a cup of coffee.'\n\nMr. Hale was equally out of spirits, and equally came upon Margaret for\nsympathy.\n\n'Margaret, I do believe this is an unhealthy place. Only suppose that\nyour mother's health or yours should suffer. I wish I had gone into some\ncountry place in Wales; this is really terrible,' said he, going up to\nthe window. There was no comfort to be given. They were settled in\nMilton, and must endure smoke and fogs for a season; indeed, all other\nlife seemed shut out from them by as thick a fog of circumstance. Only\nthe day before, Mr. Hale had been reckoning up with dismay how much\ntheir removal and fortnight at Heston had cost, and he found it had\nabsorbed nearly all his little stock of ready money. No! here they were,\nand here they must remain.\n\nAt night when Margaret realised this, she felt inclined to sit down in a\nstupor of despair. The heavy smoky air hung about her bedroom, which\noccupied the long narrow projection at the back of the house. The\nwindow, placed at the side of the oblong, looked to the blank wall of a\nsimilar projection, not above ten feet distant. It loomed through the\nfog like a great barrier to hope. Inside the room everything was in\nconfusion. All their efforts had been directed to make her mother's room\ncomfortable. Margaret sat down on a box, the direction card upon which\nstruck her as having been written at Helstone--beautiful, beloved\nHelstone! She lost herself in dismal thought: but at last she determined\nto take her mind away from the present; and suddenly remembered that she\nhad a letter from Edith which she had only half read in the bustle of\nthe morning. It was to tell of their arrival at Corfu; their voyage\nalong the Mediterranean--their music, and dancing on board ship; the gay\nnew life opening upon her; her house with its trellised balcony, and its\nviews over white cliffs and deep blue sea. Edith wrote fluently and\nwell, if not graphically. She could not only seize the salient and\ncharacteristic points of a scene, but she could enumerate enough of\nindiscriminate particulars for Margaret to make it out for herself.\nCaptain Lennox and another lately married officer shared a villa, high\nup on the beautiful precipitous rocks overhanging the sea. Their days,\nlate as it was in the year, seemed spent in boating or land pic-nics;\nall out-of-doors, pleasure-seeking and glad, Edith's life seemed like\nthe deep vault of blue sky above her, free--utterly free from fleck or\ncloud. Her husband had to attend drill, and she, the most musical\nofficer's wife there, had to copy the new and popular tunes out of the\nmost recent English music, for the benefit of the bandmaster; those\nseemed their most severe and arduous duties. She expressed an\naffectionate hope that, if the regiment stopped another year at Corfu,\nMargaret might come out and pay her a long visit. She asked Margaret if\nshe remembered the day twelve-month on which she, Edith, wrote--how it\nrained all day long in Harley Street; and how she would not put on her\nnew gown to go to a stupid dinner, and get it all wet and splashed in\ngoing to the carriage; and how at that very dinner they had first met\nCaptain Lennox.\n\nYes! Margaret remembered it well. Edith and Mrs. Shaw had gone to\ndinner. Margaret had joined the party in the evening. The recollection\nof the plentiful luxury of all the arrangements, the stately\nhandsomeness of the furniture, the size of the house, the peaceful,\nuntroubled ease of the visitors--all came vividly before her, in strange\ncontrast to the present time. The smooth sea of that old life closed up,\nwithout a mark left to tell where they had all been. The habitual\ndinners, the calls, the shopping, the dancing evenings, were all going\non, going on for ever, though her Aunt Shaw and Edith were no longer\nthere; and she, of course, was even less missed. She doubted if any one\nof that old set ever thought of her, except Henry Lennox. He too, she\nknew, would strive to forget her, because of the pain she had caused\nhim. She had heard him often boast of his power of putting any\ndisagreeable thought far away from him. Then she penetrated farther into\nwhat might have been. If she had cared for him as a lover, and had\naccepted him, and this change in her father's opinions and consequent\nstation had taken place, she could not doubt but that it would have been\nimpatiently received by Mr. Lennox. It was a bitter mortification to her\nin one sense; but she could bear it patiently, because she knew her\nfather's purity of purpose, and that strengthened her to endure his\nerrors, grave and serious though in her estimation they were. But the\nfact of the world esteeming her father degraded, in its rough wholesale\njudgment, would have oppressed and irritated Mr. Lennox. As she realised\nwhat might have been, she grew to be thankful for what was. They were at\nthe lowest now; they could not be worse. Edith's astonishment and her\naunt Shaw's dismay would have to be met bravely, when their letters\ncame. So Margaret rose up and began slowly to undress herself, feeling\nthe full luxury of acting leisurely, late as it was, after all the past\nhurry of the day. She fell asleep, hoping for some brightness, either\ninternal or external. But if she had known how long it would be before\nthe brightness came, her heart would have sunk low down. The time of the\nyear was most unpropitious to health as well as to spirits. Her mother\ncaught a severe cold, and Dixon herself was evidently not well, although\nMargaret could not insult her more than by trying to save her, or by\ntaking any care of her. They could hear of no girl to assist her; all\nwere at work in the factories; at least, those who applied were well\nscolded by Dixon, for thinking that such as they could ever be trusted\nto work in a gentleman's house. So they had to keep a charwoman in\nalmost constant employ. Margaret longed to send for Charlotte; but\nbesides the objection of her being a better servant than they could now\nafford to keep, the distance was too great.\n\nMr. Hale met with several pupils, recommended to him by Mr. Bell, or by\nthe more immediate influence of Mr. Thornton. They were mostly of the\nage when many boys would be still at school, but, according to the\nprevalent, and apparently well-founded notions of Milton, to make a lad\ninto a good tradesman he must be caught young, and acclimated to the\nlife of the mill, or office, or warehouse. If he were sent to even the\nScotch Universities, he came back unsettled for commercial pursuits; how\nmuch more so if he went to Oxford or Cambridge, where he could not be\nentered till he was eighteen? So most of the manufacturers placed their\nsons in sucking situations' at fourteen or fifteen years of age,\nunsparingly cutting away all off-shoots in the direction of literature\nor high mental cultivation, in hopes of throwing the whole strength and\nvigour of the plant into commerce. Still there were some wiser parents;\nand some young men, who had sense enough to perceive their own\ndeficiencies, and strive to remedy them. Nay, there were a few no longer\nyouths, but men in the prime of life, who had the stern wisdom to\nacknowledge their own ignorance, and to learn late what they should have\nlearnt early. Mr. Thornton was perhaps the oldest of Mr. Hale's pupils.\nHe was certainly the favourite. Mr. Hale got into the habit of quoting\nhis opinions so frequently, and with such regard, that it became a\nlittle domestic joke to wonder what time, during the hour appointed for\ninstruction, could be given to absolute learning, so much of it appeared\nto have been spent in conversation.\n\nMargaret rather encouraged this light, merry way of viewing her father's\nacquaintance with Mr. Thornton, because she felt that her mother was\ninclined to look upon this new friendship of her husband's with jealous\neyes. As long as his time had been solely occupied with his books and\nhis parishioners, as at Helstone, she had appeared to care little\nwhether she saw much of him or not; but now that he looked eagerly\nforward to each renewal of his intercourse with Mr. Thornton, she seemed\nhurt and annoyed, as if he were slighting her companionship for the\nfirst time. Mr. Hale's over-praise had the usual effect of over-praise\nupon his auditors; they were a little inclined to rebel against\nAristides being always called the Just.\n\nAfter a quiet life in a country parsonage for more than twenty years,\nthere was something dazzling to Mr. Hale in the energy which conquered\nimmense difficulties with ease; the power of the machinery of Milton,\nthe power of the men of Milton, impressed him with a sense of grandeur,\nwhich he yielded to without caring to inquire into the details of its\nexercise. But Margaret went less abroad, among machinery and men; saw\nless of power in its public effect, and, as it happened, she was thrown\nwith one or two of those who, in all measures affecting masses of\npeople, must be acute sufferers for the good of many. The question\nalways is, has everything been done to make the sufferings of these\nexceptions as small as possible? Or, in the triumph of the crowded\nprocession, have the helpless been trampled on, instead of being gently\nlifted aside out of the roadway of the conqueror, whom they have no\npower to accompany on his march?\n\nIt fell to Margaret's share to have to look out for a servant to assist\nDixon, who had at first undertaken to find just the person she wanted to\ndo all the rough work of the house. But Dixon's ideas of helpful girls\nwere founded on the recollection of tidy elder scholars at Helstone\nschool, who were only too proud to be allowed to come to the parsonage\non a busy day, and treated Mrs. Dixon with all the respect, and a good\ndeal more of fright, which they paid to Mr. and Mrs. Hale. Dixon was not\nunconscious of this awed reverence which was given to her; nor did she\ndislike it; it flattered her much as Louis the Fourteenth was flattered\nby his courtiers shading their eyes from the dazzling light of his\npresence. But nothing short of her faithful love for Mrs. Hale could\nhave made her endure the rough independent way in which all the Milton\ngirls, who made application for the servant's place, replied to her\ninquiries respecting their qualifications. They even went the length of\nquestioning her back again; having doubts and fears of their own, as to\nthe solvency of a family who lived in a house of thirty pounds a-year,\nand yet gave themselves airs, and kept two servants, one of them so very\nhigh and mighty. Mr. Hale was no longer looked upon as Vicar of\nHelstone, but as a man who only spent at a certain rate. Margaret was\nweary and impatient of the accounts which Dixon perpetually brought to\nMrs. Hale of the behaviour of these would-be servants. Not but what\nMargaret was repelled by the rough uncourteous manners of these people;\nnot but what she shrunk with fastidious pride from their hail-fellow\naccost and severely resented their unconcealed curiosity as to the means\nand position of any family who lived in Milton, and yet were not engaged\nin trade of some kind. But the more Margaret felt impertinence, the more\nlikely she was to be silent on the subject; and, at any rate, if she\ntook upon herself to make inquiry for a servant, she could spare her\nmother the recital of all her disappointments and fancied or real\ninsults.\n\nMargaret accordingly went up and down to butchers and grocers, seeking\nfor a nonpareil of a girl; and lowering her hopes and expectations every\nweek, as she found the difficulty of meeting with any one in a\nmanufacturing town who did not prefer the better wages and greater\nindependence of working in a mill. It was something of a trial to\nMargaret to go out by herself in this busy bustling place. Mrs. Shaw's\nideas of propriety and her own helpless dependence on others, had always\nmade her insist that a footman should accompany Edith and Margaret, if\nthey went beyond Harley Street or the immediate neighbourhood. The\nlimits by which this rule of her aunt's had circumscribed Margaret's\nindependence had been silently rebelled against at the time: and she had\ndoubly enjoyed the free walks and rambles of her forest life, from the\ncontrast which they presented. She went along there with a bounding\nfearless step, that occasionally broke out into a run, if she were in a\nhurry, and occasionally was stilled into perfect repose, as she stood\nlistening to, or watching any of the wild creatures who sang in the\nleafy courts, or glanced out with their keen bright eyes from the low\nbrushwood or tangled furze. It was a trial to come down from such motion\nor such stillness, only guided by her own sweet will, to the even and\ndecorous pace necessary in streets. But she could have laughed at\nherself for minding this change, if it had not been accompanied by what\nwas a more serious annoyance. The side of the town on which Crampton lay\nwas especially a thoroughfare for the factory people. In the back\nstreets around them there were many mills, out of which poured streams\nof men and women two or three times a day. Until Margaret had learnt the\ntimes of their ingress and egress, she was very unfortunate in\nconstantly falling in with them. They came rushing along, with bold,\nfearless faces, and loud laughs and jests, particularly aimed at all\nthose who appeared to be above them in rank or station. The tones of\ntheir unrestrained voices, and their carelessness of all common rules of\nstreet politeness, frightened Margaret a little at first. The girls,\nwith their rough, but not unfriendly freedom, would comment on her\ndress, even touch her shawl or gown to ascertain the exact material;\nnay, once or twice she was asked questions relative to some article\nwhich they particularly admired. There was such a simple reliance on her\nwomanly sympathy with their love of dress, and on her kindliness, that\nshe gladly replied to these inquiries, as soon as she understood them;\nand half smiled back at their remarks. She did not mind meeting any\nnumber of girls, loud spoken and boisterous though they might be. But\nshe alternately dreaded and fired up against the workmen, who commented\nnot on her dress, but on her looks, in the same open fearless manner.\nShe, who had hitherto felt that even the most refined remark on her\npersonal appearance was an impertinence, had to endure undisguised\nadmiration from these outspoken men. But the very out-spokenness marked\ntheir innocence of any intention to hurt her delicacy, as she would have\nperceived if she had been less frightened by the disorderly tumult. Out\nof her fright came a flash of indignation which made her face scarlet,\nand her dark eyes gather flame, as she heard some of their speeches. Yet\nthere were other sayings of theirs, which, when she reached the quiet\nsafety of home, amused her even while they irritated her.\n\nFor instance, one day, after she had passed a number of men, several of\nwhom had paid her the not unusual compliment of wishing she was their\nsweetheart, one of the lingerers added, 'Your bonny face, my lass, makes\nthe day look brighter.' And another day, as she was unconsciously\nsmiling at some passing thought, she was addressed by a poorly-dressed,\nmiddle-aged workman, with 'You may well smile, my lass; many a one would\nsmile to have such a bonny face.' This man looked so careworn that\nMargaret could not help giving him an answering smile, glad to think\nthat her looks, such as they were, should have had the power to call up\na pleasant thought. He seemed to understand her acknowledging glance,\nand a silent recognition was established between them whenever the\nchances of the day brought them across each other's paths. They had\nnever exchanged a word; nothing had been said but that first compliment;\nyet somehow Margaret looked upon this man with more interest than upon\nany one else in Milton. Once or twice, on Sundays, she saw him walking\nwith a girl, evidently his daughter, and, if possible, still more\nunhealthy than he was himself.\n\nOne day Margaret and her father had been as far as the fields that lay\naround the town; it was early spring, and she had gathered some of the\nhedge and ditch flowers, dog-violets, lesser celandines, and the like,\nwith an unspoken lament in her heart for the sweet profusion of the\nSouth. Her father had left her to go into Milton upon some business; and\non the road home she met her humble friends. The girl looked wistfully\nat the flowers, and, acting on a sudden impulse, Margaret offered them\nto her. Her pale blue eyes lightened up as she took them, and her father\nspoke for her.\n\n'Thank yo, Miss. Bessy'll think a deal o' them flowers; that hoo will;\nand I shall think a deal o' yor kindness. Yo're not of this country, I\nreckon?'\n\n'No!' said Margaret, half sighing. 'I come from the South--from\nHampshire,' she continued, a little afraid of wounding his consciousness\nof ignorance, if she used a name which he did not understand.\n\n'That's beyond London, I reckon? And I come fro' Burnley-ways, and forty\nmile to th' North. And yet, yo see, North and South has both met and\nmade kind o' friends in this big smoky place.'\n\nMargaret had slackened her pace to walk alongside of the man and his\ndaughter, whose steps were regulated by the feebleness of the latter.\nShe now spoke to the girl, and there was a sound of tender pity in the\ntone of her voice as she did so that went right to the heart of the\nfather.\n\n'I'm afraid you are not very strong.'\n\n'No,' said the girl, 'nor never will be.'\n\n'Spring is coming,' said Margaret, as if to suggest pleasant, hopeful\nthoughts.\n\n'Spring nor summer will do me good,' said the girl quietly.\n\nMargaret looked up at the man, almost expecting some contradiction from\nhim, or at least some remark that would modify his daughter's utter\nhopelessness. But, instead, he added--\n\n'I'm afeared hoo speaks truth. I'm afeared hoo's too far gone in a\nwaste.'\n\n'I shall have a spring where I'm boun to, and flowers, and amaranths,\nand shining robes besides.'\n\n'Poor lass, poor lass!' said her father in a low tone. 'I'm none so sure\no' that; but it's a comfort to thee, poor lass, poor lass. Poor father!\nit'll be soon.'\n\nMargaret was shocked by his words--shocked but not repelled; rather\nattracted and interested.\n\n'Where do you live? I think we must be neighbours, we meet so often on\nthis road.'\n\n'We put up at nine Frances Street, second turn to th' left at after\nyo've past th' Goulden Dragon.'\n\n'And your name? I must not forget that.'\n\n'I'm none ashamed o' my name. It's Nicholas Higgins. Hoo's called Bessy\nHiggins. Whatten yo' asking for?'\n\nMargaret was surprised at this last question, for at Helstone it would\nhave been an understood thing, after the inquiries she had made, that\nshe intended to come and call upon any poor neighbour whose name and\nhabitation she had asked for.\n\n'I thought--I meant to come and see you.' She suddenly felt rather shy\nof offering the visit, without having any reason to give for her wish to\nmake it, beyond a kindly interest in a stranger. It seemed all at once\nto take the shape of an impertinence on her part; she read this meaning\ntoo in the man's eyes.\n\n'I'm none so fond of having strange folk in my house.' But then\nrelenting, as he saw her heightened colour, he added, 'Yo're a\nforeigner, as one may say, and maybe don't know many folk here, and\nyo've given my wench here flowers out of yo'r own hand;--yo may come if\nyo like.'\n\nMargaret was half-amused, half-nettled at this answer. She was not sure\nif she would go where permission was given so like a favour conferred.\nBut when they came to the town into Frances Street, the girl stopped a\nminute, and said,\n\n'Yo'll not forget yo're to come and see us.'\n\n'Aye, aye,' said the father, impatiently, 'hoo'll come. Hoo's a bit set\nup now, because hoo thinks I might ha' spoken more civilly; but hoo'll\nthink better on it, and come. I can read her proud bonny face like a\nbook. Come along, Bess; there's the mill bell ringing.'\n\nMargaret went home, wondering at her new friends, and smiling at the\nman's insight into what had been passing in her mind. From that day\nMilton became a brighter place to her. It was not the long, bleak sunny\ndays of spring, nor yet was it that time was reconciling her to the town\nof her habitation. It was that in it she had found a human interest.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\nDRESSING FOR TEA\n\n    'Let China's earth, enrich'd with colour'd stains,\n     Pencil'd with gold, and streak'd with azure veins,\n     The grateful flavour of the Indian leaf,\n     Or Mocho's sunburnt berry glad receive.'\n             MRS. BARBAULD.\n\n\nThe day after this meeting with Higgins and his daughter, Mr. Hale came\nupstairs into the little drawing-room at an unusual hour. He went up to\ndifferent objects in the room, as if examining them, but Margaret saw\nthat it was merely a nervous trick--a way of putting off something he\nwished, yet feared to say. Out it came at last--\n\n'My dear! I've asked Mr. Thornton to come to tea to-night.'\n\nMrs. Hale was leaning back in her easy chair, with her eyes shut, and an\nexpression of pain on her face which had become habitual to her of late.\nBut she roused up into querulousness at this speech of her husband's.\n\n'Mr. Thornton!--and to-night! What in the world does the man want to\ncome here for? And Dixon is washing my muslins and laces, and there is\nno soft water with these horrid east winds, which I suppose we shall\nhave all the year round in Milton.'\n\n'The wind is veering round, my dear,' said Mr. Hale, looking out at the\nsmoke, which drifted right from the east, only he did not yet understand\nthe points of the compass, and rather arranged them ad libitum,\naccording to circumstances.\n\n'Don't tell me!' said Mrs. Hale, shuddering up, and wrapping her shawl\nabout her still more closely. 'But, east or west wind, I suppose this\nman comes.'\n\n'Oh, mamma, that shows you never saw Mr. Thornton. He looks like a\nperson who would enjoy battling with every adverse thing he could meet\nwith--enemies, winds, or circumstances. The more it rains and blows, the\nmore certain we are to have him. But I'll go and help Dixon. I'm getting\nto be a famous clear-starcher. And he won't want any amusement beyond\ntalking to papa. Papa, I am really longing to see the Pythias to your\nDamon. You know I never saw him but once, and then we were so puzzled to\nknow what to say to each other that we did not get on particularly\nwell.'\n\n'I don't know that you would ever like him, or think him agreeable,\nMargaret. He is not a lady's man.'\n\nMargaret wreathed her throat in a scornful curve.\n\n'I don't particularly admire ladies' men, papa. But Mr. Thornton comes\nhere as your friend--as one who has appreciated you'--\n\n'The only person in Milton,' said Mrs. Hale.\n\n'So we will give him a welcome, and some cocoa-nut cakes. Dixon will be\nflattered if we ask her to make some; and I will undertake to iron your\ncaps, mamma.'\n\nMany a time that morning did Margaret wish Mr. Thornton far enough away.\nShe had planned other employments for herself: a letter to Edith, a good\npiece of Dante, a visit to the Higginses. But, instead, she ironed away,\nlistening to Dixon's complaints, and only hoping that by an excess of\nsympathy she might prevent her from carrying the recital of her sorrows\nto Mrs. Hale. Every now and then, Margaret had to remind herself of her\nfather's regard for Mr. Thornton, to subdue the irritation of weariness\nthat was stealing over her, and bringing on one of the bad headaches to\nwhich she had lately become liable. She could hardly speak when she sat\ndown at last, and told her mother that she was no longer Peggy the\nlaundry-maid, but Margaret Hale the lady. She meant this speech for a\nlittle joke, and was vexed enough with her busy tongue when she found\nher mother taking it seriously.\n\n'Yes! if any one had told me, when I was Miss Beresford, and one of the\nbelles of the county, that a child of mine would have to stand half a\nday, in a little poky kitchen, working away like any servant, that we\nmight prepare properly for the reception of a tradesman, and that this\ntradesman should be the only'--'Oh, mamma!' said Margaret, lifting\nherself up, 'don't punish me so for a careless speech. I don't mind\nironing, or any kind of work, for you and papa. I am myself a born and\nbred lady through it all, even though it comes to scouring a floor, or\nwashing dishes. I am tired now, just for a little while; but in half an\nhour I shall be ready to do the same over again. And as to Mr.\nThornton's being in trade, why he can't help that now, poor fellow. I\ndon't suppose his education would fit him for much else.' Margaret\nlifted herself slowly up, and went to her own room; for just now she\ncould not bear much more.\n\nIn Mr. Thornton's house, at this very same time, a similar, yet\ndifferent, scene was going on. A large-boned lady, long past middle age,\nsat at work in a grim handsomely-furnished dining-room. Her features,\nlike her frame, were strong and massive, rather than heavy. Her face\nmoved slowly from one decided expression to another equally decided.\nThere was no great variety in her countenance; but those who looked at\nit once, generally looked at it again; even the passers-by in the\nstreet, half-turned their heads to gaze an instant longer at the firm,\nsevere, dignified woman, who never gave way in street-courtesy, or\npaused in her straight-onward course to the clearly-defined end which\nshe proposed to herself. She was handsomely dressed in stout black silk,\nof which not a thread was worn or discoloured. She was mending a large\nlong table-cloth of the finest texture, holding it up against the light\noccasionally to discover thin places, which required her delicate care.\nThere was not a book about in the room, with the exception of Matthew\nHenry's Bible Commentaries, six volumes of which lay in the centre of\nthe massive side-board, flanked by a tea-urn on one side, and a lamp on\nthe other. In some remote apartment, there was exercise upon the piano\ngoing on. Some one was practising up a morceau de salon, playing it very\nrapidly; every third note, on an average, being either indistinct, or\nwholly missed out, and the loud chords at the end being half of them\nfalse, but not the less satisfactory to the performer. Mrs. Thornton\nheard a step, like her own in its decisive character, pass the\ndining-room door.\n\n'John! Is that you?'\n\nHer son opened the door and showed himself.\n\n'What has brought you home so early? I thought you were going to tea\nwith that friend of Mr. Bell's; that Mr. Hale.'\n\n'So I am, mother; I am come home to dress!'\n\n'Dress! humph! When I was a girl, young men were satisfied with dressing\nonce in a day. Why should you dress to go and take a cup of tea with an\nold parson?'\n\n'Mr. Hale is a gentleman, and his wife and daughter are ladies.'\n\n'Wife and daughter! Do they teach too? What do they do? You have never\nmentioned them.'\n\n'No! mother, because I have never seen Mrs. Hale; I have only seen Miss\nHale for half an hour.'\n\n'Take care you don't get caught by a penniless girl, John.'\n\n'I am not easily caught, mother, as I think you know. But I must not\nhave Miss Hale spoken of in that way, which, you know, is offensive to\nme. I never was aware of any young lady trying to catch me yet, nor do I\nbelieve that any one has ever given themselves that useless trouble.'\n\nMrs. Thornton did not choose to yield the point to her son; or else she\nhad, in general, pride enough for her sex.\n\n'Well! I only say, take care. Perhaps our Milton girls have too much\nspirit and good feeling to go angling after husbands; but this Miss Hale\ncomes out of the aristocratic counties, where, if all tales be true,\nrich husbands are reckoned prizes.'\n\nMr. Thornton's brow contracted, and he came a step forward into the\nroom.\n\n'Mother' (with a short scornful laugh), 'you will make me confess. The\nonly time I saw Miss Hale, she treated me with a haughty civility which\nhad a strong flavour of contempt in it. She held herself aloof from me\nas if she had been a queen, and I her humble, unwashed vassal. Be easy,\nmother.'\n\n'No! I am not easy, nor content either. What business had she, a\nrenegade clergyman's daughter, to turn up her nose at you! I would dress\nfor none of them--a saucy set! if I were you.' As he was leaving the\nroom, he said:--\n\n'Mr. Hale is good, and gentle, and learned. He is not saucy. As for Mrs.\nHale, I will tell you what she is like to-night, if you care to hear.'\nHe shut the door and was gone.\n\n'Despise my son! treat him as her vassal, indeed! Humph! I should like\nto know where she could find such another! Boy and man, he's the\nnoblest, stoutest heart I ever knew. I don't care if I am his mother; I\ncan see what's what, and not be blind. I know what Fanny is; and I know\nwhat John is. Despise him! I hate her!'\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\nWROUGHT IRON AND GOLD\n\n    'We are the trees whom shaking fastens more.'\n             GEORGE HERBERT.\n\n\nMr. Thornton left the house without coming into the dining-room again.\nHe was rather late, and walked rapidly out to Crampton. He was anxious\nnot to slight his new friend by any disrespectful unpunctuality. The\nchurch-clock struck half-past seven as he stood at the door awaiting\nDixon's slow movements; always doubly tardy when she had to degrade\nherself by answering the door-bell. He was ushered into the little\ndrawing-room, and kindly greeted by Mr. Hale, who led him up to his\nwife, whose pale face, and shawl-draped figure made a silent excuse for\nthe cold languor of her greeting. Margaret was lighting the lamp when he\nentered, for the darkness was coming on. The lamp threw a pretty light\ninto the centre of the dusky room, from which, with country habits, they\ndid not exclude the night-skies, and the outer darkness of air. Somehow,\nthat room contrasted itself with the one he had lately left; handsome,\nponderous, with no sign of feminine habitation, except in the one spot\nwhere his mother sate, and no convenience for any other employment than\neating and drinking. To be sure, it was a dining-room; his mother\npreferred to sit in it; and her will was a household law. But the\ndrawing-room was not like this. It was twice--twenty times as fine; not\none quarter as comfortable. Here were no mirrors, not even a scrap of\nglass to reflect the light, and answer the same purpose as water in a\nlandscape; no gilding; a warm, sober breadth of colouring, well relieved\nby the dear old Helstone chintz-curtains and chair covers. An open\ndavenport stood in the window opposite the door; in the other there was\na stand, with a tall white china vase, from which drooped wreaths of\nEnglish ivy, pale-green birch, and copper-coloured beech-leaves. Pretty\nbaskets of work stood about in different places: and books, not cared\nfor on account of their binding solely, lay on one table, as if recently\nput down. Behind the door was another table, decked out for tea, with a\nwhite tablecloth, on which flourished the cocoa-nut cakes, and a basket\npiled with oranges and ruddy American apples, heaped on leaves.\n\nIt appeared to Mr. Thornton that all these graceful cares were habitual\nto the family; and especially of a piece with Margaret. She stood by the\ntea-table in a light-coloured muslin gown, which had a good deal of pink\nabout it. She looked as if she was not attending to the conversation,\nbut solely busy with the tea-cups, among which her round ivory hands\nmoved with pretty, noiseless, daintiness. She had a bracelet on one\ntaper arm, which would fall down over her round wrist. Mr. Thornton\nwatched the replacing of this troublesome ornament with far more\nattention than he listened to her father. It seemed as if it fascinated\nhim to see her push it up impatiently, until it tightened her soft\nflesh; and then to mark the loosening--the fall. He could almost have\nexclaimed--'There it goes, again!' There was so little left to be done\nafter he arrived at the preparation for tea, that he was almost sorry\nthe obligation of eating and drinking came so soon to prevent his\nwatching Margaret. She handed him his cup of tea with the proud air of\nan unwilling slave; but her eye caught the moment when he was ready for\nanother cup; and he almost longed to ask her to do for him what he saw\nher compelled to do for her father, who took her little finger and thumb\nin his masculine hand, and made them serve as sugar-tongs. Mr. Thornton\nsaw her beautiful eyes lifted to her father, full of light,\nhalf-laughter and half-love, as this bit of pantomime went on between\nthe two, unobserved, as they fancied, by any. Margaret's head still\nached, as the paleness of her complexion, and her silence might have\ntestified; but she was resolved to throw herself into the breach, if\nthere was any long untoward pause, rather than that her father's friend,\npupil, and guest should have cause to think himself in any way\nneglected. But the conversation went on; and Margaret drew into a\ncorner, near her mother, with her work, after the tea-things were taken\naway; and felt that she might let her thoughts roam, without fear of\nbeing suddenly wanted to fill up a gap.\n\nMr. Thornton and Mr. Hale were both absorbed in the continuation of some\nsubject which had been started at their last meeting. Margaret was\nrecalled to a sense of the present by some trivial, low-spoken remark of\nher mother's; and on suddenly looking up from her work, her eye was\ncaught by the difference of outward appearance between her father and\nMr. Thornton, as betokening such distinctly opposite natures. Her father\nwas of slight figure, which made him appear taller than he really was,\nwhen not contrasted, as at this time, with the tall, massive frame of\nanother. The lines in her father's face were soft and waving, with a\nfrequent undulating kind of trembling movement passing over them,\nshowing every fluctuating emotion; the eyelids were large and arched,\ngiving to the eyes a peculiar languid beauty which was almost feminine.\nThe brows were finely arched, but were, by the very size of the dreamy\nlids, raised to a considerable distance from the eyes. Now, in Mr.\nThornton's face the straight brows fell low over the clear, deep-set\nearnest eyes, which, without being unpleasantly sharp, seemed intent\nenough to penetrate into the very heart and core of what he was looking\nat. The lines in the face were few but firm, as if they were carved in\nmarble, and lay principally about the lips, which were slightly\ncompressed over a set of teeth so faultless and beautiful as to give the\neffect of sudden sunlight when the rare bright smile, coming in an\ninstant and shining out of the eyes, changed the whole look from the\nsevere and resolved expression of a man ready to do and dare everything,\nto the keen honest enjoyment of the moment, which is seldom shown so\nfearlessly and instantaneously except by children. Margaret liked this\nsmile; it was the first thing she had admired in this new friend of her\nfather's; and the opposition of character, shown in all these details of\nappearance she had just been noticing, seemed to explain the attraction\nthey evidently felt towards each other.\n\nShe rearranged her mother's worsted-work, and fell back into her own\nthoughts--as completely forgotten by Mr. Thornton as if she had not been\nin the room, so thoroughly was he occupied in explaining to Mr. Hale the\nmagnificent power, yet delicate adjustment of the might of the\nsteam-hammer, which was recalling to Mr. Hale some of the wonderful\nstories of subservient genii in the Arabian Nights--one moment\nstretching from earth to sky and filling all the width of the horizon,\nat the next obediently compressed into a vase small enough to be borne\nin the hand of a child.\n\n'And this imagination of power, this practical realisation of a gigantic\nthought, came out of one man's brain in our good town. That very man has\nit within him to mount, step by step, on each wonder he achieves to\nhigher marvels still. And I'll be bound to say, we have many among us\nwho, if he were gone, could spring into the breach and carry on the war\nwhich compels, and shall compel, all material power to yield to\nscience.'\n\n'Your boast reminds me of the old lines--\n\n    \"I've a hundred\n    captains in England,\" he said,\n     \"As good as ever was he.\"'\n\nAt her father's quotation Margaret looked suddenly up, with inquiring\nwonder in her eyes. How in the world had they got from cog-wheels to\nChevy Chace?\n\n'It is no boast of mine,' replied Mr. Thornton; 'it is plain\nmatter-of-fact. I won't deny that I am proud of belonging to a town--or\nperhaps I should rather say a district--the necessities of which give\nbirth to such grandeur of conception. I would rather be a man toiling,\nsuffering--nay, failing and successless--here, than lead a dull\nprosperous life in the old worn grooves of what you call more\naristocratic society down in the South, with their slow days of careless\nease. One may be clogged with honey and unable to rise and fly.'\n\n'You are mistaken,' said Margaret, roused by the aspersion on her\nbeloved South to a fond vehemence of defence, that brought the colour\ninto her cheeks and the angry tears into her eyes. 'You do not know\nanything about the South. If there is less adventure or less progress--I\nsuppose I must not say less excitement--from the gambling spirit of\ntrade, which seems requisite to force out these wonderful inventions,\nthere is less suffering also. I see men here going about in the streets\nwho look ground down by some pinching sorrow or care--who are not only\nsufferers but haters. Now, in the South we have our poor, but there is\nnot that terrible expression in their countenances of a sullen sense of\ninjustice which I see here. You do not know the South, Mr. Thornton,'\nshe concluded, collapsing into a determined silence, and angry with\nherself for having said so much.\n\n'And may I say you do not know the North?' asked he, with an\ninexpressible gentleness in his tone, as he saw that he had really hurt\nher. She continued resolutely silent; yearning after the lovely haunts\nshe had left far away in Hampshire, with a passionate longing that made\nher feel her voice would be unsteady and trembling if she spoke.\n\n'At any rate, Mr. Thornton,' said Mrs. Hale, 'you will allow that Milton\nis a much more smoky, dirty town than you will ever meet with in the\nSouth.'\n\n'I'm afraid I must give up its cleanliness,' said Mr. Thornton, with the\nquick gleaming smile. 'But we are bidden by parliament to burn our own\nsmoke; so I suppose, like good little children, we shall do as we are\nbid--some time.'\n\n'But I think you told me you had altered your chimneys so as to consume\nthe smoke, did you not?' asked Mr. Hale.\n\n'Mine were altered by my own will, before parliament meddled with the\naffair. It was an immediate outlay, but it repays me in the saving of\ncoal. I'm not sure whether I should have done it, if I had waited until\nthe act was passed. At any rate, I should have waited to be informed\nagainst and fined, and given all the trouble in yielding that I legally\ncould. But all laws which depend for their enforcement upon informers\nand fines, become inert from the odiousness of the machinery. I doubt if\nthere has been a chimney in Milton informed against for five years past,\nalthough some are constantly sending out one-third of their coal in what\nis called here unparliamentary smoke.'\n\n'I only know it is impossible to keep the muslin blinds clean here above\na week together; and at Helstone we have had them up for a month or\nmore, and they have not looked dirty at the end of that time. And as for\nhands--Margaret, how many times did you say you had washed your hands\nthis morning before twelve o'clock? Three times, was it not?'\n\n'Yes, mamma.'\n\n'You seem to have a strong objection to acts of parliament and all\nlegislation affecting your mode of management down here at Milton,' said\nMr. Hale.\n\n'Yes, I have; and many others have as well. And with justice, I think.\nThe whole machinery--I don't mean the wood and iron machinery now--of\nthe cotton trade is so new that it is no wonder if it does not work well\nin every part all at once. Seventy years ago what was it? And now what\nis it not? Raw, crude materials came together; men of the same level, as\nregarded education and station, took suddenly the different positions of\nmasters and men, owing to the motherwit, as regarded opportunities and\nprobabilities, which distinguished some, and made them far-seeing as to\nwhat great future lay concealed in that rude model of Sir Richard\nArkwright's. The rapid development of what might be called a new trade,\ngave those early masters enormous power of wealth and command. I don't\nmean merely over the workmen; I mean over purchasers--over the whole\nworld's market. Why, I may give you, as an instance, an advertisement,\ninserted not fifty years ago in a Milton paper, that so-and-so (one of\nthe half-dozen calico-printers of the time) would close his warehouse at\nnoon each day; therefore, that all purchasers must come before that\nhour. Fancy a man dictating in this manner the time when he would sell\nand when he would not sell. Now, I believe, if a good customer chose to\ncome at midnight, I should get up, and stand hat in hand to receive his\norders.'\n\nMargaret's lip curled, but somehow she was compelled to listen; she\ncould no longer abstract herself in her own thoughts.\n\n'I only name such things to show what almost unlimited power the\nmanufacturers had about the beginning of this century. The men were\nrendered dizzy by it. Because a man was successful in his ventures,\nthere was no reason that in all other things his mind should be\nwell-balanced. On the contrary, his sense of justice, and his\nsimplicity, were often utterly smothered under the glut of wealth that\ncame down upon him; and they tell strange tales of the wild extravagance\nof living indulged in on gala-days by those early cotton-lords. There\ncan be no doubt, too, of the tyranny they exercised over their\nwork-people. You know the proverb, Mr. Hale, \"Set a beggar on horseback,\nand he'll ride to the devil,\"--well, some of these early manufacturers\ndid ride to the devil in a magnificent style--crushing human bone and\nflesh under their horses' hoofs without remorse. But by-and-by came a\nre-action, there were more factories, more masters; more men were\nwanted. The power of masters and men became more evenly balanced; and\nnow the battle is pretty fairly waged between us. We will hardly submit\nto the decision of an umpire, much less to the interference of a meddler\nwith only a smattering of the knowledge of the real facts of the case,\neven though that meddler be called the High Court of Parliament.\n\n'Is there necessity for calling it a battle between the two classes?'\nasked Mr. Hale. 'I know, from your using the term, it is one which gives\na true idea of the real state of things to your mind.'\n\n'It is true; and I believe it to be as much a necessity as that prudent\nwisdom and good conduct are always opposed to, and doing battle with\nignorance and improvidence. It is one of the great beauties of our\nsystem, that a working-man may raise himself into the power and position\nof a master by his own exertions and behaviour; that, in fact, every one\nwho rules himself to decency and sobriety of conduct, and attention to\nhis duties, comes over to our ranks; it may not be always as a master,\nbut as an over-looker, a cashier, a book-keeper, a clerk, one on the\nside of authority and order.'\n\n'You consider all who are unsuccessful in raising themselves in the\nworld, from whatever cause, as your enemies, then, if I under-stand you\nrightly,' said Margaret in a clear, cold voice.\n\n'As their own enemies, certainly,' said he, quickly, not a little piqued\nby the haughty disapproval her form of expression and tone of speaking\nimplied. But, in a moment, his straightforward honesty made him feel\nthat his words were but a poor and quibbling answer to what she had\nsaid; and, be she as scornful as she liked, it was a duty he owed to\nhimself to explain, as truly as he could, what he did mean. Yet it was\nvery difficult to separate her interpretation, and keep it distinct from\nhis meaning. He could best have illustrated what he wanted to say by\ntelling them something of his own life; but was it not too personal a\nsubject to speak about to strangers? Still, it was the simple\nstraightforward way of explaining his meaning; so, putting aside the\ntouch of shyness that brought a momentary flush of colour into his dark\ncheek, he said:\n\n'I am not speaking without book. Sixteen years ago, my father died under\nvery miserable circumstances. I was taken from school, and had to become\na man (as well as I could) in a few days. I had such a mother as few are\nblest with; a woman of strong power, and firm resolve. We went into a\nsmall country town, where living was cheaper than in Milton, and where I\ngot employment in a draper's shop (a capital place, by the way, for\nobtaining a knowledge of goods). Week by week our income came to fifteen\nshillings, out of which three people had to be kept. My mother managed\nso that I put by three out of these fifteen shillings regularly. This\nmade the beginning; this taught me self-denial. Now that I am able to\nafford my mother such comforts as her age, rather than her own wish,\nrequires, I thank her silently on each occasion for the early training\nshe gave me. Now when I feel that in my own case it is no good luck, nor\nmerit, nor talent,--but simply the habits of life which taught me to\ndespise indulgences not thoroughly earned,--indeed, never to think twice\nabout them,--I believe that this suffering, which Miss Hale says is\nimpressed on the countenances of the people of Milton, is but the\nnatural punishment of dishonestly-enjoyed pleasure, at some former\nperiod of their lives. I do not look on self-indulgent, sensual people\nas worthy of my hatred; I simply look upon them with contempt for their\npoorness of character.'\n\n'But you have had the rudiments of a good education,' remarked Mr. Hale.\n'The quick zest with which you are now reading Homer, shows me that you\ndo not come to it as an unknown book; you have read it before, and are\nonly recalling your old knowledge.'\n\n'That is true,--I had blundered along it at school; I dare say, I was\neven considered a pretty fair classic in those days, though my Latin and\nGreek have slipt away from me since. But I ask you, what preparation\nthey were for such a life as I had to lead? None at all. Utterly none at\nall. On the point of education, any man who can read and write starts\nfair with me in the amount of really useful knowledge that I had at that\ntime.'\n\n'Well! I don't agree with you. But there I am perhaps somewhat of a\npedant. Did not the recollection of the heroic simplicity of the Homeric\nlife nerve you up?'\n\n'Not one bit!' exclaimed Mr. Thornton, laughing. 'I was too busy to\nthink about any dead people, with the living pressing alongside of me,\nneck to neck, in the struggle for bread. Now that I have my mother safe\nin the quiet peace that becomes her age, and duly rewards her former\nexertions, I can turn to all that old narration and thoroughly enjoy\nit.'\n\n'I dare say, my remark came from the professional feeling of there being\nnothing like leather,' replied Mr. Hale.\n\nWhen Mr. Thornton rose up to go away, after shaking hands with Mr. and\nMrs. Hale, he made an advance to Margaret to wish her good-bye in a\nsimilar manner. It was the frank familiar custom of the place; but\nMargaret was not prepared for it. She simply bowed her farewell;\nalthough the instant she saw the hand, half put out, quickly drawn back,\nshe was sorry she had not been aware of the intention. Mr. Thornton,\nhowever, knew nothing of her sorrow, and, drawing himself up to his full\nheight, walked off, muttering as he left the house--\n\n'A more proud, disagreeable girl I never saw. Even her great beauty is\nblotted out of one's memory by her scornful ways.'\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI\n\nFIRST IMPRESSIONS\n\n    'There's iron, they say, in all our blood,\n     And a grain or two perhaps is good;\n     But his, he makes me harshly feel,\n     Has got a little too much of steel.'\n             ANON.\n\n\n'Margaret!' said Mr. Hale, as he returned from showing his guest\ndownstairs; 'I could not help watching your face with some anxiety, when\nMr. Thornton made his confession of having been a shop-boy. I knew it\nall along from Mr. Bell; so I was aware of what was coming; but I half\nexpected to see you get up and leave the room.'\n\n'Oh, papa! you don't mean that you thought me so silly? I really liked\nthat account of himself better than anything else he said. Everything\nelse revolted me, from its hardness; but he spoke about himself so\nsimply--with so little of the pretence that makes the vulgarity of\nshop-people, and with such tender respect for his mother, that I was\nless likely to leave the room then than when he was boasting about\nMilton, as if there was not such another place in the world; or quietly\nprofessing to despise people for careless, wasteful improvidence,\nwithout ever seeming to think it his duty to try to make them\ndifferent,--to give them anything of the training which his mother gave\nhim, and to which he evidently owes his position, whatever that may be.\nNo! his statement of having been a shop-boy was the thing I liked best\nof all.'\n\n'I am surprised at you, Margaret,' said her mother. 'You who were always\naccusing people of being shoppy at Helstone! I don't think, Mr. Hale,\nyou have done quite right in introducing such a person to us without\ntelling us what he had been. I really was very much afraid of showing\nhim how much shocked I was at some parts of what he said. His father\n\"dying in miserable circumstances.\" Why it might have been in the\nworkhouse.'\n\n'I am not sure if it was not worse than being in the workhouse,' replied\nher husband. 'I heard a good deal of his previous life from Mr. Bell\nbefore we came here; and as he has told you a part, I will fill up what\nhe left out. His father speculated wildly, failed, and then killed\nhimself, because he could not bear the disgrace. All his former friends\nshrunk from the disclosures that had to be made of his dishonest\ngambling--wild, hopeless struggles, made with other people's money, to\nregain his own moderate portion of wealth. No one came forwards to help\nthe mother and this boy. There was another child, I believe, a girl; too\nyoung to earn money, but of course she had to be kept. At least, no\nfriend came forwards immediately, and Mrs. Thornton is not one, I fancy,\nto wait till tardy kindness comes to find her out. So they left Milton.\nI knew he had gone into a shop, and that his earnings, with some\nfragment of property secured to his mother, had been made to keep them\nfor a long time. Mr. Bell said they absolutely lived upon water-porridge\nfor years--how, he did not know; but long after the creditors had given\nup hope of any payment of old Mr. Thornton's debts (if, indeed, they\never had hoped at all about it, after his suicide,) this young man\nreturned to Milton, and went quietly round to each creditor, paying him\nthe first instalment of the money owing to him. No noise--no gathering\ntogether of creditors--it was done very silently and quietly, but all\nwas paid at last; helped on materially by the circumstance of one of the\ncreditors, a crabbed old fellow (Mr. Bell says), taking in Mr. Thornton\nas a kind of partner.'\n\n'That really is fine,' said Margaret. 'What a pity such a nature should\nbe tainted by his position as a Milton manufacturer.'\n\n'How tainted?' asked her father.\n\n'Oh, papa, by that testing everything by the standard of wealth. When he\nspoke of the mechanical powers, he evidently looked upon them only as\nnew ways of extending trade and making money. And the poor men around\nhim--they were poor because they were vicious--out of the pale of his\nsympathies because they had not his iron nature, and the capabilities\nthat it gives him for being rich.'\n\n'Not vicious; he never said that. Improvident and self-indulgent were\nhis words.'\n\nMargaret was collecting her mother's working materials, and preparing to\ngo to bed. Just as she was leaving the room, she hesitated--she was\ninclined to make an acknowledgment which she thought would please her\nfather, but which to be full and true must include a little annoyance.\nHowever, out it came.\n\n'Papa, I do think Mr. Thornton a very remarkable man; but personally I\ndon't like him at all.'\n\n'And I do!' said her father laughing. 'Personally, as you call it, and\nall. I don't set him up for a hero, or anything of that kind. But good\nnight, child. Your mother looks sadly tired to-night, Margaret.'\n\nMargaret had noticed her mother's jaded appearance with anxiety for some\ntime past, and this remark of her father's sent her up to bed with a dim\nfear lying like a weight on her heart. The life in Milton was so\ndifferent from what Mrs. Hale had been accustomed to live in Helstone,\nin and out perpetually into the fresh and open air; the air itself was\nso different, deprived of all revivifying principle as it seemed to be\nhere; the domestic worries pressed so very closely, and in so new and\nsordid a form, upon all the women in the family, that there was good\nreason to fear that her mother's health might be becoming seriously\naffected. There were several other signs of something wrong about Mrs.\nHale. She and Dixon held mysterious consultations in her bedroom, from\nwhich Dixon would come out crying and cross, as was her custom when any\ndistress of her mistress called upon her sympathy. Once Margaret had\ngone into the chamber soon after Dixon left it, and found her mother on\nher knees, and as Margaret stole out she caught a few words, which were\nevidently a prayer for strength and patience to endure severe bodily\nsuffering. Margaret yearned to re-unite the bond of intimate confidence\nwhich had been broken by her long residence at her aunt Shaw's, and\nstrove by gentle caresses and softened words to creep into the warmest\nplace in her mother's heart. But though she received caresses and fond\nwords back again, in such profusion as would have gladdened her\nformerly, yet she felt that there was a secret withheld from her, and\nshe believed it bore serious reference to her mother's health. She lay\nawake very long this night, planning how to lessen the evil influence of\ntheir Milton life on her mother. A servant to give Dixon permanent\nassistance should be got, if she gave up her whole time to the search;\nand then, at any rate, her mother might have all the personal attention\nshe required, and had been accustomed to her whole life. Visiting\nregister offices, seeing all manner of unlikely people, and very few in\nthe least likely, absorbed Margaret's time and thoughts for several\ndays. One afternoon she met Bessy Higgins in the street, and stopped to\nspeak to her.\n\n'Well, Bessy, how are you? Better, I hope, now the wind has changed.'\n\n'Better and not better, if yo' know what that means.'\n\n'Not exactly,' replied Margaret, smiling.\n\n'I'm better in not being torn to pieces by coughing o'nights, but I'm\nweary and tired o' Milton, and longing to get away to the land o'\nBeulah; and when I think I'm farther and farther off, my heart sinks,\nand I'm no better; I'm worse.' Margaret turned round to walk alongside\nof the girl in her feeble progress homeward. But for a minute or two she\ndid not speak. At last she said in a low voice,\n\n'Bessy, do you wish to die?' For she shrank from death herself, with all\nthe clinging to life so natural to the young and healthy.\n\nBessy was silent in her turn for a minute or two. Then she replied,\n\n'If yo'd led the life I have, and getten as weary of it as I have, and\nthought at times, \"maybe it'll last for fifty or sixty years--it does\nwi' some,\"--and got dizzy and dazed, and sick, as each of them sixty\nyears seemed to spin about me, and mock me with its length of hours and\nminutes, and endless bits o' time--oh, wench! I tell thee thou'd been\nglad enough when th' doctor said he feared thou'd never see another\nwinter.'\n\n'Why, Bessy, what kind of a life has yours been?'\n\n'Nought worse than many others, I reckon. Only I fretted again it, and\nthey didn't.'\n\n'But what was it? You know, I'm a stranger here, so perhaps I'm not so\nquick at understanding what you mean as if I'd lived all my life at\nMilton.'\n\n'If yo'd ha' come to our house when yo' said yo' would, I could maybe\nha' told you. But father says yo're just like th' rest on 'em; it's out\no' sight out o' mind wi' you.'\n\n'I don't know who the rest are; and I've been very busy; and, to tell\nthe truth, I had forgotten my promise--'\n\n'Yo' offered it! we asked none of it.'\n\n'I had forgotten what I said for the time,' continued Margaret quietly.\n'I should have thought of it again when I was less busy. May I go with\nyou now?' Bessy gave a quick glance at Margaret's face, to see if the\nwish expressed was really felt. The sharpness in her eye turned to a\nwistful longing as she met Margaret's soft and friendly gaze.\n\n'I ha' none so many to care for me; if yo' care yo' may come.\n\nSo they walked on together in silence. As they turned up into a small\ncourt, opening out of a squalid street, Bessy said,\n\n'Yo'll not be daunted if father's at home, and speaks a bit gruffish at\nfirst. He took a mind to ye, yo' see, and he thought a deal o' your\ncoming to see us; and just because he liked yo' he were vexed and put\nabout.'\n\n'Don't fear, Bessy.'\n\nBut Nicholas was not at home when they entered. A great slatternly girl,\nnot so old as Bessy, but taller and stronger, was busy at the wash-tub,\nknocking about the furniture in a rough capable way, but altogether\nmaking so much noise that Margaret shrunk, out of sympathy with poor\nBessy, who had sat down on the first chair, as if completely tired out\nwith her walk. Margaret asked the sister for a cup of water, and while\nshe ran to fetch it (knocking down the fire-irons, and tumbling over a\nchair in her way), she unloosed Bessy's bonnet strings, to relieve her\ncatching breath.\n\n'Do you think such life as this is worth caring for?' gasped Bessy, at\nlast. Margaret did not speak, but held the water to her lips. Bessy took\na long and feverish draught, and then fell back and shut her eyes.\nMargaret heard her murmur to herself: 'They shall hunger no more,\nneither thirst any more; neither shall the sun light on them, nor any\nheat.'\n\nMargaret bent over and said, 'Bessy, don't be impatient with your life,\nwhatever it is--or may have been. Remember who gave it you, and made it\nwhat it is!' She was startled by hearing Nicholas speak behind her; he\nhad come in without her noticing him.\n\n'Now, I'll not have my wench preached to. She's bad enough as it is,\nwith her dreams and her methodee fancies, and her visions of cities with\ngoulden gates and precious stones. But if it amuses her I let it a be,\nbut I'm none going to have more stuff poured into her.'\n\n'But surely,' said Margaret, facing round, 'you believe in what I said,\nthat God gave her life, and ordered what kind of life it was to be?'\n\n'I believe what I see, and no more. That's what I believe, young woman.\nI don't believe all I hear--no! not by a big deal. I did hear a young\nlass make an ado about knowing where we lived, and coming to see us. And\nmy wench here thought a deal about it, and flushed up many a time, when\nhoo little knew as I was looking at her, at the sound of a strange step.\nBut hoo's come at last,--and hoo's welcome, as long as hoo'll keep from\npreaching on what hoo knows nought about.' Bessy had been watching\nMargaret's face; she half sate up to speak now, laying her hand on\nMargaret's arm with a gesture of entreaty. 'Don't be vexed wi'\nhim--there's many a one thinks like him; many and many a one here. If\nyo' could hear them speak, yo'd not be shocked at him; he's a rare good\nman, is father--but oh!' said she, falling back in despair, 'what he\nsays at times makes me long to die more than ever, for I want to know so\nmany things, and am so tossed about wi' wonder.'\n\n'Poor wench--poor old wench,--I'm loth to vex thee, I am; but a man mun\nspeak out for the truth, and when I see the world going all wrong at\nthis time o' day, bothering itself wi' things it knows nought about, and\nleaving undone all the things that lie in disorder close at its\nhand--why, I say, leave a' this talk about religion alone, and set to\nwork on what yo' see and know. That's my creed. It's simple, and not far\nto fetch, nor hard to work.'\n\nBut the girl only pleaded the more with Margaret.\n\n'Don't think hardly on him--he's a good man, he is. I sometimes think I\nshall be moped wi' sorrow even in the City of God, if father is not\nthere.' The feverish colour came into her cheek, and the feverish flame\ninto her eye. 'But you will be there, father! you shall! Oh! my heart!'\nShe put her hand to it, and became ghastly pale.\n\nMargaret held her in her arms, and put the weary head to rest upon her\nbosom. She lifted the thin soft hair from off the temples, and bathed\nthem with water. Nicholas understood all her signs for different\narticles with the quickness of love, and even the round-eyed sister\nmoved with laborious gentleness at Margaret's 'hush!' Presently the\nspasm that foreshadowed death had passed away, and Bessy roused herself\nand said,--\n\n'I'll go to bed,--it's best place; but,' catching at Margaret's gown,\n'yo'll come again,--I know yo' will--but just say it!'\n\n'I will come to-morrow,' said Margaret.\n\nBessy leant back against her father, who prepared to carry her upstairs;\nbut as Margaret rose to go, he struggled to say something: 'I could wish\nthere were a God, if it were only to ask Him to bless thee.'\n\nMargaret went away very sad and thoughtful.\n\nShe was late for tea at home. At Helstone unpunctuality at meal-times\nwas a great fault in her mother's eyes; but now this, as well as many\nother little irregularities, seemed to have lost their power of\nirritation, and Margaret almost longed for the old complainings.\n\n'Have you met with a servant, dear?'\n\n'No, mamma; that Anne Buckley would never have done.'\n\n'Suppose I try,' said Mr. Hale. 'Everybody else has had their turn at\nthis great difficulty. Now let me try. I may be the Cinderella to put on\nthe slipper after all.'\n\nMargaret could hardly smile at this little joke, so oppressed was she by\nher visit to the Higginses.\n\n'What would you do, papa? How would you set about it?'\n\n'Why, I would apply to some good house-mother to recommend me one known\nto herself or her servants.'\n\n'Very good. But we must first catch our house-mother.'\n\n'You have caught her. Or rather she is coming into the snare, and you\nwill catch her to-morrow, if you're skilful.'\n\n'What do you mean, Mr. Hale?' asked his wife, her curiosity aroused.\n\n'Why, my paragon pupil (as Margaret calls him), has told me that his\nmother intends to call on Mrs. and Miss Hale to-morrow.'\n\n'Mrs. Thornton!' exclaimed Mrs. Hale.\n\n'The mother of whom he spoke to us?' said Margaret.\n\n'Mrs. Thornton; the only mother he has, I believe,' said Mr. Hale\nquietly.\n\n'I shall like to see her. She must be an uncommon person,' her mother\nadded.\n\n'Perhaps she may have a relation who might suit us, and be glad of our\nplace. She sounded to be such a careful economical person, that I should\nlike any one out of the same family.'\n\n'My dear,' said Mr. Hale alarmed. 'Pray don't go off on that idea. I\nfancy Mrs. Thornton is as haughty and proud in her way, as our little\nMargaret here is in hers, and that she completely ignores that old time\nof trial, and poverty, and economy, of which he speaks so openly. I am\nsure, at any rate, she would not like strangers to know anything about\nIt.'\n\n'Take notice that is not my kind of haughtiness, papa, if I have any at\nall; which I don't agree to, though you're always accusing me of it.'\n\n'I don't know positively that it is hers either; but from little things\nI have gathered from him, I fancy so.'\n\nThey cared too little to ask in what manner her son had spoken about\nher. Margaret only wanted to know if she must stay in to receive this\ncall, as it would prevent her going to see how Bessy was, until late in\nthe day, since the early morning was always occupied in household\naffairs; and then she recollected that her mother must not be left to\nhave the whole weight of entertaining her visitor.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII\n\nMORNING CALLS\n\n    'Well--I suppose we must.'\n             FRIENDS IN COUNCIL.\n\n\nMr. Thornton had had some difficulty in working up his mother to the\ndesired point of civility. She did not often make calls; and when she\ndid, it was in heavy state that she went through her duties. Her son had\ngiven her a carriage; but she refused to let him keep horses for it;\nthey were hired for the solemn occasions, when she paid morning or\nevening visits. She had had horses for three days, not a fortnight\nbefore, and had comfortably 'killed off' all her acquaintances, who\nmight now put themselves to trouble and expense in their turn. Yet\nCrampton was too far off for her to walk; and she had repeatedly\nquestioned her son as to whether his wish that she should call on the\nHales was strong enough to bear the expense of cab-hire. She would have\nbeen thankful if it had not; for, as she said, 'she saw no use in making\nup friendships and intimacies with all the teachers and masters in\nMilton; why, he would be wanting her to call on Fanny's dancing-master's\nwife, the next thing!'\n\n'And so I would, mother, if Mr. Mason and his wife were friendless in a\nstrange place, like the Hales.'\n\n'Oh! you need not speak so hastily. I am going to-morrow. I only wanted\nyou exactly to understand about it.'\n\n'If you are going to-morrow, I shall order horses.'\n\n'Nonsense, John. One would think you were made of money.'\n\n'Not quite, yet. But about the horses I'm determined. The last time you\nwere out in a cab, you came home with a headache from the jolting.'\n\n'I never complained of it, I'm sure.'\n\n'No. My mother is not given to complaints,' said he, a little proudly.\n'But so much the more I have to watch over you. Now as for Fanny there,\na little hardship would do her good.'\n\n'She is not made of the same stuff as you are, John. She could not bear\nit.' Mrs. Thornton was silent after this; for her last words bore\nrelation to a subject which mortified her. She had an unconscious\ncontempt for a weak character; and Fanny was weak in the very points in\nwhich her mother and brother were strong. Mrs. Thornton was not a woman\nmuch given to reasoning; her quick judgment and firm resolution served\nher in good stead of any long arguments and discussions with herself;\nshe felt instinctively that nothing could strengthen Fanny to endure\nhardships patiently, or face difficulties bravely; and though she winced\nas she made this acknowledgment to herself about her daughter, it only\ngave her a kind of pitying tenderness of manner towards her; much of the\nsame description of demeanour with which mothers are wont to treat their\nweak and sickly children. A stranger, a careless observer might have\nconsidered that Mrs. Thornton's manner to her children betokened far\nmore love to Fanny than to John. But such a one would have been deeply\nmistaken. The very daringness with which mother and son spoke out\nunpalatable truths, the one to the other, showed a reliance on the firm\ncentre of each other's souls, which the uneasy tenderness of Mrs.\nThornton's manner to her daughter, the shame with which she thought to\nhide the poverty of her child in all the grand qualities which she\nherself possessed unconsciously, and which she set so high a value upon\nin others--this shame, I say, betrayed the want of a secure\nresting-place for her affection. She never called her son by any name\nbut John; 'love,' and 'dear,' and such like terms, were reserved for\nFanny. But her heart gave thanks for him day and night; and she walked\nproudly among women for his sake.\n\n'Fanny dear I shall have horses to the carriage to-day, to go and call\non these Hales. Should not you go and see nurse? It's in the same\ndirection, and she's always so glad to see you. You could go on there\nwhile I am at Mrs. Hale's.'\n\n'Oh! mamma, it's such a long way, and I am so tired.'\n\n'With what?' asked Mrs. Thornton, her brow slightly contracting.\n\n'I don't know--the weather, I think. It is so relaxing. Couldn't you\nbring nurse here, mamma? The carriage could fetch her, and she could\nspend the rest of the day here, which I know she would like.'\n\nMrs. Thornton did not speak; but she laid her work on the table, and\nseemed to think.\n\n'It will be a long way for her to walk back at night!' she remarked, at\nlast.\n\n'Oh, but I will send her home in a cab. I never thought of her walking.'\nAt this point, Mr. Thornton came in, just before going to the mill.\n\n'Mother! I need hardly say, that if there is any little thing that could\nserve Mrs. Hale as an invalid, you will offer it, I'm sure.'\n\n'If I can find it out, I will. But I have never been ill myself, so I am\nnot much up to invalids' fancies.'\n\n'Well! here is Fanny then, who is seldom without an ailment. She will be\nable to suggest something, perhaps--won't you, Fan?'\n\n'I have not always an ailment,' said Fanny, pettishly; 'and I am not\ngoing with mamma. I have a headache to-day, and I shan't go out.'\n\nMr. Thornton looked annoyed. His mother's eyes were bent on her work, at\nwhich she was now stitching away busily.\n\n'Fanny! I wish you to go,' said he, authoritatively. 'It will do you\ngood, instead of harm. You will oblige me by going, without my saying\nanything more about it.'\n\nHe went abruptly out of the room after saying this.\n\nIf he had staid a minute longer, Fanny would have cried at his tone of\ncommand, even when he used the words, 'You will oblige me.' As it was,\nshe grumbled.\n\n'John always speaks as if I fancied I was ill, and I am sure I never do\nfancy any such thing. Who are these Hales that he makes such a fuss\nabout?'\n\n'Fanny, don't speak so of your brother. He has good reasons of some kind\nor other, or he would not wish us to go. Make haste and put your things\non.'\n\nBut the little altercation between her son and her daughter did not\nincline Mrs. Thornton more favourably towards 'these Hales.' Her jealous\nheart repeated her daughter's question, 'Who are they, that he is so\nanxious we should pay them all this attention?' It came up like a burden\nto a song, long after Fanny had forgotten all about it in the pleasant\nexcitement of seeing the effect of a new bonnet in the looking-glass.\n\nMrs. Thornton was shy. It was only of late years that she had had\nleisure enough in her life to go into society; and as society she did\nnot enjoy it. As dinner-giving, and as criticising other people's\ndinners, she took satisfaction in it. But this going to make\nacquaintance with strangers was a very different thing. She was ill at\nease, and looked more than usually stern and forbidding as she entered\nthe Hales' little drawing-room.\n\nMargaret was busy embroidering a small piece of cambric for some little\narticle of dress for Edith's expected baby--'Flimsy, useless work,' as\nMrs. Thornton observed to herself. She liked Mrs. Hale's double knitting\nfar better; that was sensible of its kind. The room altogether was full\nof knick-knacks, which must take a long time to dust; and time to people\nof limited income was money. She made all these reflections as she was\ntalking in her stately way to Mrs. Hale, and uttering all the\nstereotyped commonplaces that most people can find to say with their\nsenses blindfolded. Mrs. Hale was making rather more exertion in her\nanswers, captivated by some real old lace which Mrs. Thornton wore;\n'lace,' as she afterwards observed to Dixon, 'of that old English point\nwhich has not been made for this seventy years, and which cannot be\nbought. It must have been an heir-loom, and shows that she had\nancestors.' So the owner of the ancestral lace became worthy of\nsomething more than the languid exertion to be agreeable to a visitor,\nby which Mrs. Hale's efforts at conversation would have been otherwise\nbounded. And presently, Margaret, racking her brain to talk to Fanny,\nheard her mother and Mrs. Thornton plunge into the interminable subject\nof servants.\n\n'I suppose you are not musical,' said Fanny, 'as I see no piano.'\n\n'I am fond of hearing good music; I cannot play well myself; and papa\nand mamma don't care much about it; so we sold our old piano when we\ncame here.'\n\n'I wonder how you can exist without one. It almost seems to me a\nnecessary of life.'\n\n'Fifteen shillings a week, and three saved out of them!' thought\nMargaret to herself 'But she must have been very young. She probably has\nforgotten her own personal experience. But she must know of those days.'\nMargaret's manner had an extra tinge of coldness in it when she next\nspoke.\n\n'You have good concerts here, I believe.'\n\n'Oh, yes! Delicious! Too crowded, that is the worst. The directors admit\nso indiscriminately. But one is sure to hear the newest music there. I\nalways have a large order to give to Johnson's, the day after a\nconcert.'\n\n'Do you like new music simply for its newness, then?'\n\n'Oh; one knows it is the fashion in London, or else the singers would\nnot bring it down here. You have been in London, of course.'\n\n'Yes,' said Margaret, 'I have lived there for several years.'\n\n'Oh! London and the Alhambra are the two places I long to see!'\n\n'London and the Alhambra!'\n\n'Yes! ever since I read the Tales of the Alhambra. Don't you know them?'\n\n'I don't think I do. But surely, it is a very easy journey to London.'\n\n'Yes; but somehow,' said Fanny, lowering her voice, 'mamma has never\nbeen to London herself, and can't understand my longing. She is very\nproud of Milton; dirty, smoky place, as I feel it to be. I believe she\nadmires it the more for those very qualities.'\n\n'If it has been Mrs. Thornton's home for some years, I can well\nunderstand her loving it,' said Margaret, in her clear bell-like voice.\n\n'What are you saying about me, Miss Hale? May I inquire?'\n\nMargaret had not the words ready for an answer to this question, which\ntook her a little by surprise, so Miss Thornton replied:\n\n'Oh, mamma! we are only trying to account for your being so fond of\nMilton.'\n\n'Thank you,' said Mrs. Thornton. 'I do not feel that my very natural\nliking for the place where I was born and brought up,--and which has\nsince been my residence for some years, requires any accounting for.'\n\nMargaret was vexed. As Fanny had put it, it did seem as if they had been\nimpertinently discussing Mrs. Thornton's feelings; but she also rose up\nagainst that lady's manner of showing that she was offended.\n\nMrs. Thornton went on after a moment's pause:\n\n'Do you know anything of Milton, Miss Hale? Have you seen any of our\nfactories? our magnificent warehouses?'\n\n'No!' said Margaret. 'I have not seen anything of that description as\nyet.' Then she felt that, by concealing her utter indifference to all\nsuch places, she was hardly speaking with truth; so she went on:\n\n'I dare say, papa would have taken me before now if I had cared. But I\nreally do not find much pleasure in going over manufactories.'\n\n'They are very curious places,' said Mrs. Hale, 'but there is so much\nnoise and dirt always. I remember once going in a lilac silk to see\ncandles made, and my gown was utterly ruined.'\n\n'Very probably,' said Mrs. Thornton, in a short displeased manner. 'I\nmerely thought, that as strangers newly come to reside in a town which\nhas risen to eminence in the country, from the character and progress of\nits peculiar business, you might have cared to visit some of the places\nwhere it is carried on; places unique in the kingdom, I am informed. If\nMiss Hale changes her mind and condescends to be curious as to the\nmanufactures of Milton, I can only say I shall be glad to procure her\nadmission to print-works, or reed-making, or the more simple operations\nof spinning carried on in my son's mill. Every improvement of machinery\nis, I believe, to be seen there, in its highest perfection.'\n\n'I am so glad you don't like mills and manufactories, and all those kind\nof things,' said Fanny, in a half-whisper, as she rose to accompany her\nmother, who was taking leave of Mrs. Hale with rustling dignity.\n\n'I think I should like to know all about them, if I were you,' replied\nMargaret quietly.\n\n'Fanny!' said her mother, as they drove away, 'we will be civil to these\nHales: but don't form one of your hasty friendships with the daughter.\nShe will do you no good, I see. The mother looks very ill, and seems a\nnice, quiet kind of person.'\n\n'I don't want to form any friendship with Miss Hale, mamma,' said Fanny,\npouting. 'I thought I was doing my duty by talking to her, and trying to\namuse her.'\n\n'Well! at any rate John must be satisfied now.'\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII\n\nA SOFT BREEZE IN A SULTRY PLACE\n\n    'That doubt and trouble, fear and pain,\n     And anguish, all, are shadows vain,\n     That death itself shall not remain;\n\n     That weary deserts we may tread,\n     A dreary labyrinth may thread,\n     Thro' dark ways underground be led;\n\n     Yet, if we will one Guide obey,\n     The dreariest path, the darkest way\n     Shall issue out in heavenly day;\n\n     And we, on divers shores now cast,\n     Shall meet, our perilous voyage past,\n     All in our Father's house at last!'\n            R. C. TRENCH.\n\n\nMargaret flew upstairs as soon as their visitors were gone, and put on\nher bonnet and shawl, to run and inquire how Bessy Higgins was, and sit\nwith her as long as she could before dinner. As she went along the\ncrowded narrow streets, she felt how much of interest they had gained by\nthe simple fact of her having learnt to care for a dweller in them.\n\nMary Higgins, the slatternly younger sister, had endeavoured as well as\nshe could to tidy up the house for the expected visit. There had been\nrough-stoning done in the middle of the floor, while the flags under the\nchairs and table and round the walls retained their dark unwashed\nappearance. Although the day was hot, there burnt a large fire in the\ngrate, making the whole place feel like an oven. Margaret did not\nunderstand that the lavishness of coals was a sign of hospitable welcome\nto her on Mary's part, and thought that perhaps the oppressive heat was\nnecessary for Bessy. Bessy herself lay on a squab, or short sofa, placed\nunder the window. She was very much more feeble than on the previous\nday, and tired with raising herself at every step to look out and see if\nit was Margaret coming. And now that Margaret was there, and had taken a\nchair by her, Bessy lay back silent, and content to look at Margaret's\nface, and touch her articles of dress, with a childish admiration of\ntheir fineness of texture.\n\n'I never knew why folk in the Bible cared for soft raiment afore. But it\nmust be nice to go dressed as yo' do. It's different fro' common. Most\nfine folk tire my eyes out wi' their colours; but some how yours rest\nme. Where did ye get this frock?'\n\n'In London,' said Margaret, much amused.\n\n'London! Have yo' been in London?'\n\n'Yes! I lived there for some years. But my home was in a forest; in the\ncountry.\n\n'Tell me about it,' said Bessy. 'I like to hear speak of the country and\ntrees, and such like things.' She leant back, and shut her eye and\ncrossed her hands over her breast, lying at perfect rest, as if to\nreceive all the ideas Margaret could suggest.\n\nMargaret had never spoken of Helstone since she left it, except just\nnaming the place incidentally. She saw it in dreams more vivid than\nlife, and as she fell away to slumber at nights her memory wandered in\nall its pleasant places. But her heart was opened to this girl; 'Oh,\nBessy, I loved the home we have left so dearly! I wish you could see it.\nI cannot tell you half its beauty. There are great trees standing all\nabout it, with their branches stretching long and level, and making a\ndeep shade of rest even at noonday. And yet, though every leaf may seem\nstill, there is a continual rushing sound of movement all around--not\nclose at hand. Then sometimes the turf is as soft and fine as velvet;\nand sometimes quite lush with the perpetual moisture of a little,\nhidden, tinkling brook near at hand. And then in other parts there are\nbillowy ferns--whole stretches of fern; some in the green shadow; some\nwith long streaks of golden sunlight lying on them--just like the sea.'\n\n'I have never seen the sea,' murmured Bessy. 'But go on.'\n\n'Then, here and there, there are wide commons, high up as if above the\nvery tops of the trees--'\n\n'I'm glad of that. I felt smothered like down below. When I have gone\nfor an out, I've always wanted to get high up and see far away, and take\na deep breath o' fulness in that air. I get smothered enough in Milton,\nand I think the sound yo' speak of among the trees, going on for ever\nand ever, would send me dazed; it's that made my head ache so in the\nmill. Now on these commons I reckon there is but little noise?'\n\n'No,' said Margaret; 'nothing but here and there a lark high in the air.\nSometimes I used to hear a farmer speaking sharp and loud to his\nservants; but it was so far away that it only reminded me pleasantly\nthat other people were hard at work in some distant place, while I just\nsat on the heather and did nothing.'\n\n'I used to think once that if I could have a day of doing nothing, to\nrest me--a day in some quiet place like that yo' speak on--it would\nmaybe set me up. But now I've had many days o' idleness, and I'm just as\nweary o' them as I was o' my work. Sometimes I'm so tired out I think I\ncannot enjoy heaven without a piece of rest first. I'm rather afeard o'\ngoing straight there without getting a good sleep in the grave to set me\nup.'\n\n'Don't be afraid, Bessy,' said Margaret, laying her hand on the girl's;\n'God can give you more perfect rest than even idleness on earth, or the\ndead sleep of the grave can do.'\n\nBessy moved uneasily; then she said:\n\n'I wish father would not speak as he does. He means well, as I telled\nyo' yesterday, and tell yo' again and again. But yo' see, though I don't\nbelieve him a bit by day, yet by night--when I'm in a fever, half-asleep\nand half-awake--it comes back upon me--oh! so bad! And I think, if this\nshould be th' end of all, and if all I've been born for is just to work\nmy heart and my life away, and to sicken i' this dree place, wi' them\nmill-noises in my ears for ever, until I could scream out for them to\nstop, and let me have a little piece o' quiet--and wi' the fluff filling\nmy lungs, until I thirst to death for one long deep breath o' the clear\nair yo' speak on--and my mother gone, and I never able to tell her again\nhow I loved her, and o' all my troubles--I think if this life is th'\nend, and that there's no God to wipe away all tears from all eyes--yo'\nwench, yo'!' said she, sitting up, and clutching violently, almost\nfiercely, at Margaret's hand, 'I could go mad, and kill yo', I could.'\nShe fell back completely worn out with her passion. Margaret knelt down\nby her.\n\n'Bessy--we have a Father in Heaven.'\n\n'I know it! I know it,' moaned she, turning her head uneasily from side\nto side.\n\n'I'm very wicked. I've spoken very wickedly. Oh! don't be frightened by\nme and never come again. I would not harm a hair of your head. And,'\nopening her eyes, and looking earnestly at Margaret, 'I believe,\nperhaps, more than yo' do o' what's to come. I read the book o'\nRevelations until I know it off by heart, and I never doubt when I'm\nwaking, and in my senses, of all the glory I'm to come to.'\n\n'Don't let us talk of what fancies come into your head when you are\nfeverish. I would rather hear something about what you used to do when\nyou were well.'\n\n'I think I was well when mother died, but I have never been rightly\nstrong sin' somewhere about that time. I began to work in a carding-room\nsoon after, and the fluff got into my lungs and poisoned me.'\n\n'Fluff?' said Margaret, inquiringly.\n\n'Fluff,' repeated Bessy. 'Little bits, as fly off fro' the cotton, when\nthey're carding it, and fill the air till it looks all fine white dust.\nThey say it winds round the lungs, and tightens them up. Anyhow, there's\nmany a one as works in a carding-room, that falls into a waste, coughing\nand spitting blood, because they're just poisoned by the fluff.'\n\n'But can't it be helped?' asked Margaret.\n\n'I dunno. Some folk have a great wheel at one end o' their carding-rooms\nto make a draught, and carry off th' dust; but that wheel costs a deal\no' money--five or six hundred pound, maybe, and brings in no profit; so\nit's but a few of th' masters as will put 'em up; and I've heard tell o'\nmen who didn't like working places where there was a wheel, because they\nsaid as how it mad 'em hungry, at after they'd been long used to\nswallowing fluff, to go without it, and that their wage ought to be\nraised if they were to work in such places. So between masters and men\nth' wheels fall through. I know I wish there'd been a wheel in our\nplace, though.'\n\n'Did not your father know about it?' asked Margaret.\n\n'Yes! And he were sorry. But our factory were a good one on the whole;\nand a steady likely set o' people; and father was afeard of letting me\ngo to a strange place, for though yo' would na think it now, many a one\nthen used to call me a gradely lass enough. And I did na like to be\nreckoned nesh and soft, and Mary's schooling were to be kept up, mother\nsaid, and father he were always liking to buy books, and go to lectures\no' one kind or another--all which took money--so I just worked on till I\nshall ne'er get the whirr out o' my ears, or the fluff out o' my throat\ni' this world. That's all.'\n\n'How old are you?' asked Margaret.\n\n'Nineteen, come July.'\n\n'And I too am nineteen.' She thought, more sorrowfully than Bessy did,\nof the contrast between them. She could not speak for a moment or two\nfor the emotion she was trying to keep down.\n\n'About Mary,' said Bessy. 'I wanted to ask yo' to be a friend to her.\nShe's seventeen, but she's th' last on us. And I don't want her to go to\nth' mill, and yet I dunno what she's fit for.'\n\n'She could not do'--Margaret glanced unconsciously at the uncleaned\ncorners of the room--'She could hardly undertake a servant's place,\ncould she? We have an old faithful servant, almost a friend, who wants\nhelp, but who is very particular; and it would not be right to plague\nher with giving her any assistance that would really be an annoyance and\nan irritation.'\n\n'No, I see. I reckon yo're right. Our Mary's a good wench; but who has\nshe had to teach her what to do about a house? No mother, and me at the\nmill till I were good for nothing but scolding her for doing badly what\nI didn't know how to do a bit. But I wish she could ha' lived wi' yo',\nfor all that.'\n\n'But even though she may not be exactly fitted to come and live with us\nas a servant--and I don't know about that--I will always try and be a\nfriend to her for your sake, Bessy. And now I must go. I will come again\nas soon as I can; but if it should not be to-morrow, or the next day, or\neven a week or a fortnight hence, don't think I've forgotten you. I may\nbe busy.'\n\n'I'll know yo' won't forget me again. I'll not mistrust yo' no more. But\nremember, in a week or a fortnight I may be dead and buried!'\n\n'I'll come as soon as I can, Bessy,' said Margaret, squeezing her hand\ntight. 'But you'll let me know if you are worse.'\n\n'Ay, that will I,' said Bessy, returning the pressure.\n\nFrom that day forwards Mrs. Hale became more and more of a suffering\ninvalid. It was now drawing near to the anniversary of Edith's marriage,\nand looking back upon the year's accumulated heap of troubles, Margaret\nwondered how they had been borne. If she could have anticipated them,\nhow she would have shrunk away and hid herself from the coming time! And\nyet day by day had, of itself, and by itself, been very\nendurable--small, keen, bright little spots of positive enjoyment having\ncome sparkling into the very middle of sorrows. A year ago, or when she\nfirst went to Helstone, and first became silently conscious of the\nquerulousness in her mother's temper, she would have groaned bitterly\nover the idea of a long illness to be borne in a strange, desolate,\nnoisy, busy place, with diminished comforts on every side of the home\nlife. But with the increase of serious and just ground of complaint, a\nnew kind of patience had sprung up in her mother's mind. She was gentle\nand quiet in intense bodily suffering, almost in proportion as she had\nbeen restless and depressed when there had been no real cause for grief.\nMr. Hale was in exactly that stage of apprehension which, in men of his\nstamp, takes the shape of wilful blindness. He was more irritated than\nMargaret had ever known him at his daughter's expressed anxiety.\n\n'Indeed, Margaret, you are growing fanciful! God knows I should be the\nfirst to take the alarm if your mother were really ill; we always saw\nwhen she had her headaches at Helstone, even without her telling us. She\nlooks quite pale and white when she is ill; and now she has a bright\nhealthy colour in her cheeks, just as she used to have when I first knew\nher.'\n\n'But, papa,' said Margaret, with hesitation, 'do you know, I think that\nis the flush of pain.'\n\n'Nonsense, Margaret. I tell you, you are too fanciful. You are the\nperson not well, I think. Send for the doctor to-morrow for yourself;\nand then, if it will make your mind easier, he can see your mother.'\n\n'Thank you, dear papa. It will make me happier, indeed.' And she went up\nto him to kiss him. But he pushed her away--gently enough, but still as\nif she had suggested unpleasant ideas, which he should be glad to get\nrid of as readily as he could of her presence. He walked uneasily up and\ndown the room.\n\n'Poor Maria!' said he, half soliloquising, 'I wish one could do right\nwithout sacrificing others. I shall hate this town, and myself too, if\nshe---- Pray, Margaret, does your mother often talk to you of the old\nplaces of Helstone, I mean?'\n\n'No, papa,' said Margaret, sadly.\n\n'Then, you see, she can't be fretting after them, eh? It has always been\na comfort to me to think that your mother was so simple and open that I\nknew every little grievance she had. She never would conceal anything\nseriously affecting her health from me: would she, eh, Margaret? I am\nquite sure she would not. So don't let me hear of these foolish morbid\nideas. Come, give me a kiss, and run off to bed.'\n\nBut she heard him pacing about (racooning, as she and Edith used to call\nit) long after her slow and languid undressing was finished--long after\nshe began to listen as she lay in bed.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV\n\nTHE MUTINY\n\n    'I was used\n     To sleep at nights as sweetly as a child,--\n     Now if the wind blew rough, it made me start,\n     And think of my poor boy tossing about\n     Upon the roaring seas. And then I seemed\n     To feel that it was hard to take him from me\n     For such a little fault.'\n             SOUTHEY.\n\n\nIt was a comfort to Margaret about this time, to find that her mother\ndrew more tenderly and intimately towards her than she had ever done\nsince the days of her childhood. She took her to her heart as a\nconfidential friend--the post Margaret had always longed to fill, and\nhad envied Dixon for being preferred to. Margaret took pains to respond\nto every call made upon her for sympathy--and they were many--even when\nthey bore relation to trifles, which she would no more have noticed or\nregarded herself than the elephant would perceive the little pin at his\nfeet, which yet he lifts carefully up at the bidding of his keeper. All\nunconsciously Margaret drew near to a reward.\n\nOne evening, Mr. Hale being absent, her mother began to talk to her\nabout her brother Frederick, the very subject on which Margaret had\nlonged to ask questions, and almost the only one on which her timidity\novercame her natural openness. The more she wanted to hear about him,\nthe less likely she was to speak.\n\n'Oh, Margaret, it was so windy last night! It came howling down the\nchimney in our room! I could not sleep. I never can when there is such a\nterrible wind. I got into a wakeful habit when poor Frederick was at\nsea; and now, even if I don't waken all at once, I dream of him in some\nstormy sea, with great, clear, glass-green walls of waves on either side\nhis ship, but far higher than her very masts, curling over her with that\ncruel, terrible white foam, like some gigantic crested serpent. It is an\nold dream, but it always comes back on windy nights, till I am thankful\nto waken, sitting straight and stiff up in bed with my terror. Poor\nFrederick! He is on land now, so wind can do him no harm. Though I did\nthink it might shake down some of those tall chimneys.'\n\n'Where is Frederick now, mamma? Our letters are directed to the care of\nMessrs. Barbour, at Cadiz, I know; but where is he himself?'\n\n'I can't remember the name of the place, but he is not called Hale; you\nmust remember that, Margaret. Notice the F. D. in every corner of the\nletters. He has taken the name of Dickenson. I wanted him to have been\ncalled Beresford, to which he had a kind of right, but your father\nthought he had better not. He might be recognised, you know, if he were\ncalled by my name.'\n\n'Mamma,' said Margaret, 'I was at Aunt Shaw's when it all happened; and\nI suppose I was not old enough to be told plainly about it. But I should\nlike to know now, if I may--if it does not give you too much pain to\nspeak about it.'\n\n'Pain! No,' replied Mrs. Hale, her cheek flushing. 'Yet it is pain to\nthink that perhaps I may never see my darling boy again. Or else he did\nright, Margaret. They may say what they like, but I have his own letters\nto show, and I'll believe him, though he is my son, sooner than any\ncourt-martial on earth. Go to my little japan cabinet, dear, and in the\nsecond left-hand drawer you will find a packet of letters.'\n\nMargaret went. There were the yellow, sea-stained letters, with the\npeculiar fragrance which ocean letters have: Margaret carried them back\nto her mother, who untied the silken string with trembling fingers, and,\nexamining their dates, she gave them to Margaret to read, making her\nhurried, anxious remarks on their contents, almost before her daughter\ncould have understood what they were.\n\n'You see, Margaret, how from the very first he disliked Captain Reid. He\nwas second lieutenant in the ship--the Orion--in which Frederick sailed\nthe very first time. Poor little fellow, how well he looked in his\nmidshipman's dress, with his dirk in his hand, cutting open all the\nnewspapers with it as if it were a paper-knife! But this Mr. Reid, as he\nwas then, seemed to take a dislike to Frederick from the very beginning.\nAnd then--stay! these are the letters he wrote on board the Russell.\nWhen he was appointed to her, and found his old enemy Captain Reid in\ncommand, he did mean to bear all his tyranny patiently. Look! this is\nthe letter. Just read it, Margaret. Where is it he says--Stop--'my\nfather may rely upon me, that I will bear with all proper patience\neverything that one officer and gentleman can take from another. But\nfrom my former knowledge of my present captain, I confess I look forward\nwith apprehension to a long course of tyranny on board the Russell.' You\nsee, he promises to bear patiently, and I am sure he did, for he was the\nsweetest-tempered boy, when he was not vexed, that could possibly be. Is\nthat the letter in which he speaks of Captain Reid's impatience with the\nmen, for not going through the ship's manoeuvres as quickly as the\nAvenger? You see, he says that they had many new hands on board the\nRussell, while the Avenger had been nearly three years on the station,\nwith nothing to do but to keep slavers off, and work her men, till they\nran up and down the rigging like rats or monkeys.'\n\nMargaret slowly read the letter, half illegible through the fading of\nthe ink. It might be--it probably was--a statement of Captain Reid's\nimperiousness in trifles, very much exaggerated by the narrator, who had\nwritten it while fresh and warm from the scene of altercation. Some\nsailors being aloft in the main-topsail rigging, the captain had ordered\nthem to race down, threatening the hindmost with the cat-of-nine-tails.\nHe who was the farthest on the spar, feeling the impossibility of\npassing his companions, and yet passionately dreading the disgrace of\nthe flogging, threw himself desperately down to catch a rope\nconsiderably lower, failed, and fell senseless on deck. He only survived\nfor a few hours afterwards, and the indignation of the ship's crew was\nat boiling point when young Hale wrote.\n\n'But we did not receive this letter till long, long after we heard of\nthe mutiny. Poor Fred! I dare say it was a comfort to him to write it\neven though he could not have known how to send it, poor fellow! And\nthen we saw a report in the papers--that's to say, long before Fred's\nletter reached us--of an atrocious mutiny having broken out on board the\nRussell, and that the mutineers had remained in possession of the ship,\nwhich had gone off, it was supposed, to be a pirate; and that Captain\nReid was sent adrift in a boat with some men--officers or\nsomething--whose names were all given, for they were picked up by a\nWest-Indian steamer. Oh, Margaret! how your father and I turned sick\nover that list, when there was no name of Frederick Hale. We thought it\nmust be some mistake; for poor Fred was such a fine fellow, only perhaps\nrather too passionate; and we hoped that the name of Carr, which was in\nthe list, was a misprint for that of Hale--newspapers are so careless.\nAnd towards post-time the next day, papa set off to walk to Southampton\nto get the papers; and I could not stop at home, so I went to meet him.\nHe was very late--much later than I thought he would have been; and I\nsat down under the hedge to wait for him. He came at last, his arms\nhanging loose down, his head sunk, and walking heavily along, as if\nevery step was a labour and a trouble. Margaret, I see him now.'\n\n'Don't go on, mamma. I can understand it all,' said Margaret, leaning up\ncaressingly against her mother's side, and kissing her hand.\n\n'No, you can't, Margaret. No one can who did not see him then. I could\nhardly lift myself up to go and meet him--everything seemed so to reel\naround me all at once. And when I got to him, he did not speak, or seem\nsurprised to see me there, more than three miles from home, beside the\nOldham beech-tree; but he put my arm in his, and kept stroking my hand,\nas if he wanted to soothe me to be very quiet under some great heavy\nblow; and when I trembled so all over that I could not speak, he took me\nin his arms, and stooped down his head on mine, and began to shake and\nto cry in a strange muffled, groaning voice, till I, for very fright,\nstood quite still, and only begged him to tell me what he had heard. And\nthen, with his hand jerking, as if some one else moved it against his\nwill, he gave me a wicked newspaper to read, calling our Frederick a\n\"traitor of the blackest dye,\" \"a base, ungrateful disgrace to his\nprofession.\" Oh! I cannot tell what bad words they did not use. I took\nthe paper in my hands as soon as I had read it--I tore it up to little\nbits--I tore it--oh! I believe Margaret, I tore it with my teeth. I did\nnot cry. I could not. My cheeks were as hot as fire, and my very eyes\nburnt in my head. I saw your father looking grave at me. I said it was a\nlie, and so it was. Months after, this letter came, and you see what\nprovocation Frederick had. It was not for himself, or his own injuries,\nhe rebelled; but he would speak his mind to Captain Reid, and so it went\non from bad to worse; and you see, most of the sailors stuck by\nFrederick.\n\n'I think, Margaret,' she continued, after a pause, in a weak, trembling,\nexhausted voice, 'I am glad of it--I am prouder of Frederick standing up\nagainst injustice, than if he had been simply a good officer.'\n\n'I am sure I am,' said Margaret, in a firm, decided tone. 'Loyalty and\nobedience to wisdom and justice are fine; but it is still finer to defy\narbitrary power, unjustly and cruelly used-not on behalf of ourselves,\nbut on behalf of others more helpless.'\n\n'For all that, I wish I could see Frederick once more--just once. He was\nmy first baby, Margaret.' Mrs. Hale spoke wistfully, and almost as if\napologising for the yearning, craving wish, as though it were a\ndepreciation of her remaining child. But such an idea never crossed\nMargaret's mind. She was thinking how her mother's desire could be\nfulfilled.\n\n'It is six or seven years ago--would they still prosecute him, mother?\nIf he came and stood his trial, what would be the punishment? Surely, he\nmight bring evidence of his great provocation.'\n\n'It would do no good,' replied Mrs. Hale. 'Some of the sailors who\naccompanied Frederick were taken, and there was a court-martial held on\nthem on board the Amicia; I believed all they said in their defence,\npoor fellows, because it just agreed with Frederick's story--but it was\nof no use,--' and for the first time during the conversation Mrs. Hale\nbegan to cry; yet something possessed Margaret to force the information\nshe foresaw, yet dreaded, from her mother.\n\n'What happened to them, mamma?' asked she.\n\n'They were hung at the yard-arm,' said Mrs. Hale, solemnly. 'And the\nworst was that the court, in condemning them to death, said they had\nsuffered themselves to be led astray from their duty by their superior\nofficers.'\n\nThey were silent for a long time.\n\n'And Frederick was in South America for several years, was he not?'\n\n'Yes. And now he is in Spain. At Cadiz, or somewhere near it. If he\ncomes to England he will be hung. I shall never see his face again--for\nif he comes to England he will be hung.'\n\nThere was no comfort to be given. Mrs. Hale turned her face to the wall,\nand lay perfectly still in her mother's despair. Nothing could be said\nto console her. She took her hand out of Margaret's with a little\nimpatient movement, as if she would fain be left alone with the\nrecollection of her son. When Mr. Hale came in, Margaret went out,\noppressed with gloom, and seeing no promise of brightness on any side of\nthe horizon.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV\n\nMASTERS AND MEN\n\n    'Thought fights with thought;\n     out springs a spark of truth\n     From the collision of the sword and shield.'\n           W. S. LANDOR.\n\n\n'Margaret,' said her father, the next day, 'we must return Mrs.\nThornton's call. Your mother is not very well, and thinks she cannot\nwalk so far; but you and I will go this afternoon.'\n\nAs they went, Mr. Hale began about his wife's health, with a kind of\nveiled anxiety, which Margaret was glad to see awakened at last.\n\n'Did you consult the doctor, Margaret? Did you send for him?'\n\n'No, papa, you spoke of his coming to see me. Now I was well. But if I\nonly knew of some good doctor, I would go this afternoon, and ask him to\ncome, for I am sure mamma is seriously indisposed.'\n\nShe put the truth thus plainly and strongly because her father had so\ncompletely shut his mind against the idea, when she had last named her\nfears. But now the case was changed. He answered in a despondent tone:\n\n'Do you think she has any hidden complaint? Do you think she is really\nvery ill? Has Dixon said anything? Oh, Margaret! I am haunted by the\nfear that our coming to Milton has killed her. My poor Maria!'\n\n'Oh, papa! don't imagine such things,' said Margaret, shocked. 'She is\nnot well, that is all. Many a one is not well for a time; and with good\nadvice gets better and stronger than ever.'\n\n'But has Dixon said anything about her?'\n\n'No! You know Dixon enjoys making a mystery out of trifles; and she has\nbeen a little mysterious about mamma's health, which has alarmed me\nrather, that is all. Without any reason, I dare say. You know, papa, you\nsaid the other day I was getting fanciful.'\n\n'I hope and trust you are. But don't think of what I said then. I like\nyou to be fanciful about your mother's health. Don't be afraid of\ntelling me your fancies. I like to hear them, though, I dare say, I\nspoke as if I was annoyed. But we will ask Mrs. Thornton if she can tell\nus of a good doctor. We won't throw away our money on any but some one\nfirst-rate. Stay, we turn up this street.' The street did not look as if\nit could contain any house large enough for Mrs. Thornton's habitation.\nHer son's presence never gave any impression as to the kind of house he\nlived in; but, unconsciously, Margaret had imagined that tall, massive,\nhandsomely dressed Mrs. Thornton must live in a house of the same\ncharacter as herself. Now Marlborough Street consisted of long rows of\nsmall houses, with a blank wall here and there; at least that was all\nthey could see from the point at which they entered it.\n\n'He told me he lived in Marlborough Street, I'm sure,' said Mr. Hale,\nwith a much perplexed air.\n\n'Perhaps it is one of the economies he still practises, to live in a\nvery small house. But here are plenty of people about; let me ask.'\n\nShe accordingly inquired of a passer-by, and was informed that Mr.\nThornton lived close to the mill, and had the factory lodge-door pointed\nout to her, at the end of the long dead wall they had noticed.\n\nThe lodge-door was like a common garden-door; on one side of it were\ngreat closed gates for the ingress and egress of lorries and wagons. The\nlodge-keeper admitted them into a great oblong yard, on one side of\nwhich were offices for the transaction of business; on the opposite, an\nimmense many-windowed mill, whence proceeded the continual clank of\nmachinery and the long groaning roar of the steam-engine, enough to\ndeafen those who lived within the enclosure. Opposite to the wall, along\nwhich the street ran, on one of the narrow sides of the oblong, was a\nhandsome stone-coped house,--blackened, to be sure, by the smoke, but\nwith paint, windows, and steps kept scrupulously clean. It was evidently\na house which had been built some fifty or sixty years. The stone\nfacings--the long, narrow windows, and the number of them--the flights\nof steps up to the front door, ascending from either side, and guarded\nby railing--all witnessed to its age. Margaret only wondered why people\nwho could afford to live in so good a house, and keep it in such perfect\norder, did not prefer a much smaller dwelling in the country, or even\nsome suburb; not in the continual whirl and din of the factory. Her\nunaccustomed ears could hardly catch her father's voice, as they stood\non the steps awaiting the opening of the door. The yard, too, with the\ngreat doors in the dead wall as a boundary, was but a dismal look-out\nfor the sitting-rooms of the house--as Margaret found when they had\nmounted the old-fashioned stairs, and been ushered into the\ndrawing-room, the three windows of which went over the front door and\nthe room on the right-hand side of the entrance. There was no one in the\ndrawing-room. It seemed as though no one had been in it since the day\nwhen the furniture was bagged up with as much care as if the house was\nto be overwhelmed with lava, and discovered a thousand years hence. The\nwalls were pink and gold; the pattern on the carpet represented bunches\nof flowers on a light ground, but it was carefully covered up in the\ncentre by a linen drugget, glazed and colourless. The window-curtains\nwere lace; each chair and sofa had its own particular veil of netting,\nor knitting. Great alabaster groups occupied every flat surface, safe\nfrom dust under their glass shades. In the middle of the room, right\nunder the bagged-up chandelier, was a large circular table, with\nsmartly-bound books arranged at regular intervals round the\ncircumference of its polished surface, like gaily-coloured spokes of a\nwheel. Everything reflected light, nothing absorbed it. The whole room\nhad a painfully spotted, spangled, speckled look about it, which\nimpressed Margaret so unpleasantly that she was hardly conscious of the\npeculiar cleanliness required to keep everything so white and pure in\nsuch an atmosphere, or of the trouble that must be willingly expended to\nsecure that effect of icy, snowy discomfort. Wherever she looked there\nwas evidence of care and labour, but not care and labour to procure\nease, to help on habits of tranquil home employment; solely to ornament,\nand then to preserve ornament from dirt or destruction.\n\nThey had leisure to observe, and to speak to each other in low voices,\nbefore Mrs. Thornton appeared. They were talking of what all the world\nmight hear; but it is a common effect of such a room as this to make\npeople speak low, as if unwilling to awaken the unused echoes.\n\nAt last Mrs. Thornton came in, rustling in handsome black silk, as was\nher wont; her muslins and laces rivalling, not excelling, the pure\nwhiteness of the muslins and netting of the room. Margaret explained how\nit was that her mother could not accompany them to return Mrs.\nThornton's call; but in her anxiety not to bring back her father's fears\ntoo vividly, she gave but a bungling account, and left the impression on\nMrs. Thornton's mind that Mrs. Hale's was some temporary or fanciful\nfine-ladyish indisposition, which might have been put aside had there\nbeen a strong enough motive; or that if it was too severe to allow her\nto come out that day, the call might have been deferred. Remembering,\ntoo, the horses to her carriage, hired for her own visit to the Hales,\nand how Fanny had been ordered to go by Mr. Thornton, in order to pay\nevery respect to them, Mrs. Thornton drew up slightly offended, and gave\nMargaret no sympathy--indeed, hardly any credit for the statement of her\nmother's indisposition.\n\n'How is Mr. Thornton?' asked Mr. Hale. 'I was afraid he was not well,\nfrom his hurried note yesterday.'\n\n'My son is rarely ill; and when he is, he never speaks about it, or\nmakes it an excuse for not doing anything. He told me he could not get\nleisure to read with you last night, sir. He regretted it, I am sure; he\nvalues the hours spent with you.'\n\n'I am sure they are equally agreeable to me,' said Mr. Hale. 'It makes\nme feel young again to see his enjoyment and appreciation of all that is\nfine in classical literature.'\n\n'I have no doubt the classics are very desirable for people who have\nleisure. But, I confess, it was against my judgment that my son renewed\nhis study of them. The time and place in which he lives, seem to me to\nrequire all his energy and attention. Classics may do very well for men\nwho loiter away their lives in the country or in colleges; but Milton\nmen ought to have their thoughts and powers absorbed in the work of\nto-day. At least, that is my opinion.' This last clause she gave out\nwith 'the pride that apes humility.'\n\n'But, surely, if the mind is too long directed to one object only, it\nwill get stiff and rigid, and unable to take in many interests,' said\nMargaret.\n\n'I do not quite understand what you mean by a mind getting stiff and\nrigid. Nor do I admire those whirligig characters that are full of this\nthing to-day, to be utterly forgetful of it in their new interest\nto-morrow. Having many interests does not suit the life of a Milton\nmanufacturer. It is, or ought to be, enough for him to have one great\ndesire, and to bring all the purposes of his life to bear on the\nfulfilment of that.'\n\n'And that is--?' asked Mr. Hale.\n\nHer sallow cheek flushed, and her eye lightened, as she answered:\n\n'To hold and maintain a high, honourable place among the merchants of\nhis country--the men of his town. Such a place my son has earned for\nhimself. Go where you will--I don't say in England only, but in\nEurope--the name of John Thornton of Milton is known and respected\namongst all men of business. Of course, it is unknown in the fashionable\ncircles,' she continued, scornfully. 'Idle gentlemen and ladies are not\nlikely to know much of a Milton manufacturer, unless he gets into\nparliament, or marries a lord's daughter.'\n\nBoth Mr. Hale and Margaret had an uneasy, ludicrous consciousness that\nthey had never heard of this great name, until Mr. Bell had written them\nword that Mr. Thornton would be a good friend to have in Milton. The\nproud mother's world was not their world of Harley Street gentilities\non the one hand, or country clergymen and Hampshire squires on the other.\nMargaret's face, in spite of all her endeavours to keep it simply listening\nin its expression told the sensitive Mrs. Thornton this feeling of hers.\n\n'You think you never heard of this wonderful son of mine, Miss Hale. You\nthink I'm an old woman whose ideas are bounded by Milton, and whose own\ncrow is the whitest ever seen.'\n\n'No,' said Margaret, with some spirit. 'It may be true, that I was\nthinking I had hardly heard Mr. Thornton's name before I came to Milton.\nBut since I have come here, I have heard enough to make me respect and\nadmire him, and to feel how much justice and truth there is in what you\nhave said of him.'\n\n'Who spoke to you of him?' asked Mrs. Thornton, a little mollified, yet\njealous lest any one else's words should not have done him full justice.\nMargaret hesitated before she replied. She did not like this\nauthoritative questioning. Mr. Hale came in, as he thought, to the\nrescue.\n\n'It was what Mr. Thornton said himself, that made us know the kind of\nman he was. Was it not, Margaret?'\n\nMrs. Thornton drew herself up, and said--\n\n'My son is not the one to tell of his own doings. May I again ask you,\nMiss Hale, from whose account you formed your favourable opinion of him?\nA mother is curious and greedy of commendation of her children, you\nknow.'\n\nMargaret replied, 'It was as much from what Mr. Thornton withheld of\nthat which we had been told of his previous life by Mr. Bell,--it was\nmore that than what he said, that made us all feel what reason you have\nto be proud of him.'\n\n'Mr. Bell! What can he know of John? He, living a lazy life in a drowsy\ncollege. But I'm obliged to you, Miss Hale. Many a missy young lady\nwould have shrunk from giving an old woman the pleasure of hearing that\nher son was well spoken of.'\n\n'Why?' asked Margaret, looking straight at Mrs. Thornton, in\nbewilderment.\n\n'Why! because I suppose they might have consciences that told them how\nsurely they were making the old mother into an advocate for them, in\ncase they had any plans on the son's heart.'\n\nShe smiled a grim smile, for she had been pleased by Margaret's\nfrankness; and perhaps she felt that she had been asking questions too\nmuch as if she had a right to catechise. Margaret laughed outright at\nthe notion presented to her; laughed so merrily that it grated on Mrs.\nThornton's ear, as if the words that called forth that laugh, must have\nbeen utterly and entirely ludicrous. Margaret stopped her merriment as\nsoon as she saw Mrs. Thornton's annoyed look.\n\n'I beg your pardon, madam. But I really am very much obliged to you for\nexonerating me from making any plans on Mr. Thornton's heart.'\n\n'Young ladies have, before now,' said Mrs. Thornton, stiffly.\n\n'I hope Miss Thornton is well,' put in Mr. Hale, desirous of changing\nthe current of the conversation.\n\n'She is as well as she ever is. She is not strong,' replied Mrs.\nThornton, shortly.\n\n'And Mr. Thornton? I suppose I may hope to see him on Thursday?'\n\n'I cannot answer for my son's engagements. There is some uncomfortable\nwork going on in the town; a threatening of a strike. If so, his\nexperience and judgment will make him much consulted by his friends. But\nI should think he could come on Thursday. At any rate, I am sure he will\nlet you know if he cannot.'\n\n'A strike!' asked Margaret. 'What for? What are they going to strike\nfor?'\n\n'For the mastership and ownership of other people's property,' said Mrs.\nThornton, with a fierce snort. 'That is what they always strike for. If\nmy son's work-people strike, I will only say they are a pack of\nungrateful hounds. But I have no doubt they will.'\n\n'They are wanting higher wages, I suppose?' asked Mr. Hale.\n\n'That is the face of the thing. But the truth is, they want to be\nmasters, and make the masters into slaves on their own ground. They are\nalways trying at it; they always have it in their minds and every five\nor six years, there comes a struggle between masters and men. They'll\nfind themselves mistaken this time, I fancy,--a little out of their\nreckoning. If they turn out, they mayn't find it so easy to go in again.\nI believe, the masters have a thing or two in their heads which will\nteach the men not to strike again in a hurry, if they try it this time.'\n\n'Does it not make the town very rough?' asked Margaret.\n\n'Of course it does. But surely you are not a coward, are you? Milton is\nnot the place for cowards. I have known the time when I have had to\nthread my way through a crowd of white, angry men, all swearing they\nwould have Makinson's blood as soon as he ventured to show his nose out\nof his factory; and he, knowing nothing of it, some one had to go and\ntell him, or he was a dead man, and it needed to be a woman,--so I went.\nAnd when I had got in, I could not get out. It was as much as my life\nwas worth. So I went up to the roof, where there were stones piled ready\nto drop on the heads of the crowd, if they tried to force the factory\ndoors. And I would have lifted those heavy stones, and dropped them with\nas good an aim as the best man there, but that I fainted with the heat I\nhad gone through. If you live in Milton, you must learn to have a brave\nheart, Miss Hale.'\n\n'I would do my best,' said Margaret rather pale. 'I do not know whether\nI am brave or not till I am tried; but I am afraid I should be a\ncoward.'\n\n'South country people are often frightened by what our Darkshire men and\nwomen only call living and struggling. But when you've been ten years\namong a people who are always owing their betters a grudge, and only\nwaiting for an opportunity to pay it off, you'll know whether you are a\ncoward or not, take my word for it.'\n\nMr. Thornton came that evening to Mr. Hale's. He was shown up into the\ndrawing-room, where Mr. Hale was reading aloud to his wife and daughter.\n\n'I am come partly to bring you a note from my mother, and partly to\napologise for not keeping to my time yesterday. The note contains the\naddress you asked for; Dr. Donaldson.'\n\n'Thank you!' said Margaret, hastily, holding out her hand to take the\nnote, for she did not wish her mother to hear that they had been making\nany inquiry about a doctor. She was pleased that Mr. Thornton seemed\nimmediately to understand her feeling; he gave her the note without\nanother word of explanation. Mr. Hale began to talk about the strike.\nMr. Thornton's face assumed a likeness to his mother's worst expression,\nwhich immediately repelled the watching Margaret.\n\n'Yes; the fools will have a strike. Let them. It suits us well enough.\nBut we gave them a chance. They think trade is flourishing as it was\nlast year. We see the storm on the horizon and draw in our sails. But\nbecause we don't explain our reasons, they won't believe we're acting\nreasonably. We must give them line and letter for the way we choose to\nspend or save our money. Henderson tried a dodge with his men, out at\nAshley, and failed. He rather wanted a strike; it would have suited his\nbook well enough. So when the men came to ask for the five per cent.\nthey are claiming, he told 'em he'd think about it, and give them his\nanswer on the pay day; knowing all the while what his answer would be,\nof course, but thinking he'd strengthen their conceit of their own way.\nHowever, they were too deep for him, and heard something about the bad\nprospects of trade. So in they came on the Friday, and drew back their\nclaim, and now he's obliged to go on working. But we Milton masters have\nto-day sent in our decision. We won't advance a penny. We tell them we\nmay have to lower wages; but can't afford to raise. So here we stand,\nwaiting for their next attack.'\n\n'And what will that be?' asked Mr. Hale.\n\n'I conjecture, a simultaneous strike. You will see Milton without smoke\nin a few days, I imagine, Miss Hale.'\n\n'But why,' asked she, 'could you not explain what good reason you have\nfor expecting a bad trade? I don't know whether I use the right words,\nbut you will understand what I mean.'\n\n'Do you give your servants reasons for your expenditure, or your economy\nin the use of your own money? We, the owners of capital, have a right to\nchoose what we will do with it.'\n\n'A human right,' said Margaret, very low.\n\n'I beg your pardon, I did not hear what you said.'\n\n'I would rather not repeat it,' said she; 'it related to a feeling which\nI do not think you would share.'\n\n'Won't you try me?' pleaded he; his thoughts suddenly bent upon learning\nwhat she had said. She was displeased with his pertinacity, but did not\nchoose to affix too much importance to her words.\n\n'I said you had a human right. I meant that there seemed no reason but\nreligious ones, why you should not do what you like with your own.\n\n'I know we differ in our religious opinions; but don't you give me\ncredit for having some, though not the same as yours?'\n\nHe was speaking in a subdued voice, as if to her alone. She did not wish\nto be so exclusively addressed. She replied out in her usual tone:\n\n'I do not think that I have any occasion to consider your special\nreligious opinions in the affair. All I meant to say is, that there is\nno human law to prevent the employers from utterly wasting or throwing\naway all their money, if they choose; but that there are passages in the\nBible which would rather imply--to me at least--that they neglected\ntheir duty as stewards if they did so. However I know so little about\nstrikes, and rate of wages, and capital, and labour, that I had better\nnot talk to a political economist like you.'\n\n'Nay, the more reason,' said he, eagerly. 'I shall only be too glad to\nexplain to you all that may seem anomalous or mysterious to a stranger;\nespecially at a time like this, when our doings are sure to be canvassed\nby every scribbler who can hold a pen.'\n\n'Thank you,' she answered, coldly. 'Of course, I shall apply to my\nfather in the first instance for any information he can give me, if I\nget puzzled with living here amongst this strange society.'\n\n'You think it strange. Why?'\n\n'I don't know--I suppose because, on the very face of it, I see two\nclasses dependent on each other in every possible way, yet each\nevidently regarding the interests of the other as opposed to their own;\nI never lived in a place before where there were two sets of people\nalways running each other down.'\n\n'Who have you heard running the masters down? I don't ask who you have\nheard abusing the men; for I see you persist in misunderstanding what I\nsaid the other day. But who have you heard abusing the masters?'\n\nMargaret reddened; then smiled as she said,\n\n'I am not fond of being catechised. I refuse to answer your question.\nBesides, it has nothing to do with the fact. You must take my word for\nit, that I have heard some people, or, it may be, only someone of the\nworkpeople, speak as though it were the interest of the employers to\nkeep them from acquiring money--that it would make them too independent\nif they had a sum in the savings' bank.'\n\n'I dare say it was that man Higgins who told you all this,' said Mrs\nHale. Mr. Thornton did not appear to hear what Margaret evidently did\nnot wish him to know. But he caught it, nevertheless.\n\n'I heard, moreover, that it was considered to the advantage of the\nmasters to have ignorant workmen--not hedge-lawyers, as Captain Lennox\nused to call those men in his company who questioned and would know the\nreason for every order.' This latter part of her sentence she addressed\nrather to her father than to Mr. Thornton. Who is Captain Lennox? asked\nMr. Thornton of himself, with a strange kind of displeasure, that\nprevented him for the moment from replying to her! Her father took up\nthe conversation.\n\n'You never were fond of schools, Margaret, or you would have seen and\nknown before this, how much is being done for education in Milton.'\n\n'No!' said she, with sudden meekness. 'I know I do not care enough about\nschools. But the knowledge and the ignorance of which I was speaking,\ndid not relate to reading and writing,--the teaching or information one\ncan give to a child. I am sure, that what was meant was ignorance of the\nwisdom that shall guide men and women. I hardly know what that is. But\nhe--that is, my informant--spoke as if the masters would like their\nhands to be merely tall, large children--living in the present\nmoment--with a blind unreasoning kind of obedience.'\n\n'In short, Miss Hale, it is very evident that your informant found a\npretty ready listener to all the slander he chose to utter against the\nmasters,' said Mr. Thornton, in an offended tone.\n\nMargaret did not reply. She was displeased at the personal character Mr.\nThornton affixed to what she had said.\n\nMr. Hale spoke next:\n\n'I must confess that, although I have not become so intimately\nacquainted with any workmen as Margaret has, I am very much struck by\nthe antagonism between the employer and the employed, on the very\nsurface of things. I even gather this impression from what you yourself\nhave from time to time said.'\n\nMr. Thornton paused awhile before he spoke. Margaret had just left the\nroom, and he was vexed at the state of feeling between himself and her.\nHowever, the little annoyance, by making him cooler and more thoughtful,\ngave a greater dignity to what he said:\n\n'My theory is, that my interests are identical with those of my\nworkpeople and vice-versa. Miss Hale, I know, does not like to hear men\ncalled 'hands,' so I won't use that word, though it comes most readily\nto my lips as the technical term, whose origin, whatever it was, dates\nbefore my time. On some future day--in some millennium--in Utopia, this\nunity may be brought into practice--just as I can fancy a republic the\nmost perfect form of government.'\n\n'We will read Plato's Republic as soon as we have finished Homer.'\n\n'Well, in the Platonic year, it may fall out that we are all--men women,\nand children--fit for a republic: but give me a constitutional monarchy\nin our present state of morals and intelligence. In our infancy we\nrequire a wise despotism to govern us. Indeed, long past infancy,\nchildren and young people are the happiest under the unfailing laws of a\ndiscreet, firm authority. I agree with Miss Hale so far as to consider\nour people in the condition of children, while I deny that we, the\nmasters, have anything to do with the making or keeping them so. I\nmaintain that despotism is the best kind of government for them; so that\nin the hours in which I come in contact with them I must necessarily be\nan autocrat. I will use my best discretion--from no humbug or\nphilanthropic feeling, of which we have had rather too much in the\nNorth--to make wise laws and come to just decisions in the conduct of my\nbusiness--laws and decisions which work for my own good in the first\ninstance--for theirs in the second; but I will neither be forced to give\nmy reasons, nor flinch from what I have once declared to be my\nresolution. Let them turn out! I shall suffer as well as they: but at\nthe end they will find I have not bated nor altered one jot.'\n\nMargaret had re-entered the room and was sitting at her work; but she\ndid not speak. Mr. Hale answered--\n\n'I dare say I am talking in great ignorance; but from the little I know,\nI should say that the masses were already passing rapidly into the\ntroublesome stage which intervenes between childhood and manhood, in the\nlife of the multitude as well as that of the individual. Now, the error\nwhich many parents commit in the treatment of the individual at this\ntime is, insisting on the same unreasoning obedience as when all he had\nto do in the way of duty was, to obey the simple laws of \"Come when\nyou're called\" and \"Do as you're bid!\" But a wise parent humours the\ndesire for independent action, so as to become the friend and adviser\nwhen his absolute rule shall cease. If I get wrong in my reasoning,\nrecollect, it is you who adopted the analogy.'\n\n'Very lately,' said Margaret, 'I heard a story of what happened in\nNuremberg only three or four years ago. A rich man there lived alone in\none of the immense mansions which were formerly both dwellings and\nwarehouses. It was reported that he had a child, but no one knew of it\nfor certain. For forty years this rumour kept rising and falling--never\nutterly dying away. After his death it was found to be true. He had a\nson--an overgrown man with the unexercised intellect of a child, whom he\nhad kept up in that strange way, in order to save him from temptation\nand error. But, of course, when this great old child was turned loose\ninto the world, every bad counsellor had power over him. He did not know\ngood from evil. His father had made the blunder of bringing him up in\nignorance and taking it for innocence; and after fourteen months of\nriotous living, the city authorities had to take charge of him, in order\nto save him from starvation. He could not even use words effectively\nenough to be a successful beggar.'\n\n'I used the comparison (suggested by Miss Hale) of the position of the\nmaster to that of a parent; so I ought not to complain of your turning\nthe simile into a weapon against me. But, Mr. Hale, when you were\nsetting up a wise parent as a model for us, you said he humoured his\nchildren in their desire for independent action. Now certainly, the time\nis not come for the hands to have any independent action during business\nhours; I hardly know what you would mean by it then. And I say, that the\nmasters would be trenching on the independence of their hands, in a way\nthat I, for one, should not feel justified in doing, if we interfered\ntoo much with the life they lead out of the mills. Because they labour\nten hours a-day for us, I do not see that we have any right to impose\nleading-strings upon them for the rest of their time. I value my own\nindependence so highly that I can fancy no degradation greater than that\nof having another man perpetually directing and advising and lecturing\nme, or even planning too closely in any way about my actions. He might\nbe the wisest of men, or the most powerful--I should equally rebel and\nresent his interference I imagine this is a stronger feeling in the\nNorth of England that in the South.'\n\n'I beg your pardon, but is not that because there has been none of the\nequality of friendship between the adviser and advised classes? Because\nevery man has had to stand in an unchristian and isolated position,\napart from and jealous of his brother-man: constantly afraid of his\nrights being trenched upon?'\n\n'I only state the fact. I am sorry to say, I have an appointment at\neight o'clock, and I must just take facts as I find them to-night,\nwithout trying to account for them; which, indeed, would make no\ndifference in determining how to act as things stand--the facts must be\ngranted.'\n\n'But,' said Margaret in a low voice, 'it seems to me that it makes all\nthe difference in the world--.' Her father made a sign to her to be\nsilent, and allow Mr. Thornton to finish what he had to say. He was\nalready standing up and preparing to go.\n\n'You must grant me this one point. Given a strong feeling of\nindependence in every Darkshire man, have I any right to obtrude my\nviews, of the manner in which he shall act, upon another (hating it as I\nshould do most vehemently myself), merely because he has labour to sell\nand I capital to buy?'\n\n'Not in the least,' said Margaret, determined just to say this one\nthing; 'not in the least because of your labour and capital positions,\nwhatever they are, but because you are a man, dealing with a set of men\nover whom you have, whether you reject the use of it or not, immense\npower, just because your lives and your welfare are so constantly and\nintimately interwoven. God has made us so that we must be mutually\ndependent. We may ignore our own dependence, or refuse to acknowledge\nthat others depend upon us in more respects than the payment of weekly\nwages; but the thing must be, nevertheless. Neither you nor any other\nmaster can help yourselves. The most proudly independent man depends on\nthose around him for their insensible influence on his character--his\nlife. And the most isolated of all your Darkshire Egos has dependants\nclinging to him on all sides; he cannot shake them off, any more than\nthe great rock he resembles can shake off--'\n\n'Pray don't go into similes, Margaret; you have led us off once\nalready,' said her father, smiling, yet uneasy at the thought that they\nwere detaining Mr. Thornton against his will, which was a mistake; for\nhe rather liked it, as long as Margaret would talk, although what she\nsaid only irritated him.\n\n'Just tell me, Miss Hale, are you yourself ever influenced--no, that is\nnot a fair way of putting it;--but if you are ever conscious of being\ninfluenced by others, and not by circumstances, have those others been\nworking directly or indirectly? Have they been labouring to exhort, to\nenjoin, to act rightly for the sake of example, or have they been\nsimple, true men, taking up their duty, and doing it unflinchingly,\nwithout a thought of how their actions were to make this man\nindustrious, that man saving? Why, if I were a workman, I should be\ntwenty times more impressed by the knowledge that my master was honest,\npunctual, quick, resolute in all his doings (and hands are keener spies\neven than valets), than by any amount of interference, however kindly\nmeant, with my ways of going on out of work-hours. I do not choose to\nthink too closely on what I am myself; but, I believe, I rely on the\nstraightforward honesty of my hands, and the open nature of their\nopposition, in contra-distinction to the way in which the turnout will\nbe managed in some mills, just because they know I scorn to take a\nsingle dishonourable advantage, or do an underhand thing myself. It goes\nfarther than a whole course of lectures on \"Honesty is the Best\nPolicy\"--life diluted into words. No, no! What the master is, that will\nthe men be, without over-much taking thought on his part.'\n\n'That is a great admission,' said Margaret, laughing. 'When I see men\nviolent and obstinate in pursuit of their rights, I may safely infer\nthat the master is the same that he is a little ignorant of that spirit\nwhich suffereth long, and is kind, and seeketh not her own.'\n\n'You are just like all strangers who don't understand the working of our\nsystem, Miss Hale,' said he, hastily. 'You suppose that our men are\npuppets of dough, ready to be moulded into any amiable form we please.\nYou forget we have only to do with them for less than a third of their\nlives; and you seem not to perceive that the duties of a manufacturer\nare far larger and wider than those merely of an employer of labour: we\nhave a wide commercial character to maintain, which makes us into the\ngreat pioneers of civilisation.'\n\n'It strikes me,' said Mr. Hale, smiling, 'that you might pioneer a\nlittle at home. They are a rough, heathenish set of fellows, these\nMilton men of yours.'\n\n'They are that,' replied Mr. Thornton. 'Rosewater surgery won't do for\nthem. Cromwell would have made a capital mill-owner, Miss Hale. I wish\nwe had him to put down this strike for us.'\n\n'Cromwell is no hero of mine,' said she, coldly. 'But I am trying to\nreconcile your admiration of despotism with your respect for other men's\nindependence of character.'\n\nHe reddened at her tone. 'I choose to be the unquestioned and\nirresponsible master of my hands, during the hours that they labour for\nme. But those hours past, our relation ceases; and then comes in the\nsame respect for their independence that I myself exact.'\n\nHe did not speak again for a minute, he was too much vexed. But he shook\nit off, and bade Mr. and Mrs. Hale good night. Then, drawing near to\nMargaret, he said in a lower voice--\n\n'I spoke hastily to you once this evening, and I am afraid, rather\nrudely. But you know I am but an uncouth Milton manufacturer; will you\nforgive me?'\n\n'Certainly,' said she, smiling up in his face, the expression of which\nwas somewhat anxious and oppressed, and hardly cleared away as he met\nher sweet sunny countenance, out of which all the north-wind effect of\ntheir discussion had entirely vanished. But she did not put out her hand\nto him, and again he felt the omission, and set it down to pride.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI\n\nTHE SHADOW OF DEATH\n\n    'Trust in that veiled hand, which leads\n     None by the path that he would go;\n     And always be for change prepared,\n     For the world's law is ebb and flow.'\n             FROM THE ARABIC.\n\n\nThe next afternoon Dr. Donaldson came to pay his first visit to Mrs.\nHale. The mystery that Margaret hoped their late habits of intimacy had\nbroken through, was resumed. She was excluded from the room, while Dixon\nwas admitted. Margaret was not a ready lover, but where she loved she\nloved passionately, and with no small degree of jealousy.\n\nShe went into her mother's bed-room, just behind the drawing-room, and\npaced it up and down, while awaiting the doctor's coming out. Every now\nand then she stopped to listen; she fancied she heard a moan. She\nclenched her hands tight, and held her breath. She was sure she heard a\nmoan. Then all was still for a few minutes more; and then there was the\nmoving of chairs, the raised voices, all the little disturbances of\nleave-taking.\n\nWhen she heard the door open, she went quickly out of the bed-room.\n\n'My father is from home, Dr. Donaldson; he has to attend a pupil at this\nhour. May I trouble you to come into his room down stairs?'\n\nShe saw, and triumphed over all the obstacles which Dixon threw in her\nway; assuming her rightful position as daughter of the house in\nsomething of the spirit of the Elder Brother, which quelled the old\nservant's officiousness very effectually. Margaret's conscious\nassumption of this unusual dignity of demeanour towards Dixon, gave her\nan instant's amusement in the midst of her anxiety. She knew, from the\nsurprised expression on Dixon's face, how ridiculously grand she herself\nmust be looking; and the idea carried her down stairs into the room; it\ngave her that length of oblivion from the keen sharpness of the\nrecollection of the actual business in hand. Now, that came back, and\nseemed to take away her breath. It was a moment or two before she could\nutter a word.\n\nBut she spoke with an air of command, as she asked:--'\n\n'What is the matter with mamma? You will oblige me by telling the simple\ntruth.' Then, seeing a slight hesitation on the doctor's part, she\nadded--\n\n'I am the only child she has--here, I mean. My father is not\nsufficiently alarmed, I fear; and, therefore, if there is any serious\napprehension, it must be broken to him gently. I can do this. I can\nnurse my mother. Pray, speak, sir; to see your face, and not be able to\nread it, gives me a worse dread than I trust any words of yours will\njustify.'\n\n'My dear young lady, your mother seems to have a most attentive and\nefficient servant, who is more like her friend--'\n\n'I am her daughter, sir.'\n\n'But when I tell you she expressly desired that you might not be told--'\n\n'I am not good or patient enough to submit to the prohibition. Besides,\nI am sure you are too wise--too experienced to have promised to keep the\nsecret.'\n\n'Well,' said he, half-smiling, though sadly enough, 'there you are\nright. I did not promise. In fact, I fear, the secret will be known soon\nenough without my revealing it.'\n\nHe paused. Margaret went very white, and compressed her lips a little\nmore. Otherwise not a feature moved. With the quick insight into\ncharacter, without which no medical man can rise to the eminence of Dr.\nDonaldson, he saw that she would exact the full truth; that she would\nknow if one iota was withheld; and that the withholding would be torture\nmore acute than the knowledge of it. He spoke two short sentences in a\nlow voice, watching her all the time; for the pupils of her eyes dilated\ninto a black horror and the whiteness of her complexion became livid. He\nceased speaking. He waited for that look to go off,--for her gasping\nbreath to come. Then she said:--\n\n'I thank you most truly, sir, for your confidence. That dread has\nhaunted me for many weeks. It is a true, real agony. My poor, poor\nmother!' her lips began to quiver, and he let her have the relief of\ntears, sure of her power of self-control to check them.\n\nA few tears--those were all she shed, before she recollected the many\nquestions she longed to ask.\n\n'Will there be much suffering?'\n\nHe shook his head. 'That we cannot tell. It depends on constitution; on\na thousand things. But the late discoveries of medical science have\ngiven us large power of alleviation.'\n\n'My father!' said Margaret, trembling all over.\n\n'I do not know Mr. Hale. I mean, it is difficult to give advice. But I\nshould say, bear on, with the knowledge you have forced me to give you\nso abruptly, till the fact which I could not with-hold has become in\nsome degree familiar to you, so that you may, without too great an\neffort, be able to give what comfort you can to your father. Before\nthen,--my visits, which, of course, I shall repeat from time to time,\nalthough I fear I can do nothing but alleviate,--a thousand little\ncircumstances will have occurred to awaken his alarm, to deepen it--so\nthat he will be all the better prepared.--Nay, my dear young lady--nay,\nmy dear--I saw Mr. Thornton, and I honour your father for the sacrifice\nhe has made, however mistaken I may believe him to be.--Well, this once,\nif it will please you, my dear. Only remember, when I come again, I come\nas a friend. And you must learn to look upon me as such, because seeing\neach other--getting to know each other at such times as these, is worth\nyears of morning calls.' Margaret could not speak for crying: but she\nwrung his hand at parting.\n\n'That's what I call a fine girl!' thought Dr. Donaldson, when he was\nseated in his carriage, and had time to examine his ringed hand, which\nhad slightly suffered from her pressure. 'Who would have thought that\nlittle hand could have given such a squeeze? But the bones were well put\ntogether, and that gives immense power. What a queen she is! With her\nhead thrown back at first, to force me into speaking the truth; and then\nbent so eagerly forward to listen. Poor thing! I must see she does not\noverstrain herself. Though it's astonishing how much those thorough-bred\ncreatures can do and suffer. That girl's game to the back-bone. Another,\nwho had gone that deadly colour, could never have come round without\neither fainting or hysterics. But she wouldn't do either--not she! And\nthe very force of her will brought her round. Such a girl as that would\nwin my heart, if I were thirty years younger. It's too late now. Ah!\nhere we are at the Archers'.' So out he jumped, with thought, wisdom,\nexperience, sympathy, and ready to attend to the calls made upon them by\nthis family, just as if there were none other in the world.\n\nMeanwhile, Margaret had returned into her father's study for a moment,\nto recover strength before going upstairs into her mother's presence.\n\n'Oh, my God, my God! but this is terrible. How shall I bear it? Such a\ndeadly disease! no hope! Oh, mamma, mamma, I wish I had never gone to\naunt Shaw's, and been all those precious years away from you! Poor\nmamma! how much she must have borne! Oh, I pray thee, my God, that her\nsufferings may not be too acute, too dreadful. How shall I bear to see\nthem? How can I bear papa's agony? He must not be told yet; not all at\nonce. It would kill him. But I won't lose another moment of my own dear,\nprecious mother.'\n\nShe ran upstairs. Dixon was not in the room. Mrs. Hale lay back in an\neasy chair, with a soft white shawl wrapped around her, and a becoming\ncap put on, in expectation of the doctor's visit. Her face had a little\nfaint colour in it, and the very exhaustion after the examination gave\nit a peaceful look. Margaret was surprised to see her look so calm.\n\n'Why, Margaret, how strange you look! What is the matter?' And then, as\nthe idea stole into her mind of what was indeed the real state of the\ncase, she added, as if a little displeased: 'you have not been seeing\nDr. Donaldson, and asking him any questions--have you, child?' Margaret\ndid not reply--only looked wistfully towards her. Mrs. Hale became more\ndispleased. 'He would not, surely, break his word to me, and'--\n\n'Oh yes, mamma, he did. I made him. It was I--blame me.' She knelt down\nby her mother's side, and caught her hand--she would not let it go,\nthough Mrs. Hale tried to pull it away. She kept kissing it, and the hot\ntears she shed bathed it.\n\n'Margaret, it was very wrong of you. You knew I did not wish you to\nknow.' But, as if tired with the contest, she left her hand in\nMargaret's clasp, and by-and-by she returned the pressure faintly. That\nencouraged Margaret to speak.\n\n'Oh, mamma! let me be your nurse. I will learn anything Dixon can teach\nme. But you know I am your child, and I do think I have a right to do\neverything for you.'\n\n'You don't know what you are asking,' said Mrs. Hale, with a shudder.\n\n'Yes, I do. I know a great deal more than you are aware of. Let me be\nyour nurse. Let me try, at any rate. No one has ever, shall ever try so\nhard as I will do. It will be such a comfort, mamma.'\n\n'My poor child! Well, you shall try. Do you know, Margaret, Dixon and I\nthought you would quite shrink from me if you knew--'\n\n'Dixon thought!' said Margaret, her lip curling. 'Dixon could not give\nme credit for enough true love--for as much as herself! She thought, I\nsuppose, that I was one of those poor sickly women who like to lie on\nrose leaves, and be fanned all day. Don't let Dixon's fancies come any\nmore between you and me, mamma. Don't, please!' implored she.\n\n'Don't be angry with Dixon,' said Mrs. Hale, anxiously. Margaret\nrecovered herself.\n\n'No! I won't. I will try and be humble, and learn her ways, if you will\nonly let me do all I can for you. Let me be in the first place,\nmother--I am greedy of that. I used to fancy you would forget me while I\nwas away at aunt Shaw's, and cry myself to sleep at nights with that\nnotion in my head.'\n\n'And I used to think, how will Margaret bear our makeshift poverty after\nthe thorough comfort and luxury in Harley Street, till I have many a\ntime been more ashamed of your seeing our contrivances at Helstone than\nof any stranger finding them out.'\n\n'Oh, mamma! and I did so enjoy them. They were so much more amusing than\nall the jog-trot Harley Street ways. The wardrobe shelf with handles,\nthat served as a supper-tray on grand occasions! And the old tea-chests\nstuffed and covered for ottomans! I think what you call the makeshift\ncontrivances at dear Helstone were a charming part of the life there.'\n\n'I shall never see Helstone again, Margaret,' said Mrs. Hale, the tears\nwelling up into her eyes. Margaret could not reply. Mrs. Hale went on.\n'While I was there, I was for ever wanting to leave it. Every place\nseemed pleasanter. And now I shall die far away from it. I am rightly\npunished.'\n\n'You must not talk so,' said Margaret, impatiently. 'He said you might\nlive for years. Oh, mother! we will have you back at Helstone yet.'\n\n'No never! That I must take as a just penance. But,\nMargaret--Frederick!' At the mention of that one word, she suddenly\ncried out loud, as in some sharp agony. It seemed as if the thought of\nhim upset all her composure, destroyed the calm, overcame the\nexhaustion. Wild passionate cry succeeded to cry--'Frederick! Frederick!\nCome to me. I am dying. Little first-born child, come to me once again!'\n\nShe was in violent hysterics. Margaret went and called Dixon in terror.\nDixon came in a huff, and accused Margaret of having over-excited her\nmother. Margaret bore all meekly, only trusting that her father might\nnot return. In spite of her alarm, which was even greater than the\noccasion warranted, she obeyed all Dixon's directions promptly and well,\nwithout a word of self-justification. By so doing she mollified her\naccuser. They put her mother to bed, and Margaret sate by her till she\nfell asleep, and afterwards till Dixon beckoned her out of the room,\nand, with a sour face, as if doing something against the grain, she bade\nher drink a cup of coffee which she had prepared for her in the\ndrawing-room, and stood over her in a commanding attitude as she did so.\n\n'You shouldn't have been so curious, Miss, and then you wouldn't have\nneeded to fret before your time. It would have come soon enough. And\nnow, I suppose, you'll tell master, and a pretty household I shall have\nof you!'\n\n'No, Dixon,' said Margaret, sorrowfully, 'I will not tell papa. He could\nnot bear it as I can.' And by way of proving how well she bore it, she\nburst into tears.\n\n'Ay! I knew how it would be. Now you'll waken your mamma, just after\nshe's gone to sleep so quietly. Miss Margaret my dear, I've had to keep\nit down this many a week; and though I don't pretend I can love her as\nyou do, yet I loved her better than any other man, woman, or child--no\none but Master Frederick ever came near her in my mind. Ever since Lady\nBeresford's maid first took me in to see her dressed out in white crape,\nand corn-ears, and scarlet poppies, and I ran a needle down into my\nfinger, and broke it in, and she tore up her worked pocket-handkerchief,\nafter they'd cut it out, and came in to wet the bandages again with\nlotion when she returned from the ball--where she'd been the prettiest\nyoung lady of all--I've never loved any one like her. I little thought\nthen that I should live to see her brought so low. I don't mean no\nreproach to nobody. Many a one calls you pretty and handsome, and what\nnot. Even in this smoky place, enough to blind one's eyes, the owls can\nsee that. But you'll never be like your mother for beauty--never; not if\nyou live to be a hundred.'\n\n'Mamma is very pretty still. Poor mamma!'\n\n'Now don't ye set off again, or I shall give way at last' (whimpering).\n'You'll never stand master's coming home, and questioning, at this rate.\nGo out and take a walk, and come in something like. Many's the time I've\nlonged to walk it off--the thought of what was the matter with her, and\nhow it must all end.'\n\n'Oh, Dixon!' said Margaret, 'how often I've been cross with you, not\nknowing what a terrible secret you had to bear!'\n\n'Bless you, child! I like to see you showing a bit of a spirit. It's the\ngood old Beresford blood. Why, the last Sir John but two shot his\nsteward down, there where he stood, for just telling him that he'd\nracked the tenants, and he'd racked the tenants till he could get no\nmore money off them than he could get skin off a flint.'\n\n'Well, Dixon, I won't shoot you, and I'll try not to be cross again.'\n\n'You never have. If I've said it at times, it has always been to myself,\njust in private, by way of making a little agreeable conversation, for\nthere's no one here fit to talk to. And when you fire up, you're the\nvery image of Master Frederick. I could find in my heart to put you in a\npassion any day, just to see his stormy look coming like a great cloud\nover your face. But now you go out, Miss. I'll watch over missus; and as\nfor master, his books are company enough for him, if he should come in.'\n\n'I will go,' said Margaret. She hung about Dixon for a minute or so, as\nif afraid and irresolute; then suddenly kissing her, she went quickly\nout of the room.\n\n'Bless her!' said Dixon. 'She's as sweet as a nut. There are three\npeople I love: it's missus, Master Frederick, and her. Just them three.\nThat's all. The rest be hanged, for I don't know what they're in the\nworld for. Master was born, I suppose, for to marry missus. If I thought\nhe loved her properly, I might get to love him in time. But he should\nha' made a deal more on her, and not been always reading, reading,\nthinking, thinking. See what it has brought him to! Many a one who never\nreads nor thinks either, gets to be Rector, and Dean, and what not; and\nI dare say master might, if he'd just minded missus, and let the weary\nreading and thinking alone.--There she goes' (looking out of the window\nas she heard the front door shut). 'Poor young lady! her clothes look\nshabby to what they did when she came to Helstone a year ago. Then she\nhadn't so much as a darned stocking or a cleaned pair of gloves in all\nher wardrobe. And now--!'\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII\n\nWHAT IS A STRIKE?\n\n    'There are briars besetting every path,\n     Which call for patient care;\n     There is a cross in every lot,\n     And an earnest need for prayer.'\n             ANON.\n\n\nMargaret went out heavily and unwillingly enough. But the length of a\nstreet--yes, the air of a Milton Street--cheered her young blood before\nshe reached her first turning. Her step grew lighter, her lip redder.\nShe began to take notice, instead of having her thoughts turned so\nexclusively inward. She saw unusual loiterers in the streets: men with\ntheir hands in their pockets sauntering along; loud-laughing and\nloud-spoken girls clustered together, apparently excited to high\nspirits, and a boisterous independence of temper and behaviour. The more\nill-looking of the men--the discreditable minority--hung about on the\nsteps of the beer-houses and gin-shops, smoking, and commenting pretty\nfreely on every passer-by. Margaret disliked the prospect of the long\nwalk through these streets, before she came to the fields which she had\nplanned to reach. Instead, she would go and see Bessy Higgins. It would\nnot be so refreshing as a quiet country walk, but still it would perhaps\nbe doing the kinder thing.\n\nNicholas Higgins was sitting by the fire smoking, as she went in. Bessy\nwas rocking herself on the other side.\n\nNicholas took the pipe out of his mouth, and standing up, pushed his\nchair towards Margaret; he leant against the chimney piece in a lounging\nattitude, while she asked Bessy how she was.\n\n'Hoo's rather down i' th' mouth in regard to spirits, but hoo's better\nin health. Hoo doesn't like this strike. Hoo's a deal too much set on\npeace and quietness at any price.'\n\n'This is th' third strike I've seen,' said she, sighing, as if that was\nanswer and explanation enough.\n\n'Well, third time pays for all. See if we don't dang th' masters this\ntime. See if they don't come, and beg us to come back at our own price.\nThat's all. We've missed it afore time, I grant yo'; but this time we'n\nlaid our plans desperate deep.'\n\n'Why do you strike?' asked Margaret. 'Striking is leaving off work till\nyou get your own rate of wages, is it not? You must not wonder at my\nignorance; where I come from I never heard of a strike.'\n\n'I wish I were there,' said Bessy, wearily. 'But it's not for me to get\nsick and tired o' strikes. This is the last I'll see. Before it's ended\nI shall be in the Great City--the Holy Jerusalem.'\n\n'Hoo's so full of th' life to come, hoo cannot think of th' present. Now\nI, yo' see, am bound to do the best I can here. I think a bird i' th'\nhand is worth two i' th' bush. So them's the different views we take on\nth' strike question.'\n\n'But,' said Margaret, 'if the people struck, as you call it, where I\ncome from, as they are mostly all field labourers, the seed would not be\nsown, the hay got in, the corn reaped.'\n\n'Well?' said he. He had resumed his pipe, and put his 'well' in the form\nof an interrogation.\n\n'Why,' she went on, 'what would become of the farmers.'\n\nHe puffed away. 'I reckon they'd have either to give up their farms, or\nto give fair rate of wage.'\n\n'Suppose they could not, or would not do the last; they could not give\nup their farms all in a minute, however much they might wish to do so;\nbut they would have no hay, nor corn to sell that year; and where would\nthe money come from to pay the labourers' wages the next?'\n\nStill puffing away. At last he said:\n\n'I know nought of your ways down South. I have heerd they're a pack of\nspiritless, down-trodden men; welly clemmed to death; too much dazed wi'\nclemming to know when they're put upon. Now, it's not so here. We known\nwhen we're put upon; and we'en too much blood in us to stand it. We just\ntake our hands fro' our looms, and say, \"Yo' may clem us, but yo'll not\nput upon us, my masters!\" And be danged to 'em, they shan't this time!'\n\n'I wish I lived down South,' said Bessy.\n\n'There's a deal to bear there,' said Margaret. 'There are sorrows to\nbear everywhere. There is very hard bodily labour to be gone through,\nwith very little food to give strength.'\n\n'But it's out of doors,' said Bessy. 'And away from the endless, endless\nnoise, and sickening heat.'\n\n'It's sometimes in heavy rain, and sometimes in bitter cold. A young\nperson can stand it; but an old man gets racked with rheumatism, and\nbent and withered before his time; yet he must just work on the same, or\nelse go to the workhouse.'\n\n'I thought yo' were so taken wi' the ways of the South country.'\n\n'So I am,' said Margaret, smiling a little, as she found herself thus\ncaught. 'I only mean, Bessy, there's good and bad in everything in this\nworld; and as you felt the bad up here, I thought it was but fair you\nshould know the bad down there.'\n\n'And yo' say they never strike down there?' asked Nicholas, abruptly.\n\n'No!' said Margaret; 'I think they have too much sense.'\n\n'An' I think,' replied he, dashing the ashes out of his pipe with so\nmuch vehemence that it broke, 'it's not that they've too much sense, but\nthat they've too little spirit.'\n\n'O, father!' said Bessy, 'what have ye gained by striking? Think of that\nfirst strike when mother died--how we all had to clem--you the worst of\nall; and yet many a one went in every week at the same wage, till all\nwere gone in that there was work for; and some went beggars all their\nlives at after.'\n\n'Ay,' said he. 'That there strike was badly managed. Folk got into th'\nmanagement of it, as were either fools or not true men. Yo'll see, it'll\nbe different this time.'\n\n'But all this time you've not told me what you're striking for,' said\nMargaret, again.\n\n'Why, yo' see, there's five or six masters who have set themselves again\npaying the wages they've been paying these two years past, and\nflourishing upon, and getting richer upon. And now they come to us, and\nsay we're to take less. And we won't. We'll just clem them to death\nfirst; and see who'll work for 'em then. They'll have killed the goose\nthat laid 'em the golden eggs, I reckon.'\n\n'And so you plan dying, in order to be revenged upon them!'\n\n'No,' said he, 'I dunnot. I just look forward to the chance of dying at\nmy post sooner than yield. That's what folk call fine and honourable in\na soldier, and why not in a poor weaver-chap?'\n\n'But,' said Margaret, 'a soldier dies in the cause of the Nation--in the\ncause of others.'\n\nHe laughed grimly. 'My lass,' said he, 'yo're but a young wench, but\ndon't yo' think I can keep three people--that's Bessy, and Mary, and\nme--on sixteen shilling a week? Dun yo' think it's for mysel' I'm\nstriking work at this time? It's just as much in the cause of others as\nyon soldier--only m'appen, the cause he dies for is just that of\nsomebody he never clapt eyes on, nor heerd on all his born days, while I\ntake up John Boucher's cause, as lives next door but one, wi' a sickly\nwife, and eight childer, none on 'em factory age; and I don't take up\nhis cause only, though he's a poor good-for-nought, as can only manage\ntwo looms at a time, but I take up th' cause o' justice. Why are we to\nhave less wage now, I ask, than two year ago?'\n\n'Don't ask me,' said Margaret; 'I am very ignorant. Ask some of your\nmasters. Surely they will give you a reason for it. It is not merely an\narbitrary decision of theirs, come to without reason.'\n\n'Yo're just a foreigner, and nothing more,' said he, contemptuously.\n'Much yo' know about it. Ask th' masters! They'd tell us to mind our own\nbusiness, and they'd mind theirs. Our business being, yo' understand, to\ntake the bated' wage, and be thankful, and their business to bate us\ndown to clemming point, to swell their profits. That's what it is.'\n\n'But said Margaret, determined not to give way, although she saw she was\nirritating him, 'the state of trade may be such as not to enable them to\ngive you the same remuneration.\n\n'State o' trade! That's just a piece o' masters' humbug. It's rate o'\nwages I was talking of. Th' masters keep th' state o' trade in their own\nhands; and just walk it forward like a black bug-a-boo, to frighten\nnaughty children with into being good. I'll tell yo' it's their\npart,--their cue, as some folks call it,--to beat us down, to swell\ntheir fortunes; and it's ours to stand up and fight hard,--not for\nourselves alone, but for them round about us--for justice and fair play.\nWe help to make their profits, and we ought to help spend 'em. It's not\nthat we want their brass so much this time, as we've done many a time\nafore. We'n getten money laid by; and we're resolved to stand and fall\ntogether; not a man on us will go in for less wage than th' Union says\nis our due. So I say, \"hooray for the strike,\" and let Thornton, and\nSlickson, and Hamper, and their set look to it!'\n\n'Thornton!' said Margaret. 'Mr. Thornton of Marlborough Street?'\n\n'Aye! Thornton o' Marlborough Mill, as we call him.'\n\n'He is one of the masters you are striving with, is he not? What sort of\na master is he?'\n\n'Did yo' ever see a bulldog? Set a bulldog on hind legs, and dress him\nup in coat and breeches, and yo'n just getten John Thornton.'\n\n'Nay,' said Margaret, laughing, 'I deny that. Mr. Thornton is plain\nenough, but he's not like a bulldog, with its short broad nose, and\nsnarling upper lip.'\n\n'No! not in look, I grant yo'. But let John Thornton get hold on a\nnotion, and he'll stick to it like a bulldog; yo' might pull him away\nwi' a pitch-fork ere he'd leave go. He's worth fighting wi', is John\nThornton. As for Slickson, I take it, some o' these days he'll wheedle\nhis men back wi' fair promises; that they'll just get cheated out of as\nsoon as they're in his power again. He'll work his fines well out on\n'em, I'll warrant. He's as slippery as an eel, he is. He's like a\ncat,--as sleek, and cunning, and fierce. It'll never be an honest up and\ndown fight wi' him, as it will be wi' Thornton. Thornton's as dour as a\ndoor-nail; an obstinate chap, every inch on him,--th' oud bulldog!'\n\n'Poor Bessy!' said Margaret, turning round to her. 'You sigh over it\nall. You don't like struggling and fighting as your father does, do\nyou?'\n\n'No!' said she, heavily. 'I'm sick on it. I could have wished to have\nhad other talk about me in my latter days, than just the clashing and\nclanging and clattering that has wearied a' my life long, about work and\nwages, and masters, and hands, and knobsticks.'\n\n'Poor wench! latter days be farred! Thou'rt looking a sight better\nalready for a little stir and change. Beside, I shall be a deal here to\nmake it more lively for thee.'\n\n'Tobacco-smoke chokes me!' said she, querulously.\n\n'Then I'll never smoke no more i' th' house!' he replied, tenderly. 'But\nwhy didst thou not tell me afore, thou foolish wench?'\n\nShe did not speak for a while, and then so low that only Margaret heard\nher:\n\n'I reckon, he'll want a' the comfort he can get out o' either pipe or\ndrink afore he's done.'\n\nHer father went out of doors, evidently to finish his pipe.\n\nBessy said passionately,\n\n'Now am not I a fool,--am I not, Miss?--there, I knew I ought for to\nkeep father at home, and away fro' the folk that are always ready for to\ntempt a man, in time o' strike, to go drink,--and there my tongue must\nneeds quarrel with this pipe o' his'n,--and he'll go off, I know he\nwill,--as often as he wants to smoke--and nobody knows where it'll end.\nI wish I'd letten myself be choked first.'\n\n'But does your father drink?' asked Margaret.\n\n'No--not to say drink,' replied she, still in the same wild excited\ntone. 'But what win ye have? There are days wi' you, as wi' other folk,\nI suppose, when yo' get up and go through th' hours, just longing for a\nbit of a change--a bit of a fillip, as it were. I know I ha' gone and\nbought a four-pounder out o' another baker's shop to common on such\ndays, just because I sickened at the thought of going on for ever wi'\nthe same sight in my eyes, and the same sound in my ears, and the same\ntaste i' my mouth, and the same thought (or no thought, for that matter)\nin my head, day after day, for ever. I've longed for to be a man to go\nspreeing, even it were only a tramp to some new place in search o' work.\nAnd father--all men--have it stronger in 'em than me to get tired o'\nsameness and work for ever. And what is 'em to do? It's little blame to\nthem if they do go into th' gin-shop for to make their blood flow\nquicker, and more lively, and see things they never see at no other\ntime--pictures, and looking-glass, and such like. But father never was a\ndrunkard, though maybe, he's got worse for drink, now and then. Only yo'\nsee,' and now her voice took a mournful, pleading tone, 'at times o'\nstrike there's much to knock a man down, for all they start so\nhopefully; and where's the comfort to come fro'? He'll get angry and\nmad--they all do--and then they get tired out wi' being angry and mad,\nand maybe ha' done things in their passion they'd be glad to forget.\nBless yo'r sweet pitiful face! but yo' dunnot know what a strike is\nyet.'\n\n'Come, Bessy,' said Margaret, 'I won't say you're exaggerating, because\nI don't know enough about it: but, perhaps, as you're not well, you're\nonly looking on one side, and there is another and a brighter to be\nlooked to.'\n\n'It's all well enough for yo' to say so, who have lived in pleasant\ngreen places all your life long, and never known want or care, or\nwickedness either, for that matter.'\n\n'Take care,' said Margaret, her cheek flushing, and her eye lightening,\n'how you judge, Bessy. I shall go home to my mother, who is so ill--so\nill, Bessy, that there's no outlet but death for her out of the prison\nof her great suffering; and yet I must speak cheerfully to my father,\nwho has no notion of her real state, and to whom the knowledge must come\ngradually. The only person--the only one who could sympathise with me\nand help me--whose presence could comfort my mother more than any other\nearthly thing--is falsely accused--would run the risk of death if he\ncame to see his dying mother. This I tell you--only you, Bessy. You must\nnot mention it. No other person in Milton--hardly any other person in\nEngland knows. Have I not care? Do I not know anxiety, though I go about\nwell-dressed, and have food enough? Oh, Bessy, God is just, and our lots\nare well portioned out by Him, although none but He knows the bitterness\nof our souls.'\n\n'I ask your pardon,' replied Bessy, humbly. 'Sometimes, when I've\nthought o' my life, and the little pleasure I've had in it, I've\nbelieved that, maybe, I was one of those doomed to die by the falling of\na star from heaven; \"And the name of the star is called Wormwood;\" and\nthe third part of the waters became wormwood; and men died of the\nwaters, because they were made bitter.\" One can bear pain and sorrow\nbetter if one thinks it has been prophesied long before for one:\nsomehow, then it seems as if my pain was needed for the fulfilment;\notherways it seems all sent for nothing.'\n\n'Nay, Bessy--think!' said Margaret. 'God does not willingly afflict.\nDon't dwell so much on the prophecies, but read the clearer parts of the\nBible.'\n\n'I dare say it would be wiser; but where would I hear such grand words\nof promise--hear tell o' anything so far different fro' this dreary\nworld, and this town above a', as in Revelations? Many's the time I've\nrepeated the verses in the seventh chapter to myself, just for the\nsound. It's as good as an organ, and as different from every day, too.\nNo, I cannot give up Revelations. It gives me more comfort than any\nother book i' the Bible.'\n\n'Let me come and read you some of my favourite chapters.'\n\n'Ay,' said she, greedily, 'come. Father will maybe hear yo'. He's deaved\nwi' my talking; he says it's all nought to do with the things o' to-day,\nand that's his business.'\n\n'Where is your sister?'\n\n'Gone fustian-cutting. I were loth to let her go; but somehow we must\nlive; and th' Union can't afford us much.'\n\n'Now I must go. You have done me good, Bessy.'\n\n'I done you good!'\n\n'Yes. I came here very sad, and rather too apt to think my own cause for\ngrief was the only one in the world. And now I hear how you have had to\nbear for years, and that makes me stronger.'\n\n'Bless yo'! I thought a' the good-doing was on the side of gentle folk.\nI shall get proud if I think I can do good to yo'.'\n\n'You won't do it if you think about it. But you'll only puzzle yourself\nif you do, that's one comfort.'\n\n'Yo're not like no one I ever seed. I dunno what to make of yo'.'\n\n'Nor I of myself. Good-bye!'\n\nBessy stilled her rocking to gaze after her.\n\n'I wonder if there are many folk like her down South. She's like a\nbreath of country air, somehow. She freshens me up above a bit. Who'd\nha' thought that face--as bright and as strong as the angel I dream\nof--could have known the sorrow she speaks on? I wonder how she'll sin.\nAll on us must sin. I think a deal on her, for sure. But father does the\nlike, I see. And Mary even. It's not often hoo's stirred up to notice\nmuch.'\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII\n\nLIKES AND DISLIKES\n\n    'My heart revolts within me, and two voices\n     Make themselves audible within my bosom.'\n             WALLENSTEIN.\n\n\nOn Margaret's return home she found two letters on the table: one was a\nnote for her mother,--the other, which had come by the post, was\nevidently from her Aunt Shaw--covered with foreign post-marks--thin,\nsilvery, and rustling. She took up the other, and was examining it, when\nher father came in suddenly:\n\n'So your mother is tired, and gone to bed early! I'm afraid, such a\nthundery day was not the best in the world for the doctor to see her.\nWhat did he say? Dixon tells me he spoke to you about her.'\n\nMargaret hesitated. Her father's looks became more grave and anxious:\n\n'He does not think her seriously ill?'\n\n'Not at present; she needs care, he says; he was very kind, and said he\nwould call again, and see how his medicines worked.'\n\n'Only care--he did not recommend change of air?--he did not say this\nsmoky town was doing her any harm, did he, Margaret?'\n\n'No! not a word,' she replied, gravely. 'He was anxious, I think.'\n\n'Doctors have that anxious manner; it's professional,' said he.\n\nMargaret saw, in her father's nervous ways, that the first impression of\npossible danger was made upon his mind, in spite of all his making light\nof what she told him. He could not forget the subject,--could not pass\nfrom it to other things; he kept recurring to it through the evening,\nwith an unwillingness to receive even the slightest unfavourable idea,\nwhich made Margaret inexpressibly sad.\n\n'This letter is from Aunt Shaw, papa. She has got to Naples, and finds\nit too hot, so she has taken apartments at Sorrento. But I don't think\nshe likes Italy.'\n\n'He did not say anything about diet, did he?'\n\n'It was to be nourishing, and digestible. Mamma's appetite is pretty\ngood, I think.'\n\n'Yes! and that makes it all the more strange he should have thought of\nspeaking about diet.'\n\n'I asked him, papa.' Another pause. Then Margaret went on: 'Aunt Shaw\nsays, she has sent me some coral ornaments, papa; but,' added Margaret,\nhalf smiling, 'she's afraid the Milton Dissenters won't appreciate them.\nShe has got all her ideas of Dissenters from the Quakers, has not she?'\n\n'If ever you hear or notice that your mother wishes for anything, be\nsure you let me know. I am so afraid she does not tell me always what\nshe would like. Pray, see after that girl Mrs. Thornton named. If we had\na good, efficient house-servant, Dixon could be constantly with her, and\nI'd answer for it we'd soon set her up amongst us, if care will do it.\nShe's been very much tired of late, with the hot weather, and the\ndifficulty of getting a servant. A little rest will put her quite to\nrights--eh, Margaret?'\n\n'I hope so,' said Margaret,--but so sadly, that her father took notice\nof it. He pinched her cheek.\n\n'Come; if you look so pale as this, I must rouge you up a little. Take\ncare of yourself, child, or you'll be wanting the doctor next.'\n\nBut he could not settle to anything that evening. He was continually\ngoing backwards and forwards, on laborious tiptoe, to see if his wife\nwas still asleep. Margaret's heart ached at his restlessness--his trying\nto stifle and strangle the hideous fear that was looming out of the dark\nplaces of his heart. He came back at last, somewhat comforted.\n\n'She's awake now, Margaret. She quite smiled as she saw me standing by\nher. Just her old smile. And she says she feels refreshed, and ready for\ntea. Where's the note for her? She wants to see it. I'll read it to her\nwhile you make tea.'\n\nThe note proved to be a formal invitation from Mrs. Thornton, to Mr.,\nMrs., and Miss Hale to dinner, on the twenty-first instant. Margaret was\nsurprised to find an acceptance contemplated, after all she had learnt\nof sad probabilities during the day. But so it was. The idea of her\nhusband's and daughter's going to this dinner had quite captivated Mrs.\nHale's fancy, even before Margaret had heard the contents of the note.\nIt was an event to diversify the monotony of the invalid's life; and she\nclung to the idea of their going, with even fretful pertinacity when\nMargaret objected.\n\n'Nay, Margaret? if she wishes it, I'm sure we'll both go willingly. She\nnever would wish it unless she felt herself really stronger--really\nbetter than we thought she was, eh, Margaret?' said Mr. Hale, anxiously,\nas she prepared to write the note of acceptance, the next day.\n\n'Eh! Margaret?' questioned he, with a nervous motion of his hands. It\nseemed cruel to refuse him the comfort he craved for. And besides, his\npassionate refusal to admit the existence of fear, almost inspired\nMargaret herself with hope.\n\n'I do think she is better since last night,' said she. 'Her eyes look\nbrighter, and her complexion clearer.'\n\n'God bless you,' said her father, earnestly. 'But is it true? Yesterday\nwas so sultry every one felt ill. It was a most unlucky day for Mr.\nDonaldson to see her on.'\n\nSo he went away to his day's duties, now increased by the preparation of\nsome lectures he had promised to deliver to the working people at a\nneighbouring Lyceum. He had chosen Ecclesiastical Architecture as his\nsubject, rather more in accordance with his own taste and knowledge than\nas falling in with the character of the place or the desire for\nparticular kinds of information among those to whom he was to lecture.\nAnd the institution itself, being in debt, was only too glad to get a\ngratis course from an educated and accomplished man like Mr. Hale, let\nthe subject be what it might.\n\n'Well, mother,' asked Mr. Thornton that night, 'who have accepted your\ninvitations for the twenty-first?'\n\n'Fanny, where are the notes? The Slicksons accept, Collingbrooks accept,\nStephenses accept, Browns decline. Hales--father and daughter\ncome,--mother too great an invalid--Macphersons come, and Mr. Horsfall,\nand Mr. Young. I was thinking of asking the Porters, as the Browns can't\ncome.'\n\n'Very good. Do you know, I'm really afraid Mrs. Hale is very far from\nwell, from what Dr. Donaldson says.'\n\n'It's strange of them to accept a dinner-invitation if she's very ill,'\nsaid Fanny.\n\n'I didn't say very ill,' said her brother, rather sharply. 'I only said\nvery far from well. They may not know it either.' And then he suddenly\nremembered that, from what Dr. Donaldson had told him, Margaret, at any\nrate, must be aware of the exact state of the case.\n\n'Very probably they are quite aware of what you said yesterday, John--of\nthe great advantage it would be to them--to Mr. Hale, I mean, to be\nintroduced to such people as the Stephenses and the Collingbrooks.'\n\n'I'm sure that motive would not influence them. No! I think I understand\nhow it is.'\n\n'John!' said Fanny, laughing in her little, weak, nervous way. 'How you\nprofess to understand these Hales, and how you never will allow that we\ncan know anything about them. Are they really so very different to most\npeople one meets with?'\n\nShe did not mean to vex him; but if she had intended it, she could not\nhave done it more thoroughly. He chafed in silence, however, not\ndeigning to reply to her question.\n\n'They do not seem to me out of the common way,' said Mrs. Thornton. 'He\nappears a worthy kind of man enough; rather too simple for trade--so\nit's perhaps as well he should have been a clergyman first, and now a\nteacher. She's a bit of a fine lady, with her invalidism; and as for the\ngirl--she's the only one who puzzles me when I think about her,--which I\ndon't often do. She seems to have a great notion of giving herself airs;\nand I can't make out why. I could almost fancy she thinks herself too\ngood for her company at times. And yet they're not rich, from all I can\nhear they never have been.'\n\n'And she's not accomplished, mamma. She can't play.'\n\n'Go on, Fanny. What else does she want to bring her up to your\nstandard?'\n\n'Nay! John,' said his mother, 'that speech of Fanny's did no harm. I\nmyself heard Miss Hale say she could not play. If you would let us\nalone, we could perhaps like her, and see her merits.'\n\n'I'm sure I never could!' murmured Fanny, protected by her mother. Mr.\nThornton heard, but did not care to reply. He was walking up and down\nthe dining-room, wishing that his mother would order candles, and allow\nhim to set to work at either reading or writing, and so put a stop to\nthe conversation. But he never thought of interfering in any of the\nsmall domestic regulations that Mrs. Thornton observed, in habitual\nremembrance of her old economies.\n\n'Mother,' said he, stopping, and bravely speaking out the truth, 'I wish\nyou would like Miss Hale.'\n\n'Why?' asked she, startled by his earnest, yet tender manner. 'You're\nnever thinking of marrying her?--a girl without a penny.'\n\n'She would never have me,' said he, with a short laugh.\n\n'No, I don't think she would,' answered his mother. 'She laughed in my\nface, when I praised her for speaking out something Mr. Bell had said in\nyour favour. I liked the girl for doing it so frankly, for it made me\nsure she had no thought of you; and the next minute she vexed me so by\nseeming to think---- Well, never mind! Only you're right in saying she's\ntoo good an opinion of herself to think of you. The saucy jade! I should\nlike to know where she'd find a better!' If these words hurt her son,\nthe dusky light prevented him from betraying any emotion. In a minute he\ncame up quite cheerfully to his mother, and putting one hand lightly on\nher shoulder, said:\n\n'Well, as I'm just as much convinced of the truth of what you have been\nsaying as you can be; and as I have no thought or expectation of ever\nasking her to be my wife, you'll believe me for the future that I'm\nquite disinterested in speaking about her. I foresee trouble for that\ngirl--perhaps want of motherly care--and I only wish you to be ready to\nbe a friend to her, in case she needs one. Now, Fanny,' said he, 'I\ntrust you have delicacy enough to understand, that it is as great an\ninjury to Miss Hale as to me--in fact, she would think it a greater--to\nsuppose that I have any reason, more than I now give, for begging you\nand my mother to show her every kindly attention.'\n\n'I cannot forgive her her pride,' said his mother; 'I will befriend her,\nif there is need, for your asking, John. I would befriend Jezebel\nherself if you asked me. But this girl, who turns up her nose at us\nall--who turns up her nose at you---- '\n\n'Nay, mother; I have never yet put myself, and I mean never to put\nmyself, within reach of her contempt.'\n\n'Contempt, indeed!'--(One of Mrs. Thornton's expressive snorts.)--'Don't\ngo on speaking of Miss Hale, John, if I've to be kind to her. When I'm\nwith her, I don't know if I like or dislike her most; but when I think\nof her, and hear you talk of her, I hate her. I can see she's given\nherself airs to you as well as if you'd told me out.'\n\n'And if she has,' said he--and then he paused for a moment--then went\non: 'I'm not a lad, to be cowed by a proud look from a woman, or to care\nfor her misunderstanding me and my position. I can laugh at it!'\n\n'To be sure! and at her too, with her fine notions and haughty tosses!'\n\n'I only wonder why you talk so much about her, then,' said Fanny. 'I'm\nsure, I'm tired enough of the subject.'\n\n'Well!' said her brother, with a shade of bitterness. 'Suppose we find\nsome more agreeable subject. What do you say to a strike, by way of\nsomething pleasant to talk about?'\n\n'Have the hands actually turned out?' asked Mrs. Thornton, with vivid\ninterest.\n\n'Hamper's men are actually out. Mine are working out their week, through\nfear of being prosecuted for breach of contract. I'd have had every one\nof them up and punished for it, that left his work before his time was\nout.'\n\n'The law expenses would have been more than the hands them selves were\nworth--a set of ungrateful naughts!' said his mother.\n\n'To be sure. But I'd have shown them how I keep my word, and how I mean\nthem to keep theirs. They know me by this time. Slickson's men are\noff--pretty certain he won't spend money in getting them punished. We're\nin for a turn-out, mother.'\n\n'I hope there are not many orders in hand?'\n\n'Of course there are. They know that well enough. But they don't quite\nunderstand all, though they think they do.'\n\n'What do you mean, John?'\n\nCandles had been brought, and Fanny had taken up her interminable piece\nof worsted-work, over which she was yawning; throwing herself back in\nher chair, from time to time, to gaze at vacancy, and think of nothing\nat her ease.\n\n'Why,' said he, 'the Americans are getting their yarns so into the\ngeneral market, that our only chance is producing them at a lower rate.\nIf we can't, we may shut up shop at once, and hands and masters go alike\non tramp. Yet these fools go back to the prices paid three years\nago--nay, some of their leaders quote Dickinson's prices now--though\nthey know as well as we do that, what with fines pressed out of their\nwages as no honourable man would extort them, and other ways which I for\none would scorn to use, the real rate of wage paid at Dickinson's is\nless than at ours. Upon my word, mother, I wish the old combination-laws\nwere in force. It is too bad to find out that fools--ignorant wayward\nmen like these--just by uniting their weak silly heads, are to rule over\nthe fortunes of those who bring all the wisdom that knowledge and\nexperience, and often painful thought and anxiety, can give. The next\nthing will be--indeed, we're all but come to it now--that we shall have\nto go and ask--stand hat in hand--and humbly ask the secretary of the\nSpinner' Union to be so kind as to furnish us with labour at their own\nprice. That's what they want--they, who haven't the sense to see that,\nif we don't get a fair share of the profits to compensate us for our\nwear and tear here in England, we can move off to some other country;\nand that, what with home and foreign competition, we are none of us\nlikely to make above a fair share, and may be thankful enough if we can\nget that, in an average number of years.'\n\n'Can't you get hands from Ireland? I wouldn't keep these fellows a day.\nI'd teach them that I was master, and could employ what servants I\nliked.'\n\n'Yes! to be sure, I can; and I will, too, if they go on long. It will be\ntrouble and expense, and I fear there will be some danger; but I will do\nit, rather than give in.'\n\n'If there is to be all this extra expense, I'm sorry we're giving a\ndinner just now.'\n\n'So am I,--not because of the expense, but because I shall have much to\nthink about, and many unexpected calls on my time. But we must have had\nMr. Horsfall, and he does not stay in Milton long. And as for the\nothers, we owe them dinners, and it's all one trouble.'\n\nHe kept on with his restless walk--not speaking any more, but drawing a\ndeep breath from time to time, as if endeavouring to throw off some\nannoying thought. Fanny asked her mother numerous small questions, all\nhaving nothing to do with the subject, which a wiser person would have\nperceived was occupying her attention. Consequently, she received many\nshort answers. She was not sorry when, at ten o'clock, the servants\nfiled in to prayers. These her mother always read,--first reading a\nchapter. They were now working steadily through the Old Testament. When\nprayers were ended, and his mother had wished him goodnight, with that\nlong steady look of hers which conveyed no expression of the tenderness\nthat was in her heart, but yet had the intensity of a blessing, Mr.\nThornton continued his walk. All his business plans had received a\ncheck, a sudden pull-up, from this approaching turn-out. The forethought\nof many anxious hours was thrown away, utterly wasted by their insane\nfolly, which would injure themselves even more than him, though no one\ncould set any limit to the mischief they were doing. And these were the\nmen who thought themselves fitted to direct the masters in the disposal\nof their capital! Hamper had said, only this very day, that if he were\nruined by the strike, he would start life again, comforted by the\nconviction that those who brought it on were in a worse predicament than\nhe himself,--for he had head as well as hands, while they had only\nhands; and if they drove away their market, they could not follow it,\nnor turn to anything else. But this thought was no consolation to Mr.\nThornton. It might be that revenge gave him no pleasure; it might be\nthat he valued the position he had earned with the sweat of his brow, so\nmuch that he keenly felt its being endangered by the ignorance or folly\nof others,--so keenly that he had no thoughts to spare for what would be\nthe consequences of their conduct to themselves. He paced up and down,\nsetting his teeth a little now and then. At last it struck two. The\ncandles were flickering in their sockets. He lighted his own, muttering\nto himself:\n\n'Once for all, they shall know whom they have got to deal with. I can\ngive them a fortnight,--no more. If they don't see their madness before\nthe end of that time, I must have hands from Ireland. I believe it's\nSlickson's doing,--confound him and his dodges! He thought he was\noverstocked; so he seemed to yield at first, when the deputation came to\nhim,--and of course, he only confirmed them in their folly, as he meant\nto do. That's where it spread from.'\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX\n\nANGEL VISITS\n\n    'As angels in some brighter dreams\n     Call to the soul when man doth sleep,\n     So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes,\n     And into glory peep.'\n             HENRY VAUGHAN.\n\n\nMrs. Hale was curiously amused and interested by the idea of the\nThornton dinner party. She kept wondering about the details, with\nsomething of the simplicity of a little child, who wants to have all its\nanticipated pleasures described beforehand. But the monotonous life led\nby invalids often makes them like children, inasmuch as they have\nneither of them any sense of proportion in events, and seem each to\nbelieve that the walls and curtains which shut in their world, and shut\nout everything else, must of necessity be larger than anything hidden\nbeyond. Besides, Mrs. Hale had had her vanities as a girl; had perhaps\nunduly felt their mortification when she became a poor clergyman's\nwife;--they had been smothered and kept down; but they were not extinct;\nand she liked to think of seeing Margaret dressed for a party, and\ndiscussed what she should wear, with an unsettled anxiety that amused\nMargaret, who had been more accustomed to society in her one in Harley\nStreet than her mother in five and twenty years of Helstone.\n\n'Then you think you shall wear your white silk. Are you sure it will\nfit? It's nearly a year since Edith was married!'\n\n'Oh yes, mamma! Mrs. Murray made it, and it's sure to be right; it may\nbe a straw's breadth shorter or longer-waisted, according to my having\ngrown fat or thin. But I don't think I've altered in the least.'\n\n'Hadn't you better let Dixon see it? It may have gone yellow with lying\nby.'\n\n'If you like, mamma. But if the worst comes to the worst, I've a very\nnice pink gauze which aunt Shaw gave me, only two or three months before\nEdith was married. That can't have gone yellow.'\n\n'No! but it may have faded.'\n\n'Well! then I've a green silk. I feel more as if it was the\nembarrassment of riches.'\n\n'I wish I knew what you ought to wear,' said Mrs. Hale, nervously.\nMargaret's manner changed instantly. 'Shall I go and put them on one\nafter another, mamma, and then you could see which you liked best?'\n\n'But--yes! perhaps that will be best.'\n\nSo off Margaret went. She was very much inclined to play some pranks\nwhen she was dressed up at such an unusual hour; to make her rich white\nsilk balloon out into a cheese, to retreat backwards from her mother as\nif she were the queen; but when she found that these freaks of hers were\nregarded as interruptions to the serious business, and as such annoyed\nher mother, she became grave and sedate. What had possessed the world\n(her world) to fidget so about her dress, she could not understand; but\nthat very after noon, on naming her engagement to Bessy Higgins (apropos\nof the servant that Mrs. Thornton had promised to inquire about), Bessy\nquite roused up at the intelligence.\n\n'Dear! and are you going to dine at Thornton's at Marlborough Mills?'\n\n'Yes, Bessy. Why are you so surprised?'\n\n'Oh, I dunno. But they visit wi' a' th' first folk in Milton.'\n\n'And you don't think we're quite the first folk in Milton, eh, Bessy?'\nBessy's cheeks flushed a little at her thought being thus easily read.\n\n'Well,' said she, 'yo' see, they thinken a deal o' money here and I\nreckon yo've not getten much.'\n\n'No,' said Margaret, 'that's very true. But we are educated people, and\nhave lived amongst educated people. Is there anything so wonderful, in\nour being asked out to dinner by a man who owns himself inferior to my\nfather by coming to him to be instructed? I don't mean to blame Mr.\nThornton. Few drapers' assistants, as he was once, could have made\nthemselves what he is.'\n\n'But can yo' give dinners back, in yo'r small house? Thornton's house is\nthree times as big.'\n\n'Well, I think we could manage to give Mr. Thornton a dinner back, as\nyou call it. Perhaps not in such a large room, nor with so many people.\nBut I don't think we've thought about it at all in that way.'\n\n'I never thought yo'd be dining with Thorntons,' repeated I Bessy. 'Why,\nthe mayor hissel' dines there; and the members of Parliament and all.'\n\n'I think I could support the honour of meeting the mayor of Milton.\n\n'But them ladies dress so grand!' said Bessy, with an anxious look at\nMargaret's print gown, which her Milton eyes appraised at sevenpence a\nyard. Margaret's face dimpled up into a merry laugh. 'Thank You, Bessy,\nfor thinking so kindly about my looking nice among all the smart people.\nBut I've plenty of grand gowns,--a week ago, I should have said they\nwere far too grand for anything I should ever want again. But as I'm to\ndine at Mr. Thornton's, and perhaps to meet the mayor, I shall put on my\nvery best gown, you may be sure.'\n\n'What win yo' wear?' asked Bessy, somewhat relieved.\n\n'White silk,' said Margaret. 'A gown I had for a cousin's wedding, a\nyear ago.\n\n'That'll do!' said Bessy, falling back in her chair. 'I should be loth\nto have yo' looked down upon.\n\n'Oh! I'll be fine enough, if that will save me from being looked down\nupon in Milton.'\n\n'I wish I could see you dressed up,' said Bessy. 'I reckon, yo're not\nwhat folk would ca' pretty; yo've not red and white enough for that. But\ndun yo' know, I ha' dreamt of yo', long afore ever I seed yo'.'\n\n'Nonsense, Bessy!'\n\n'Ay, but I did. Yo'r very face,--looking wi' yo'r clear steadfast eyes\nout o' th' darkness, wi' yo'r hair blown off from yo'r brow, and going\nout like rays round yo'r forehead, which was just as smooth and as\nstraight as it is now,--and yo' always came to give me strength, which I\nseemed to gather out o' yo'r deep comforting eyes,--and yo' were drest\nin shining raiment--just as yo'r going to be drest. So, yo' see, it was\nyo'!'\n\n'Nay, Bessy,' said Margaret, gently, 'it was but a dream.'\n\n'And why might na I dream a dream in my affliction as well as others?\nDid not many a one i' the Bible? Ay, and see visions too! Why, even my\nfather thinks a deal o' dreams! I tell yo' again, I saw yo' as plainly,\ncoming swiftly towards me, wi' yo'r hair blown back wi' the very\nswiftness o' the motion, just like the way it grows, a little standing\noff like; and the white shining dress on yo've getten to wear. Let me\ncome and see yo' in it. I want to see yo' and touch yo' as in very deed\nyo' were in my dream.'\n\n'My dear Bessy, it is quite a fancy of yours.'\n\n'Fancy or no fancy,--yo've come, as I knew yo' would, when I saw yo'r\nmovement in my dream,--and when yo're here about me, I reckon I feel\neasier in my mind, and comforted, just as a fire comforts one on a dree\nday. Yo' said it were on th' twenty-first; please God, I'll come and see\nyo'.'\n\n'Oh Bessy! you may come and welcome; but don't talk so--it really makes\nme sorry. It does indeed.'\n\n'Then I'll keep it to mysel', if I bite my tongue out. Not but what it's\ntrue for all that.'\n\nMargaret was silent. At last she said,\n\n'Let us talk about it sometimes, if you think it true. But not now. Tell\nme, has your father turned out?'\n\n'Ay!' said Bessy, heavily--in a manner very different from that she had\nspoken in but a minute or two before. 'He and many another,--all\nHamper's men,--and many a one besides. Th' women are as bad as th' men,\nin their savageness, this time. Food is high,--and they mun have food\nfor their childer, I reckon. Suppose Thorntons sent 'em their dinner\nout,--th' same money, spent on potatoes and meal, would keep many a\ncrying babby quiet, and hush up its mother's heart for a bit!'\n\n'Don't speak so!' said Margaret. 'You'll make me feel wicked and guilty\nin going to this dinner.'\n\n'No!' said Bessy. 'Some's pre-elected to sumptuous feasts, and purple\nand fine linen,--may be yo're one on 'em. Others toil and moil all their\nlives long--and the very dogs are not pitiful in our days, as they were\nin the days of Lazarus. But if yo' ask me to cool yo'r tongue wi' th'\ntip of my finger, I'll come across the great gulf to yo' just for th'\nthought o' what yo've been to me here.'\n\n'Bessy! you're very feverish! I can tell it in the touch of your hand,\nas well as in what you're saying. It won't be division enough, in that\nawful day, that some of us have been beggars here, and some of us have\nbeen rich,--we shall not be judged by that poor accident, but by our\nfaithful following of Christ.' Margaret got up, and found some water and\nsoaking her pocket-handkerchief in it, she laid the cool wetness on\nBessy's forehead, and began to chafe the stone-cold feet. Bessy shut her\neyes, and allowed herself to be soothed. At last she said,\n\n'Yo'd ha' been deaved out o' yo'r five wits, as well as me, if yo'd had\none body after another coming in to ask for father, and staying to tell\nme each one their tale. Some spoke o' deadly hatred, and made my blood\nrun cold wi' the terrible things they said o' th' masters,--but more,\nbeing women, kept plaining, plaining (wi' the tears running down their\ncheeks, and never wiped away, nor heeded), of the price o' meat, and how\ntheir childer could na sleep at nights for th' hunger.'\n\n'And do they think the strike will mend this?' asked Margaret.\n\n'They say so,' replied Bessy. 'They do say trade has been good for long,\nand the masters has made no end o' money; how much father doesn't know,\nbut, in course, th' Union does; and, as is natural, they wanten their\nshare o' th' profits, now that food is getting dear; and th' Union says\nthey'll not be doing their duty if they don't make the masters give 'em\ntheir share. But masters has getten th' upper hand somehow; and I'm\nfeared they'll keep it now and evermore. It's like th' great battle o'\nArmageddon, the way they keep on, grinning and fighting at each other,\ntill even while they fight, they are picked off into the pit.' Just\nthen, Nicholas Higgins came in. He caught his daughter's last words.\n\n'Ay! and I'll fight on too; and I'll get it this time. It'll not take\nlong for to make 'em give in, for they've getten a pretty lot of orders,\nall under contract; and they'll soon find out they'd better give us our\nfive per cent than lose the profit they'll gain; let alone the fine for\nnot fulfilling the contract. Aha, my masters! I know who'll win.'\n\nMargaret fancied from his manner that he must have been drinking, not so\nmuch from what he said, as from the excited way in which he spoke; and\nshe was rather confirmed in this idea by the evident anxiety Bessy\nshowed to hasten her departure. Bessy said to her,--\n\n'The twenty-first--that's Thursday week. I may come and see yo' dressed\nfor Thornton's, I reckon. What time is yo'r dinner?'\n\nBefore Margaret could answer, Higgins broke out,\n\n'Thornton's! Ar' t' going to dine at Thornton's? Ask him to give yo' a\nbumper to the success of his orders. By th' twenty-first, I reckon,\nhe'll be pottered in his brains how to get 'em done in time. Tell him,\nthere's seven hundred'll come marching into Marlborough Mills, the\nmorning after he gives the five per cent, and will help him through his\ncontract in no time. You'll have 'em all there. My master, Hamper. He's\none o' th' oud-fashioned sort. Ne'er meets a man bout an oath or a\ncurse; I should think he were going to die if he spoke me civil; but\narter all, his bark's waur than his bite, and yo' may tell him one o'\nhis turn-outs said so, if yo' like. Eh! but yo'll have a lot of prize\nmill-owners at Thornton's! I should like to get speech o' them, when\nthey're a bit inclined to sit still after dinner, and could na run for\nthe life on 'em. I'd tell 'em my mind. I'd speak up again th' hard way\nthey're driving on us!'\n\n'Good-bye!' said Margaret, hastily. 'Good-bye, Bessy! I shall look to\nsee you on the twenty-first, if you're well enough.'\n\nThe medicines and treatment which Dr. Donaldson had ordered for Mrs.\nHale, did her so much good at first that not only she herself, but\nMargaret, began to hope that he might have been mistaken, and that she\ncould recover permanently. As for Mr. Hale, although he had never had an\nidea of the serious nature of their apprehensions, he triumphed over\ntheir fears with an evident relief, which proved how much his glimpse\ninto the nature of them had affected him. Only Dixon croaked for ever\ninto Margaret's ear. However, Margaret defied the raven, and would hope.\n\nThey needed this gleam of brightness in-doors, for out-of-doors, even to\ntheir uninstructed eyes, there was a gloomy brooding appearance of\ndiscontent. Mr. Hale had his own acquaintances among the working men,\nand was depressed with their earnestly told tales of suffering and\nlong-endurance. They would have scorned to speak of what they had to\nbear to any one who might, from his position, have understood it without\ntheir words. But here was this man, from a distant county, who was\nperplexed by the workings of the system into the midst of which he was\nthrown, and each was eager to make him a judge, and to bring witness of\nhis own causes for irritation. Then Mr. Hale brought all his budget of\ngrievances, and laid it before Mr. Thornton, for him, with his\nexperience as a master, to arrange them, and explain their origin; which\nhe always did, on sound economical principles; showing that, as trade\nwas conducted, there must always be a waxing and waning of commercial\nprosperity; and that in the waning a certain number of masters, as well\nas of men, must go down into ruin, and be no more seen among the ranks\nof the happy and prosperous. He spoke as if this consequence were so\nentirely logical, that neither employers nor employed had any right to\ncomplain if it became their fate: the employer to turn aside from the\nrace he could no longer run, with a bitter sense of incompetency and\nfailure--wounded in the struggle--trampled down by his fellows in their\nhaste to get rich--slighted where he once was honoured--humbly asking\nfor, instead of bestowing, employment with a lordly hand. Of course,\nspeaking so of the fate that, as a master, might be his own in the\nfluctuations of commerce, he was not likely to have more sympathy with\nthat of the workmen, who were passed by in the swift merciless\nimprovement or alteration who would fain lie down and quietly die out of\nthe world that needed them not, but felt as if they could never rest in\ntheir graves for the clinging cries of the beloved and helpless they\nwould leave behind; who envied the power of the wild bird, that can feed\nher young with her very heart's blood. Margaret's whole soul rose up\nagainst him while he reasoned in this way--as if commerce were\neverything and humanity nothing. She could hardly, thank him for the\nindividual kindness, which brought him that very evening to offer\nher--for the delicacy which made him understand that he must offer her\nprivately--every convenience for illness that his own wealth or his\nmother's foresight had caused them to accumulate in their household, and\nwhich, as he learnt from Dr. Donaldson, Mrs. Hale might possibly\nrequire. His presence, after the way he had spoken--his bringing before\nher the doom, which she was vainly trying to persuade herself might yet\nbe averted from her mother--all conspired to set Margaret's teeth on\nedge, as she looked at him, and listened to him. What business had he to\nbe the only person, except Dr. Donaldson and Dixon, admitted to the\nawful secret, which she held shut up in the most dark and sacred recess\nof her heart--not daring to look at it, unless she invoked heavenly\nstrength to bear the sight--that, some day soon, she should cry aloud\nfor her mother, and no answer would come out of the blank, dumb\ndarkness? Yet he knew all. She saw it in his pitying eyes. She heard it\nin his grave and tremulous voice. How reconcile those eyes, that voice,\nwith the hard-reasoning, dry, merciless way in which he laid down axioms\nof trade, and serenely followed them out to their full consequences? The\ndiscord jarred upon her inexpressibly. The more because of the gathering\nwoe of which she heard from Bessy. To be sure, Nicholas Higgins, the\nfather, spoke differently. He had been appointed a committee-man, and\nsaid that he knew secrets of which the exoteric knew nothing. He said\nthis more expressly and particularly, on the very day before Mrs.\nThornton's dinner-party, when Margaret, going in to speak to Bessy,\nfound him arguing the point with Boucher, the neighbour of whom she had\nfrequently heard mention, as by turns exciting Higgins's compassion, as\nan unskilful workman with a large family depending upon him for support,\nand at other times enraging his more energetic and sanguine neighbour by\nhis want of what the latter called spirit. It was very evident that\nHiggins was in a passion when Margaret entered. Boucher stood, with both\nhands on the rather high mantel-piece, swaying himself a little on the\nsupport which his arms, thus placed, gave him, and looking wildly into\nthe fire, with a kind of despair that irritated Higgins, even while it\nwent to his heart. Bessy was rocking herself violently backwards and\nforwards, as was her wont (Margaret knew by this time) when she was\nagitated. Her sister Mary was tying on her bonnet (in great clumsy bows,\nas suited her great clumsy fingers), to go to her fustian-cutting,\nblubbering out loud the while, and evidently longing to be away from a\nscene that distressed her. Margaret came in upon this scene. She stood\nfor a moment at the door--then, her finger on her lips, she stole to a\nseat on the squab near Bessy. Nicholas saw her come in, and greeted her\nwith a gruff, but not unfriendly nod. Mary hurried out of the house\ncatching gladly at the open door, and crying aloud when she got away\nfrom her father's presence. It was only John Boucher that took no notice\nwhatever who came in and who went out.\n\n'It's no use, Higgins. Hoo cannot live long a' this'n. Hoo's just\nsinking away--not for want o' meat hersel'--but because hoo cannot stand\nth' sight o' the little ones clemming. Ay, clemming! Five shilling a\nweek may do well enough for thee, wi' but two mouths to fill, and one on\n'em a wench who can welly earn her own meat. But it's clemming to us.\nAn' I tell thee plain--if hoo dies as I'm 'feard hoo will afore we've\ngetten th' five per cent, I'll fling th' money back i' th' master's\nface, and say, \"Be domned to yo'; be domned to th' whole cruel world o'\nyo'; that could na leave me th' best wife that ever bore childer to a\nman!\" An' look thee, lad, I'll hate thee, and th' whole pack o' th'\nUnion. Ay, an' chase yo' through heaven wi' my hatred,--I will, lad! I\nwill,--if yo're leading me astray i' this matter. Thou saidst, Nicholas,\non Wednesday sennight--and it's now Tuesday i' th' second week--that\nafore a fortnight we'd ha' the masters coming a-begging to us to take\nback our' work, at our own wage--and time's nearly up,--and there's our\nlile Jack lying a-bed, too weak to cry, but just every now and then\nsobbing up his heart for want o' food,--our lile Jack, I tell thee, lad!\nHoo's never looked up sin' he were born, and hoo loves him as if he were\nher very life,--as he is,--for I reckon he'll ha' cost me that precious\nprice,--our lile Jack, who wakened me each morn wi' putting his sweet\nlittle lips to my great rough fou' face, a-seeking a smooth place to\nkiss,--an' he lies clemming.' Here the deep sobs choked the poor man,\nand Nicholas looked up, with eyes brimful of tears, to Margaret, before\nhe could gain courage to speak.\n\n'Hou'd up, man. Thy lile Jack shall na' clem. I ha' getten brass, and\nwe'll go buy the chap a sup o' milk an' a good four-pounder this very\nminute. What's mine's thine, sure enough, i' thou'st i' want. Only,\ndunnot lose heart, man!' continued he, as he fumbled in a tea-pot for\nwhat money he had. 'I lay yo' my heart and soul we'll win for a' this:\nit's but bearing on one more week, and yo just see th' way th' masters\n'll come round, praying on us to come back to our mills. An' th'\nUnion,--that's to say, I--will take care yo've enough for th' childer\nand th' missus. So dunnot turn faint-heart, and go to th' tyrants\na-seeking work.'\n\nThe man turned round at these words,--turned round a face so white, and\ngaunt, and tear-furrowed, and hopeless, that its very calm forced\nMargaret to weep. 'Yo' know well, that a worser tyrant than e'er th'\nmasters were says \"Clem to death, and see 'em a' clem to death, ere yo'\ndare go again th' Union.\" Yo' know it well, Nicholas, for a' yo're one\non 'em. Yo' may be kind hearts, each separate; but once banded together,\nyo've no more pity for a man than a wild hunger-maddened wolf.'\n\nNicholas had his hand on the lock of the door--he stopped and turned\nround on Boucher, close following:\n\n'So help me God! man alive--if I think not I'm doing best for thee, and\nfor all on us. If I'm going wrong when I think I'm going right, it's\ntheir sin, who ha' left me where I am, in my ignorance. I ha' thought\ntill my brains ached,--Beli' me, John, I have. An' I say again, there's\nno help for us but having faith i' th' Union. They'll win the day, see\nif they dunnot!'\n\nNot one word had Margaret or Bessy spoken. They had hardly uttered the\nsighing, that the eyes of each called to the other to bring up from the\ndepths of her heart. At last Bessy said,\n\n'I never thought to hear father call on God again. But yo' heard him\nsay, \"So help me God!\"'\n\n'Yes!' said Margaret. 'Let me bring you what money I can spare,--let me\nbring you a little food for that poor man's children. Don't let them\nknow it comes from any one but your father. It will be but little.'\n\nBessy lay back without taking any notice of what Margaret said. She did\nnot cry--she only quivered up her breath,\n\n'My heart's drained dry o' tears,' she said. 'Boucher's been in these\ndays past, a telling me of his fears and his troubles. He's but a weak\nkind o' chap, I know, but he's a man for a' that; and tho' I've been\nangry, many a time afore now, wi' him an' his wife, as knew no more nor\nhim how to manage, yet, yo' see, all folks isn't wise, yet God lets 'em\nlive--ay, an' gives 'em some one to love, and be loved by, just as good\nas Solomon. An', if sorrow comes to them they love, it hurts 'em as sore\nas e'er it did Solomon. I can't make it out. Perhaps it's as well such a\none as Boucher has th' Union to see after him. But I'd just like for to\nsee th' mean as make th' Union, and put 'em one by one face to face wi'\nBoucher. I reckon, if they heard him, they'd tell him (if I cotched 'em\none by one), he might go back and get what he could for his work, even\nif it weren't so much as they ordered.'\n\nMargaret sat utterly silent. How was she ever to go away into comfort\nand forget that man's voice, with the tone of unutterable agony, telling\nmore by far than his words of what he had to suffer? She took out her\npurse; she had not much in it of what she could call her own, but what\nshe had she put into Bessy's hand without speaking.\n\n'Thank yo'. There's many on 'em gets no more, and is not so bad\noff,--leastways does not show it as he does. But father won't let 'em\nwant, now he knows. Yo' see, Boucher's been pulled down wi' his\nchilder,--and her being so cranky, and a' they could pawn has gone this\nlast twelvemonth. Yo're not to think we'd ha' letten 'em clem, for all\nwe're a bit pressed oursel'; if neighbours doesn't see after neighbours,\nI dunno who will.' Bessy seemed almost afraid lest Margaret should think\nthey had not the will, and, to a certain degree, the power of helping\none whom she evidently regarded as having a claim upon them. 'Besides,'\nshe went on, 'father is sure and positive the masters must give in\nwithin these next few days,--that they canna hould on much longer. But I\nthank yo' all the same,--I thank yo' for mysel', as much as for Boucher,\nfor it just makes my heart warm to yo' more and more.'\n\nBessy seemed much quieter to-day, but fearfully languid and exhausted.\nAs she finished speaking, she looked so faint and weary that Margaret\nbecame alarmed.\n\n'It's nout,' said Bessy. 'It's not death yet. I had a fearfu' night wi'\ndreams--or somewhat like dreams, for I were wide awake--and I'm all in a\nswounding daze to-day,--only yon poor chap made me alive again. No! it's\nnot death yet, but death is not far off. Ay! Cover me up, and I'll may\nbe sleep, if th' cough will let me. Good night--good afternoon, m'appen\nI should say--but th' light is dim an' misty to-day.'\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX\n\nMEN AND GENTLEMEN\n\n    'Old and young, boy, let 'em all eat, I have it;\n     Let 'em have ten tire of teeth a-piece, I care not.'\n             ROLLO, DUKE OF NORMANDY.\n\n\nMargaret went home so painfully occupied with what she had heard and\nseen that she hardly knew how to rouse herself up to the duties which\nawaited her; the necessity for keeping up a constant flow of cheerful\nconversation for her mother, who, now that she was unable to go out,\nalways looked to Margaret's return from the shortest walk as bringing in\nsome news.\n\n'And can your factory friend come on Thursday to see you dressed?'\n\n'She was so ill I never thought of asking her,' said Margaret,\ndolefully.\n\n'Dear! Everybody is ill now, I think,' said Mrs. Hale, with a little of\nthe jealousy which one invalid is apt to feel of another. 'But it must\nbe very sad to be ill in one of those little back streets.' (Her kindly\nnature prevailing, and the old Helstone habits of thought returning.)\n'It's bad enough here. What could you do for her, Margaret? Mr. Thornton\nhas sent me some of his old port wine since you went out. Would a bottle\nof that do her good, think you?'\n\n'No, mamma! I don't believe they are very poor,--at least, they don't\nspeak as if they were; and, at any rate, Bessy's illness is\nconsumption--she won't want wine. Perhaps, I might take her a little\npreserve, made of our dear Helstone fruit. No! there's another family to\nwhom I should like to give--Oh mamma, mamma! how am I to dress up in my\nfinery, and go off and away to smart parties, after the sorrow I have\nseen to-day?' exclaimed Margaret, bursting the bounds she had\npreordained for herself before she came in, and telling her mother of\nwhat she had seen and heard at Higgins's cottage.\n\nIt distressed Mrs. Hale excessively. It made her restlessly irritated\ntill she could do something. She directed Margaret to pack up a basket\nin the very drawing-room, to be sent there and then to the family; and\nwas almost angry with her for saying, that it would not signify if it\ndid not go till morning, as she knew Higgins had provided for their\nimmediate wants, and she herself had left money with Bessy. Mrs. Hale\ncalled her unfeeling for saying this; and never gave herself\nbreathing-time till the basket was sent out of the house. Then she said:\n\n'After all, we may have been doing wrong. It was only the last time Mr.\nThornton was here that he said, those were no true friends who helped to\nprolong the struggle by assisting the turn outs. And this Boucher-man\nwas a turn-out, was he not?'\n\nThe question was referred to Mr. Hale by his wife, when he came\nup-stairs, fresh from giving a lesson to Mr. Thornton, which had ended\nin conversation, as was their wont. Margaret did not care if their gifts\nhad prolonged the strike; she did not think far enough for that, in her\npresent excited state.\n\nMr. Hale listened, and tried to be as calm as a judge; he recalled all\nthat had seemed so clear not half-an-hour before, as it came out of Mr.\nThornton's lips; and then he made an unsatisfactory compromise. His wife\nand daughter had not only done quite right in this instance, but he did\nnot see for a moment how they could have done otherwise. Nevertheless,\nas a general rule, it was very true what Mr. Thornton said, that as the\nstrike, if prolonged, must end in the masters' bringing hands from a\ndistance (if, indeed, the final result were not, as it had often been\nbefore, the invention of some machine which would diminish the need of\nhands at all), why, it was clear enough that the kindest thing was to\nrefuse all help which might bolster them up in their folly. But, as to\nthis Boucher, he would go and see him the first thing in the morning,\nand try and find out what could be done for him.\n\nMr. Hale went the next morning, as he proposed. He did not find Boucher\nat home, but he had a long talk with his wife; promised to ask for an\nInfirmary order for her; and, seeing the plenty provided by Mrs. Hale,\nand somewhat lavishly used by the children, who were masters down-stairs\nin their father's absence, he came back with a more consoling and\ncheerful account than Margaret had dared to hope for; indeed, what she\nhad said the night before had prepared her father for so much worse a\nstate of things that, by a reaction of his imagination, he described all\nas better than it really was.\n\n'But I will go again, and see the man himself,' said Mr. Hale. 'I hardly\nknow as yet how to compare one of these houses with our Helstone\ncottages. I see furniture here which our labourers would never have\nthought of buying, and food commonly used which they would consider\nluxuries; yet for these very families there seems no other resource, now\nthat their weekly wages are stopped, but the pawn-shop. One had need to\nlearn a different language, and measure by a different standard, up here\nin Milton.'\n\nBessy, too, was rather better this day. Still she was so weak that she\nseemed to have entirely forgotten her wish to see Margaret dressed--if,\nindeed, that had not been the feverish desire of a half-delirious state.\n\nMargaret could not help comparing this strange dressing of hers, to go\nwhere she did not care to be--her heart heavy with various\nanxieties--with the old, merry, girlish toilettes that she and Edith had\nperformed scarcely more than a year ago. Her only pleasure now in\ndecking herself out was in thinking that her mother would take delight\nin seeing her dressed. She blushed when Dixon, throwing the drawing-room\ndoor open, made an appeal for admiration.\n\n'Miss Hale looks well, ma'am,--doesn't she? Mrs. Shaw's coral couldn't\nhave come in better. It just gives the right touch of colour, ma'am.\nOtherwise, Miss Margaret, you would have been too pale.'\n\nMargaret's black hair was too thick to be plaited; it needed rather to\nbe twisted round and round, and have its fine silkiness compressed into\nmassive coils, that encircled her head like a crown, and then were\ngathered into a large spiral knot behind. She kept its weight together\nby two large coral pins, like small arrows for length. Her white silk\nsleeves were looped up with strings of the same material, and on her\nneck, just below the base of her curved and milk-white throat, there lay\nheavy coral beads.\n\n'Oh, Margaret! how I should like to be going with you to one of the old\nBarrington assemblies,--taking you as Lady Beresford used to take me.'\nMargaret kissed her mother for this little burst of maternal vanity; but\nshe could hardly smile at it, she felt so much out of spirits.\n\n'I would rather stay at home with you,--much rather, mamma.'\n\n'Nonsense, darling! Be sure you notice the dinner well. I shall like to\nhear how they manage these things in Milton. Particularly the second\ncourse, dear. Look what they have instead of game.'\n\nMrs. Hale would have been more than interested,--she would have been\nastonished, if she had seen the sumptuousness of the dinner-table and\nits appointments. Margaret, with her London cultivated taste, felt the\nnumber of delicacies to be oppressive; one half of the quantity would\nhave been enough, and the effect lighter and more elegant. But it was\none of Mrs. Thornton's rigorous laws of hospitality, that of each\nseparate dainty enough should be provided for all the guests to partake,\nif they felt inclined. Careless to abstemiousness in her daily habits,\nit was part of her pride to set a feast before such of her guests as\ncared for it. Her son shared this feeling. He had never known--though he\nmight have imagined, and had the capability to relish--any kind of\nsociety but that which depended on an exchange of superb meals and even\nnow, though he was denying himself the personal expenditure of an\nunnecessary sixpence, and had more than once regretted that the\ninvitations for this dinner had been sent out, still, as it was to be,\nhe was glad to see the old magnificence of preparation.\n\nMargaret and her father were the first to arrive. Mr. Hale was anxiously\npunctual to the time specified. There was no one up-stairs in the\ndrawing-room but Mrs. Thornton and Fanny. Every cover was taken off,\nand the apartment blazed forth in yellow silk damask and a\nbrilliantly-flowered carpet. Every corner seemed filled up with ornament,\nuntil it became a weariness to the eye, and presented a strange contrast\nto the bald ugliness of the look-out into the great mill-yard, where wide\nfolding gates were thrown open for the admission of carriages. The mill\nloomed high on the left-hand side of the windows, casting a shadow down\nfrom its many stories, which darkened the summer evening before its time.\n\n'My son was engaged up to the last moment on business. He will be here\ndirectly, Mr. Hale. May I beg you to take a seat?'\n\nMr. Hale was standing at one of the windows as Mrs. Thornton spoke. He\nturned away, saying,\n\n'Don't you find such close neighbourhood to the mill rather unpleasant\nat times?'\n\nShe drew herself up:\n\n'Never. I am not become so fine as to desire to forget the source of my\nson's wealth and power. Besides, there is not such another factory in\nMilton. One room alone is two hundred and twenty square yards.'\n\n'I meant that the smoke and the noise--the constant going out and coming\nin of the work-people, might be annoying!'\n\n'I agree with you, Mr. Hale!' said Fanny. 'There is a continual smell of\nsteam, and oily machinery--and the noise is perfectly deafening.'\n\n'I have heard noise that was called music far more deafening. The\nengine-room is at the street-end of the factory; we hardly hear it,\nexcept in summer weather, when all the windows are open; and as for the\ncontinual murmur of the work-people, it disturbs me no more than the\nhumming of a hive of bees. If I think of it at all, I connect it with my\nson, and feel how all belongs to him, and that his is the head that\ndirects it. Just now, there are no sounds to come from the mill; the\nhands have been ungrateful enough to turn out, as perhaps you have\nheard. But the very business (of which I spoke, when you entered), had\nreference to the steps he is going to take to make them learn their\nplace.' The expression on her face, always stern, deepened into dark\nanger, as she said this. Nor did it clear away when Mr. Thornton entered\nthe room; for she saw, in an instant, the weight of care and anxiety\nwhich he could not shake off, although his guests received from him a\ngreeting that appeared both cheerful and cordial. He shook hands with\nMargaret. He knew it was the first time their hands had met, though she\nwas perfectly unconscious of the fact. He inquired after Mrs. Hale, and\nheard Mr. Hale's sanguine, hopeful account; and glancing at Margaret, to\nunderstand how far she agreed with her father, he saw that no dissenting\nshadow crossed her face. And as he looked with this intention, he was\nstruck anew with her great beauty. He had never seen her in such dress\nbefore and yet now it appeared as if such elegance of attire was so\nbefitting her noble figure and lofty serenity of countenance, that she\nought to go always thus apparelled. She was talking to Fanny; about\nwhat, he could not hear; but he saw his sister's restless way of\ncontinually arranging some part of her gown, her wandering eyes, now\nglancing here, now there, but without any purpose in her observation;\nand he contrasted them uneasily with the large soft eyes that looked\nforth steadily at one object, as if from out their light beamed some\ngentle influence of repose: the curving lines of the red lips, just\nparted in the interest of listening to what her companion said--the head\na little bent forwards, so as to make a long sweeping line from the\nsummit, where the light caught on the glossy raven hair, to the smooth\nivory tip of the shoulder; the round white arms, and taper hands, laid\nlightly across each other, but perfectly motionless in their pretty\nattitude. Mr. Thornton sighed as he took in all this with one of his\nsudden comprehensive glances. And then he turned his back to the young\nladies, and threw himself, with an effort, but with all his heart and\nsoul, into a conversation with Mr. Hale.\n\nMore people came--more and more. Fanny left Margaret's side, and helped\nher mother to receive her guests. Mr. Thornton felt that in this influx\nno one was speaking to Margaret, and was restless under this apparent\nneglect. But he never went near her himself; he did not look at her.\nOnly, he knew what she was doing--or not doing--better than he knew the\nmovements of any one else in the room. Margaret was so unconscious of\nherself, and so much amused by watching other people, that she never\nthought whether she was left unnoticed or not. Somebody took her down to\ndinner; she did not catch the name; nor did he seem much inclined to\ntalk to her. There was a very animated conversation going on among the\ngentlemen; the ladies, for the most part, were silent, employing\nthemselves in taking notes of the dinner and criticising each other's\ndresses. Margaret caught the clue to the general conversation, grew\ninterested and listened attentively. Mr. Horsfall, the stranger, whose\nvisit to the town was the original germ of the party, was asking\nquestions relative to the trade and manufactures of the place; and the\nrest of the gentlemen--all Milton men,--were giving him answers and\nexplanations. Some dispute arose, which was warmly contested; it was\nreferred to Mr. Thornton, who had hardly spoken before; but who now gave\nan opinion, the grounds of which were so clearly stated that even the\nopponents yielded. Margaret's attention was thus called to her host; his\nwhole manner as master of the house, and entertainer of his friends, was\nso straightforward, yet simple and modest, as to be thoroughly\ndignified. Margaret thought she had never seen him to so much advantage.\nWhen he had come to their house, there had been always something, either\nof over-eagerness or of that kind of vexed annoyance which seemed ready\nto pre-suppose that he was unjustly judged, and yet felt too proud to\ntry and make himself better understood. But now, among his fellows,\nthere was no uncertainty as to his position. He was regarded by them as\na man of great force of character; of power in many ways. There was no\nneed to struggle for their respect. He had it, and he knew it; and the\nsecurity of this gave a fine grand quietness to his voice and ways,\nwhich Margaret had missed before.\n\nHe was not in the habit of talking to ladies; and what he did say was a\nlittle formal. To Margaret herself he hardly spoke at all. She was\nsurprised to think how much she enjoyed this dinner. She knew enough now\nto understand many local interests--nay, even some of the technical\nwords employed by the eager mill-owners. She silently took a very\ndecided part in the question they were discussing. At any rate, they\ntalked in desperate earnest,--not in the used-up style that wearied her\nso in the old London parties. She wondered that with all this dwelling\non the manufactures and trade of the place, no allusion was made to the\nstrike then pending. She did not yet know how coolly such things were\ntaken by the masters, as having only one possible end. To be sure, the\nmen were cutting their own throats, as they had done many a time before;\nbut if they would be fools, and put themselves into the hands of a\nrascally set of paid delegates, they must take the consequence. One or\ntwo thought Thornton looked out of spirits; and, of course, he must lose\nby this turn-out. But it was an accident that might happen to themselves\nany day; and Thornton was as good to manage a strike as any one; for he\nwas as iron a chap as any in Milton. The hands had mistaken their man in\ntrying that dodge on him. And they chuckled inwardly at the idea of the\nworkmen's discomfiture and defeat, in their attempt to alter one iota of\nwhat Thornton had decreed. It was rather dull for Margaret after dinner.\nShe was glad when the gentlemen came, not merely because she caught her\nfather's eye to brighten her sleepiness up; but because she could listen\nto something larger and grander than the petty interests which the\nladies had been talking about. She liked the exultation in the sense of\npower which these Milton men had. It might be rather rampant in its\ndisplay, and savour of boasting; but still they seemed to defy the old\nlimits of possibility, in a kind of fine intoxication, caused by the\nrecollection of what had been achieved, and what yet should be. If in\nher cooler moments she might not approve of their spirit in all things,\nstill there was much to admire in their forgetfulness of themselves and\nthe present, in their anticipated triumphs over all inanimate matter at\nsome future time which none of them should live to see. She was rather\nstartled when Mr. Thornton spoke to her, close at her elbow:\n\n'I could see you were on our side in our discussion at dinner,--were you\nnot, Miss Hale?'\n\n'Certainly. But then I know so little about it. I was surprised,\nhowever, to find from what Mr. Horsfall said, that there were others who\nthought in so diametrically opposite a manner, as the Mr. Morison he\nspoke about. He cannot be a gentleman--is he?'\n\n'I am not quite the person to decide on another's gentlemanliness, Miss\nHale. I mean, I don't quite understand your application of the word. But\nI should say that this Morison is no true man. I don't know who he is; I\nmerely judge him from Mr. Horsfall's account.'\n\n'I suspect my \"gentleman\" includes your \"true man.\"'\n\n'And a great deal more, you would imply. I differ from you. A man is to\nme a higher and a completer being than a gentleman.'\n\n'What do you mean?' asked Margaret. 'We must understand the words\ndifferently.'\n\n'I take it that \"gentleman\" is a term that only describes a person in\nhis relation to others; but when we speak of him as \"a man,\" we consider\nhim not merely with regard to his fellow-men, but in relation to\nhimself,--to life--to time--to eternity. A cast-away lonely as Robinson\nCrusoe--a prisoner immured in a dungeon for life--nay, even a saint in\nPatmos, has his endurance, his strength, his faith, best described by\nbeing spoken of as \"a man.\" I am rather weary of this word\n\"gentlemanly,\" which seems to me to be often inappropriately used, and\noften, too, with such exaggerated distortion of meaning, while the full\nsimplicity of the noun \"man,\" and the adjective \"manly\" are\nunacknowledged--that I am induced to class it with the cant of the day.'\n\nMargaret thought a moment,--but before she could speak her slow\nconviction, he was called away by some of the eager manufacturers, whose\nspeeches she could not hear, though she could guess at their import by\nthe short clear answers Mr. Thornton gave, which came steady and firm as\nthe boom of a distant minute gun. They were evidently talking of the\nturn-out, and suggesting what course had best be pursued. She heard Mr.\nThornton say:\n\n'That has been done.' Then came a hurried murmur, in which two or three\njoined.\n\n'All those arrangements have been made.'\n\nSome doubts were implied, some difficulties named by Mr. Slickson, who\ntook hold of Mr. Thornton's arm, the better to impress his words. Mr.\nThornton moved slightly away, lifted his eyebrows a very little, and\nthen replied:\n\n'I take the risk. You need not join in it unless you choose.' Still some\nmore fears were urged.\n\n'I'm not afraid of anything so dastardly as incendiarism. We are open\nenemies; and I can protect myself from any violence that I apprehend.\nAnd I will assuredly protect all others who come to me for work. They\nknow my determination by this time, as well and as fully as you do.'\n\nMr. Horsfall took him a little on one side, as Margaret conjectured, to\nask him some other question about the strike; but, in truth, it was to\ninquire who she herself was--so quiet, so stately, and so beautiful.\n\n'A Milton lady?' asked he, as the name was given.\n\n'No! from the south of England--Hampshire, I believe,' was the cold,\nindifferent answer.\n\nMrs. Slickson was catechising Fanny on the same subject.\n\n'Who is that fine distinguished-looking girl? a sister of Mr.\nHorsfall's?'\n\n'Oh dear, no! That is Mr. Hale, her father, talking now to Mr. Stephens.\nHe gives lessons; that is to say, he reads with young men. My brother\nJohn goes to him twice a week, and so he begged mamma to ask them here,\nin hopes of getting him known. I believe, we have some of their\nprospectuses, if you would like to have one.'\n\n'Mr. Thornton! Does he really find time to read with a tutor, in the\nmidst of all his business,--and this abominable strike in hand as well?'\n\nFanny was not sure, from Mrs. Slickson's manner, whether she ought to be\nproud or ashamed of her brother's conduct; and, like all people who try\nand take other people's 'ought' for the rule of their feelings, she was\ninclined to blush for any singularity of action. Her shame was\ninterrupted by the dispersion of the guests.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI\n\nTHE DARK NIGHT\n\n    'On earth is known to none\n     The smile that is not sister to a tear.'\n             ELLIOTT.\n\n\nMargaret and her father walked home. The night was fine, the streets\nclean, and with her pretty white silk, like Leezie Lindsay's gown o'\ngreen satin, in the ballad, 'kilted up to her knee,' she was off with\nher father--ready to dance along with the excitement of the cool, fresh\nnight air.\n\n'I rather think Thornton is not quite easy in his mind about this\nstrike. He seemed very anxious to-night.'\n\n'I should wonder if he were not. But he spoke with his usual coolness to\nthe others, when they suggested different things, just before we came\naway.'\n\n'So he did after dinner as well. It would take a good deal to stir him\nfrom his cool manner of speaking; but his face strikes me as anxious.'\n\n'I should be, if I were he. He must know of the growing anger and hardly\nsmothered hatred of his workpeople, who all look upon him as what the\nBible calls a \"hard man,\"--not so much unjust as unfeeling; clear in\njudgment, standing upon his \"rights\" as no human being ought to stand,\nconsidering what we and all our petty rights are in the sight of the\nAlmighty. I am glad you think he looks anxious. When I remember\nBoucher's half mad words and ways, I cannot bear to think how coolly Mr.\nThornton spoke.'\n\n'In the first place, I am not so convinced as you are about that man\nBoucher's utter distress; for the moment, he was badly off, I don't\ndoubt. But there is always a mysterious supply of money from these\nUnions; and, from what you said, it was evident the man was of a\npassionate, demonstrative nature, and gave strong expression to all he\nfelt.'\n\n'Oh, papa!'\n\n'Well! I only want you to do justice to Mr. Thornton, who is, I suspect,\nof an exactly opposite nature,--a man who is far too proud to show his\nfeelings. Just the character I should have thought beforehand, you would\nhave admired, Margaret.'\n\n'So I do,--so I should; but I don't feel quite so sure as you do of the\nexistence of those feelings. He is a man of great strength of\ncharacter,--of unusual intellect, considering the few advantages he has\nhad.'\n\n'Not so few. He has led a practical life from a very early age; has been\ncalled upon to exercise judgment and self-control. All that developes\none part of the intellect. To be sure, he needs some of the knowledge of\nthe past, which gives the truest basis for conjecture as to the future;\nbut he knows this need,--he perceives it, and that is something. You are\nquite prejudiced against Mr. Thornton, Margaret.'\n\n'He is the first specimen of a manufacturer--of a person engaged in\ntrade--that I had ever the opportunity of studying, papa. He is my first\nolive: let me make a face while I swallow it. I know he is good of his\nkind, and by and by I shall like the kind. I rather think I am already\nbeginning to do so. I was very much interested by what the gentlemen\nwere talking about, although I did not understand half of it. I was\nquite sorry when Miss Thornton came to take me to the other end of the\nroom, saying she was sure I should be uncomfortable at being the only\nlady among so many gentlemen. I had never thought about it, I was so\nbusy listening; and the ladies were so dull, papa--oh, so dull! Yet I\nthink it was clever too. It reminded me of our old game of having each\nso many nouns to introduce into a sentence.'\n\n'What do you mean, child?' asked Mr. Hale.\n\n'Why, they took nouns that were signs of things which gave evidence of\nwealth,--housekeepers, under-gardeners, extent of glass, valuable lace,\ndiamonds, and all such things; and each one formed her speech so as to\nbring them all in, in the prettiest accidental manner possible.'\n\n'You will be as proud of your one servant when you get her, if all is\ntrue about her that Mrs. Thornton says.'\n\n'To be sure, I shall. I felt like a great hypocrite to-night, sitting\nthere in my white silk gown, with my idle hands before me, when I\nremembered all the good, thorough, house-work they had done to-day. They\ntook me for a fine lady, I'm sure.'\n\n'Even I was mistaken enough to think you looked like a lady my dear,'\nsaid Mr. Hale, quietly smiling.\n\nBut smiles were changed to white and trembling looks, when they saw\nDixon's face, as she opened the door.\n\n'Oh, master!--Oh, Miss Margaret! Thank God you are come! Dr. Donaldson\nis here. The servant next door went for him, for the charwoman is gone\nhome. She's better now; but, oh, sir! I thought she'd have died an hour\nago.'\n\nMr. Hale caught Margaret's arm to steady himself from falling. He looked\nat her face, and saw an expression upon it of surprise and extremest\nsorrow, but not the agony of terror that contracted his own unprepared\nheart. She knew more than he did, and yet she listened with that\nhopeless expression of awed apprehension.\n\n'Oh! I should not have left her--wicked daughter that I am!' moaned\nforth Margaret, as she supported her trembling father's hasty steps\nup-stairs. Dr. Donaldson met them on the landing.\n\n'She is better now,' he whispered. 'The opiate has taken effect. The\nspasms were very bad: no wonder they frightened your maid; but she'll\nrally this time.'\n\n'This time! Let me go to her!' Half an hour ago, Mr. Hale was a\nmiddle-aged man; now his sight was dim, his senses wavering, his walk\ntottering, as if he were seventy years of age.\n\nDr. Donaldson took his arm, and led him into the bedroom. Margaret\nfollowed close. There lay her mother, with an unmistakable look on her\nface. She might be better now; she was sleeping, but Death had signed\nher for his own, and it was clear that ere long he would return to take\npossession. Mr. Hale looked at her for some time without a word. Then he\nbegan to shake all over, and, turning away from Dr. Donaldson's anxious\ncare, he groped to find the door; he could not see it, although several\ncandles, brought in the sudden affright, were burning and flaring there.\nHe staggered into the drawing-room, and felt about for a chair. Dr.\nDonaldson wheeled one to him, and placed him in it. He felt his pulse.\n\n'Speak to him, Miss Hale. We must rouse him.'\n\n'Papa!' said Margaret, with a crying voice that was wild with pain.\n'Papa! Speak to me!' The speculation came again into his eyes, and he\nmade a great effort.\n\n'Margaret, did you know of this? Oh, it was cruel of you!'\n\n'No, sir, it was not cruel!' replied Dr. Donaldson, with quick decision.\n'Miss Hale acted under my directions. There may have been a mistake, but\nit was not cruel. Your wife will be a different creature to-morrow, I\ntrust. She has had spasms, as I anticipated, though I did not tell Miss\nHale of my apprehensions. She has taken the opiate I brought with me;\nshe will have a good long sleep; and to-morrow, that look which has\nalarmed you so much will have passed away.'\n\n'But not the disease?'\n\nDr. Donaldson glanced at Margaret. Her bent head, her face raised with\nno appeal for a temporary reprieve, showed that quick observer of human\nnature that she thought it better that the whole truth should be told.\n\n'Not the disease. We cannot touch the disease, with all our poor vaunted\nskill. We can only delay its progress--alleviate the pain it causes. Be\na man, sir--a Christian. Have faith in the immortality of the soul,\nwhich no pain, no mortal disease, can assail or touch!'\n\nBut all the reply he got, was in the choked words, 'You have never been\nmarried, Dr. Donaldson; you do not know what it is,' and in the deep,\nmanly sobs, which went through the stillness of the night like heavy\npulses of agony. Margaret knelt by him, caressing him with tearful\ncaresses. No one, not even Dr. Donaldson, knew how the time went by. Mr.\nHale was the first to dare to speak of the necessities of the present\nmoment.\n\n'What must we do?' asked he. 'Tell us both. Margaret is my staff--my\nright hand.'\n\nDr. Donaldson gave his clear, sensible directions. No fear for\nto-night--nay, even peace for to-morrow, and for many days yet. But no\nenduring hope of recovery. He advised Mr. Hale to go to bed, and leave\nonly one to watch the slumber, which he hoped would be undisturbed. He\npromised to come again early in the morning. And with a warm and kindly\nshake of the hand, he left them. They spoke but few words; they were too\nmuch exhausted by their terror to do more than decide upon the immediate\ncourse of action. Mr. Hale was resolved to sit up through the night, and\nall that Margaret could do was to prevail upon him to rest on the\ndrawing-room sofa. Dixon stoutly and bluntly refused to go to bed; and,\nas for Margaret, it was simply impossible that she should leave her\nmother, let all the doctors in the world speak of 'husbanding\nresources,' and 'one watcher only being required.' So, Dixon sat, and\nstared, and winked, and drooped, and picked herself up again with a\njerk, and finally gave up the battle, and fairly snored. Margaret had\ntaken off her gown and tossed it aside with a sort of impatient disgust,\nand put on her dressing-gown. She felt as if she never could sleep\nagain; as if her whole senses were acutely vital, and all endued with\ndouble keenness, for the purposes of watching. Every sight and\nsound--nay, even every thought, touched some nerve to the very quick.\nFor more than two hours, she heard her father's restless movements in\nthe next room. He came perpetually to the door of her mother's chamber,\npausing there to listen, till she, not hearing his close unseen\npresence, went and opened it to tell him how all went on, in reply to\nthe questions his baked lips could hardly form. At last he, too, fell\nasleep, and all the house was still. Margaret sate behind the curtain\nthinking. Far away in time, far away in space, seemed all the interests\nof past days. Not more than thirty-six hours ago, she cared for Bessy\nHiggins and her father, and her heart was wrung for Boucher; now, that\nwas all like a dreaming memory of some former life;--everything that had\npassed out of doors seemed dissevered from her mother, and therefore\nunreal. Even Harley Street appeared more distinct; there she remembered,\nas if it were yesterday, how she had pleased herself with tracing out\nher mother's features in her Aunt Shaw's face,--and how letters had\ncome, making her dwell on the thoughts of home with all the longing of\nlove. Helstone, itself, was in the dim past. The dull gray days of the\npreceding winter and spring, so uneventless and monotonous, seemed more\nassociated with what she cared for now above all price. She would fain\nhave caught at the skirts of that departing time, and prayed it to\nreturn, and give her back what she had too little valued while it was\nyet in her possession. What a vain show Life seemed! How unsubstantial,\nand flickering, and flitting! It was as if from some aerial belfry, high\nup above the stir and jar of the earth, there was a bell continually\ntolling, 'All are shadows!--all are passing!--all is past!' And when the\nmorning dawned, cool and gray, like many a happier morning before--when\nMargaret looked one by one at the sleepers, it seemed as if the terrible\nnight were unreal as a dream; it, too, was a shadow. It, too, was past.\n\nMrs. Hale herself was not aware when she awoke, how ill she had been the\nnight before. She was rather surprised at Dr. Donaldson's early visit,\nand perplexed by the anxious faces of husband and child. She consented\nto remain in bed that day, saying she certainly was tired; but, the\nnext, she insisted on getting up; and Dr. Donaldson gave his consent to\nher returning into the drawing-room. She was restless and uncomfortable\nin every position, and before night she became very feverish. Mr. Hale\nwas utterly listless, and incapable of deciding on anything.\n\n'What can we do to spare mamma such another night?' asked Margaret on\nthe third day.\n\n'It is, to a certain degree, the reaction after the powerful opiates I\nhave been obliged to use. It is more painful for you to see than for her\nto bear, I believe. But, I think, if we could get a water-bed it might\nbe a good thing. Not but what she will be better to-morrow; pretty much\nlike herself as she was before this attack. Still, I should like her to\nhave a water-bed. Mrs. Thornton has one, I know. I'll try and call there\nthis afternoon. Stay,' said he, his eye catching on Margaret's face,\nblanched with watching in a sick room, 'I'm not sure whether I can go;\nI've a long round to take. It would do you no harm to have a brisk walk\nto Marlborough Street, and ask Mrs. Thornton if she can spare it.'\n\n'Certainly,' said Margaret. 'I could go while mamma is asleep this\nafternoon. I'm sure Mrs. Thornton would lend it to us.'\n\nDr. Donaldson's experience told them rightly. Mrs. Hale seemed to shake\noff the consequences of her attack, and looked brighter and better this\nafternoon than Margaret had ever hoped to see her again. Her daughter\nleft her after dinner, sitting in her easy chair, with her hand lying in\nher husband's, who looked more worn and suffering than she by far.\nStill, he could smile now--rather slowly, rather faintly, it is true;\nbut a day or two before, Margaret never thought to see him smile again.\n\nIt was about two miles from their house in Crampton Crescent to\nMarlborough Street. It was too hot to walk very quickly. An August sun\nbeat straight down into the street at three o'clock in the afternoon.\nMargaret went along, without noticing anything very different from usual\nin the first mile and a half of her journey; she was absorbed in her own\nthoughts, and had learnt by this time to thread her way through the\nirregular stream of human beings that flowed through Milton streets.\nBut, by and by, she was struck with an unusual heaving among the mass of\npeople in the crowded road on which she was entering. They did not\nappear to be moving on, so much as talking, and listening, and buzzing\nwith excitement, without much stirring from the spot where they might\nhappen to be. Still, as they made way for her, and, wrapt up in the\npurpose of her errand, and the necessities that suggested it, she was\nless quick of observation than she might have been, if her mind had been\nat ease, she had got into Marlborough Street before the full conviction\nforced itself upon her, that there was a restless, oppressive sense of\nirritation abroad among the people; a thunderous atmosphere, morally as\nwell as physically, around her. From every narrow lane opening out on\nMarlborough Street came up a low distant roar, as of myriads of fierce\nindignant voices. The inhabitants of each poor squalid dwelling were\ngathered round the doors and windows, if indeed they were not actually\nstanding in the middle of the narrow ways--all with looks intent towards\none point. Marlborough Street itself was the focus of all those human\neyes, that betrayed intensest interest of various kinds; some fierce\nwith anger, some lowering with relentless threats, some dilated with\nfear, or imploring entreaty; and, as Margaret reached the small\nside-entrance by the folding doors, in the great dead wall of\nMarlborough mill-yard and waited the porter's answer to the bell, she\nlooked round and heard the first long far-off roll of the tempest;--saw\nthe first slow-surging wave of the dark crowd come, with its threatening\ncrest, tumble over, and retreat, at the far end of the street, which a\nmoment ago, seemed so full of repressed noise, but which now was\nominously still; all these circumstances forced themselves on Margaret's\nnotice, but did not sink down into her pre-occupied heart. She did not\nknow what they meant--what was their deep significance; while she did\nknow, did feel the keen sharp pressure of the knife that was soon to\nstab her through and through by leaving her motherless. She was trying\nto realise that, in order that, when it came, she might be ready to\ncomfort her father.\n\nThe porter opened the door cautiously, not nearly wide enough to admit\nher.\n\n'It's you, is it, ma'am?' said he, drawing a long breath, and widening\nthe entrance, but still not opening it fully. Margaret went in. He\nhastily bolted it behind her.\n\n'Th' folk are all coming up here I reckon?' asked he.\n\n'I don't know. Something unusual seemed going on; but this street is\nquite empty, I think.'\n\nShe went across the yard and up the steps to the house door. There was\nno near sound,--no steam-engine at work with beat and pant,--no click of\nmachinery, or mingling and clashing of many sharp voices; but far away,\nthe ominous gathering roar, deep-clamouring.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII\n\nA BLOW AND ITS CONSEQUENCES\n\n    'But work grew scarce, while bread grew dear,\n     And wages lessened, too;\n     For Irish hordes were bidders here,\n     Our half-paid work to do.'\n             CORN LAW RHYMES.\n\n\nMargaret was shown into the drawing-room. It had returned into its\nnormal state of bag and covering. The windows were half open because of\nthe heat, and the Venetian blinds covered the glass,--so that a gray\ngrim light, reflected from the pavement below, threw all the shadows\nwrong, and combined with the green-tinged upper light to make even\nMargaret's own face, as she caught it in the mirrors, look ghastly and\nwan. She sat and waited; no one came. Every now and then, the wind\nseemed to bear the distant multitudinous sound nearer; and yet there was\nno wind! It died away into profound stillness between whiles.\n\nFanny came in at last.\n\n'Mamma will come directly, Miss Hale. She desired me to apologise to you\nas it is. Perhaps you know my brother has imported hands from Ireland,\nand it has irritated the Milton people excessively--as if he hadn't a\nright to get labour where he could; and the stupid wretches here\nwouldn't work for him; and now they've frightened these poor Irish\nstarvelings so with their threats, that we daren't let them out. You may\nsee them huddled in that top room in the mill,--and they're to sleep\nthere, to keep them safe from those brutes, who will neither work nor\nlet them work. And mamma is seeing about their food, and John is\nspeaking to them, for some of the women are crying to go back. Ah!\nhere's mamma!'\n\nMrs. Thornton came in with a look of black sternness on her face, which\nmade Margaret feel she had arrived at a bad time to trouble her with her\nrequest. However, it was only in compliance with Mrs. Thornton's\nexpressed desire, that she would ask for whatever they might want in the\nprogress of her mother's illness. Mrs. Thornton's brow contracted, and\nher mouth grew set, while Margaret spoke with gentle modesty of her\nmother's restlessness, and Dr. Donaldson's wish that she should have the\nrelief of a water-bed. She ceased. Mrs. Thornton did not reply\nimmediately. Then she started up and exclaimed--\n\n'They're at the gates! Call John, Fanny,--call him in from the mill!\nThey're at the gates! They'll batter them in! Call John, I say!'\n\nAnd simultaneously, the gathering tramp--to which she had been\nlistening, instead of heeding Margaret's words--was heard just right\noutside the wall, and an increasing din of angry voices raged behind the\nwooden barrier, which shook as if the unseen maddened crowd made\nbattering-rams of their bodies, and retreated a short space only to come\nwith more united steady impetus against it, till their great beats made\nthe strong gates quiver, like reeds before the wind. The women gathered\nround the windows, fascinated to look on the scene which terrified them.\nMrs. Thornton, the women-servants, Margaret,--all were there. Fanny had\nreturned, screaming up-stairs as if pursued at every step, and had\nthrown herself in hysterical sobbing on the sofa. Mrs. Thornton watched\nfor her son, who was still in the mill. He came out, looked up at\nthem--the pale cluster of faces--and smiled good courage to them, before\nhe locked the factory-door. Then he called to one of the women to come\ndown and undo his own door, which Fanny had fastened behind her in her\nmad flight. Mrs. Thornton herself went. And the sound of his well-known\nand commanding voice, seemed to have been like the taste of blood to the\ninfuriated multitude outside. Hitherto they had been voiceless,\nwordless, needing all their breath for their hard-labouring efforts to\nbreak down the gates. But now, hearing him speak inside, they set up\nsuch a fierce unearthly groan, that even Mrs. Thornton was white with\nfear as she preceded him into the room. He came in a little flushed, but\nhis eyes gleaming, as in answer to the trumpet-call of danger, and with\na proud look of defiance on his face, that made him a noble, if not a\nhandsome man. Margaret had always dreaded lest her courage should fail\nher in any emergency, and she should be proved to be, what she dreaded\nlest she was--a coward. But now, in this real great time of reasonable\nfear and nearness of terror, she forgot herself, and felt only an\nintense sympathy--intense to painfulness--in the interests of the\nmoment.\n\nMr. Thornton came frankly forwards:\n\n'I'm sorry, Miss Hale, you have visited us at this unfortunate moment,\nwhen, I fear, you may be involved in whatever risk we have to bear.\nMother! hadn't you better go into the back rooms? I'm not sure whether\nthey may not have made their way from Pinner's Lane into the\nstable-yard; but if not, you will be safer there than here. Go Jane!'\ncontinued he, addressing the upper-servant. And she went, followed by\nthe others.\n\n'I stop here!' said his mother. 'Where you are, there I stay.' And\nindeed, retreat into the back rooms was of no avail; the crowd had\nsurrounded the outbuildings at the rear, and were sending forth their\nawful threatening roar behind. The servants retreated into the garrets,\nwith many a cry and shriek. Mr. Thornton smiled scornfully as he heard\nthem. He glanced at Margaret, standing all by herself at the window\nnearest the factory. Her eyes glittered, her colour was deepened on\ncheek and lip. As if she felt his look, she turned to him and asked a\nquestion that had been for some time in her mind:\n\n'Where are the poor imported work-people? In the factory there?'\n\n'Yes! I left them cowered up in a small room, at the head of a back\nflight of stairs; bidding them run all risks, and escape down there, if\nthey heard any attack made on the mill-doors. But it is not them--it is\nme they want.'\n\n'When can the soldiers be here?' asked his mother, in a low but not\nunsteady voice.\n\nHe took out his watch with the same measured composure with which he did\neverything. He made some little calculation:\n\n'Supposing Williams got straight off when I told him, and hadn't to\ndodge about amongst them--it must be twenty minutes yet.'\n\n'Twenty minutes!' said his mother, for the first time showing her terror\nin the tones of her voice.\n\n'Shut down the windows instantly, mother,' exclaimed he: 'the gates\nwon't bear such another shock. Shut down that window, Miss Hale.'\n\nMargaret shut down her window, and then went to assist Mrs. Thornton's\ntrembling fingers.\n\nFrom some cause or other, there was a pause of several minutes in the\nunseen street. Mrs. Thornton looked with wild anxiety at her son's\ncountenance, as if to gain the interpretation of the sudden stillness\nfrom him. His face was set into rigid lines of contemptuous defiance;\nneither hope nor fear could be read there.\n\nFanny raised herself up:\n\n'Are they gone?' asked she, in a whisper.\n\n'Gone!' replied he. 'Listen!'\n\nShe did listen; they all could hear the one great straining breath; the\ncreak of wood slowly yielding; the wrench of iron; the mighty fall of\nthe ponderous gates. Fanny stood up tottering--made a step or two\ntowards her mother, and fell forwards into her arms in a fainting fit.\nMrs. Thornton lifted her up with a strength that was as much that of the\nwill as of the body, and carried her away.\n\n'Thank God!' said Mr. Thornton, as he watched her out. 'Had you not\nbetter go upstairs, Miss Hale?'\n\nMargaret's lips formed a 'No!'--but he could not hear her speak, for the\ntramp of innumerable steps right under the very wall of the house, and\nthe fierce growl of low deep angry voices that had a ferocious murmur of\nsatisfaction in them, more dreadful than their baffled cries not many\nminutes before.\n\n'Never mind!' said he, thinking to encourage her. 'I am very sorry you\nshould have been entrapped into all this alarm; but it cannot last long\nnow; a few minutes more, and the soldiers will be here.'\n\n'Oh, God!' cried Margaret, suddenly; 'there is Boucher. I know his face,\nthough he is livid with rage,--he is fighting to get to the front--look!\nlook!'\n\n'Who is Boucher?' asked Mr. Thornton, coolly, and coming close to the\nwindow to discover the man in whom Margaret took such an interest. As\nsoon as they saw Mr. Thornton, they set up a yell,--to call it not human\nis nothing,--it was as the demoniac desire of some terrible wild beast\nfor the food that is withheld from his ravening. Even he drew back for a\nmoment, dismayed at the intensity of hatred he had provoked.\n\n'Let them yell!' said he. 'In five minutes more--. I only hope my poor\nIrishmen are not terrified out of their wits by such a fiendlike noise.\nKeep up your courage for five minutes, Miss Hale.'\n\n'Don't be afraid for me,' she said hastily. 'But what in five minutes?\nCan you do nothing to soothe these poor creatures? It is awful to see\nthem.'\n\n'The soldiers will be here directly, and that will bring them to\nreason.'\n\n'To reason!' said Margaret, quickly. 'What kind of reason?'\n\n'The only reason that does with men that make themselves into wild\nbeasts. By heaven! they've turned to the mill-door!'\n\n'Mr. Thornton,' said Margaret, shaking all over with her passion, 'go\ndown this instant, if you are not a coward. Go down and face them like a\nman. Save these poor strangers, whom you have decoyed here. Speak to\nyour workmen as if they were human beings. Speak to them kindly. Don't\nlet the soldiers come in and cut down poor creatures who are driven mad.\nI see one there who is. If you have any courage or noble quality in you,\ngo out and speak to them, man to man.'\n\nHe turned and looked at her while she spoke. A dark cloud came over his\nface while he listened. He set his teeth as he heard her words.\n\n'I will go. Perhaps I may ask you to accompany me downstairs, and bar\nthe door behind me; my mother and sister will need that protection.'\n\n'Oh! Mr. Thornton! I do not know--I may be wrong--only--'\n\nBut he was gone; he was downstairs in the hall; he had unbarred the\nfront door; all she could do, was to follow him quickly, and fasten it\nbehind him, and clamber up the stairs again with a sick heart and a\ndizzy head. Again she took her place by the farthest window. He was on\nthe steps below; she saw that by the direction of a thousand angry eyes;\nbut she could neither see nor hear anything save the savage satisfaction\nof the rolling angry murmur. She threw the window wide open. Many in the\ncrowd were mere boys; cruel and thoughtless,--cruel because they were\nthoughtless; some were men, gaunt as wolves, and mad for prey. She knew\nhow it was; they were like Boucher, with starving children at\nhome--relying on ultimate success in their efforts to get higher wages,\nand enraged beyond measure at discovering that Irishmen were to be\nbrought in to rob their little ones of bread. Margaret knew it all; she\nread it in Boucher's face, forlornly desperate and livid with rage. If\nMr. Thornton would but say something to them--let them hear his voice\nonly--it seemed as if it would be better than this wild beating and\nraging against the stony silence that vouchsafed them no word, even of\nanger or reproach. But perhaps he was speaking now; there was a\nmomentary hush of their noise, inarticulate as that of a troop of\nanimals. She tore her bonnet off; and bent forwards to hear. She could\nonly see; for if Mr. Thornton had indeed made the attempt to speak, the\nmomentary instinct to listen to him was past and gone, and the people\nwere raging worse than ever. He stood with his arms folded; still as a\nstatue; his face pale with repressed excitement. They were trying to\nintimidate him--to make him flinch; each was urging the other on to some\nimmediate act of personal violence. Margaret felt intuitively, that in\nan instant all would be uproar; the first touch would cause an\nexplosion, in which, among such hundreds of infuriated men and reckless\nboys, even Mr. Thornton's life would be unsafe,--that in another instant\nthe stormy passions would have passed their bounds, and swept away all\nbarriers of reason, or apprehension of consequence. Even while she\nlooked, she saw lads in the back-ground stooping to take off their heavy\nwooden clogs--the readiest missile they could find; she saw it was the\nspark to the gunpowder, and, with a cry, which no one heard, she rushed\nout of the room, down stairs,--she had lifted the great iron bar of the\ndoor with an imperious force--had thrown the door open wide--and was\nthere, in face of that angry sea of men, her eyes smiting them with\nflaming arrows of reproach. The clogs were arrested in the hands that\nheld them--the countenances, so fell not a moment before, now looked\nirresolute, and as if asking what this meant. For she stood between them\nand their enemy. She could not speak, but held out her arms towards them\ntill she could recover breath.\n\n'Oh, do not use violence! He is one man, and you are many; but her words\ndied away, for there was no tone in her voice; it was but a hoarse\nwhisper. Mr. Thornton stood a little on one side; he had moved away from\nbehind her, as if jealous of anything that should come between him and\ndanger.\n\n'Go!' said she, once more (and now her voice was like a cry). 'The\nsoldiers are sent for--are coming. Go peaceably. Go away. You shall have\nrelief from your complaints, whatever they are.'\n\n'Shall them Irish blackguards be packed back again?' asked one from out\nthe crowd, with fierce threatening in his voice.\n\n'Never, for your bidding!' exclaimed Mr. Thornton. And instantly the\nstorm broke. The hootings rose and filled the air,--but Margaret did not\nhear them. Her eye was on the group of lads who had armed themselves\nwith their clogs some time before. She saw their gesture--she knew its\nmeaning,--she read their aim. Another moment, and Mr. Thornton might be\nsmitten down,--he whom she had urged and goaded to come to this perilous\nplace. She only thought how she could save him. She threw her arms\naround him; she made her body into a shield from the fierce people\nbeyond. Still, with his arms folded, he shook her off.\n\n'Go away,' said he, in his deep voice. 'This is no place for you.'\n\n'It is!' said she. 'You did not see what I saw.' If she thought her sex\nwould be a protection,--if, with shrinking eyes she had turned away from\nthe terrible anger of these men, in any hope that ere she looked again\nthey would have paused and reflected, and slunk away, and vanished,--she\nwas wrong. Their reckless passion had carried them too far to stop--at\nleast had carried some of them too far; for it is always the savage\nlads, with their love of cruel excitement, who head the riot--reckless\nto what bloodshed it may lead. A clog whizzed through the air.\nMargaret's fascinated eyes watched its progress; it missed its aim, and\nshe turned sick with affright, but changed not her position, only hid\nher face on Mr. Thornton s arm. Then she turned and spoke again:'\n\n'For God's sake! do not damage your cause by this violence. You do not\nknow what you are doing.' She strove to make her words distinct.\n\nA sharp pebble flew by her, grazing forehead and cheek, and drawing a\nblinding sheet of light before her eyes. She lay like one dead on Mr.\nThornton's shoulder. Then he unfolded his arms, and held her encircled\nin one for an instant:\n\n'You do well!' said he. 'You come to oust the innocent stranger. You\nfall--you hundreds--on one man; and when a woman comes before you, to\nask you for your own sakes to be reasonable creatures, your cowardly\nwrath falls upon her! You do well!' They were silent while he spoke.\nThey were watching, open-eyed and open-mouthed, the thread of dark-red\nblood which wakened them up from their trance of passion. Those nearest\nthe gate stole out ashamed; there was a movement through all the\ncrowd--a retreating movement. Only one voice cried out:\n\n'Th' stone were meant for thee; but thou wert sheltered behind a woman!'\n\nMr. Thornton quivered with rage. The blood-flowing had made Margaret\nconscious--dimly, vaguely conscious. He placed her gently on the\ndoor-step, her head leaning against the frame.\n\n'Can you rest there?' he asked. But without waiting for her answer, he\nwent slowly down the steps right into the middle of the crowd. 'Now kill\nme, if it is your brutal will. There is no woman to shield me here. You\nmay beat me to death--you will never move me from what I have determined\nupon--not you!' He stood amongst them, with his arms folded, in\nprecisely the same attitude as he had been in on the steps.\n\nBut the retrograde movement towards the gate had begun--as\nunreasoningly, perhaps as blindly, as the simultaneous anger. Or,\nperhaps, the idea of the approach of the soldiers, and the sight of that\npale, upturned face, with closed eyes, still and sad as marble, though\nthe tears welled out of the long entanglement of eyelashes and dropped\ndown; and, heavier, slower plash than even tears, came the drip of blood\nfrom her wound. Even the most desperate--Boucher himself--drew back,\nfaltered away, scowled, and finally went off, muttering curses on the\nmaster, who stood in his unchanging attitude, looking after their\nretreat with defiant eyes. The moment that retreat had changed into a\nflight (as it was sure from its very character to do), he darted up the\nsteps to Margaret. She tried to rise without his help.\n\n'It is nothing,' she said, with a sickly smile. 'The skin is grazed, and\nI was stunned at the moment. Oh, I am so thankful they are gone!' And\nshe cried without restraint.\n\nHe could not sympathise with her. His anger had not abated; it was\nrather rising the more as his sense of immediate danger was passing\naway. The distant clank of the soldiers was heard just five minutes too\nlate to make this vanished mob feel the power of authority and order. He\nhoped they would see the troops, and be quelled by the thought of their\nnarrow escape. While these thoughts crossed his mind, Margaret clung to\nthe doorpost to steady herself: but a film came over her eyes--he was\nonly just in time to catch her. 'Mother--mother!' cried he; 'Come\ndown--they are gone, and Miss Hale is hurt!' He bore her into the\ndining-room, and laid her on the sofa there; laid her down softly, and\nlooking on her pure white face, the sense of what she was to him came\nupon him so keenly that he spoke it out in his pain:\n\n'Oh, my Margaret--my Margaret! no one can tell what you are to me!\nDead--cold as you lie there, you are the only woman I ever loved! Oh,\nMargaret--Margaret!' Inarticulately as he spoke, kneeling by her, and\nrather moaning than saying the words, he started up, ashamed of himself,\nas his mother came in. She saw nothing, but her son a little paler, a\nlittle sterner than usual.\n\n'Miss Hale is hurt, mother. A stone has grazed her temple. She has lost\na good deal of blood, I'm afraid.'\n\n'She looks very seriously hurt,--I could almost fancy her dead,' said\nMrs. Thornton, a good deal alarmed.\n\n'It is only a fainting-fit. She has spoken to me since.' But all the\nblood in his body seemed to rush inwards to his heart as he spoke, and\nhe absolutely trembled.\n\n'Go and call Jane,--she can find me the things I want; and do you go to\nyour Irish people, who are crying and shouting as if they were mad with\nfright.' He went. He went away as if weights were tied to every limb\nthat bore him from her. He called Jane; he called his sister. She should\nhave all womanly care, all gentle tendance. But every pulse beat in him\nas he remembered how she had come down and placed herself in foremost\ndanger,--could it be to save him? At the time, he had pushed her aside,\nand spoken gruffly; he had seen nothing but the unnecessary danger she\nhad placed herself in. He went to his Irish people, with every nerve in\nhis body thrilling at the thought of her, and found it difficult to\nunderstand enough of what they were saying to soothe and comfort away\ntheir fears. There, they declared, they would not stop; they claimed to\nbe sent back. And so he had to think, and talk, and reason.\n\nMrs. Thornton bathed Margaret's temples with eau de Cologne. As the\nspirit touched the wound, which till then neither Mrs. Thornton nor Jane\nhad perceived, Margaret opened her eyes; but it was evident she did not\nknow where she was, nor who they were. The dark circles deepened, the\nlips quivered and contracted, and she became insensible once more.\n\n'She has had a terrible blow,' said Mrs. Thornton. 'Is there any one who\nwill go for a doctor?'\n\n'Not me, ma'am, if you please,' said Jane, shrinking back. 'Them rabble\nmay be all about; I don't think the cut is so deep, ma'am, as it looks.'\n\n'I will not run the chance. She was hurt in our house. If you are a\ncoward, Jane, I am not. I will go.'\n\n'Pray, ma'am, let me send one of the police. There's ever so many come\nup, and soldiers too.'\n\n'And yet you're afraid to go! I will not have their time taken up with\nour errands. They'll have enough to do to catch some of the mob. You\nwill not be afraid to stop in this house,' she asked contemptuously,\n'and go on bathing Miss Hale's forehead, shall you? I shall not be ten\nminutes away.'\n\n'Couldn't Hannah go, ma'am?'\n\n'Why Hannah? Why any but you? No, Jane, if you don't go, I do.'\n\nMrs. Thornton went first to the room in which she had left Fanny\nstretched on the bed. She started up as her mother entered.\n\n'Oh, mamma, how you terrified me! I thought you were a man that had got\ninto the house.'\n\n'Nonsense! The men are all gone away. There are soldiers all round the\nplace, seeking for their work now it is too late. Miss Hale is lying on\nthe dining-room sofa badly hurt. I am going for the doctor.'\n\n'Oh! don't, mamma! they'll murder you.' She clung to her mother's gown.\nMrs. Thornton wrenched it away with no gentle hand.\n\n'Find me some one else to go but that girl must not bleed to death.'\n\n'Bleed! oh, how horrid! How has she got hurt?'\n\n'I don't know,--I have no time to ask. Go down to her, Fanny, and do try\nto make yourself of use. Jane is with her; and I trust it looks worse\nthan it is. Jane has refused to leave the house, cowardly woman! And I\nwon't put myself in the way of any more refusals from my servants, so I\nam going myself.'\n\n'Oh, dear, dear!' said Fanny, crying, and preparing to go down rather\nthan be left alone, with the thought of wounds and bloodshed in the very\nhouse.\n\n'Oh, Jane!' said she, creeping into the dining-room, 'what is the\nmatter? How white she looks! How did she get hurt? Did they throw stones\ninto the drawing-room?'\n\nMargaret did indeed look white and wan, although her senses were\nbeginning to return to her. But the sickly daze of the swoon made her\nstill miserably faint. She was conscious of movement around her, and of\nrefreshment from the eau de Cologne, and a craving for the bathing to go\non without intermission; but when they stopped to talk, she could no\nmore have opened her eyes, or spoken to ask for more bathing, than the\npeople who lie in death-like trance can move, or utter sound, to arrest\nthe awful preparations for their burial, while they are yet fully aware,\nnot merely of the actions of those around them, but of the idea that is\nthe motive for such actions.\n\nJane paused in her bathing, to reply to Miss Thornton's question.\n\n'She'd have been safe enough, miss, if she'd stayed in the drawing-room,\nor come up to us; we were in the front garret, and could see it all, out\nof harm's way.'\n\n'Where was she, then?' said Fanny, drawing nearer by slow degrees, as\nshe became accustomed to the sight of Margaret's pale face.\n\n'Just before the front door--with master!' said Jane, significantly.\n\n'With John! with my brother! How did she get there?'\n\n'Nay, miss, that's not for me to say,' answered Jane, with a slight toss\nof her head. 'Sarah did'----\n\n'Sarah what?' said Fanny, with impatient curiosity.\n\nJane resumed her bathing, as if what Sarah did or said was not exactly\nthe thing she liked to repeat.\n\n'Sarah what?' asked Fanny, sharply. 'Don't speak in these half\nsentences, or I can't understand you.'\n\n'Well, miss, since you will have it--Sarah, you see, was in the best\nplace for seeing, being at the right-hand window; and she says, and said\nat the very time too, that she saw Miss Hale with her arms about\nmaster's neck, hugging him before all the people.'\n\n'I don't believe it,' said Fanny. 'I know she cares for my brother; any\none can see that; and I dare say, she'd give her eyes if he'd marry\nher,--which he never will, I can tell her. But I don't believe she'd be\nso bold and forward as to put her arms round his neck.'\n\n'Poor young lady! she's paid for it dearly if she did. It's my belief,\nthat the blow has given her such an ascendency of blood to the head as\nshe'll never get the better from. She looks like a corpse now.'\n\n'Oh, I wish mamma would come!' said Fanny, wringing her hands. 'I never\nwas in the room with a dead person before.'\n\n'Stay, miss! She's not dead: her eye-lids are quivering, and here's wet\ntears a-coming down her cheeks. Speak to her, Miss Fanny!'\n\n'Are you better now?' asked Fanny, in a quavering voice.\n\nNo answer; no sign of recognition; but a faint pink colour returned to\nher lips, although the rest of her face was ashen pale.\n\nMrs. Thornton came hurriedly in, with the nearest surgeon she could\nfind. 'How is she? Are you better, my dear?' as Margaret opened her\nfilmy eyes, and gazed dreamily at her. 'Here is Mr. Lowe come to see\nyou.'\n\nMrs. Thornton spoke loudly and distinctly, as to a deaf person. Margaret\ntried to rise, and drew her ruffled, luxuriant hair instinctly over the\ncut. 'I am better now,' said she, in a very low, faint voice. I was a\nlittle sick.' She let him take her hand and feel her pulse. The bright\ncolour came for a moment into her face, when he asked to examine the\nwound in her forehead; and she glanced up at Jane, as if shrinking from\nher inspection more than from the doctor's.\n\n'It is not much, I think. I am better now. I must go home.'\n\n'Not until I have applied some strips of plaster; and you have rested a\nlittle.'\n\nShe sat down hastily, without another word, and allowed it to be bound\nup.\n\n'Now, if you please,' said she, 'I must go. Mamma will not see it, I\nthink. It is under the hair, is it not?'\n\n'Quite; no one could tell.'\n\n'But you must not go,' said Mrs. Thornton, impatiently. 'You are not fit\nto go.\n\n'I must,' said Margaret, decidedly. 'Think of mamma. If they should\nhear---- Besides, I must go,' said she, vehemently. 'I cannot stay here.\nMay I ask for a cab?'\n\n'You are quite flushed and feverish,' observed Mr. Lowe.\n\n'It is only with being here, when I do so want to go. The air--getting\naway, would do me more good than anything,' pleaded she.\n\n'I really believe it is as she says,' Mr. Lowe replied. 'If her mother\nis so ill as you told me on the way here, it may be very serious if she\nhears of this riot, and does not see her daughter back at the time she\nexpects. The injury is not deep. I will fetch a cab, if your servants\nare still afraid to go out.'\n\n'Oh, thank you!' said Margaret. 'It will do me more good than anything.\nIt is the air of this room that makes me feel so miserable.'\n\nShe leant back on the sofa, and closed her eyes. Fanny beckoned her\nmother out of the room, and told her something that made her equally\nanxious with Margaret for the departure of the latter. Not that she\nfully believed Fanny's statement; but she credited enough to make her\nmanner to Margaret appear very much constrained, at wishing her\ngood-bye.\n\nMr. Lowe returned in the cab.\n\n'If you will allow me, I will see you home, Miss Hale. The streets are\nnot very quiet yet.'\n\nMargaret's thoughts were quite alive enough to the present to make her\ndesirous of getting rid of both Mr. Lowe and the cab before she reached\nCrampton Crescent, for fear of alarming her father and mother. Beyond\nthat one aim she would not look. That ugly dream of insolent words\nspoken about herself, could never be forgotten--but could be put aside\ntill she was stronger--for, oh! she was very weak; and her mind sought\nfor some present fact to steady itself upon, and keep it from utterly\nlosing consciousness in another hideous, sickly swoon.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII\n\nMISTAKES\n\n    'Which when his mother saw, she in her mind\n     Was troubled sore, ne wist well what to ween.'\n             SPENSER.\n\n\nMargaret had not been gone five minutes when Mr. Thornton came in, his\nface all a-glow.\n\n'I could not come sooner: the superintendent would---- Where is she?' He\nlooked round the dining-room, and then almost fiercely at his mother,\nwho was quietly re-arranging the disturbed furniture, and did not\ninstantly reply. 'Where is Miss Hale?' asked he again.\n\n'Gone home,' said she, rather shortly.\n\n'Gone home!'\n\n'Yes. She was a great deal better. Indeed, I don't believe it was so\nvery much of a hurt; only some people faint at the least thing.'\n\n'I am sorry she is gone home,' said he, walking uneasily about. 'She\ncould not have been fit for it.'\n\n'She said she was; and Mr. Lowe said she was. I went for him myself.'\n\n'Thank you, mother.' He stopped, and partly held out his hand to give\nher a grateful shake. But she did not notice the movement.\n\n'What have you done with your Irish people?'\n\n'Sent to the Dragon for a good meal for them, poor wretches. And then,\nluckily, I caught Father Grady, and I've asked him in to speak to them,\nand dissuade them from going off in a body. How did Miss Hale go home?\nI'm sure she could not walk.'\n\n'She had a cab. Everything was done properly, even to the paying. Let us\ntalk of something else. She has caused disturbance enough.'\n\n'I don't know where I should have been but for her.'\n\n'Are you become so helpless as to have to be defended by a girl?' asked\nMrs. Thornton, scornfully.\n\nHe reddened. 'Not many girls would have taken the blows on herself which\nwere meant for me;--meant with right down good-will, too.'\n\n'A girl in love will do a good deal,' replied Mrs. Thornton, shortly.\n\n'Mother!' He made a step forwards; stood still; heaved with passion.\n\nShe was a little startled at the evident force he used to keep himself\ncalm. She was not sure of the nature of the emotions she had provoked.\nIt was only their violence that was clear. Was it anger? His eyes\nglowed, his figure was dilated, his breath came thick and fast. It was a\nmixture of joy, of anger, of pride, of glad surprise, of panting doubt;\nbut she could not read it. Still it made her uneasy,--as the presence of\nall strong feeling, of which the cause is not fully understood or\nsympathised in, always has this effect. She went to the side-board,\nopened a drawer, and took out a duster, which she kept there for any\noccasional purpose. She had seen a drop of eau de Cologne on the\npolished arm of the sofa, and instinctively sought to wipe it off. But\nshe kept her back turned to her son much longer than was necessary; and\nwhen she spoke, her voice seemed unusual and constrained.\n\n'You have taken some steps about the rioters, I suppose? You don't\napprehend any more violence, do you? Where were the police? Never at\nhand when they're wanted!'\n\n'On the contrary, I saw three or four of them, when the gates gave way,\nstruggling and beating about in fine fashion; and more came running up\njust when the yard was clearing. I might have given some of the fellows\nin charge then, if I had had my wits about me. But there will be no\ndifficulty, plenty of people can identify them.'\n\n'But won't they come back to-night?'\n\n'I'm going to see about a sufficient guard for the premises. I have\nappointed to meet Captain Hanbury in half an hour at the station.'\n\n'You must have some tea first.'\n\n'Tea! Yes, I suppose I must. It's half-past six, and I may be out for\nsome time. Don't sit up for me, mother.'\n\n'You expect me to go to bed before I have seen you safe, do you?'\n\n'Well, perhaps not.' He hesitated for a moment. 'But if I've time, I\nshall go round by Crampton, after I've arranged with the police and seen\nHamper and Clarkson.' Their eyes met; they looked at each other intently\nfor a minute. Then she asked:\n\n'Why are you going round by Crampton?'\n\n'To ask after Miss Hale.'\n\n'I will send. Williams must take the water-bed she came to ask for. He\nshall inquire how she is.'\n\n'I must go myself.'\n\n'Not merely to ask how Miss Hale is?'\n\n'No, not merely for that. I want to thank her for the way in which she\nstood between me and the mob.'\n\n'What made you go down at all? It was putting your head into the lion's\nmouth!' He glanced sharply at her; saw that she did not know what had\npassed between him and Margaret in the drawing-room; and replied by\nanother question:\n\n'Shall you be afraid to be left without me, until I can get some of the\npolice; or had we better send Williams for them now, and they could be\nhere by the time we have done tea? There's no time to be lost. I must be\noff in a quarter of an hour.'\n\nMrs. Thornton left the room. Her servants wondered at her directions,\nusually so sharply-cut and decided, now confused and uncertain. Mr.\nThornton remained in the dining-room, trying to think of the business he\nhad to do at the police-office, and in reality thinking of Margaret.\nEverything seemed dim and vague beyond--behind--besides the touch of her\narms round his neck--the soft clinging which made the dark colour come\nand go in his cheek as he thought of it.\n\nThe tea would have been very silent, but for Fanny's perpetual\ndescription of her own feelings; how she had been alarmed--and then\nthought they were gone--and then felt sick and faint and trembling in\nevery limb.\n\n'There, that's enough,' said her brother, rising from the table. 'The\nreality was enough for me.' He was going to leave the room, when his\nmother stopped him with her hand upon his arm.\n\n'You will come back here before you go to the Hales', said she, in a\nlow, anxious voice.\n\n'I know what I know,' said Fanny to herself.\n\n'Why? Will it be too late to disturb them?'\n\n'John, come back to me for this one evening. It will be late for Mrs.\nHale. But that is not it. To-morrow, you will---- Come back to-night,\nJohn!' She had seldom pleaded with her son at all--she was too proud for\nthat: but she had never pleaded in vain.\n\n'I will return straight here after I have done my business. You will be\nsure to inquire after them?--after her?'\n\nMrs. Thornton was by no means a talkative companion to Fanny, nor yet a\ngood listener while her son was absent. But on his return, her eyes and\nears were keen to see and to listen to all the details which he could\ngive, as to the steps he had taken to secure himself, and those whom he\nchose to employ, from any repetition of the day's outrages. He clearly\nsaw his object. Punishment and suffering, were the natural consequences\nto those who had taken part in the riot. All that was necessary, in\norder that property should be protected, and that the will of the\nproprietor might cut to his end, clean and sharp as a sword.\n\n'Mother! You know what I have got to say to Miss Hale, to-morrow?' The\nquestion came upon her suddenly, during a pause in which she, at least,\nhad forgotten Margaret.\n\nShe looked up at him.\n\n'Yes! I do. You can hardly do otherwise.'\n\n'Do otherwise! I don't understand you.'\n\n'I mean that, after allowing her feelings so to overcome her, I consider\nyou bound in honour--'\n\n'Bound in honour,' said he, scornfully. 'I'm afraid honour has nothing\nto do with it. \"Her feelings overcome her!\" What feelings do you mean?'\n\n'Nay, John, there is no need to be angry. Did she not rush down, and\ncling to you to save you from danger?'\n\n'She did!' said he. 'But, mother,' continued he, stopping short in his\nwalk right in front of her, 'I dare not hope. I never was fainthearted\nbefore; but I cannot believe such a creature cares for me.'\n\n'Don't be foolish, John. Such a creature! Why, she might be a duke's\ndaughter, to hear you speak. And what proof more would you have, I\nwonder, of her caring for you? I can believe she has had a struggle with\nher aristocratic way of viewing things; but I like her the better for\nseeing clearly at last. It is a good deal for me to say,' said Mrs.\nThornton, smiling slowly, while the tears stood in her eyes; 'for after\nto-night, I stand second. It was to have you to myself, all to myself, a\nfew hours longer, that I begged you not to go till to-morrow!'\n\n'Dearest mother!' (Still love is selfish, and in an instant he reverted\nto his own hopes and fears in a way that drew the cold creeping shadow\nover Mrs. Thornton's heart.) 'But I know she does not care for me. I\nshall put myself at her feet--I must. If it were but one chance in a\nthousand--or a million--I should do it.'\n\n'Don't fear!' said his mother, crushing down her own personal\nmortification at the little notice he had taken of the rare ebullition\nof her maternal feelings--of the pang of jealousy that betrayed the\nintensity of her disregarded love. 'Don't be afraid,' she said, coldly.\n'As far as love may go she may be worthy of you. It must have taken a\ngood deal to overcome her pride. Don't be afraid, John,' said she,\nkissing him, as she wished him good-night. And she went slowly and\nmajestically out of the room. But when she got into her own, she locked\nthe door, and sate down to cry unwonted tears.\n\nMargaret entered the room (where her father and mother still sat,\nholding low conversation together), looking very pale and white. She\ncame close up to them before she could trust herself to speak.\n\n'Mrs. Thornton will send the water-bed, mamma.'\n\n'Dear, how tired you look! Is it very hot, Margaret?'\n\n'Very hot, and the streets are rather rough with the strike.'\n\nMargaret's colour came back vivid and bright as ever; but it faded away\ninstantly.\n\n'Here has been a message from Bessy Higgins, asking you to go to her,'\nsaid Mrs. Hale. 'But I'm sure you look too tired.'\n\n'Yes!' said Margaret. 'I am tired, I cannot go.'\n\nShe was very silent and trembling while she made tea. She was thankful\nto see her father so much occupied with her mother as not to notice her\nlooks. Even after her mother went to bed, he was not content to be\nabsent from her, but undertook to read her to sleep. Margaret was alone.\n\n'Now I will think of it--now I will remember it all. I could not\nbefore--I dared not.' She sat still in her chair, her hands clasped on\nher knees, her lips compressed, her eyes fixed as one who sees a vision.\nShe drew a deep breath.\n\n'I, who hate scenes--I, who have despised people for showing\nemotion--who have thought them wanting in self-control--I went down and\nmust needs throw myself into the melee, like a romantic fool! Did I do\nany good? They would have gone away without me I dare say.' But this was\nover-leaping the rational conclusion,--as in an instant her well-poised\njudgment felt. 'No, perhaps they would not. I did some good. But what\npossessed me to defend that man as if he were a helpless child! Ah!'\nsaid she, clenching her hands together, 'it is no wonder those people\nthought I was in love with him, after disgracing myself in that way. I\nin love--and with him too!' Her pale cheeks suddenly became one flame of\nfire; and she covered her face with her hands. When she took them away,\nher palms were wet with scalding tears.\n\n'Oh how low I am fallen that they should say that of me! I could not\nhave been so brave for any one else, just because he was so utterly\nindifferent to me--if, indeed, I do not positively dislike him. It made\nme the more anxious that there should be fair play on each side; and I\ncould see what fair play was. It was not fair,' said she, vehemently,\n'that he should stand there--sheltered, awaiting the soldiers, who might\ncatch those poor maddened creatures as in a trap--without an effort on\nhis part, to bring them to reason. And it was worse than unfair for them\nto set on him as they threatened. I would do it again, let who will say\nwhat they like of me. If I saved one blow, one cruel, angry action that\nmight otherwise have been committed, I did a woman's work. Let them\ninsult my maiden pride as they will--I walk pure before God!'\n\nShe looked up, and a noble peace seemed to descend and calm her face,\ntill it was 'stiller than chiselled marble.'\n\nDixon came in:\n\n'If you please, Miss Margaret, here's the water-bed from Mrs.\nThornton's. It's too late for to-night, I'm afraid, for missus is nearly\nasleep: but it will do nicely for to-morrow.'\n\n'Very,' said Margaret. 'You must send our best thanks.'\n\nDixon left the room for a moment.\n\n'If you please, Miss Margaret, he says he's to ask particular how you\nare. I think he must mean missus; but he says his last words were, to\nask how Miss Hale was.'\n\n'Me!' said Margaret, drawing herself up. 'I am quite well. Tell him I am\nperfectly well.' But her complexion was as deadly white as her\nhandkerchief; and her head ached intensely.\n\nMr. Hale now came in. He had left his sleeping wife; and wanted, as\nMargaret saw, to be amused and interested by something that she was to\ntell him. With sweet patience did she bear her pain, without a word of\ncomplaint; and rummaged up numberless small subjects for\nconversation--all except the riot, and that she never named once. It\nturned her sick to think of it.\n\n'Good-night, Margaret. I have every chance of a good night myself, and\nyou are looking very pale with your watching. I shall call Dixon if your\nmother needs anything. Do you go to bed and sleep like a top; for I'm\nsure you need it, poor child!'\n\n'Good-night, papa.'\n\nShe let her colour go--the forced smile fade away--the eyes grow dull\nwith heavy pain. She released her strong will from its laborious task.\nTill morning she might feel ill and weary.\n\nShe lay down and never stirred. To move hand or foot, or even so much as\none finger, would have been an exertion beyond the powers of either\nvolition or motion. She was so tired, so stunned, that she thought she\nnever slept at all; her feverish thoughts passed and repassed the\nboundary between sleeping and waking, and kept their own miserable\nidentity. She could not be alone, prostrate, powerless as she was,--a\ncloud of faces looked up at her, giving her no idea of fierce vivid\nanger, or of personal danger, but a deep sense of shame that she should\nthus be the object of universal regard--a sense of shame so acute that\nit seemed as if she would fain have burrowed into the earth to hide\nherself, and yet she could not escape out of that unwinking glare of\nmany eyes.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIV\n\nMISTAKES CLEARED UP\n\n    'Your beauty was the first that won the place,\n     And scal'd the walls of my undaunted heart,\n     Which, captive now, pines in a caitive case,\n     Unkindly met with rigour for desert;--\n     Yet not the less your servant shall abide,\n     In spite of rude repulse or silent pride.'\n             WILLIAM FOWLER.\n\n\nThe next morning, Margaret dragged herself up, thankful that the night\nwas over,--unrefreshed, yet rested. All had gone well through the house;\nher mother had only wakened once. A little breeze was stirring in the\nhot air, and though there were no trees to show the playful tossing\nmovement caused by the wind among the leaves, Margaret knew how,\nsomewhere or another, by way-side, in copses, or in thick green woods,\nthere was a pleasant, murmuring, dancing sound,--a rushing and falling\nnoise, the very thought of which was an echo of distant gladness in her\nheart.\n\nShe sat at her work in Mrs. Hale's room. As soon as that forenoon\nslumber was over, she would help her mother to dress after dinner, she\nwould go and see Bessy Higgins. She would banish all recollection of the\nThornton family,--no need to think of them till they absolutely stood\nbefore her in flesh and blood. But, of course, the effort not to think\nof them brought them only the more strongly before her; and from time to\ntime, the hot flush came over her pale face sweeping it into colour, as\na sunbeam from between watery clouds comes swiftly moving over the sea.\n\nDixon opened the door very softly, and stole on tiptoe up to Margaret,\nsitting by the shaded window.\n\n'Mr. Thornton, Miss Margaret. He is in the drawing-room.'\n\nMargaret dropped her sewing.\n\n'Did he ask for me? Isn't papa come in?'\n\n'He asked for you, miss; and master is out.'\n\n'Very well, I will come,' said Margaret, quietly. But she lingered\nstrangely. Mr. Thornton stood by one of the windows, with his back to\nthe door, apparently absorbed in watching something in the street. But,\nin truth, he was afraid of himself. His heart beat thick at the thought\nof her coming. He could not forget the touch of her arms around his\nneck, impatiently felt as it had been at the time; but now the\nrecollection of her clinging defence of him, seemed to thrill him\nthrough and through,--to melt away every resolution, all power of\nself-control, as if it were wax before a fire. He dreaded lest he should\ngo forwards to meet her, with his arms held out in mute entreaty that\nshe would come and nestle there, as she had done, all unheeded, the day\nbefore, but never unheeded again. His heart throbbed loud and quick.\nStrong man as he was, he trembled at the anticipation of what he had to\nsay, and how it might be received. She might droop, and flush, and\nflutter to his arms, as to her natural home and resting-place. One\nmoment, he glowed with impatience at the thought that she might do this,\nthe next, he feared a passionate rejection, the very idea of which\nwithered up his future with so deadly a blight that he refused to think\nof it. He was startled by the sense of the presence of some one else in\nthe room. He turned round. She had come in so gently, that he had never\nheard her; the street noises had been more distinct to his inattentive\near than her slow movements, in her soft muslin gown.\n\nShe stood by the table, not offering to sit down. Her eyelids were\ndropped half over her eyes; her teeth were shut, not compressed; her\nlips were just parted over them, allowing the white line to be seen\nbetween their curve. Her slow deep breathings dilated her thin and\nbeautiful nostrils; it was the only motion visible on her countenance.\nThe fine-grained skin, the oval cheek, the rich outline of her mouth,\nits corners deep set in dimples,--were all wan and pale to-day; the loss\nof their usual natural healthy colour being made more evident by the\nheavy shadow of the dark hair, brought down upon the temples, to hide\nall sign of the blow she had received. Her head, for all its drooping\neyes, was thrown a little back, in the old proud attitude. Her long arms\nhung motion-less by her sides. Altogether she looked like some prisoner,\nfalsely accused of a crime that she loathed and despised, and from which\nshe was too indignant to justify herself.\n\nMr. Thornton made a hasty step or two forwards; recovered himself, and\nwent with quiet firmness to the door (which she had left open), and shut\nit. Then he came back, and stood opposite to her for a moment, receiving\nthe general impression of her beautiful presence, before he dared to\ndisturb it, perhaps to repel it, by what he had to say.\n\n'Miss Hale, I was very ungrateful yesterday--'\n\n'You had nothing to be grateful for,' said she, raising her eyes, and\nlooking full and straight at him. 'You mean, I suppose, that you believe\nyou ought to thank me for what I did.' In spite of herself--in defiance\nof her anger--the thick blushes came all over her face, and burnt into\nher very eyes; which fell not nevertheless from their grave and steady\nlook. 'It was only a natural instinct; any woman would have done just\nthe same. We all feel the sanctity of our sex as a high privilege when\nwe see danger. I ought rather,' said she, hastily, 'to apologise to you,\nfor having said thoughtless words which sent you down into the danger.'\n\n'It was not your words; it was the truth they conveyed, pungently as it\nwas expressed. But you shall not drive me off upon that, and so escape\nthe expression of my deep gratitude, my--' he was on the verge now; he\nwould not speak in the haste of his hot passion; he would weigh each\nword. He would; and his will was triumphant. He stopped in mid career.\n\n'I do not try to escape from anything,' said she. 'I simply say, that\nyou owe me no gratitude; and I may add, that any expression of it will\nbe painful to me, because I do not feel that I deserve it. Still, if it\nwill relieve you from even a fancied obligation, speak on.'\n\n'I do not want to be relieved from any obligation,' said he, goaded by\nher calm manner. 'Fancied, or not fancied--I question not myself to know\nwhich--I choose to believe that I owe my very life to you--ay--smile,\nand think it an exaggeration if you will. I believe it, because it adds\na value to that life to think--oh, Miss Hale!' continued he, lowering\nhis voice to such a tender intensity of passion that she shivered and\ntrembled before him, 'to think circumstance so wrought, that whenever I\nexult in existence henceforward, I may say to myself, \"All this gladness\nin life, all honest pride in doing my work in the world, all this keen\nsense of being, I owe to her!\" And it doubles the gladness, it makes the\npride glow, it sharpens the sense of existence till I hardly know if it\nis pain or pleasure, to think that I owe it to one--nay, you must, you\nshall hear'--said he, stepping forwards with stern determination--'to\none whom I love, as I do not believe man ever loved woman before.' He\nheld her hand tight in his. He panted as he listened for what should\ncome. He threw the hand away with indignation, as he heard her icy tone;\nfor icy it was, though the words came faltering out, as if she knew not\nwhere to find them.\n\n'Your way of speaking shocks me. It is blasphemous. I cannot help it, if\nthat is my first feeling. It might not be so, I dare say, if I\nunderstood the kind of feeling you describe. I do not want to vex you;\nand besides, we must speak gently, for mamma is asleep; but your whole\nmanner offends me--'\n\n'How!' exclaimed he. 'Offends you! I am indeed most unfortunate.'\n\n'Yes!' said she, with recovered dignity. 'I do feel offended; and, I\nthink, justly. You seem to fancy that my conduct of yesterday'--again\nthe deep carnation blush, but this time with eyes kindling with\nindignation rather than shame--'was a personal act between you and me;\nand that you may come and thank me for it, instead of perceiving, as a\ngentleman would--yes! a gentleman,' she repeated, in allusion to their\nformer conversation about that word, 'that any woman, worthy of the name\nof woman, would come forward to shield, with her reverenced\nhelplessness, a man in danger from the violence of numbers.'\n\n'And the gentleman thus rescued is forbidden the relief of thanks!' he\nbroke in contemptuously. 'I am a man. I claim the right of expressing my\nfeelings.'\n\n'And I yielded to the right; simply saying that you gave me pain by\ninsisting upon it,' she replied, proudly. 'But you seem to have\nimagined, that I was not merely guided by womanly instinct, but'--and\nhere the passionate tears (kept down for long--struggled with\nvehemently) came up into her eyes, and choked her voice--'but that I was\nprompted by some particular feeling for you--you! Why, there was not a\nman--not a poor desperate man in all that crowd--for whom I had not more\nsympathy--for whom I should not have done what little I could more\nheartily.'\n\n'You may speak on, Miss Hale. I am aware of all these misplaced\nsympathies of yours. I now believe that it was only your innate sense of\noppression--(yes; I, though a master, may be oppressed)--that made you\nact so nobly as you did. I know you despise me; allow me to say, it is\nbecause you do not understand me.'\n\n'I do not care to understand,' she replied, taking hold of the table to\nsteady herself; for she thought him cruel--as, indeed, he was--and she\nwas weak with her indignation.\n\n'No, I see you do not. You are unfair and unjust.'\n\nMargaret compressed her lips. She would not speak in answer to such\naccusations. But, for all that--for all his savage words, he could have\nthrown himself at her feet, and kissed the hem of her garment. She did\nnot speak; she did not move. The tears of wounded pride fell hot and\nfast. He waited awhile, longing for her to say something, even a taunt,\nto which he might reply. But she was silent. He took up his hat.\n\n'One word more. You look as if you thought it tainted you to be loved by\nme. You cannot avoid it. Nay, I, if I would, cannot cleanse you from it.\nBut I would not, if I could. I have never loved any woman before: my\nlife has been too busy, my thoughts too much absorbed with other things.\nNow I love, and will love. But do not be afraid of too much expression\non my part.'\n\n'I am not afraid,' she replied, lifting herself straight up. 'No one yet\nhas ever dared to be impertinent to me, and no one ever shall. But, Mr.\nThornton, you have been very kind to my father,' said she, changing her\nwhole tone and bearing to a most womanly softness. 'Don't let us go on\nmaking each other angry. Pray don't!' He took no notice of her words: he\noccupied himself in smoothing the nap of his hat with his coat-sleeve,\nfor half a minute or so; and then, rejecting her offered hand, and\nmaking as if he did not see her grave look of regret, he turned abruptly\naway, and left the room. Margaret caught one glance at his face before\nhe went.\n\nWhen he was gone, she thought she had seen the gleam of unshed tears in\nhis eyes; and that turned her proud dislike into something different and\nkinder, if nearly as painful--self-reproach for having caused such\nmortification to any one.\n\n'But how could I help it?' asked she of herself. 'I never liked him. I\nwas civil; but I took no trouble to conceal my indifference. Indeed, I\nnever thought about myself or him, so my manners must have shown the\ntruth. All that yesterday, he might mistake. But that is his fault, not\nmine. I would do it again, if need were, though it does lead me into all\nthis shame and trouble.'\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXV\n\nFREDERICK\n\n    'Revenge may have her own;\n     Roused discipline aloud proclaims their cause,\n     And injured navies urge their broken laws.'\n             BYRON.\n\n\nMargaret began to wonder whether all offers were as unexpected\nbeforehand,--as distressing at the time of their occurrence, as the two\nshe had had. An involuntary comparison between Mr. Lennox and Mr.\nThornton arose in her mind. She had been sorry that an expression of any\nother feeling than friendship had been lured out by circumstances from\nHenry Lennox. That regret was the predominant feeling, on the first\noccasion of her receiving a proposal. She had not felt so stunned--so\nimpressed as she did now, when echoes of Mr. Thornton's voice yet\nlingered about the room. In Lennox's case, he seemed for a moment to\nhave slid over the boundary between friendship and love; and the instant\nafterwards, to regret it nearly as much as she did, although for\ndifferent reasons. In Mr. Thornton's case, as far as Margaret knew,\nthere was no intervening stage of friendship. Their intercourse had been\none continued series of opposition. Their opinions clashed; and indeed,\nshe had never perceived that he had cared for her opinions, as belonging\nto her, the individual. As far as they defied his rock-like power of\ncharacter, his passion-strength, he seemed to throw them off from him\nwith contempt, until she felt the weariness of the exertion of making\nuseless protests; and now, he had come, in this strange wild passionate\nway, to make known his love. For, although at first it had struck her,\nthat his offer was forced and goaded out of him by sharp compassion for\nthe exposure she had made of herself,--which he, like others, might\nmisunderstand--yet, even before he left the room,--and certainly, not\nfive minutes after, the clear conviction dawned upon her, shined bright\nupon her, that he did love her; that he had loved her; that he would\nlove her. And she shrank and shuddered as under the fascination of some\ngreat power, repugnant to her whole previous life. She crept away, and\nhid from his idea. But it was of no use. To parody a line out of\nFairfax's Tasso--\n\n    'His strong idea wandered through her thought.'\n\nShe disliked him the more for having mastered her inner will. How dared\nhe say that he would love her still, even though she shook him off with\ncontempt? She wished she had spoken more--stronger. Sharp, decisive\nspeeches came thronging into her mind, now that it was too late to utter\nthem. The deep impression made by the interview, was like that of a\nhorror in a dream; that will not leave the room although we waken up,\nand rub our eyes, and force a stiff rigid smile upon our lips. It is\nthere--there, cowering and gibbering, with fixed ghastly eyes, in some\ncorner of the chamber, listening to hear whether we dare to breathe of\nits presence to any one. And we dare not; poor cowards that we are!\n\nAnd so she shuddered away from the threat of his enduring love. What did\nhe mean? Had she not the power to daunt him? She would see. It was more\ndaring than became a man to threaten her so. Did he ground it upon the\nmiserable yesterday? If need were, she would do the same to-morrow,--by\na crippled beggar, willingly and gladly,--but by him, she would do it,\njust as bravely, in spite of his deductions, and the cold slime of\nwomen's impertinence. She did it because it was right, and simple, and\ntrue to save where she could save; even to try to save. 'Fais ce que\ndois, advienne que pourra.'\n\nHitherto she had not stirred from where he had left her; no outward\ncircumstances had roused her out of the trance of thought in which she\nhad been plunged by his last words, and by the look of his deep intent\npassionate eyes, as their flames had made her own fall before them. She\nwent to the window, and threw it open, to dispel the oppression which\nhung around her. Then she went and opened the door, with a sort of\nimpetuous wish to shake off the recollection of the past hour in the\ncompany of others, or in active exertion. But all was profoundly hushed\nin the noonday stillness of a house, where an invalid catches the\nunrefreshing sleep that is denied to the night-hours. Margaret would not\nbe alone. What should she do? 'Go and see Bessy Higgins, of course,'\nthought she, as the recollection of the message sent the night before\nflashed into her mind.\n\nAnd away she went.\n\nWhen she got there, she found Bessy lying on the settle, moved close to\nthe fire, though the day was sultry and oppressive. She was laid down\nquite flat, as if resting languidly after some paroxysm of pain.\nMargaret felt sure she ought to have the greater freedom of breathing\nwhich a more sitting posture would procure; and, without a word, she\nraised her up, and so arranged the pillows, that Bessy was more at ease,\nthough very languid.\n\n'I thought I should na' ha' seen yo' again,' said she, at last, looking\nwistfully in Margaret's face.\n\n'I'm afraid you're much worse. But I could not have come yesterday, my\nmother was so ill--for many reasons,' said Margaret, colouring.\n\n'Yo'd m'appen think I went beyond my place in sending Mary for yo'. But\nthe wranglin' and the loud voices had just torn me to pieces, and I\nthought when father left, oh! if I could just hear her voice, reading me\nsome words o' peace and promise, I could die away into the silence and\nrest o' God, just as a babby is hushed up to sleep by its mother's\nlullaby.'\n\n'Shall I read you a chapter, now?'\n\n'Ay, do! M'appen I shan't listen to th' sense, at first; it will seem\nfar away--but when yo' come to words I like--to th' comforting\ntexts--it'll seem close in my ear, and going through me as it were.'\n\nMargaret began. Bessy tossed to and fro. If, by an effort, she attended\nfor one moment, it seemed as though she were convulsed into double\nrestlessness the next. At last, she burst out 'Don't go on reading. It's\nno use. I'm blaspheming all the time in my mind, wi' thinking angrily on\nwhat canna be helped.--Yo'd hear of th' riot, m'appen, yesterday at\nMarlborough Mills? Thornton's factory, yo' know.'\n\n'Your father was not there, was he?' said Margaret, colouring deep.\n\n'Not he. He'd ha' given his right hand if it had never come to pass.\nIt's that that's fretting me. He's fairly knocked down in his mind by\nit. It's no use telling him, fools will always break out o' bounds. Yo'\nnever saw a man so down-hearted as he is.'\n\n'But why?' asked Margaret. 'I don't understand.'\n\n'Why yo' see, he's a committee-man on this special strike'. Th' Union\nappointed him because, though I say it as shouldn't say it, he's\nreckoned a deep chap, and true to th' back-bone. And he and t' other\ncommittee-men laid their plans. They were to hou'd together through\nthick and thin; what the major part thought, t'others were to think,\nwhether they would or no. And above all there was to be no going again\nthe law of the land. Folk would go with them if they saw them striving\nand starving wi' dumb patience; but if there was once any noise o'\nfighting and struggling--even wi' knobsticks--all was up, as they knew\nby th' experience of many, and many a time before. They would try and\nget speech o' th' knobsticks, and coax 'em, and reason wi' 'em, and\nm'appen warn 'em off; but whatever came, the Committee charged all\nmembers o' th' Union to lie down and die, if need were, without striking\na blow; and then they reckoned they were sure o' carrying th' public\nwith them. And beside all that, Committee knew they were right in their\ndemand, and they didn't want to have right all mixed up wi' wrong, till\nfolk can't separate it, no more nor I can th' physic-powder from th'\njelly yo' gave me to mix it in; jelly is much the biggest, but powder\ntastes it all through. Well, I've told yo' at length about this'n, but\nI'm tired out. Yo' just think for yo'rsel, what it mun be for father to\nhave a' his work undone, and by such a fool as Boucher, who must needs\ngo right again the orders of Committee, and ruin th' strike, just as bad\nas if he meant to be a Judas. Eh! but father giv'd it him last night! He\nwent so far as to say, he'd go and tell police where they might find th'\nringleader o' th' riot; he'd give him up to th' mill-owners to do what\nthey would wi' him. He'd show the world that th' real leaders o' the\nstrike were not such as Boucher, but steady thoughtful men; good hands,\nand good citizens, who were friendly to law and judgment, and would\nuphold order; who only wanted their right wage, and wouldn't work, even\nthough they starved, till they got 'em; but who would ne'er injure\nproperty or life: For,' dropping her voice, 'they do say, that Boucher\nthrew a stone at Thornton's sister, that welly killed her.'\n\n'That's not true,' said Margaret. 'It was not Boucher that threw the\nstone'--she went first red, then white.\n\n'Yo'd be there then, were yo'?' asked Bessy languidly for indeed, she\nhad spoken with many pauses, as if speech was unusually difficult to\nher.\n\n'Yes. Never mind. Go on. Only it was not Boucher that threw the stone.\nBut what did he answer to your father?'\n\n'He did na' speak words. He were all in such a tremble wi' spent\npassion, I could na' bear to look at him. I heard his breath coming\nquick, and at one time I thought he were sobbing. But when father said\nhe'd give him up to police, he gave a great cry, and struck father on\nth' face wi' his closed fist, and be off like lightning. Father were\nstunned wi' the blow at first, for all Boucher were weak wi' passion and\nwi' clemming. He sat down a bit, and put his hand afore his eyes; and\nthen made for th' door. I dunno' where I got strength, but I threw\nmysel' off th' settle and clung to him. \"Father, father!\" said I.\n\"Thou'll never go peach on that poor clemmed man. I'll never leave go on\nthee, till thou sayst thou wunnot.\" \"Dunnot be a fool,\" says he, \"words\ncome readier than deeds to most men. I never thought o' telling th'\npolice on him; though by G--, he deserves it, and I should na' ha'\nminded if some one else had done the dirty work, and got him clapped up.\nBut now he has strucken me, I could do it less nor ever, for it would be\ngetting other men to take up my quarrel. But if ever he gets well o'er\nthis clemming, and is in good condition, he and I'll have an up and down\nfight, purring an' a', and I'll see what I can do for him.\" And so\nfather shook me off,--for indeed, I was low and faint enough, and his\nface was all clay white, where it weren't bloody, and turned me sick to\nlook at. And I know not if I slept or waked, or were in a dead swoon,\ntill Mary come in; and I telled her to fetch yo' to me. And now dunnot\ntalk to me, but just read out th' chapter. I'm easier in my mind for\nhaving spit it out; but I want some thoughts of the world that's far\naway to take the weary taste of it out o' my mouth. Read me--not a\nsermon chapter, but a story chapter; they've pictures in them, which I\nsee when my eyes are shut. Read about the New Heavens, and the New\nEarth; and m'appen I'll forget this.'\n\nMargaret read in her soft low voice. Though Bessy's eyes were shut, she\nwas listening for some time, for the moisture of tears gathered heavy on\nher eyelashes. At last she slept; with many starts, and muttered\npleadings. Margaret covered her up, and left her, for she had an uneasy\nconsciousness that she might be wanted at home, and yet, until now, it\nseemed cruel to leave the dying girl. Mrs. Hale was in the drawing-room\non her daughter's return. It was one of her better days, and she was\nfull of praises of the water-bed. It had been more like the beds at Sir\nJohn Beresford's than anything she had slept on since. She did not know\nhow it was, but people seemed to have lost the art of making the same\nkind of beds as they used to do in her youth. One would think it was\neasy enough; there was the same kind of feathers to be had, and yet\nsomehow, till this last night she did not know when she had had a good\nsound resting sleep. Mr. Hale suggested, that something of the merits of\nthe featherbeds of former days might be attributed to the activity of\nyouth, which gave a relish to rest; but this idea was not kindly\nreceived by his wife.\n\n'No, indeed, Mr. Hale, it was those beds at Sir John's. Now, Margaret,\nyou're young enough, and go about in the day; are the beds comfortable?\nI appeal to you. Do they give you a feeling of perfect repose when you\nlie down upon them; or rather, don't you toss about, and try in vain to\nfind an easy position, and waken in the morning as tired as when you\nwent to bed?'\n\nMargaret laughed. 'To tell the truth, mamma, I've never thought about my\nbed at all, what kind it is. I'm so sleepy at night, that if I only lie\ndown anywhere, I nap off directly. So I don't think I'm a competent\nwitness. But then, you know, I never had the opportunity of trying Sir\nJohn Beresford's beds. I never was at Oxenham.'\n\n'Were not you? Oh, no! to be sure. It was poor darling Fred I took with\nme, I remember. I only went to Oxenham once after I was married,--to\nyour Aunt Shaw's wedding; and poor little Fred was the baby then. And I\nknow Dixon did not like changing from lady's maid to nurse, and I was\nafraid that if I took her near her old home, and amongst her own people,\nshe might want to leave me. But poor baby was taken ill at Oxenham, with\nhis teething; and, what with my being a great deal with Anna just before\nher marriage, and not being very strong myself, Dixon had more of the\ncharge of him than she ever had before; and it made her so fond of him,\nand she was so proud when he would turn away from every one and cling to\nher, that I don't believe she ever thought of leaving me again; though\nit was very different from what she'd been accustomed to. Poor Fred!\nEverybody loved him. He was born with the gift of winning hearts. It\nmakes me think very badly of Captain Reid when I know that he disliked\nmy own dear boy. I think it a certain proof he had a bad heart. Ah! Your\npoor father, Margaret. He has left the room. He can't bear to hear Fred\nspoken of.'\n\n'I love to hear about him, mamma. Tell me all you like; you never can\ntell me too much. Tell me what he was like as a baby.'\n\n'Why, Margaret, you must not be hurt, but he was much prettier than you\nwere. I remember, when I first saw you in Dixon's arms, I said, \"Dear,\nwhat an ugly little thing!\" And she said, \"It's not every child that's\nlike Master Fred, bless him!\" Dear! how well I remember it. Then I could\nhave had Fred in my arms every minute of the day, and his cot was close\nby my bed; and now, now--Margaret--I don't know where my boy is, and\nsometimes I think I shall never see him again.'\n\nMargaret sat down by her mother's sofa on a little stool, and softly\ntook hold of her hand, caressing it and kissing it, as if to comfort.\nMrs. Hale cried without restraint. At last, she sat straight, stiff up\non the sofa, and turning round to her daughter, she said with tearful,\nalmost solemn earnestness, 'Margaret, if I can get better,--if God lets\nme have a chance of recovery, it must be through seeing my son Frederick\nonce more. It will waken up all the poor springs of health left in me.\n\nShe paused, and seemed to try and gather strength for something more yet\nto be said. Her voice was choked as she went on--was quavering as with\nthe contemplation of some strange, yet closely-present idea.\n\n'And, Margaret, if I am to die--if I am one of those appointed to die\nbefore many weeks are over--I must see my child first. I cannot think\nhow it must be managed; but I charge you, Margaret, as you yourself hope\nfor comfort in your last illness, bring him to me that I may bless him.\nOnly for five minutes, Margaret. There could be no danger in five\nminutes. Oh, Margaret, let me see him before I die!'\n\nMargaret did not think of anything that might be utterly unreasonable in\nthis speech: we do not look for reason or logic in the passionate\nentreaties of those who are sick unto death; we are stung with the\nrecollection of a thousand slighted opportunities of fulfilling the\nwishes of those who will soon pass away from among us: and do they ask\nus for the future happiness of our lives, we lay it at their feet, and\nwill it away from us. But this wish of Mrs. Hale's was so natural, so\njust, so right to both parties, that Margaret felt as if, on Frederick's\naccount as well as on her mother's, she ought to overlook all\nintermediate chances of danger, and pledge herself to do everything in\nher power for its realisation. The large, pleading, dilated eyes were\nfixed upon her wistfully, steady in their gaze, though the poor white\nlips quivered like those of a child. Margaret gently rose up and stood\nopposite to her frail mother; so that she might gather the secure\nfulfilment of her wish from the calm steadiness of her daughter's face.\n\n'Mamma, I will write to-night, and tell Frederick what you say. I am as\nsure that he will come directly to us, as I am sure of my life. Be easy,\nmamma, you shall see him as far as anything earthly can be promised.'\n\n'You will write to-night? Oh, Margaret! the post goes out at five--you\nwill write by it, won't you? I have so few hours left--I feel, dear, as\nif I should not recover, though sometimes your father over-persuades me\ninto hoping; you will write directly, won't you? Don't lose a single\npost; for just by that very post I may miss him.'\n\n'But, mamma, papa is out.'\n\n'Papa is out! and what then? Do you mean that he would deny me this last\nwish, Margaret? Why, I should not be ill--be dying--if he had not taken\nme away from Helstone, to this unhealthy, smoky, sunless place.'\n\n'Oh, mamma!' said Margaret.\n\n'Yes; it is so, indeed. He knows it himself; he has said so many a time.\nHe would do anything for me; you don't mean he would refuse me this last\nwish--prayer, if you will. And, indeed, Margaret, the longing to see\nFrederick stands between me and God. I cannot pray till I have this one\nthing; indeed, I cannot. Don't lose time, dear, dear Margaret. Write by\nthis very next post. Then he may be here--here in twenty-two days! For\nhe is sure to come. No cords or chains can keep him. In twenty-two days\nI shall see my boy.' She fell back, and for a short time she took no\nnotice of the fact that Margaret sat motionless, her hand shading her\neyes.\n\n'You are not writing!' said her mother at last 'Bring me some pens and\npaper; I will try and write myself.' She sat up, trembling all over with\nfeverish eagerness. Margaret took her hand down and looked at her mother\nsadly.\n\n'Only wait till papa comes in. Let us ask him how best to do it.'\n\n'You promised, Margaret, not a quarter of an hour ago;--you said he\nshould come.'\n\n'And so he shall, mamma; don't cry, my own dear mother. I'll write here,\nnow,--you shall see me write,--and it shall go by this very post; and if\npapa thinks fit, he can write again when he comes in,--it is only a\nday's delay. Oh, mamma, don't cry so pitifully,--it cuts me to the\nheart.'\n\nMrs. Hale could not stop her tears; they came hysterically; and, in\ntruth, she made no effort to control them, but rather called up all the\npictures of the happy past, and the probable future--painting the scene\nwhen she should lie a corpse, with the son she had longed to see in life\nweeping over her, and she unconscious of his presence--till she was\nmelted by self-pity into a state of sobbing and exhaustion that made\nMargaret's heart ache. But at last she was calm, and greedily watched\nher daughter, as she began her letter; wrote it with swift urgent\nentreaty; sealed it up hurriedly, for fear her mother should ask to see\nit: and then, to make security most sure, at Mrs. Hale's own bidding,\ntook it herself to the post-office. She was coming home when her father\novertook her.\n\n'And where have you been, my pretty maid?' asked he.\n\n'To the post-office,--with a letter; a letter to Frederick. Oh, papa,\nperhaps I have done wrong: but mamma was seized with such a passionate\nyearning to see him--she said it would make her well again,--and then\nshe said that she must see him before she died,--I cannot tell you how\nurgent she was! Did I do wrong?' Mr. Hale did not reply at first. Then\nhe said:\n\n'You should have waited till I came in, Margaret.'\n\n'I tried to persuade her--' and then she was silent.\n\n'I don't know,' said Mr. Hale, after a pause. 'She ought to see him if\nshe wishes it so much, for I believe it would do her much more good than\nall the doctor's medicine,--and, perhaps, set her up altogether; but the\ndanger to him, I'm afraid, is very great.'\n\n'All these years since the mutiny, papa?'\n\n'Yes; it is necessary, of course, for government to take very stringent\nmeasures for the repression of offences against authority, more\nparticularly in the navy, where a commanding officer needs to be\nsurrounded in his men's eyes with a vivid consciousness of all the power\nthere is at home to back him, and take up his cause, and avenge any\ninjuries offered to him, if need be. Ah! it's no matter to them how far\ntheir authorities have tyrannised,--galled hasty tempers to\nmadness,--or, if that can be any excuse afterwards, it is never allowed\nfor in the first instance; they spare no expense, they send out\nships,--they scour the seas to lay hold of the offenders,--the lapse of\nyears does not wash out the memory of the offence,--it is a fresh and\nvivid crime on the Admiralty books till it is blotted out by blood.'\n\n'Oh, papa, what have I done! And yet it seemed so right at the time. I'm\nsure Frederick himself, would run the risk.'\n\n'So he would; so he should! Nay, Margaret, I'm glad it is done, though I\ndurst not have done it myself. I'm thankful it is as it is; I should\nhave hesitated till, perhaps, it might have been too late to do any\ngood. Dear Margaret, you have done what is right about it; and the end\nis beyond our control.'\n\nIt was all very well; but her father's account of the relentless manner\nin which mutinies were punished made Margaret shiver and creep. If she\nhad decoyed her brother home to blot out the memory of his error by his\nblood! She saw her father's anxiety lay deeper than the source of his\nlatter cheering words. She took his arm and walked home pensively and\nwearily by his side.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVI\n\nMOTHER AND SON\n\n    'I have found that holy place of rest\n     Still changeless.'\n             MRS. HEMANS.\n\n\nWhen Mr. Thornton had left the house that morning he was almost blinded\nby his baffled passion. He was as dizzy as if Margaret, instead of\nlooking, and speaking, and moving like a tender graceful woman, had been\na sturdy fish-wife, and given him a sound blow with her fists. He had\npositive bodily pain,--a violent headache, and a throbbing intermittent\npulse. He could not bear the noise, the garish light, the continued\nrumble and movement of the street. He called himself a fool for\nsuffering so; and yet he could not, at the moment, recollect the cause\nof his suffering, and whether it was adequate to the consequences it had\nproduced. It would have been a relief to him, if he could have sat down\nand cried on a door-step by a little child, who was raging and storming,\nthrough his passionate tears, at some injury he had received. He said to\nhimself, that he hated Margaret, but a wild, sharp sensation of love\ncleft his dull, thunderous feeling like lightning, even as he shaped the\nwords expressive of hatred. His greatest comfort was in hugging his\ntorment; and in feeling, as he had indeed said to her, that though she\nmight despise him, contemn him, treat him with her proud sovereign\nindifference, he did not change one whit. She could not make him change.\nHe loved her, and would love her; and defy her, and this miserable\nbodily pain.\n\nHe stood still for a moment, to make this resolution firm and clear.\nThere was an omnibus passing--going into the country; the conductor\nthought he was wishing for a place, and stopped near the pavement. It\nwas too much trouble to apologise and explain; so he mounted upon it,\nand was borne away,--past long rows of houses--then past detached villas\nwith trim gardens, till they came to real country hedge-rows, and,\nby-and-by, to a small country town. Then everybody got down; and so did\nMr. Thornton, and because they walked away he did so too. He went into\nthe fields, walking briskly, because the sharp motion relieved his mind.\nHe could remember all about it now; the pitiful figure he must have cut;\nthe absurd way in which he had gone and done the very thing he had so\noften agreed with himself in thinking would be the most foolish thing in\nthe world; and had met with exactly the consequences which, in these\nwise moods, he had always fore-told were certain to follow, if he ever\ndid make such a fool of himself. Was he bewitched by those beautiful\neyes, that soft, half-open, sighing mouth which lay so close upon his\nshoulder only yesterday? He could not even shake off the recollection\nthat she had been there; that her arms had been round him, once--if\nnever again. He only caught glimpses of her; he did not understand her\naltogether. At one time she was so brave, and at another so timid; now\nso tender, and then so haughty and regal-proud. And then he thought over\nevery time he had ever seen her once again, by way of finally forgetting\nher. He saw her in every dress, in every mood, and did not know which\nbecame her best. Even this morning, how magnificent she had looked,--her\neyes flashing out upon him at the idea that, because she had shared his\ndanger yesterday, she had cared for him the least!\n\nIf Mr. Thornton was a fool in the morning, as he assured himself at\nleast twenty times he was, he did not grow much wiser in the afternoon.\nAll that he gained in return for his sixpenny omnibus ride, was a more\nvivid conviction that there never was, never could be, any one like\nMargaret; that she did not love him and never would; but that she--no!\nnor the whole world--should never hinder him from loving her. And so he\nreturned to the little market-place, and remounted the omnibus to return\nto Milton.\n\nIt was late in the afternoon when he was set down, near his warehouse.\nThe accustomed places brought back the accustomed habits and trains of\nthought. He knew how much he had to do--more than his usual work, owing\nto the commotion of the day before. He had to see his brother\nmagistrates; he had to complete the arrangements, only half made in the\nmorning, for the comfort and safety of his newly imported Irish hands;\nhe had to secure them from all chance of communication with the\ndiscontented work-people of Milton. Last of all, he had to go home and\nencounter his mother.\n\nMrs. Thornton had sat in the dining-room all day, every moment expecting\nthe news of her son's acceptance by Miss Hale. She had braced herself up\nmany and many a time, at some sudden noise in the house; had caught up\nthe half-dropped work, and begun to ply her needle diligently, though\nthrough dimmed spectacles, and with an unsteady hand! and many times had\nthe door opened, and some indifferent person entered on some\ninsignificant errand. Then her rigid face unstiffened from its gray\nfrost-bound expression, and the features dropped into the relaxed look\nof despondency, so unusual to their sternness. She wrenched herself away\nfrom the contemplation of all the dreary changes that would be brought\nabout to herself by her son's marriage; she forced her thoughts into the\naccustomed household grooves. The newly-married couple-to-be would need\nfresh household stocks of linen; and Mrs. Thornton had clothes-basket\nupon clothes-basket, full of table-cloths and napkins, brought in, and\nbegan to reckon up the store. There was some confusion between what was\nhers, and consequently marked G. H. T. (for George and Hannah Thornton),\nand what was her son's--bought with his money, marked with his initials.\nSome of those marked G. H. T. were Dutch damask of the old kind,\nexquisitely fine; none were like them now. Mrs. Thornton stood looking\nat them long,--they had been her pride when she was first married. Then\nshe knit her brows, and pinched and compressed her lips tight, and\ncarefully unpicked the G. H. She went so far as to search for the\nTurkey-red marking-thread to put in the new initials; but it was all\nused,--and she had no heart to send for any more just yet. So she looked\nfixedly at vacancy; a series of visions passing before her, in all of\nwhich her son was the principal, the sole object,--her son, her pride,\nher property. Still he did not come. Doubtless he was with Miss Hale.\nThe new love was displacing her already from her place as first in his\nheart. A terrible pain--a pang of vain jealousy--shot through her: she\nhardly knew whether it was more physical or mental; but it forced her to\nsit down. In a moment, she was up again as straight as ever,--a grim\nsmile upon her face for the first time that day, ready for the door\nopening, and the rejoicing triumphant one, who should never know the\nsore regret his mother felt at his marriage. In all this, there was\nlittle thought enough of the future daughter-in-law as an individual.\nShe was to be John's wife. To take Mrs. Thornton's place as mistress of\nthe house, was only one of the rich consequences which decked out the\nsupreme glory; all household plenty and comfort, all purple and fine\nlinen, honour, love, obedience, troops of friends, would all come as\nnaturally as jewels on a king's robe, and be as little thought of for\ntheir separate value. To be chosen by John, would separate a\nkitchen-wench from the rest of the world. And Miss Hale was not so bad.\nIf she had been a Milton lass, Mrs. Thornton would have positively liked\nher. She was pungent, and had taste, and spirit, and flavour in her.\nTrue, she was sadly prejudiced, and very ignorant; but that was to be\nexpected from her southern breeding. A strange sort of mortified\ncomparison of Fanny with her, went on in Mrs. Thornton's mind; and for\nonce she spoke harshly to her daughter; abused her roundly; and then, as\nif by way of penance, she took up Henry's Commentaries, and tried to fix\nher attention on it, instead of pursuing the employment she took pride\nand pleasure in, and continuing her inspection of the table-linen.\n\n_His_ step at last! She heard him, even while she thought she was\nfinishing a sentence; while her eye did pass over it, and her memory\ncould mechanically have repeated it word for word, she heard him come in\nat the hall-door. Her quickened sense could interpret every sound of\nmotion: now he was at the hat-stand--now at the very room-door. Why did\nhe pause? Let her know the worst.\n\nYet her head was down over the book; she did not look up. He came close\nto the table, and stood still there, waiting till she should have\nfinished the paragraph which apparently absorbed her. By an effort she\nlooked up. 'Well, John?'\n\nHe knew what that little speech meant. But he had steeled himself. He\nlonged to reply with a jest; the bitterness of his heart could have\nuttered one, but his mother deserved better of him. He came round behind\nher, so that she could not see his looks, and, bending back her gray,\nstony face, he kissed it, murmuring:\n\n'No one loves me,--no one cares for me, but you, mother.'\n\nHe turned away and stood leaning his head against the mantel-piece,\ntears forcing themselves into his manly eyes. She stood up,--she\ntottered. For the first time in her life, the strong woman tottered. She\nput her hands on his shoulders; she was a tall woman. She looked into\nhis face; she made him look at her.\n\n'Mother's love is given by God, John. It holds fast for ever and ever. A\ngirl's love is like a puff of smoke,--it changes with every wind. And\nshe would not have you, my own lad, would not she?' She set her teeth;\nshe showed them like a dog for the whole length of her mouth. He shook\nhis head.\n\n'I am not fit for her, mother; I knew I was not.'\n\nShe ground out words between her closed teeth. He could not hear what\nshe said; but the look in her eyes interpreted it to be a curse,--if not\nas coarsely worded, as fell in intent as ever was uttered. And yet her\nheart leapt up light, to know he was her own again.\n\n'Mother!' said he, hurriedly, 'I cannot hear a word against her. Spare\nme,--spare me! I am very weak in my sore heart;--I love her yet; I love\nher more than ever.'\n\n'And I hate her,' said Mrs. Thornton, in a low fierce voice. 'I tried\nnot to hate her, when she stood between you and me, because,--I said to\nmyself,--she will make him happy; and I would give my heart's blood to\ndo that. But now, I hate her for your misery's sake. Yes, John, it's no\nuse hiding up your aching heart from me. I am the mother that bore you,\nand your sorrow is my agony; and if you don't hate her, I do.'\n\n'Then, mother, you make me love her more. She is unjustly treated by\nyou, and I must make the balance even. But why do we talk of love or\nhatred? She does not care for me, and that is enough,--too much. Let us\nnever name the subject again. It is the only thing you can do for me in\nthe matter. Let us never name her.'\n\n'With all my heart. I only wish that she, and all belonging to her, were\nswept back to the place they came from.'\n\nHe stood still, gazing into the fire for a minute or two longer. Her dry\ndim eyes filled with unwonted tears as she looked at him; but she seemed\njust as grim and quiet as usual when he next spoke.\n\n'Warrants are out against three men for conspiracy, mother. The riot\nyesterday helped to knock up the strike.'\n\nAnd Margaret's name was no more mentioned between Mrs. Thornton and her\nson. They fell back into their usual mode of talk,--about facts, not\nopinions, far less feelings. Their voices and tones were calm and cold a\nstranger might have gone away and thought that he had never seen such\nfrigid indifference of demeanour between such near relations.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVII\n\nFRUIT-PIECE\n\n    'For never any thing can be amiss\n     When simpleness and duty tender it.'\n             MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM.\n\n\nMr. Thornton went straight and clear into all the interests of the\nfollowing day. There was a slight demand for finished goods; and as it\naffected his branch of the trade, he took advantage of it, and drove\nhard bargains. He was sharp to the hour at the meeting of his brother\nmagistrates,--giving them the best assistance of his strong sense, and\nhis power of seeing consequences at a glance, and so coming to a rapid\ndecision. Older men, men of long standing in the town, men of far\ngreater wealth--realised and turned into land, while his was all\nfloating capital, engaged in his trade--looked to him for prompt, ready\nwisdom. He was the one deputed to see and arrange with the police--to\nlead in all the requisite steps. And he cared for their unconscious\ndeference no more than for the soft west wind, that scarcely made the\nsmoke from the great tall chimneys swerve in its straight upward course.\nHe was not aware of the silent respect paid to him. If it had been\notherwise, he would have felt it as an obstacle in his progress to the\nobject he had in view. As it was, he looked to the speedy accomplishment\nof that alone. It was his mother's greedy ears that sucked in, from the\nwomen-kind of these magistrates and wealthy men, how highly Mr. This or\nMr. That thought of Mr. Thornton; that if he had not been there, things\nwould have gone on very differently,--very badly, indeed. He swept off\nhis business right and left that day. It seemed as though his deep\nmortification of yesterday, and the stunned purposeless course of the\nhours afterwards, had cleared away all the mists from his intellect. He\nfelt his power and revelled in it. He could almost defy his heart. If he\nhad known it, he could have sang the song of the miller who lived by the\nriver Dee:--\n\n    'I care for nobody--\n     Nobody cares for me.'\n\nThe evidence against Boucher, and other ringleaders of the riot, was\ntaken before him; that against the three others, for conspiracy, failed.\nBut he sternly charged the police to be on the watch; for the swift\nright arm of the law should be in readiness to strike, as soon as they\ncould prove a fault. And then he left the hot reeking room in the\nborough court, and went out into the fresher, but still sultry street.\nIt seemed as though he gave way all at once; he was so languid that he\ncould not control his thoughts; they would wander to her; they would\nbring back the scene,--not of his repulse and rejection the day before\nbut the looks, the actions of the day before that. He went along the\ncrowded streets mechanically, winding in and out among the people, but\nnever seeing them,--almost sick with longing for that one\nhalf-hour--that one brief space of time when she clung to him, and her\nheart beat against his--to come once again.\n\n'Why, Mr. Thornton you're cutting me very coolly, I must say. And how is\nMrs. Thornton? Brave weather this! We doctors don't like it, I can tell\nyou!'\n\n'I beg your pardon, Dr. Donaldson. I really didn't see you. My mother's\nquite well, thank you. It is a fine day, and good for the harvest, I\nhope. If the wheat is well got in, we shall have a brisk trade next\nyear, whatever you doctors have.'\n\n'Ay, ay. Each man for himself. Your bad weather, and your bad times, are\nmy good ones. When trade is bad, there's more undermining of health, and\npreparation for death, going on among you Milton men than you're aware\nof.'\n\n'Not with me, Doctor. I'm made of iron. The news of the worst bad debt I\never had, never made my pulse vary. This strike, which affects me more\nthan any one else in Milton,--more than Hamper,--never comes near my\nappetite. You must go elsewhere for a patient, Doctor.'\n\n'By the way, you've recommended me a good patient, poor lady! Not to go\non talking in this heartless way, I seriously believe that Mrs.\nHale--that lady in Crampton, you know--hasn't many weeks to live. I\nnever had any hope of cure, as I think I told you; but I've been seeing\nher to-day, and I think very badly of her.'\n\nMr. Thornton was silent. The vaunted steadiness of pulse failed him for\nan instant.\n\n'Can I do anything, Doctor?' he asked, in an altered voice. 'You\nknow--you would see, that money is not very plentiful; are there any\ncomforts or dainties she ought to have?'\n\n'No,' replied the Doctor, shaking his head. 'She craves for fruit,--she\nhas a constant fever on her; but jargonelle pears will do as well as\nanything, and there are quantities of them in the market.'\n\n'You will tell me, if there is anything I can do, I'm sure,' replied Mr.\nThornton. 'I rely upon you.'\n\n'Oh! never fear! I'll not spare your purse,--I know it's deep enough. I\nwish you'd give me carte-blanche for all my patients, and all their\nwants.'\n\nBut Mr. Thornton had no general benevolence,--no universal philanthropy;\nfew even would have given him credit for strong affections. But he went\nstraight to the first fruit-shop in Milton, and chose out the bunch of\npurple grapes with the most delicate bloom upon them,--the\nrichest-coloured peaches,--the freshest vine-leaves. They were packed\ninto a basket, and the shopman awaited the answer to his inquiry, 'Where\nshall we send them to, sir?'\n\nThere was no reply. 'To Marlborough Mills, I suppose, sir?'\n\n'No!' Mr. Thornton said. 'Give the basket to me,--I'll take it.'\n\nIt took up both his hands to carry it; and he had to pass through the\nbusiest part of the town for feminine shopping. Many a young lady of his\nacquaintance turned to look after him, and thought it strange to see him\noccupied just like a porter or an errand-boy.\n\nHe was thinking, 'I will not be daunted from doing as I choose by the\nthought of her. I like to take this fruit to the poor mother, and it is\nsimply right that I should. She shall never scorn me out of doing what I\nplease. A pretty joke, indeed, if, for fear of a haughty girl, I failed\nin doing a kindness to a man I liked! I do it for Mr. Hale; I do it in\ndefiance of her.'\n\nHe went at an unusual pace, and was soon at Crampton. He went upstairs\ntwo steps at a time, and entered the drawing-room before Dixon could\nannounce him,--his face flushed, his eyes shining with kindly\nearnestness. Mrs. Hale lay on the sofa, heated with fever. Mr. Hale was\nreading aloud. Margaret was working on a low stool by her mother's side.\nHer heart fluttered, if his did not, at this interview. But he took no\nnotice of her, hardly of Mr. Hale himself; he went up straight with his\nbasket to Mrs. Hale, and said, in that subdued and gentle tone, which is\nso touching when used by a robust man in full health, speaking to a\nfeeble invalid--\n\n'I met Dr. Donaldson, ma'am, and as he said fruit would be good for you,\nI have taken the liberty--the great liberty of bringing you some that\nseemed to me fine.' Mrs. Hale was excessively surprised; excessively\npleased; quite in a tremble of eagerness. Mr. Hale with fewer words\nexpressed a deeper gratitude.\n\n'Fetch a plate, Margaret--a basket--anything.' Margaret stood up by the\ntable, half afraid of moving or making any noise to arouse Mr. Thornton\ninto a consciousness of her being in the room. She thought it would be\nawkward for both to be brought into conscious collision; and fancied\nthat, from her being on a low seat at first, and now standing behind her\nfather, he had overlooked her in his haste. As if he did not feel the\nconsciousness of her presence all over, though his eyes had never rested\non her!\n\n'I must go,' said he, 'I cannot stay. If you will forgive this\nliberty,--my rough ways,--too abrupt, I fear--but I will be more gentle\nnext time. You will allow me the pleasure of bringing you some fruit\nagain, if I should see any that is tempting. Good afternoon, Mr. Hale.\nGood-bye, ma'am.'\n\nHe was gone. Not one word: not one look to Margaret. She believed that\nhe had not seen her. She went for a plate in silence, and lifted the\nfruit out tenderly, with the points of her delicate taper fingers. It\nwas good of him to bring it; and after yesterday too!\n\n'Oh! it is so delicious!' said Mrs. Hale, in a feeble voice. 'How kind\nof him to think of me! Margaret love, only taste these grapes! Was it\nnot good of him?'\n\n'Yes!' said Margaret, quietly.\n\n'Margaret!' said Mrs. Hale, rather querulously, 'you won't like anything\nMr. Thornton does. I never saw anybody so prejudiced.'\n\nMr. Hale had been peeling a peach for his wife; and, cutting off a small\npiece for himself, he said:\n\n'If I had any prejudices, the gift of such delicious fruit as this would\nmelt them all away. I have not tasted such fruit--no! not even in\nHampshire--since I was a boy; and to boys, I fancy, all fruit is good. I\nremember eating sloes and crabs with a relish. Do you remember the\nmatted-up currant bushes, Margaret, at the corner of the west-wall in\nthe garden at home?'\n\nDid she not? Did she not remember every weather-stain on the old stone\nwall; the gray and yellow lichens that marked it like a map; the little\ncrane's-bill that grew in the crevices? She had been shaken by the\nevents of the last two days; her whole life just now was a strain upon\nher fortitude; and, somehow, these careless words of her father's,\ntouching on the remembrance of the sunny times of old, made her start\nup, and, dropping her sewing on the ground, she went hastily out of the\nroom into her own little chamber. She had hardly given way to the first\nchoking sob, when she became aware of Dixon standing at her drawers, and\nevidently searching for something.\n\n'Bless me, miss! How you startled me! Missus is not worse, is she? Is\nanything the matter?'\n\n'No, nothing. Only I'm silly, Dixon, and want a glass of water. What are\nyou looking for? I keep my muslins in that drawer.'\n\nDixon did not speak, but went on rummaging. The scent of lavender came\nout and perfumed the room.\n\nAt last Dixon found what she wanted; what it was Margaret could not see.\nDixon faced round, and spoke to her:\n\n'Now I don't like telling you what I wanted, because you've fretting\nenough to go through, and I know you'll fret about this. I meant to have\nkept it from you till night, may be, or such times as that.'\n\n'What is the matter? Pray, tell me, Dixon, at once.'\n\n'That young woman you go to see--Higgins, I mean.'\n\n'Well?'\n\n'Well! she died this morning, and her sister is here--come to beg a\nstrange thing. It seems, the young woman who died had a fancy for being\nburied in something of yours, and so the sister's come to ask for\nit,--and I was looking for a night-cap that wasn't too good to give\naway.'\n\n'Oh! let me find one,' said Margaret, in the midst of her tears. 'Poor\nBessy! I never thought I should not see her again.'\n\n'Why, that's another thing. This girl down-stairs wanted me to ask you,\nif you would like to see her.'\n\n'But she's dead!' said Margaret, turning a little pale. 'I never saw a\ndead person. No! I would rather not.'\n\n'I should never have asked you, if you hadn't come in. I told her you\nwouldn't.'\n\n'I will go down and speak to her,' said Margaret, afraid lest Dixon's\nharshness of manner might wound the poor girl. So, taking the cap in her\nhand, she went to the kitchen. Mary's face was all swollen with crying,\nand she burst out afresh when she saw Margaret.\n\n'Oh, ma'am, she loved yo', she loved yo', she did indeed!' And for a\nlong time, Margaret could not get her to say anything more than this. At\nlast, her sympathy, and Dixon's scolding, forced out a few facts.\nNicholas Higgins had gone out in the morning, leaving Bessy as well as\non the day before. But in an hour she was taken worse; some neighbour\nran to the room where Mary was working; they did not know where to find\nher father; Mary had only come in a few minutes before she died.\n\n'It were a day or two ago she axed to be buried in somewhat o' yourn.\nShe were never tired o' talking o' yo'. She used to say yo' were the\nprettiest thing she'd ever clapped eyes on. She loved yo' dearly. Her\nlast words were, \"Give her my affectionate respects; and keep father\nfro' drink.\" Yo'll come and see her, ma'am. She would ha' thought it a\ngreat compliment, I know.'\n\nMargaret shrank a little from answering.\n\n'Yes, perhaps I may. Yes, I will. I'll come before tea. But where's your\nfather, Mary?'\n\nMary shook her head, and stood up to be going.\n\n'Miss Hale,' said Dixon, in a low voice, 'where's the use o' your going\nto see the poor thing laid out? I'd never say a word against it, if it\ncould do the girl any good; and I wouldn't mind a bit going myself, if\nthat would satisfy her. They've just a notion, these common folks, of\nits being a respect to the departed. Here,' said she, turning sharply\nround, 'I'll come and see your sister. Miss Hale is busy, and she can't\ncome, or else she would.'\n\nThe girl looked wistfully at Margaret. Dixon's coming might be a\ncompliment, but it was not the same thing to the poor sister, who had\nhad her little pangs of jealousy, during Bessy's lifetime, at the\nintimacy between her and the young lady.\n\n'No, Dixon!' said Margaret with decision. 'I will go. Mary, you shall\nsee me this afternoon.' And for fear of her own cowardice, she went\naway, in order to take from herself any chance of changing her\ndetermination.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVIII\n\nCOMFORT IN SORROW\n\n    'Through cross to crown!--And though thy spirit's life\n     Trials untold assail with giant strength,\n     Good cheer! good cheer! Soon ends the bitter strife,\n     And thou shalt reign in peace with Christ at length.'\n             KOSEGARTEN.\n\n    'Ay sooth, we feel too strong in weal, to need Thee on that road;\n     But woe being come, the soul is dumb, that crieth not on \"God.\"'\n             MRS. BROWNING.\n\n\nThat afternoon she walked swiftly to the Higgins's house. Mary was\nlooking out for her, with a half-distrustful face. Margaret smiled into\nher eyes to re-assure her. They passed quickly through the house-place,\nupstairs, and into the quiet presence of the dead. Then Margaret was\nglad that she had come. The face, often so weary with pain, so restless\nwith troublous thoughts, had now the faint soft smile of eternal rest\nupon it. The slow tears gathered into Margaret's eyes, but a deep calm\nentered into her soul. And that was death! It looked more peaceful than\nlife. All beautiful scriptures came into her mind. 'They rest from their\nlabours.' 'The weary are at rest.' 'He giveth His beloved sleep.'\n\nSlowly, slowly Margaret turned away from the bed. Mary was humbly\nsobbing in the back-ground. They went down stairs without a word.\n\nResting his hand upon the house-table, Nicholas Higgins stood in the\nmidst of the floor; his great eyes startled open by the news he had\nheard, as he came along the court, from many busy tongues. His eyes were\ndry and fierce; studying the reality of her death; bringing himself to\nunderstand that her place should know her no more. For she had been\nsickly, dying so long, that he had persuaded himself she would not die;\nthat she would 'pull through.'\n\nMargaret felt as if she had no business to be there, familiarly\nacquainting herself with the surroundings of death which he, the father,\nhad only just learnt. There had been a pause of an instant on the steep\ncrooked stair, when she first saw him; but now she tried to steal past\nhis abstracted gaze, and to leave him in the solemn circle of his\nhousehold misery.\n\nMary sat down on the first chair she came to, and throwing her apron\nover her head, began to cry.\n\nThe noise appeared to rouse him. He took sudden hold of Margaret's arm,\nand held her till he could gather words to speak seemed dry; they came\nup thick, and choked, and hoarse:\n\n'Were yo' with her? Did yo' see her die?'\n\n'No!' replied Margaret, standing still with the utmost patience, now she\nfound herself perceived. It was some time before he spoke again, but he\nkept his hold on her arm.\n\n'All men must die,' said he at last, with a strange sort of gravity,\nwhich first suggested to Margaret the idea that he had been\ndrinking--not enough to intoxicate himself, but enough to make his\nthoughts bewildered. 'But she were younger than me.' Still he pondered\nover the event, not looking at Margaret, though he grasped her tight.\nSuddenly, he looked up at her with a wild searching inquiry in his\nglance. 'Yo're sure and certain she's dead--not in a dwam, a\nfaint?--she's been so before, often.'\n\n'She is dead,' replied Margaret. She felt no fear in speaking to him,\nthough he hurt her arm with his gripe, and wild gleams came across the\nstupidity of his eyes.\n\n'She is dead!' she said.\n\nHe looked at her still with that searching look, which seemed to fade\nout of his eyes as he gazed. Then he suddenly let go his hold of\nMargaret, and, throwing his body half across the table, he shook it and\nevery piece of furniture in the room, with his violent sobs. Mary came\ntrembling towards him.\n\n'Get thee gone!--get thee gone!' he cried, striking wildly and blindly\nat her. 'What do I care for thee?' Margaret took her hand, and held it\nsoftly in hers. He tore his hair, he beat his head against the hard\nwood, then he lay exhausted and stupid. Still his daughter and Margaret\ndid not move. Mary trembled from head to foot.\n\nAt last--it might have been a quarter of an hour, it might have been an\nhour--he lifted himself up. His eyes were swollen and bloodshot, and he\nseemed to have forgotten that any one was by; he scowled at the watchers\nwhen he saw them. He shook himself heavily, gave them one more sullen\nlook, spoke never a word, but made for the door.\n\n'Oh, father, father!' said Mary, throwing herself upon his arm,--'not\nto-night! Any night but to-night. Oh, help me! he's going out to drink\nagain! Father, I'll not leave yo'. Yo' may strike, but I'll not leave\nyo'. She told me last of all to keep yo' fro' drink!'\n\nBut Margaret stood in the doorway, silent yet commanding. He looked up\nat her defyingly.\n\n'It's my own house. Stand out o' the way, wench, or I'll make yo'!' He\nhad shaken off Mary with violence; he looked ready to strike Margaret.\nBut she never moved a feature--never took her deep, serious eyes off\nhim. He stared back on her with gloomy fierceness. If she had stirred\nhand or foot, he would have thrust her aside with even more violence\nthan he had used to his own daughter, whose face was bleeding from her\nfall against a chair.\n\n'What are yo' looking at me in that way for?' asked he at last, daunted\nand awed by her severe calm. 'If yo' think for to keep me from going\nwhat gait I choose, because she loved yo'--and in my own house, too,\nwhere I never asked yo' to come, yo're mista'en. It's very hard upon a\nman that he can't go to the only comfort left.'\n\nMargaret felt that he acknowledged her power. What could she do next? He\nhad seated himself on a chair, close to the door; half-conquered,\nhalf-resenting; intending to go out as soon as she left her position,\nbut unwilling to use the violence he had threatened not five minutes\nbefore. Margaret laid her hand on his arm.\n\n'Come with me,' she said. 'Come and see her!'\n\nThe voice in which she spoke was very low and solemn; but there was no\nfear or doubt expressed in it, either of him or of his compliance. He\nsullenly rose up. He stood uncertain, with dogged irresolution upon his\nface. She waited him there; quietly and patiently waited for his time to\nmove. He had a strange pleasure in making her wait; but at last he moved\ntowards the stairs.\n\nShe and he stood by the corpse.\n\n'Her last words to Mary were, \"Keep my father fro' drink.\"'\n\n'It canna hurt her now,' muttered he. 'Nought can hurt her now.' Then,\nraising his voice to a wailing cry, he went on: 'We may quarrel and fall\nout--we may make peace and be friends--we may clem to skin and bone--and\nnought o' all our griefs will ever touch her more. Hoo's had her portion\non 'em. What wi' hard work first, and sickness at last, hoo's led the\nlife of a dog. And to die without knowing one good piece o' rejoicing in\nall her days! Nay, wench, whatever hoo said, hoo can know nought about\nit now, and I mun ha' a sup o' drink just to steady me again sorrow.'\n\n'No,' said Margaret, softening with his softened manner. 'You shall not.\nIf her life has been what you say, at any rate she did not fear death as\nsome do. Oh, you should have heard her speak of the life to come--the\nlife hidden with God, that she is now gone to.'\n\nHe shook his head, glancing sideways up at Margaret as he did so. His\npale, haggard face struck her painfully.\n\n'You are sorely tired. Where have you been all day--not at work?'\n\n'Not at work, sure enough,' said he, with a short, grim laugh. 'Not at\nwhat you call work. I were at the Committee, till I were sickened out\nwi' trying to make fools hear reason. I were fetched to Boucher's wife\nafore seven this morning. She's bed-fast, but she were raving and raging\nto know where her dunder-headed brute of a chap was, as if I'd to keep\nhim--as if he were fit to be ruled by me. The d---- d fool, who has put\nhis foot in all our plans! And I've walked my feet sore wi' going about\nfor to see men who wouldn't be seen, now the law is raised again us. And\nI were sore-hearted, too, which is worse than sore-footed; and if I did\nsee a friend who ossed to treat me, I never knew hoo lay a-dying here.\nBess, lass, thou'd believe me, thou wouldst--wouldstn't thou?' turning\nto the poor dumb form with wild appeal.\n\n'I am sure,' said Margaret, 'I am sure you did not know: it was quite\nsudden. But now, you see, it would be different; you do know; you do see\nher lying there; you hear what she said with her last breath. You will\nnot go?'\n\nNo answer. In fact, where was he to look for comfort?\n\n'Come home with me,' said she at last, with a bold venture, half\ntrembling at her own proposal as she made it. 'At least you shall have\nsome comfortable food, which I'm sure you need.'\n\n'Yo'r father's a parson?' asked he, with a sudden turn in his ideas.\n\n'He was,' said Margaret, shortly.\n\n'I'll go and take a dish o' tea with him, since yo've asked me. I've\nmany a thing I often wished to say to a parson, and I'm not particular\nas to whether he's preaching now, or not.'\n\nMargaret was perplexed; his drinking tea with her father, who would be\ntotally unprepared for his visitor--her mother so ill--seemed utterly\nout of the question; and yet if she drew back now, it would be worse\nthan ever--sure to drive him to the gin-shop. She thought that if she\ncould only get him to their own house, it was so great a step gained\nthat she would trust to the chapter of accidents for the next.\n\n'Goodbye, ou'd wench! We've parted company at last, we have! But thou'st\nbeen a blessin' to thy father ever sin' thou wert born. Bless thy white\nlips, lass,--they've a smile on 'em now! and I'm glad to see it once\nagain, though I'm lone and forlorn for evermore.'\n\nHe stooped down and fondly kissed his daughter; covered up her face, and\nturned to follow Margaret. She had hastily gone down stairs to tell Mary\nof the arrangement; to say it was the only way she could think of to\nkeep him from the gin-palace; to urge Mary to come too, for her heart\nsmote her at the idea of leaving the poor affectionate girl alone. But\nMary had friends among the neighbours, she said, who would come in and\nsit a bit with her, it was all right; but father--\n\nHe was there by them as she would have spoken more. He had shaken off\nhis emotion, as if he was ashamed of having ever given way to it; and\nhad even o'erleaped himself so much that he assumed a sort of bitter\nmirth, like the crackling of thorns under a pot.\n\n'I'm going to take my tea wi' her father, I am!'\n\nBut he slouched his cap low down over his brow as he went out into the\nstreet, and looked neither to the right nor to the left, while he\ntramped along by Margaret's side; he feared being upset by the words,\nstill more the looks, of sympathising neighbours. So he and Margaret\nwalked in silence.\n\nAs he got near the street in which he knew she lived, he looked down at\nhis clothes, his hands, and shoes.\n\n'I should m'appen ha' cleaned mysel', first?'\n\nIt certainly would have been desirable, but Margaret assured him he\nshould be allowed to go into the yard, and have soap and towel provided;\nshe could not let him slip out of her hands just then.\n\nWhile he followed the house-servant along the passage, and through the\nkitchen, stepping cautiously on every dark mark in the pattern of the\noil-cloth, in order to conceal his dirty foot-prints, Margaret ran\nupstairs. She met Dixon on the landing.\n\n'How is mamma?--where is papa?'\n\nMissus was tired, and gone into her own room. She had wanted to go to\nbed, but Dixon had persuaded her to lie down on the sofa, and have her\ntea brought to her there; it would be better than getting restless by\nbeing too long in bed.\n\nSo far, so good. But where was Mr. Hale? In the drawing-room. Margaret\nwent in half breathless with the hurried story she had to tell. Of\ncourse, she told it incompletely; and her father was rather 'taken\naback' by the idea of the drunken weaver awaiting him in his quiet\nstudy, with whom he was expected to drink tea, and on whose behalf\nMargaret was anxiously pleading. The meek, kind-hearted Mr. Hale would\nhave readily tried to console him in his grief, but, unluckily, the\npoint Margaret dwelt upon most forcibly was the fact of his having been\ndrinking, and her having brought him home with her as a last expedient\nto keep him from the gin-shop. One little event had come out of another\nso naturally that Margaret was hardly conscious of what she had done,\ntill she saw the slight look of repugnance on her father's face.\n\n'Oh, papa! he really is a man you will not dislike--if you won't be\nshocked to begin with.'\n\n'But, Margaret, to bring a drunken man home--and your mother so ill!'\n\nMargaret's countenance fell. 'I am sorry, papa. He is very quiet--he is\nnot tipsy at all. He was only rather strange at first, but that might be\nthe shock of poor Bessy's death.' Margaret's eyes filled with tears. Mr.\nHale took hold of her sweet pleading face in both his hands, and kissed\nher forehead.\n\n'It is all right, dear. I'll go and make him as comfortable as I can,\nand do you attend to your mother. Only, if you can come in and make a\nthird in the study, I shall be glad.'\n\n'Oh, yes--thank you.' But as Mr. Hale was leaving the room, she ran\nafter him:\n\n'Papa--you must not wonder at what he says: he's an---- I mean he does\nnot believe in much of what we do.'\n\n'Oh dear! a drunken infidel weaver!' said Mr. Hale to himself, in\ndismay. But to Margaret he only said, 'If your mother goes to sleep, be\nsure you come directly.'\n\nMargaret went into her mother's room. Mrs. Hale lifted herself up from a\ndoze.\n\n'When did you write to Frederick, Margaret? Yesterday, or the day\nbefore?'\n\n'Yesterday, mamma.'\n\n'Yesterday. And the letter went?'\n\n'Yes. I took it myself'\n\n'Oh, Margaret, I'm so afraid of his coming! If he should be recognised!\nIf he should be taken! If he should be executed, after all these years\nthat he has kept away and lived in safety! I keep falling asleep and\ndreaming that he is caught and being tried.'\n\n'Oh, mamma, don't be afraid. There will be some risk no doubt; but we\nwill lessen it as much as ever we can. And it is so little! Now, if we\nwere at Helstone, there would be twenty--a hundred times as much. There,\neverybody would remember him and if there was a stranger known to be in\nthe house, they would be sure to guess it was Frederick; while here,\nnobody knows or cares for us enough to notice what we do. Dixon will\nkeep the door like a dragon--won't you, Dixon--while he is here?'\n\n'They'll be clever if they come in past me!' said Dixon, showing her\nteeth at the bare idea.\n\n'And he need not go out, except in the dusk, poor fellow!'\n\n'Poor fellow!' echoed Mrs. Hale. 'But I almost wish you had not written.\nWould it be too late to stop him if you wrote again, Margaret?'\n\n'I'm afraid it would, mamma,' said Margaret, remembering the urgency\nwith which she had entreated him to come directly, if he wished to see\nhis mother alive.\n\n'I always dislike that doing things in such a hurry,' said Mrs. Hale.\n\nMargaret was silent.\n\n'Come now, ma'am,' said Dixon, with a kind of cheerful authority, 'you\nknow seeing Master Frederick is just the very thing of all others you're\nlonging for. And I'm glad Miss Margaret wrote off straight, without\nshilly-shallying. I've had a great mind to do it myself. And we'll keep\nhim snug, depend upon it. There's only Martha in the house that would\nnot do a good deal to save him on a pinch; and I've been thinking she\nmight go and see her mother just at that very time. She's been saying\nonce or twice she should like to go, for her mother has had a stroke\nsince she came here, only she didn't like to ask. But I'll see about her\nbeing safe off, as soon as we know when he comes, God bless him! So take\nyour tea, ma'am, in comfort, and trust to me.'\n\nMrs. Hale did trust in Dixon more than in Margaret. Dixon's words\nquieted her for the time. Margaret poured out the tea in silence, trying\nto think of something agreeable to say; but her thoughts made answer\nsomething like Daniel O'Rourke, when the man-in-the-moon asked him to\nget off his reaping-hook. 'The more you ax us, the more we won't stir.'\nThe more she tried to think of something anything besides the danger to\nwhich Frederick would be exposed--the more closely her imagination clung\nto the unfortunate idea presented to her. Her mother prattled with\nDixon, and seemed to have utterly forgotten the possibility of Frederick\nbeing tried and executed--utterly forgotten that at her wish, if by\nMargaret's deed, he was summoned into this danger. Her mother was one of\nthose who throw out terrible possibilities, miserable probabilities,\nunfortunate chances of all kinds, as a rocket throws out sparks; but if\nthe sparks light on some combustible matter, they smoulder first, and\nburst out into a frightful flame at last. Margaret was glad when, her\nfilial duties gently and carefully performed, she could go down into the\nstudy. She wondered how her father and Higgins had got on.\n\nIn the first place, the decorous, kind-hearted, simple, old-fashioned\ngentleman, had unconsciously called out, by his own refinement and\ncourteousness of manner, all the latent courtesy in the other.\n\nMr. Hale treated all his fellow-creatures alike: it never entered into\nhis head to make any difference because of their rank. He placed a chair\nfor Nicholas stood up till he, at Mr. Hale's request, took a seat; and\ncalled him, invariably, 'Mr. Higgins,' instead of the curt 'Nicholas' or\n'Higgins,' to which the 'drunken infidel weaver' had been accustomed.\nBut Nicholas was neither an habitual drunkard nor a thorough infidel. He\ndrank to drown care, as he would have himself expressed it: and he was\ninfidel so far as he had never yet found any form of faith to which he\ncould attach himself, heart and soul.\n\nMargaret was a little surprised, and very much pleased, when she found\nher father and Higgins in earnest conversation--each speaking with\ngentle politeness to the other, however their opinions might clash.\nNicholas--clean, tidied (if only at the pump-trough), and quiet\nspoken--was a new creature to her, who had only seen him in the rough\nindependence of his own hearthstone. He had 'slicked' his hair down with\nthe fresh water; he had adjusted his neck-handkerchief, and borrowed an\nodd candle-end to polish his clogs with and there he sat, enforcing some\nopinion on her father, with a strong Darkshire accent, it is true, but\nwith a lowered voice, and a good, earnest composure on his face. Her\nfather, too, was interested in what his companion was saying. He looked\nround as she came in, smiled, and quietly gave her his chair, and then\nsat down afresh as quickly as possible, and with a little bow of apology\nto his guest for the interruption. Higgins nodded to her as a sign of\ngreeting; and she softly adjusted her working materials on the table,\nand prepared to listen.\n\n'As I was a-sayin, sir, I reckon yo'd not ha' much belief in yo' if yo'\nlived here,--if yo'd been bred here. I ax your pardon if I use wrong\nwords; but what I mean by belief just now, is a-thinking on sayings and\nmaxims and promises made by folk yo' never saw, about the things and the\nlife, yo' never saw, nor no one else. Now, yo' say these are true\nthings, and true sayings, and a true life. I just say, where's the\nproof? There's many and many a one wiser, and scores better learned than\nI am around me,--folk who've had time to think on these things,--while\nmy time has had to be gi'en up to getting my bread. Well, I sees these\npeople. Their lives is pretty much open to me. They're real folk. They\ndon't believe i' the Bible,--not they. They may say they do, for form's\nsake; but Lord, sir, d'ye think their first cry i' th' morning is, \"What\nshall I do to get hold on eternal life?\" or \"What shall I do to fill my\npurse this blessed day? Where shall I go? What bargains shall I strike?\"\nThe purse and the gold and the notes is real things; things as can be\nfelt and touched; them's realities; and eternal life is all a talk, very\nfit for--I ax your pardon, sir; yo'r a parson out o' work, I believe.\nWell! I'll never speak disrespectful of a man in the same fix as I'm in\nmysel'. But I'll just ax yo another question, sir, and I dunnot want yo\nto answer it, only to put in yo'r pipe, and smoke it, afore yo' go for\nto set down us, who only believe in what we see, as fools and noddies.\nIf salvation, and life to come, and what not, was true--not in men's\nwords, but in men's hearts' core--dun yo' not think they'd din us wi' it\nas they do wi' political 'conomy? They're mighty anxious to come round\nus wi' that piece o' wisdom; but t'other would be a greater convarsion,\nif it were true.'\n\n'But the masters have nothing to do with your religion. All that they\nare connected with you in is trade,--so they think,--and all that it\nconcerns them, therefore, to rectify your opinions in is the science of\ntrade.'\n\n'I'm glad, sir,' said Higgins, with a curious wink of his eye, 'that yo'\nput in, \"so they think.\" I'd ha' thought yo' a hypocrite, I'm afeard, if\nyo' hadn't, for all yo'r a parson, or rayther because yo'r a parson. Yo'\nsee, if yo'd spoken o' religion as a thing that, if it was true, it\ndidn't concern all men to press on all men's attention, above everything\nelse in this 'varsal earth, I should ha' thought yo' a knave for to be a\nparson; and I'd rather think yo' a fool than a knave. No offence, I\nhope, sir.'\n\n'None at all. You consider me mistaken, and I consider you far more\nfatally mistaken. I don't expect to convince you in a day,--not in one\nconversation; but let us know each other, and speak freely to each other\nabout these things, and the truth will prevail. I should not believe in\nGod if I did not believe that. Mr. Higgins, I trust, whatever else you\nhave given up, you believe'--(Mr. Hale's voice dropped low in\nreverence)--'you believe in Him.'\n\nNicholas Higgins suddenly stood straight, stiff up. Margaret started to\nher feet,--for she thought, by the working of his face, he was going\ninto convulsions. Mr. Hale looked at her dismayed. At last Higgins found\nwords:\n\n'Man! I could fell yo' to the ground for tempting me. Whatten business\nhave yo' to try me wi' your doubts? Think o' her lying theere, after the\nlife hoo's led and think then how yo'd deny me the one sole comfort\nleft--that there is a God, and that He set her her life. I dunnot\nbelieve she'll ever live again,' said he, sitting down, and drearily\ngoing on, as if to the unsympathising fire. 'I dunnot believe in any\nother life than this, in which she dreed such trouble, and had such\nnever-ending care; and I cannot bear to think it were all a set o'\nchances, that might ha' been altered wi' a breath o' wind. There's many\na time when I've thought I didna believe in God, but I've never put it\nfair out before me in words, as many men do. I may ha' laughed at those\nwho did, to brave it out like--but I have looked round at after, to see\nif He heard me, if so be there was a He; but to-day, when I'm left\ndesolate, I wunnot listen to yo' wi' yo'r questions, and yo'r doubts.\nThere's but one thing steady and quiet i' all this reeling world, and,\nreason or no reason, I'll cling to that. It's a' very well for happy\nfolk'----\n\nMargaret touched his arm very softly. She had not spoken before, nor had\nhe heard her rise.\n\n'Nicholas, we do not want to reason; you misunderstand my father. We do\nnot reason--we believe; and so do you. It is the one sole comfort in\nsuch times.'\n\nHe turned round and caught her hand. 'Ay! it is, it is--(brushing away\nthe tears with the back of his hand).--'But yo' know, she's lying dead\nat home and I'm welly dazed wi' sorrow, and at times I hardly know what\nI'm saying. It's as if speeches folk ha' made--clever and smart things\nas I've thought at the time--come up now my heart's welly brossen. Th'\nstrike's failed as well; dun yo' know that, miss? I were coming whoam to\nask her, like a beggar as I am, for a bit o' comfort i' that trouble;\nand I were knocked down by one who telled me she were dead--just dead.\nThat were all; but that were enough for me.\n\nMr. Hale blew his nose, and got up to snuff the candles in order to\nconceal his emotion. 'He's not an infidel, Margaret; how could you say\nso?' muttered he reproachfully 'I've a good mind to read him the\nfourteenth chapter of Job.'\n\n'Not yet, papa, I think. Perhaps not at all. Let us ask him about the\nstrike, and give him all the sympathy he needs, and hoped to have from\npoor Bessy.'\n\nSo they questioned and listened. The workmen's calculations were based\n(like too many of the masters') on false premises. They reckoned on\ntheir fellow-men as if they possessed the calculable powers of machines,\nno more, no less; no allowance for human passions getting the better of\nreason, as in the case of Boucher and the rioters; and believing that\nthe representations of their injuries would have the same effect on\nstrangers far away, as the injuries (fancied or real) had upon\nthemselves. They were consequently surprised and indignant at the poor\nIrish, who had allowed themselves to be imported and brought over to\ntake their places. This indignation was tempered, in some degree, by\ncontempt for 'them Irishers,' and by pleasure at the idea of the\nbungling way in which they would set to work, and perplex their new\nmasters with their ignorance and stupidity, strange exaggerated stories\nof which were already spreading through the town. But the most cruel cut\nof all was that of the Milton workmen, who had defied and disobeyed the\ncommands of the Union to keep the peace, whatever came; who had\noriginated discord in the camp, and spread the panic of the law being\narrayed against them.\n\n'And so the strike is at an end,' said Margaret.\n\n'Ay, miss. It's save as save can. Th' factory doors will need open wide\nto-morrow to let in all who'll be axing for work; if it's only just to\nshow they'd nought to do wi' a measure, which if we'd been made o' th'\nright stuff would ha' brought wages up to a point they'n not been at\nthis ten year.'\n\n'You'll get work, shan't you?' asked Margaret. 'You're a famous workman,\nare not you?'\n\n'Hamper'll let me work at his mill, when he cuts off his right hand--not\nbefore, and not after,' said Nicholas, quietly. Margaret was silenced\nand sad.\n\n'About the wages,' said Mr. Hale. 'You'll not be offended, but I think\nyou make some sad mistakes. I should like to read you some remarks in a\nbook I have.' He got up and went to his book-shelves.\n\n'Yo' needn't trouble yoursel', sir,' said Nicholas. 'Their book-stuff\ngoes in at one ear and out at t'other. I can make nought on't. Afore\nHamper and me had this split, th' overlooker telled him I were stirring\nup the men to ask for higher wages; and Hamper met me one day in th'\nyard. He'd a thin book i' his hand, and says he, \"Higgins, I'm told\nyou're one of those damned fools that think you can get higher wages for\nasking for 'em; ay, and keep 'em up too, when you've forced 'em up. Now,\nI'll give yo' a chance and try if yo've any sense in yo'. Here's a book\nwritten by a friend o' mine, and if yo'll read it yo'll see how wages\nfind their own level, without either masters or men having aught to do\nwith them; except the men cut their own throats wi' striking, like the\nconfounded noodles they are.\" Well, now, sir, I put it to yo', being a\nparson, and having been in th' preaching line, and having had to try and\nbring folk o'er to what yo' thought was a right way o' thinking--did yo'\nbegin by calling 'em fools and such like, or didn't yo' rayther give 'em\nsome kind words at first, to make 'em ready for to listen and be\nconvinced, if they could; and in yo'r preaching, did yo' stop every now\nand then, and say, half to them and half to yo'rsel', \"But yo're such a\npack o' fools, that I've a strong notion it's no use my trying to put\nsense into yo'?\" I were not i' th' best state, I'll own, for taking in\nwhat Hamper's friend had to say--I were so vexed at the way it were put\nto me;--but I thought, \"Come, I'll see what these chaps has got to say,\nand try if it's them or me as is th' noodle.\" So I took th' book and\ntugged at it; but, Lord bless yo', it went on about capital and labour,\nand labour and capital, till it fair sent me off to sleep. I ne'er could\nrightly fix i' my mind which was which; and it spoke on 'em as if they\nwas vartues or vices; and what I wanted for to know were the rights o'\nmen, whether they were rich or poor--so be they only were men.'\n\n'But for all that,' said Mr. Hale, 'and granting to the full the\noffensiveness, the folly, the unchristianness of Mr. Hamper's way of\nspeaking to you in recommending his friend's book, yet if it told you\nwhat he said it did, that wages find their own level, and that the most\nsuccessful strike can only force them up for a moment, to sink in far\ngreater proportion afterwards, in consequence of that very strike, the\nbook would have told you the truth.'\n\n'Well, sir,' said Higgins, rather doggedly; 'it might, or it might not.\nThere's two opinions go to settling that point. But suppose it was truth\ndouble strong, it were no truth to me if I couldna take it in. I daresay\nthere's truth in yon Latin book on your shelves; but it's gibberish and\nnot truth to me, unless I know the meaning o' the words. If yo', sir, or\nany other knowledgable, patient man come to me, and says he'll larn me\nwhat the words mean, and not blow me up if I'm a bit stupid, or forget\nhow one thing hangs on another--why, in time I may get to see the truth\nof it; or I may not. I'll not be bound to say I shall end in thinking\nthe same as any man. And I'm not one who think truth can be shaped out\nin words, all neat and clean, as th' men at th' foundry cut out\nsheet-iron. Same bones won't go down wi' every one. It'll stick here i'\nthis man's throat, and there i' t'other's. Let alone that, when down, it\nmay be too strong for this one, too weak for that. Folk who sets up to\ndoctor th' world wi' their truth, mun suit different for different\nminds; and be a bit tender in th' way of giving it too, or th' poor sick\nfools may spit it out i' their faces. Now Hamper first gi'es me a box on\nmy ear, and then he throws his big bolus at me, and says he reckons\nit'll do me no good, I'm such a fool, but there it is.'\n\n'I wish some of the kindest and wisest of the masters would meet some of\nyou men, and have a good talk on these things; it would, surely, be the\nbest way of getting over your difficulties, which, I do believe, arise\nfrom your ignorance--excuse me, Mr. Higgins--on subjects which it is for\nthe mutual interest of both masters and men should be well understood by\nboth. I wonder'--(half to his daughter), 'if Mr. Thornton might not be\ninduced to do such a thing?'\n\n'Remember, papa,' said she in a very low voice, 'what he said one\nday--about governments, you know.' She was unwilling to make any clearer\nallusion to the conversation they had held on the mode of governing\nwork-people--by giving men intelligence enough to rule themselves, or by\na wise despotism on the part of the master--for she saw that Higgins had\ncaught Mr. Thornton's name, if not the whole of the speech: indeed, he\nbegan to speak of him.\n\n'Thornton! He's the chap as wrote off at once for these Irishers; and\nled to th' riot that ruined th' strike. Even Hamper wi' all his\nbullying, would ha' waited a while--but it's a word and a blow wi'\nThornton. And, now, when th' Union would ha' thanked him for following\nup th' chase after Boucher, and them chaps as went right again our\ncommands, it's Thornton who steps forrard and coolly says that, as th'\nstrike's at an end, he, as party injured, doesn't want to press the\ncharge again the rioters. I thought he'd had more pluck. I thought he'd\nha' carried his point, and had his revenge in an open way; but says he\n(one in court telled me his very words) \"they are well known; they will\nfind the natural punishment of their conduct, in the difficulty they\nwill meet wi' in getting employment. That will be severe enough.\" I only\nwish they'd cotched Boucher, and had him up before Hamper. I see th' oud\ntiger setting on him! would he ha' let him off? Not he!'\n\n'Mr. Thornton was right,' said Margaret. You are angry against Boucher,\nNicholas; or else you would be the first to see, that where the natural\npunishment would be severe enough for the offence, any farther\npunishment would be something like revenge.\n\n'My daughter is no great friend of Mr. Thornton's,' said Mr. Hale,\nsmiling at Margaret; while she, as red as any carnation, began to work\nwith double diligence, 'but I believe what she says is the truth. I like\nhim for it.'\n\n'Well, sir, this strike has been a weary piece o' business to me; and\nyo'll not wonder if I'm a bit put out wi' seeing it fail, just for a few\nmen who would na suffer in silence, and hou'd out, brave and firm.'\n\n'You forget!' said Margaret. 'I don't know much of Boucher; but the only\ntime I saw him it was not his own sufferings he spoke of, but those of\nhis sick wife--his little children.'\n\n'True! but he were not made of iron himsel'. He'd ha' cried out for his\nown sorrows, next. He were not one to bear.'\n\n'How came he into the Union?' asked Margaret innocently. 'You don't seem\nto have much respect for him; nor gained much good from having him in.'\n\nHiggins's brow clouded. He was silent for a minute or two. Then he said,\nshortly enough:\n\n'It's not for me to speak o' th' Union. What they does, they does. Them\nthat is of a trade mun hang together; and if they're not willing to take\ntheir chance along wi' th' rest, th' Union has ways and means.'\n\nMr. Hale saw that Higgins was vexed at the turn the conversation had\ntaken, and was silent. Not so Margaret, though she saw Higgins's feeling\nas clearly as he did. By instinct she felt, that if he could but be\nbrought to express himself in plain words, something clear would be\ngained on which to argue for the right and the just.\n\n'And what are the Union's ways and means?'\n\nHe looked up at her, as if on' the point of dogged resistance to her\nwish for information. But her calm face, fixed on his, patient and\ntrustful, compelled him to answer.\n\n'Well! If a man doesn't belong to th' Union, them as works next looms\nhas orders not to speak to him--if he's sorry or ill it's a' the same;\nhe's out o' bounds; he's none o' us; he comes among us, he works among\nus, but he's none o' us. I' some places them's fined who speaks to him.\nYo' try that, miss; try living a year or two among them as looks away if\nyo' look at 'em; try working within two yards o' crowds o' men, who, yo'\nknow, have a grinding grudge at yo' in their hearts--to whom if yo' say\nyo'r glad, not an eye brightens, nor a lip moves,--to whom if your\nheart's heavy, yo' can never say nought, because they'll ne'er take\nnotice on your sighs or sad looks (and a man 's no man who'll groan out\nloud 'bout folk asking him what 's the matter?)--just yo' try that,\nmiss--ten hours for three hundred days, and yo'll know a bit what th'\nUnion is.'\n\n'Why!' said Margaret, 'what tyranny this is! Nay, Higgins, I don't care\none straw for your anger. I know you can't be angry with me if you\nwould, and I must tell you the truth: that I never read, in all the\nhistory I have read, of a more slow, lingering torture than this. And\nyou belong to the Union! And you talk of the tyranny of the masters!'\n\n'Nay,' said Higgins, 'yo' may say what yo' like! The dead stand between\nyo and every angry word o' mine. D' ye think I forget who's lying\n_there_, and how hoo loved yo'? And it's th' masters as has made us sin,\nif th' Union is a sin. Not this generation maybe, but their fathers.\nTheir fathers ground our fathers to the very dust; ground us to powder!\nParson! I reckon, I've heerd my mother read out a text, \"The fathers\nhave eaten sour grapes and th' children's teeth are set on edge.\" It's\nso wi' them. In those days of sore oppression th' Unions began; it were\na necessity. It's a necessity now, according to me. It's a withstanding\nof injustice, past, present, or to come. It may be like war; along wi'\nit come crimes; but I think it were a greater crime to let it alone. Our\nonly chance is binding men together in one common interest; and if some\nare cowards and some are fools, they mun come along and join the great\nmarch, whose only strength is in numbers.'\n\n'Oh!' said Mr. Hale, sighing, 'your Union in itself would be beautiful,\nglorious,--it would be Christianity itself--if it were but for an end\nwhich affected the good of all, instead of that of merely one class as\nopposed to another.'\n\n'I reckon it's time for me to be going, sir,' said Higgins, as the clock\nstruck ten.\n\n'Home?' said Margaret very softly. He understood her, and took her\noffered hand. 'Home, miss. Yo' may trust me, tho' I am one o' th'\nUnion.'\n\n'I do trust you most thoroughly, Nicholas.'\n\n'Stay!' said Mr. Hale, hurrying to the book-shelves. 'Mr. Higgins! I'm\nsure you'll join us in family prayer?'\n\nHiggins looked at Margaret, doubtfully. Her grave sweet eyes met his;\nthere was no compulsion, only deep interest in them. He did not speak,\nbut he kept his place.\n\nMargaret the Churchwoman, her father the Dissenter, Higgins the Infidel,\nknelt down together. It did them no harm.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIX\n\nA RAY OF SUNSHINE\n\n    'Some wishes crossed my mind and dimly cheered it,\n     And one or two poor melancholy pleasures,\n     Each in the pale unwarming light of hope,\n     Silvering its flimsy wing, flew silent by--\n     Moths in the moonbeam!'\n             COLERIDGE.\n\n\nThe next morning brought Margaret a letter from Edith. It was\naffectionate and inconsequent like the writer. But the affection was\ncharming to Margaret's own affectionate nature; and she had grown up\nwith the inconsequence, so she did not perceive it. It was as follows:--\n\n'Oh, Margaret, it is worth a journey from England to see my boy! He is a\nsuperb little fellow, especially in his caps, and most especially in the\none you sent him, you good, dainty-fingered, persevering little lady!\nHaving made all the mothers here envious, I want to show him to somebody\nnew, and hear a fresh set of admiring expressions; perhaps, that's all\nthe reason; perhaps it is not--nay, possibly, there is just a little\ncousinly love mixed with it; but I do want you so much to come here,\nMargaret! I'm sure it would be the very best thing for Aunt Hale's\nhealth; everybody here is young and well, and our skies are always blue,\nand our sun always shines, and the band plays deliciously from morning\ntill night; and, to come back to the burden of my ditty, my baby always\nsmiles. I am constantly wanting you to draw him for me, Margaret. It\ndoes not signify what he is doing; that very thing is prettiest,\ngracefulest, best. I think I love him a great deal better than my\nhusband, who is getting stout, and grumpy,--what he calls \"busy.\" No! he\nis not. He has just come in with news of such a charming pic-nic, given\nby the officers of the Hazard, at anchor in the bay below. Because he\nhas brought in such a pleasant piece of news, I retract all I said just\nnow. Did not somebody burn his hand for having said or done something he\nwas sorry for? Well, I can't burn mine, because it would hurt me, and\nthe scar would be ugly; but I'll retract all I said as fast as I can.\nCosmo is quite as great a darling as baby, and not a bit stout, and as\nun-grumpy as ever husband was; only, sometimes he is very, very busy. I\nmay say that without love--wifely duty--where was I?--I had something\nvery particular to say, I know, once. Oh, it is this--Dearest\nMargaret!--you must come and see me; it would do Aunt Hale good, as I\nsaid before. Get the doctor to order it for her. Tell him that it's the\nsmoke of Milton that does her harm. I have no doubt it is that, really.\nThree months (you must not come for less) of this delicious climate--all\nsunshine, and grapes as common as blackberries, would quite cure her. I\ndon't ask my uncle'--(Here the letter became more constrained, and\nbetter written; Mr. Hale was in the corner, like a naughty child, for\nhaving given up his living.)--'because, I dare say, he disapproves of\nwar, and soldiers, and bands of music; at least, I know that many\nDissenters are members of the Peace Society, and I am afraid he would\nnot like to come; but, if he would, dear, pray say that Cosmo and I will\ndo our best to make him happy; and I'll hide up Cosmo's red coat and\nsword, and make the band play all sorts of grave, solemn things; or, if\nthey do play pomps and vanities, it shall be in double slow time. Dear\nMargaret, if he would like to accompany you and Aunt Hale, we will try\nand make it pleasant, though I'm rather afraid of any one who has done\nsomething for conscience sake. You never did, I hope. Tell Aunt Hale not\nto bring many warm clothes, though I'm afraid it will be late in the\nyear before you can come. But you have no idea of the heat here! I tried\nto wear my great beauty Indian shawl at a pic-nic. I kept myself up with\nproverbs as long as I could; \"Pride must abide,\"--and such wholesome\npieces of pith; but it was of no use. I was like mamma's little dog Tiny\nwith an elephant's trappings on; smothered, hidden, killed with my\nfinery; so I made it into a capital carpet for us all to sit down upon.\nHere's this boy of mine, Margaret,--if you don't pack up your things as\nsoon as you get this letter, a come straight off to see him, I shall\nthink you're descended from King Herod!'\n\nMargaret did long for a day of Edith's life--her freedom from care, her\ncheerful home, her sunny skies. If a wish could have transported her,\nshe would have gone off; just for one day. She yearned for the strength\nwhich such a change would give,--even for a few hours to be in the midst\nof that bright life, and to feel young again. Not yet twenty! and she\nhad had to bear up against such hard pressure that she felt quite old.\nThat was her first feeling after reading Edith's letter. Then she read\nit again, and, forgetting herself, was amused at its likeness to Edith's\nself, and was laughing merrily over it when Mrs. Hale came into the\ndrawing-room, leaning on Dixon's arm. Margaret flew to adjust the\npillows. Her mother seemed more than usually feeble.\n\n'What were you laughing at, Margaret?' asked she, as soon as she had\nrecovered from the exertion of settling herself on the sofa.\n\n'A letter I have had this morning from Edith. Shall I read it you,\nmamma?'\n\nShe read it aloud, and for a time it seemed to interest her mother, who\nkept wondering what name Edith had given to her boy, and suggesting all\nprobable names, and all possible reasons why each and all of these names\nshould be given. Into the very midst of these wonders Mr. Thornton came,\nbringing another offering of fruit for Mrs. Hale. He could not--say\nrather, he would not--deny himself the chance of the pleasure of seeing\nMargaret. He had no end in this but the present gratification. It was\nthe sturdy wilfulness of a man usually most reasonable and\nself-controlled. He entered the room, taking in at a glance the fact of\nMargaret's presence; but after the first cold distant bow, he never\nseemed to let his eyes fall on her again. He only stayed to present his\npeaches--to speak some gentle kindly words--and then his cold offended\neyes met Margaret's with a grave farewell, as he left the room. She sat\ndown silent and pale.\n\n'Do you know, Margaret, I really begin quite to like Mr. Thornton.'\n\nNo answer at first. Then Margaret forced out an icy 'Do you?'\n\n'Yes! I think he is really getting quite polished in his manners.'\n\nMargaret's voice was more in order now. She replied,\n\n'He is very kind and attentive,--there is no doubt of that.'\n\n'I wonder Mrs. Thornton never calls. She must know I am ill, because of\nthe water-bed.'\n\n'I dare say, she hears how you are from her son.'\n\n'Still, I should like to see her. You have so few friends here,\nMargaret.'\n\nMargaret felt what was in her mother's thoughts,--a tender craving to\nbespeak the kindness of some woman towards the daughter that might be so\nsoon left motherless. But she could not speak.\n\n'Do you think,' said Mrs. Hale, after a pause, 'that you could go and\nask Mrs. Thornton to come and see me? Only once,--I don't want to be\ntroublesome.'\n\n'I will do anything, if you wish it, mamma,--but if--but when Frederick\ncomes---- '\n\n'Ah, to be sure! we must keep our doors shut,--we must let no one in. I\nhardly know whether I dare wish him to come or not. Sometimes I think I\nwould rather not. Sometimes I have such frightful dreams about him.'\n\n'Oh, mamma! we'll take good care. I will put my arm in the bolt sooner\nthan he should come to the slightest harm. Trust the care of him to me,\nmamma. I will watch over him like a lioness over her young.'\n\n'When can we hear from him?'\n\n'Not for a week yet, certainly,--perhaps more.'\n\n'We must send Martha away in good time. It would never do to have her\nhere when he comes, and then send her off in a hurry.'\n\n'Dixon is sure to remind us of that. I was thinking that, if we wanted\nany help in the house while he is here, we could perhaps get Mary\nHiggins. She is very slack of work, and is a good girl, and would take\npains to do her best, I am sure, and would sleep at home, and need never\ncome upstairs, so as to know who is in the house.'\n\n'As you please. As Dixon pleases. But, Margaret, don't get to use these\nhorrid Milton words. \"Slack of work:\" it is a provincialism. What will\nyour aunt Shaw say, if she hears you use it on her return?'\n\n'Oh, mamma! don't try and make a bugbear of aunt Shaw' said Margaret,\nlaughing. 'Edith picked up all sorts of military slang from Captain\nLennox, and aunt Shaw never took any notice of it.'\n\n'But yours is factory slang.'\n\n'And if I live in a factory town, I must speak factory language when I\nwant it. Why, mamma, I could astonish you with a great many words you\nnever heard in your life. I don't believe you know what a knobstick is.'\n\n'Not I, child. I only know it has a very vulgar sound and I don't want\nto hear you using it.'\n\n'Very well, dearest mother, I won't. Only I shall have to use a whole\nexplanatory sentence instead.'\n\n'I don't like this Milton,' said Mrs. Hale. 'Edith is right enough in\nsaying it's the smoke that has made me so ill.'\n\nMargaret started up as her mother said this. Her father had just entered\nthe room, and she was most anxious that the faint impression she had\nseen on his mind that the Milton air had injured her mother's health,\nshould not be deepened,--should not receive any confirmation. She could\nnot tell whether he had heard what Mrs. Hale had said or not; but she\nbegan speaking hurriedly of other things, unaware that Mr. Thornton was\nfollowing him.\n\n'Mamma is accusing me of having picked up a great deal of vulgarity\nsince we came to Milton.'\n\nThe 'vulgarity' Margaret spoke of, referred purely to the use of local\nwords, and the expression arose out of the conversation they had just\nbeen holding. But Mr. Thornton's brow darkened; and Margaret suddenly\nfelt how her speech might be misunderstood by him; so, in the natural\nsweet desire to avoid giving unnecessary pain, she forced herself to go\nforwards with a little greeting, and continue what she was saying,\naddressing herself to him expressly.\n\n'Now, Mr. Thornton, though \"knobstick\" has not a very pretty sound, is\nit not expressive? Could I do without it, in speaking of the thing it\nrepresents? If using local words is vulgar, I was very vulgar in the\nForest,--was I not, mamma?'\n\nIt was unusual with Margaret to obtrude her own subject of conversation\non others; but, in this case, she was so anxious to prevent Mr. Thornton\nfrom feeling annoyance at the words he had accidentally overheard, that\nit was not until she had done speaking that she coloured all over with\nconsciousness, more especially as Mr. Thornton seemed hardly to\nunderstand the exact gist or bearing of what she was saying, but passed\nher by, with a cold reserve of ceremonious movement, to speak to Mrs.\nHale.\n\nThe sight of him reminded her of the wish to see his mother, and commend\nMargaret to her care. Margaret, sitting in burning silence, vexed and\nashamed of her difficulty in keeping her right place, and her calm\nunconsciousness of heart, when Mr. Thornton was by, heard her mother's\nslow entreaty that Mrs. Thornton would come and see her; see her soon;\nto-morrow, if it were possible. Mr. Thornton promised that she\nshould--conversed a little, and then took his leave; and Margaret's\nmovements and voice seemed at once released from some invisible chains.\nHe never looked at her; and yet, the careful avoidance of his eyes\nbetokened that in some way he knew exactly where, if they fell by\nchance, they would rest on her. If she spoke, he gave no sign of\nattention, and yet his next speech to any one else was modified by what\nshe had said; sometimes there was an express answer to what she had\nremarked, but given to another person as though unsuggested by her. It\nwas not the bad manners of ignorance; it was the wilful bad manners\narising from deep offence. It was wilful at the time, repented of\nafterwards. But no deep plan, no careful cunning could have stood him in\nsuch good stead. Margaret thought about him more than she had ever done\nbefore; not with any tinge of what is called love, but with regret that\nshe had wounded him so deeply,--and with a gentle, patient striving to\nreturn to their former position of antagonistic friendship; for a\nfriend's position was what she found that he had held in her regard, as\nwell as in that of the rest of the family. There was a pretty humility\nin her behaviour to him, as if mutely apologising for the over-strong\nwords which were the reaction from the deeds of the day of the riot.\n\nBut he resented those words bitterly. They rung in his ears; and he was\nproud of the sense of justice which made him go on in every kindness he\ncould offer to her parents. He exulted in the power he showed in\ncompelling himself to face her, whenever he could think of any action\nwhich might give her father or mother pleasure. He thought that he\ndisliked seeing one who had mortified him so keenly; but he was\nmistaken. It was a stinging pleasure to be in the room with her, and\nfeel her presence. But he was no great analyser of his own motives, and\nwas mistaken as I have said.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXX\n\nHOME AT LAST\n\n    'The saddest birds a season find to sing.'\n             SOUTHWELL.\n\n    'Never to fold the robe o'er secret pain,\n     Never, weighed down by memory's clouds again,\n     To bow thy head! Thou art gone home!'\n             MRS. HEMANS.\n\n\nMrs. Thornton came to see Mrs. Hale the next morning. She was much\nworse. One of those sudden changes--those great visible strides towards\ndeath, had been taken in the night, and her own family were startled by\nthe gray sunken look her features had assumed in that one twelve hours\nof suffering. Mrs. Thornton--who had not seen her for weeks--was\nsoftened all at once. She had come because her son asked it from her as\na personal favour, but with all the proud bitter feelings of her nature\nin arms against that family of which Margaret formed one. She doubted\nthe reality of Mrs. Hale's illness; she doubted any want beyond a\nmomentary fancy on that lady's part, which should take her out of her\npreviously settled course of employment for the day. She told her son\nthat she wished they had never come near the place; that he had never\ngot acquainted with them; that there had been no such useless languages\nas Latin and Greek ever invented. He bore all this pretty silently; but\nwhen she had ended her invective against the dead languages, he quietly\nreturned to the short, curt, decided expression of his wish that she\nshould go and see Mrs. Hale at the time appointed, as most likely to be\nconvenient to the invalid. Mrs. Thornton submitted with as bad a grace\nas she could to her son's desire, all the time liking him the better for\nhaving it; and exaggerating in her own mind the same notion that he had\nof extraordinary goodness on his part in so perseveringly keeping up\nwith the Hales.\n\nHis goodness verging on weakness (as all the softer virtues did in her\nmind), and her own contempt for Mr. and Mrs. Hale, and positive dislike\nto Margaret, were the ideas which occupied Mrs. Thornton, till she was\nstruck into nothingness before the dark shadow of the wings of the angel\nof death. There lay Mrs. Hale--a mother like herself--a much younger\nwoman than she was,--on the bed from which there was no sign of hope\nthat she might ever rise again. No more variety of light and shade for\nher in that darkened room; no power of action, scarcely change of\nmovement; faint alternations of whispered sound and studious silence;\nand yet that monotonous life seemed almost too much! When Mrs. Thornton,\nstrong and prosperous with life, came in, Mrs. Hale lay still, although\nfrom the look on her face she was evidently conscious of who it was. But\nshe did not even open her eyes for a minute or two. The heavy moisture\nof tears stood on the eye-lashes before she looked up, then with her\nhand groping feebly over the bed-clothes, for the touch of Mrs.\nThornton's large firm fingers, she said, scarcely above her breath--Mrs.\nThornton had to stoop from her erectness to listen,--\n\n'Margaret--you have a daughter--my sister is in Italy. My child will be\nwithout a mother;--in a strange place,--if I die--will you'----\n\nAnd her filmy wandering eyes fixed themselves with an intensity of\nwistfulness on Mrs. Thornton's face. For a minute, there was no change\nin its rigidness; it was stern and unmoved;--nay, but that the eyes of\nthe sick woman were growing dim with the slow-gathering tears, she might\nhave seen a dark cloud cross the cold features. And it was no thought of\nher son, or of her living daughter Fanny, that stirred her heart at\nlast; but a sudden remembrance, suggested by something in the\narrangement of the room,--of a little daughter--dead in infancy--long\nyears ago--that, like a sudden sunbeam, melted the icy crust, behind\nwhich there was a real tender woman.\n\n'You wish me to be a friend to Miss Hale,' said Mrs. Thornton, in her\nmeasured voice, that would not soften with her heart, but came out\ndistinct and clear.\n\nMrs. Hale, her eyes still fixed on Mrs. Thornton's face, pressed the\nhand that lay below hers on the coverlet. She could not speak. Mrs.\nThornton sighed, 'I will be a true friend, if circumstances require it.\nNot a tender friend. That I cannot be,'--('to her,' she was on the point\nof adding, but she relented at the sight of that poor, anxious\nface.)--'It is not my nature to show affection even where I feel it, nor\ndo I volunteer advice in general. Still, at your request,--if it will be\nany comfort to you, I will promise you.' Then came a pause. Mrs.\nThornton was too conscientious to promise what she did not mean to\nperform; and to perform any-thing in the way of kindness on behalf of\nMargaret, more disliked at this moment than ever, was difficult; almost\nimpossible.\n\n'I promise,' said she, with grave severity; which, after all, inspired\nthe dying woman with faith as in something more stable than life\nitself,--flickering, flitting, wavering life! 'I promise that in any\ndifficulty in which Miss Hale'----\n\n'Call her Margaret!' gasped Mrs. Hale.\n\n'In which she comes to me for help, I will help her with every power I\nhave, as if she were my own daughter. I also promise that if ever I see\nher doing what I think is wrong'----\n\n'But Margaret never does wrong--not wilfully wrong,' pleaded Mrs. Hale.\nMrs. Thornton went on as before; as if she had not heard:\n\n'If ever I see her doing what I believe to be wrong--such wrong not\ntouching me or mine, in which case I might be supposed to have an\ninterested motive--I will tell her of it, faithfully and plainly, as I\nshould wish my own daughter to be told.'\n\nThere was a long pause. Mrs. Hale felt that this promise did not include\nall; and yet it was much. It had reservations in it which she did not\nunderstand; but then she was weak, dizzy, and tired. Mrs. Thornton was\nreviewing all the probable cases in which she had pledged herself to\nact. She had a fierce pleasure in the idea of telling Margaret unwelcome\ntruths, in the shape of performance of duty. Mrs. Hale began to speak:\n\n'I thank you. I pray God to bless you. I shall never see you again in\nthis world. But my last words are, I thank you for your promise of\nkindness to my child.'\n\n'Not kindness!' testified Mrs. Thornton, ungraciously truthful to the\nlast. But having eased her conscience by saying these words, she was not\nsorry that they were not heard. She pressed Mrs. Hale's soft languid\nhand; and rose up and went her way out of the house without seeing a\ncreature.\n\nDuring the time that Mrs. Thornton was having this interview with Mrs.\nHale, Margaret and Dixon were laying their heads together, and\nconsulting how they should keep Frederick's coming a profound secret to\nall out of the house. A letter from him might now be expected any day;\nand he would assuredly follow quickly on its heels. Martha must be sent\naway on her holiday; Dixon must keep stern guard on the front door, only\nadmitting the few visitors that ever came to the house into Mr. Hale's\nroom down-stairs--Mrs. Hale's extreme illness giving her a good excuse\nfor this. If Mary Higgins was required as a help to Dixon in the kitchen\nshe was to hear and see as little of Frederick as possible; and he was,\nif necessary to be spoken of to her under the name of Mr. Dickinson. But\nher sluggish and incurious nature was the greatest safeguard of all.\n\nThey resolved that Martha should leave them that very afternoon for this\nvisit to her mother. Margaret wished that she had been sent away on the\nprevious day, as she fancied it might be thought strange to give a\nservant a holiday when her mistress's state required so much attendance.\n\nPoor Margaret! All that afternoon she had to act the part of a Roman\ndaughter, and give strength out of her own scanty stock to her father.\nMr. Hale would hope, would not despair, between the attacks of his\nwife's malady; he buoyed himself up in every respite from her pain, and\nbelieved that it was the beginning of ultimate recovery. And so, when\nthe paroxysms came on, each more severe than the last, they were fresh\nagonies, and greater disappointments to him. This afternoon, he sat in\nthe drawing-room, unable to bear the solitude of his study, or to employ\nhimself in any way. He buried his head in his arms, which lay folded on\nthe table. Margaret's heart ached to see him; yet, as he did not speak,\nshe did not like to volunteer any attempt at comfort. Martha was gone.\nDixon sat with Mrs. Hale while she slept. The house was very still and\nquiet, and darkness came on, without any movement to procure candles.\nMargaret sat at the window, looking out at the lamps and the street, but\nseeing nothing,--only alive to her father's heavy sighs. She did not\nlike to go down for lights, lest the tacit restraint of her presence\nbeing withdrawn, he might give way to more violent emotion, without her\nbeing at hand to comfort him. Yet she was just thinking that she ought\nto go and see after the well-doing of the kitchen fire, which there was\nnobody but herself to attend to when she heard the muffled door-ring\nwith so violent a pull, that the wires jingled all through the house,\nthough the positive sound was not great. She started up, passed her\nfather, who had never moved at the veiled, dull sound,--returned, and\nkissed him tenderly. And still he never moved, nor took any notice of\nher fond embrace. Then she went down softly, through the dark, to the\ndoor. Dixon would have put the chain on before she opened it, but\nMargaret had not a thought of fear in her pre-occupied mind. A man's\ntall figure stood between her and the luminous street. He was looking\naway; but at the sound of the latch he turned quickly round.\n\n'Is this Mr. Hale's?' said he, in a clear, full, delicate voice.\n\nMargaret trembled all over; at first she did not answer. In a moment she\nsighed out,\n\n'Frederick!' and stretched out both her hands to catch his, and draw him\nin.\n\n'Oh, Margaret!' said he, holding her off by her shoulders, after they\nhad kissed each other, as if even in that darkness he could see her\nface, and read in its expression a quicker answer to his question than\nwords could give,--\n\n'My mother! is she alive?'\n\n'Yes, she is alive, dear, dear brother! She--as ill as she can be she\nis; but alive! She is alive!'\n\n'Thank God!' said he.\n\n'Papa is utterly prostrate with this great grief.'\n\n'You expect me, don't you?'\n\n'No, we have had no letter.'\n\n'Then I have come before it. But my mother knows I am coming?'\n\n'Oh! we all knew you would come. But wait a little! Step in here. Give\nme your hand. What is this? Oh! your carpet-bag. Dixon has shut the\nshutters; but this is papa's study, and I can take you to a chair to\nrest yourself for a few minutes; while I go and tell him.'\n\nShe groped her way to the taper and the lucifer matches. She suddenly\nfelt shy, when the little feeble light made them visible. All she could\nsee was, that her brother's face was unusually dark in complexion, and\nshe caught the stealthy look of a pair of remarkably long-cut blue eyes,\nthat suddenly twinkled up with a droll consciousness of their mutual\npurpose of inspecting each other. But though the brother and sister had\nan instant of sympathy in their reciprocal glances, they did not\nexchange a word; only, Margaret felt sure that she should like her\nbrother as a companion as much as she already loved him as a near\nrelation. Her heart was wonderfully lighter as she went up-stairs; the\nsorrow was no less in reality, but it became less oppressive from having\nsome one in precisely the same relation to it as that in which she\nstood. Not her father's desponding attitude had power to damp her now.\nHe lay across the table, helpless as ever; but she had the spell by\nwhich to rouse him. She used it perhaps too violently in her own great\nrelief.\n\n'Papa,' said she, throwing her arms fondly round his neck; pulling his\nweary head up in fact with her gentle violence, till it rested in her\narms, and she could look into his eyes, and let them gain strength and\nassurance from hers.\n\n'Papa! guess who is here!'\n\nHe looked at her; she saw the idea of the truth glimmer into their filmy\nsadness, and be dismissed thence as a wild imagination.\n\nHe threw himself forward, and hid his face once more in his\nstretched-out arms, resting upon the table as heretofore. She heard him\nwhisper; she bent tenderly down to listen. 'I don't know. Don't tell me\nit is Frederick--not Frederick. I cannot bear it,--I am too weak. And\nhis mother is dying!' He began to cry and wail like a child. It was so\ndifferent to all which Margaret had hoped and expected, that she turned\nsick with disappointment, and was silent for an instant. Then she spoke\nagain--very differently--not so exultingly, far more tenderly and\ncarefully.\n\n'Papa, it is Frederick! Think of mamma, how glad she will be! And oh,\nfor her sake, how glad we ought to be! For his sake, too,--our poor,\npoor boy!'\n\nHer father did not change his attitude, but he seemed to be trying to\nunderstand the fact.\n\n'Where is he?' asked he at last, his face still hidden in his prostrate\narms.\n\n'In your study, quite alone. I lighted the taper, and ran up to tell\nyou. He is quite alone, and will be wondering why--'\n\n'I will go to him,' broke in her father; and he lifted himself up and\nleant on her arm as on that of a guide.\n\nMargaret led him to the study door, but her spirits were so agitated\nthat she felt she could not bear to see the meeting. She turned away,\nand ran up-stairs, and cried most heartily. It was the first time she\nhad dared to allow herself this relief for days. The strain had been\nterrible, as she now felt. But Frederick was come! He, the one precious\nbrother, was there, safe, amongst them again! She could hardly believe\nit. She stopped her crying, and opened her bedroom door. She heard no\nsound of voices, and almost feared she might have dreamt. She went\ndown-stairs, and listened at the study door. She heard the buzz of\nvoices; and that was enough. She went into the kitchen, and stirred up\nthe fire, and lighted the house, and prepared for the wanderer's\nrefreshment. How fortunate it was that her mother slept! She knew that\nshe did, from the candle-lighter thrust through the keyhole of her\nbedroom door. The traveller could be refreshed and bright, and the first\nexcitement of the meeting with his father all be over, before her mother\nbecame aware of anything unusual.\n\nWhen all was ready, Margaret opened the study door, and went in like a\nserving-maiden, with a heavy tray held in her extended arms. She was\nproud of serving Frederick. But he, when he saw her, sprang up in a\nminute, and relieved her of her burden. It was a type, a sign, of all\nthe coming relief which his presence would bring. The brother and sister\narranged the table together, saying little, but their hands touching,\nand their eyes speaking the natural language of expression, so\nintelligible to those of the same blood. The fire had gone out; and\nMargaret applied herself to light it, for the evenings had begun to be\nchilly; and yet it was desirable to make all noises as distant as\npossible from Mrs. Hale's room.\n\n'Dixon says it is a gift to light a fire; not an art to be acquired.'\n\n'Poeta nascitur, non fit,' murmured Mr. Hale; and Margaret was glad to\nhear a quotation once more, however languidly given.\n\n'Dear old Dixon! How we shall kiss each other!' said Frederick. 'She\nused to kiss me, and then look in my face to be sure I was the right\nperson, and then set to again! But, Margaret, what a bungler you are! I\nnever saw such a little awkward, good-for-nothing pair of hands. Run\naway, and wash them, ready to cut bread-and-butter for me, and leave the\nfire. I'll manage it. Lighting fires is one of my natural\naccomplishments.'\n\nSo Margaret went away; and returned; and passed in and out of the room,\nin a glad restlessness that could not be satisfied with sitting still.\nThe more wants Frederick had, the better she was pleased; and he\nunderstood all this by instinct. It was a joy snatched in the house of\nmourning, and the zest of it was all the more pungent, because they knew\nin the depths of their hearts what irremediable sorrow awaited them.\n\nIn the middle, they heard Dixon's foot on the stairs. Mr. Hale started\nfrom his languid posture in his great armchair, from which he had been\nwatching his children in a dreamy way, as if they were acting some drama\nof happiness, which it was pretty to look at, but which was distinct\nfrom reality, and in which he had no part. He stood up, and faced the\ndoor, showing such a strange, sudden anxiety to conceal Frederick from\nthe sight of any person entering, even though it were the faithful\nDixon, that a shiver came over Margaret's heart: it reminded her of the\nnew fear in their lives. She caught at Frederick's arm, and clutched it\ntight, while a stern thought compressed her brows, and caused her to set\nher teeth. And yet they knew it was only Dixon's measured tread. They\nheard her walk the length of the passage, into the kitchen. Margaret\nrose up.\n\n'I will go to her, and tell her. And I shall hear how mamma is.' Mrs.\nHale was awake. She rambled at first; but after they had given her some\ntea she was refreshed, though not disposed to talk. It was better that\nthe night should pass over before she was told of her son's arrival. Dr.\nDonaldson's appointed visit would bring nervous excitement enough for\nthe evening; and he might tell them how to prepare her for seeing\nFrederick. He was there, in the house; could be summoned at any moment.\n\nMargaret could not sit still. It was a relief to her to aid Dixon in all\nher preparations for 'Master Frederick.' It seemed as though she never\ncould be tired again. Each glimpse into the room where he sate by his\nfather, conversing with him, about, she knew not what, nor cared to\nknow,--was increase of strength to her. Her own time for talking and\nhearing would come at last, and she was too certain of this to feel in a\nhurry to grasp it now. She took in his appearance and liked it. He had\ndelicate features, redeemed from effeminacy by the swarthiness of his\ncomplexion, and his quick intensity of expression. His eyes were\ngenerally merry-looking, but at times they and his mouth so suddenly\nchanged, and gave her such an idea of latent passion, that it almost\nmade her afraid. But this look was only for an instant; and had in it no\ndoggedness, no vindictiveness; it was rather the instantaneous ferocity\nof expression that comes over the countenances of all natives of wild or\nsouthern countries--a ferocity which enhances the charm of the childlike\nsoftness into which such a look may melt away. Margaret might fear the\nviolence of the impulsive nature thus occasionally betrayed, but there\nwas nothing in it to make her distrust, or recoil in the least, from the\nnew-found brother. On the contrary, all their intercourse was peculiarly\ncharming to her from the very first. She knew then how much\nresponsibility she had had to bear, from the exquisite sensation of\nrelief which she felt in Frederick's presence. He understood his father\nand mother--their characters and their weaknesses, and went along with a\ncareless freedom, which was yet most delicately careful not to hurt or\nwound any of their feelings. He seemed to know instinctively when a\nlittle of the natural brilliancy of his manner and conversation would\nnot jar on the deep depression of his father, or might relieve his\nmother's pain. Whenever it would have been out of tune, and out of time,\nhis patient devotion and watchfulness came into play, and made him an\nadmirable nurse. Then Margaret was almost touched into tears by the\nallusions which he often made to their childish days in the New Forest;\nhe had never forgotten her--or Helstone either--all the time he had been\nroaming among distant countries and foreign people. She might talk to\nhim of the old spot, and never fear tiring him. She had been afraid of\nhim before he came, even while she had longed for his coming; seven or\neight years had, she felt, produced such great changes in herself that,\nforgetting how much of the original Margaret was left, she had reasoned\nthat if her tastes and feelings had so materially altered, even in her\nstay-at-home life, his wild career, with which she was but imperfectly\nacquainted, must have almost substituted another Frederick for the tall\nstripling in his middy's uniform, whom she remembered looking up to with\nsuch admiring awe. But in their absence they had grown nearer to each\nother in age, as well as in many other things. And so it was that the\nweight, this sorrowful time, was lightened to Margaret. Other light than\nthat of Frederick's presence she had none. For a few hours, the mother\nrallied on seeing her son. She sate with his hand in hers; she would not\npart with it even while she slept; and Margaret had to feed him like a\nbaby, rather than that he should disturb her mother by removing a\nfinger. Mrs. Hale wakened while they were thus engaged; she slowly moved\nher head round on the pillow, and smiled at her children, as she\nunderstood what they were doing, and why it was done.\n\n'I am very selfish,' said she; 'but it will not be for long.' Frederick\nbent down and kissed the feeble hand that imprisoned his.\n\nThis state of tranquillity could not endure for many days, nor perhaps\nfor many hours; so Dr. Donaldson assured Margaret. After the kind doctor\nhad gone away, she stole down to Frederick, who, during the visit, had\nbeen adjured to remain quietly concealed in the back parlour, usually\nDixon's bedroom, but now given up to him.\n\nMargaret told him what Dr. Donaldson said.\n\n'I don't believe it,' he exclaimed. 'She is very ill; she may be\ndangerously ill, and in immediate danger, too; but I can't imagine that\nshe could be as she is, if she were on the point of death. Margaret! she\nshould have some other advice--some London doctor. Have you never\nthought of that?'\n\n'Yes,' said Margaret, 'more than once. But I don't believe it would do\nany good. And, you know, we have not the money to bring any great London\nsurgeon down, and I am sure Dr. Donaldson is only second in skill to the\nvery best,--if, indeed, he is to them.'\n\nFrederick began to walk up and down the room impatiently.\n\n'I have credit in Cadiz,' said he, 'but none here, owing to this\nwretched change of name. Why did my father leave Helstone? That was the\nblunder.'\n\n'It was no blunder,' said Margaret gloomily. 'And above all possible\nchances, avoid letting papa hear anything like what you have just been\nsaying. I can see that he is tormenting himself already with the idea\nthat mamma would never have been ill if we had stayed at Helstone, and\nyou don't know papa's agonising power of self-reproach!'\n\nFrederick walked away as if he were on the quarter-deck. At last he\nstopped right opposite to Margaret, and looked at her drooping and\ndesponding attitude for an instant.\n\n'My little Margaret!' said he, caressing her. 'Let us hope as long as we\ncan. Poor little woman! what! is this face all wet with tears? I will\nhope. I will, in spite of a thousand doctors. Bear up, Margaret, and be\nbrave enough to hope!'\n\nMargaret choked in trying to speak, and when she did it was very low.\n\n'I must try to be meek enough to trust. Oh, Frederick! mamma was getting\nto love me so! And I was getting to understand her. And now comes death\nto snap us asunder!'\n\n'Come, come, come! Let us go up-stairs, and do something, rather than\nwaste time that may be so precious. Thinking has, many a time, made me\nsad, darling; but doing never did in all my life. My theory is a sort of\nparody on the maxim of \"Get money, my son, honestly if you can; but get\nmoney.\" My precept is, \"Do something, my sister, do good if you can;\nbut, at any rate, do something.\"'\n\n'Not excluding mischief,' said Margaret, smiling faintly through her\ntears.\n\n'By no means. What I do exclude is the remorse afterwards. Blot your\nmisdeeds out (if you are particularly conscientious), by a good deed, as\nsoon as you can; just as we did a correct sum at school on the slate,\nwhere an incorrect one was only half rubbed out. It was better than\nwetting our sponge with our tears; both less loss of time where tears\nhad to be waited for, and a better effect at last.'\n\nIf Margaret thought Frederick's theory rather a rough one at first, she\nsaw how he worked it out into continual production of kindness in fact.\nAfter a bad night with his mother (for he insisted on taking his turn as\na sitter-up) he was busy next morning before breakfast, contriving a\nleg-rest for Dixon, who was beginning to feel the fatigues of watching.\nAt breakfast-time, he interested Mr. Hale with vivid, graphic, rattling\naccounts of the wild life he had led in Mexico, South America, and\nelsewhere. Margaret would have given up the effort in despair to rouse\nMr. Hale out of his dejection; it would even have affected herself and\nrendered her incapable of talking at all. But Fred, true to his theory,\ndid something perpetually; and talking was the only thing to be done,\nbesides eating, at breakfast.\n\nBefore the night of that day, Dr. Donaldson's opinion was proved to be\ntoo well founded. Convulsions came on; and when they ceased, Mrs. Hale\nwas unconscious. Her husband might lie by her shaking the bed with his\nsobs; her son's strong arms might lift her tenderly up into a\ncomfortable position; her daughter's hands might bathe her face; but she\nknew them not. She would never recognise them again, till they met in\nHeaven.\n\nBefore the morning came all was over.\n\nThen Margaret rose from her trembling and despondency, and became as a\nstrong angel of comfort to her father and brother. For Frederick had\nbroken down now, and all his theories were of no use to him. He cried so\nviolently when shut up alone in his little room at night, that Margaret\nand Dixon came down in affright to warn him to be quiet: for the house\npartitions were but thin, and the next-door neighbours might easily hear\nhis youthful passionate sobs, so different from the slower trembling\nagony of after-life, when we become inured to grief, and dare not be\nrebellious against the inexorable doom, knowing who it is that decrees.\n\nMargaret sate with her father in the room with the dead. If he had\ncried, she would have been thankful. But he sate by the bed quite\nquietly; only, from time to time, he uncovered the face, and stroked it\ngently, making a kind of soft inarticulate noise, like that of some\nmother-animal caressing her young. He took no notice of Margaret's\npresence. Once or twice she came up to kiss him; and he submitted to it,\ngiving her a little push away when she had done, as if her affection\ndisturbed him from his absorption in the dead. He started when he heard\nFrederick's cries, and shook his head:--'Poor boy! poor boy!' he said,\nand took no more notice. Margaret's heart ached within her. She could\nnot think of her own loss in thinking of her father's case. The night\nwas wearing away, and the day was at hand, when, without a word of\npreparation, Margaret's voice broke upon the stillness of the room, with\na clearness of sound that startled even herself: 'Let not your heart be\ntroubled,' it said; and she went steadily on through all that chapter of\nunspeakable consolation.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXI\n\n'SHOULD AULD ACQUAINTANCE BE FORGOT?'\n\n    'Show not that manner, and these features all,\n     The serpent's cunning, and the sinner's fall?'\n             CRABBE.\n\n\nThe chill, shivery October morning came; not the October morning of the\ncountry, with soft, silvery mists, clearing off before the sunbeams that\nbring out all the gorgeous beauty of colouring, but the October morning\nof Milton, whose silver mists were heavy fogs, and where the sun could\nonly show long dusky streets when he did break through and shine.\nMargaret went languidly about, assisting Dixon in her task of arranging\nthe house. Her eyes were continually blinded by tears, but she had no\ntime to give way to regular crying. The father and brother depended upon\nher; while they were giving way to grief, she must be working, planning,\nconsidering. Even the necessary arrangements for the funeral seemed to\ndevolve upon her.\n\nWhen the fire was bright and crackling--when everything was ready for\nbreakfast, and the tea-kettle was singing away, Margaret gave a last\nlook round the room before going to summon Mr. Hale and Frederick. She\nwanted everything to look as cheerful as possible; and yet, when it did\nso, the contrast between it and her own thoughts forced her into sudden\nweeping. She was kneeling by the sofa, hiding her face in the cushions\nthat no one might hear her cry, when she was touched on the shoulder by\nDixon.\n\n'Come, Miss Hale--come, my dear! You must not give way, or where shall\nwe all be? There is not another person in the house fit to give a\ndirection of any kind, and there is so much to be done. There's who's to\nmanage the funeral; and who's to come to it; and where it's to be; and\nall to be settled: and Master Frederick's like one crazed with crying,\nand master never was a good one for settling; and, poor gentleman, he\ngoes about now as if he was lost. It's bad enough, my dear, I know; but\ndeath comes to us all; and you're well off never to have lost any friend\ntill now.' Perhaps so. But this seemed a loss by itself; not to bear\ncomparison with any other event in the world. Margaret did not take any\ncomfort from what Dixon said, but the unusual tenderness of the prim old\nservant's manner touched her to the heart; and, more from a desire to\nshow her gratitude for this than for any other reason, she roused\nherself up, and smiled in answer to Dixon's anxious look at her; and\nwent to tell her father and brother that breakfast was ready.\n\nMr. Hale came--as if in a dream, or rather with the unconscious motion\nof a sleep-walker, whose eyes and mind perceive other things than what\nare present. Frederick came briskly in, with a forced cheerfulness,\ngrasped her hand, looked into her eyes, and burst into tears. She had to\ntry and think of little nothings to say all breakfast-time, in order to\nprevent the recurrence of her companions' thoughts too strongly to the\nlast meal they had taken together, when there had been a continual\nstrained listening for some sound or signal from the sick-room.\n\nAfter breakfast, she resolved to speak to her father, about the funeral.\nHe shook his head, and assented to all she proposed, though many of her\npropositions absolutely contradicted one another. Margaret gained no\nreal decision from him; and was leaving the room languidly, to have a\nconsultation with Dixon, when Mr. Hale motioned her back to his side.\n\n'Ask Mr. Bell,' said he in a hollow voice.\n\n'Mr. Bell!' said she, a little surprised. 'Mr. Bell of Oxford?'\n\n'Mr. Bell,' he repeated. 'Yes. He was my groom's-man.'\n\nMargaret understood the association.\n\n'I will write to-day,' said she. He sank again into listlessness. All\nmorning she toiled on, longing for rest, but in a continual whirl of\nmelancholy business.\n\nTowards evening, Dixon said to her:\n\n'I've done it, miss. I was really afraid for master, that he'd have a\nstroke with grief. He's been all this day with poor missus; and when\nI've listened at the door, I've heard him talking to her, and talking to\nher, as if she was alive. When I went in he would be quite quiet, but\nall in a maze like. So I thought to myself, he ought to be roused; and\nif it gives him a shock at first, it will, maybe, be the better\nafterwards. So I've been and told him, that I don't think it's safe for\nMaster Frederick to be here. And I don't. It was only on Tuesday, when I\nwas out, that I met a Southampton man--the first I've seen since I came\nto Milton; they don't make their way much up here, I think. Well, it was\nyoung Leonards, old Leonards the draper's son, as great a scamp as ever\nlived--who plagued his father almost to death, and then ran off to sea.\nI never could abide him. He was in the Orion at the same time as Master\nFrederick, I know; though I don't recollect if he was there at the\nmutiny.'\n\n'Did he know you?' said Margaret, eagerly.\n\n'Why, that's the worst of it. I don't believe he would have known me but\nfor my being such a fool as to call out his name. He were a Southampton\nman, in a strange place, or else I should never have been so ready to\ncall cousins with him, a nasty, good-for-nothing fellow. Says he, \"Miss\nDixon! who would ha' thought of seeing you here? But perhaps I mistake,\nand you're Miss Dixon no longer?\" So I told him he might still address\nme as an unmarried lady, though if I hadn't been so particular, I'd had\ngood chances of matrimony. He was polite enough: \"He couldn't look at me\nand doubt me.\" But I were not to be caught with such chaff from such a\nfellow as him, and so I told him; and, by way of being even, I asked him\nafter his father (who I knew had turned him out of doors), as if they\nwas the best friends as ever was. So then, to spite me--for you see we\nwere getting savage, for all we were so civil to each other--he began to\ninquire after Master Frederick, and said, what a scrape he'd got into\n(as if Master Frederick's scrapes would ever wash George Leonards'\nwhite, or make 'em look otherwise than nasty, dirty black), and how he'd\nbe hung for mutiny if ever he were caught, and how a hundred pound\nreward had been offered for catching him, and what a disgrace he had\nbeen to his family--all to spite me, you see, my dear, because before\nnow I've helped old Mr. Leonards to give George a good rating, down in\nSouthampton. So I said, there were other families be thankful if they\ncould think they were earning an honest living as I knew, who had far\nmore cause to blush for their sons, and to far away from home. To which\nhe made answer, like the impudent chap he is, that he were in a\nconfidential situation, and if I knew of any young man who had been so\nunfortunate as to lead vicious courses, and wanted to turn steady, he'd\nhave no objection to lend him his patronage. He, indeed! Why, he'd\ncorrupt a saint. I've not felt so bad myself for years as when I were\nstanding talking to him the other day. I could have cried to think I\ncouldn't spite him better, for he kept smiling in my face, as if he took\nall my compliments for earnest; and I couldn't see that he minded what I\nsaid in the least, while I was mad with all his speeches.'\n\n'But you did not tell him anything about us--about Frederick?'\n\n'Not I,' said Dixon. 'He had never the grace to ask where I was staying;\nand I shouldn't have told him if he had asked. Nor did I ask him what\nhis precious situation was. He was waiting for a bus, and just then it\ndrove up, and he hailed it. But, to plague me to the last, he turned\nback before he got in, and said, \"If you can help me to trap Lieutenant\nHale, Miss Dixon, we'll go partners in the reward. I know you'd like to\nbe my partner, now wouldn't you? Don't be shy, but say yes.\" And he\njumped on the bus, and I saw his ugly face leering at me with a wicked\nsmile to think how he'd had the last word of plaguing.'\n\nMargaret was made very uncomfortable by this account of Dixon's.\n\n'Have you told Frederick?' asked she.\n\n'No,' said Dixon. 'I were uneasy in my mind at knowing that bad Leonards\nwas in town; but there was so much else to think about that I did not\ndwell on it at all. But when I saw master sitting so stiff, and with his\neyes so glazed and sad, I thought it might rouse him to have to think of\nMaster Frederick's safety a bit. So I told him all, though I blushed to\nsay how a young man had been speaking to me. And it has done master\ngood. And if we're to keep Master Frederick in hiding, he would have to\ngo, poor fellow, before Mr. Bell came.'\n\n'Oh, I'm not afraid of Mr. Bell; but I am afraid of this Leonards. I\nmust tell Frederick. What did Leonards look like?'\n\n'A bad-looking fellow, I can assure you, miss. Whiskers such as I should\nbe ashamed to wear--they are so red. And for all he said he'd got a\nconfidential situation, he was dressed in fustian just like a\nworking-man.'\n\nIt was evident that Frederick must go. Go, too, when he had so\ncompletely vaulted into his place in the family, and promised to be such\na stay and staff to his father and sister. Go, when his cares for the\nliving mother, and sorrow for the dead, seemed to make him one of those\npeculiar people who are bound to us by a fellow-love for them that are\ntaken away. Just as Margaret was thinking all this, sitting over the\ndrawing-room fire--her father restless and uneasy under the pressure of\nthis newly-aroused fear, of which he had not as yet spoken--Frederick\ncame in, his brightness dimmed, but the extreme violence of his grief\npassed away. He came up to Margaret, and kissed her forehead.\n\n'How wan you look, Margaret!' said he in a low voice. 'You have been\nthinking of everybody, and no one has thought of you. Lie on this\nsofa--there is nothing for you to do.'\n\n'That is the worst,' said Margaret, in a sad whisper. But she went and\nlay down, and her brother covered her feet with a shawl, and then sate\non the ground by her side; and the two began to talk in a subdued tone.\n\nMargaret told him all that Dixon had related of her interview with young\nLeonards. Frederick's lips closed with a long whew of dismay.\n\n'I should just like to have it out with that young fellow. A worse\nsailor was never on board ship--nor a much worse man either. I declare,\nMargaret--you know the circumstances of the whole affair?'\n\n'Yes, mamma told me.'\n\n'Well, when all the sailors who were good for anything were indignant\nwith our captain, this fellow, to curry favour--pah! And to think of his\nbeing here! Oh, if he'd a notion I was within twenty miles of him, he'd\nferret me out to pay off old grudges. I'd rather anybody had the hundred\npounds they think I am worth than that rascal. What a pity poor old\nDixon could not be persuaded to give me up, and make a provision for her\nold age!'\n\n'Oh, Frederick, hush! Don't talk so.'\n\nMr. Hale came towards them, eager and trembling. He had overheard what\nthey were saying. He took Frederick's hand in both of his:\n\n'My boy, you must go. It is very bad--but I see you must. You have done\nall you could--you have been a comfort to her.'\n\n'Oh, papa, must he go?' said Margaret, pleading against her own\nconviction of necessity.\n\n'I declare, I've a good mind to face it out, and stand my trial. If I\ncould only pick up my evidence! I cannot endure the thought of being in\nthe power of such a blackguard as Leonards. I could almost have\nenjoyed--in other circumstances--this stolen visit: it has had all the\ncharm which the French-woman attributed to forbidden pleasures.'\n\n'One of the earliest things I can remember,' said Margaret, 'was your\nbeing in some great disgrace, Fred, for stealing apples. We had plenty\nof our own--trees loaded with them; but some one had told you that\nstolen fruit tasted sweetest, which you took au pied de la lettre, and\noff you went a-robbing. You have not changed your feelings much since\nthen.'\n\n'Yes--you must go,' repeated Mr. Hale, answering Margaret's question,\nwhich she had asked some time ago. His thoughts were fixed on one\nsubject, and it was an effort to him to follow the zig-zag remarks of\nhis children--an effort which he did not make.\n\nMargaret and Frederick looked at each other. That quick momentary\nsympathy would be theirs no longer if he went away. So much was\nunderstood through eyes that could not be put into words. Both coursed\nthe same thought till it was lost in sadness. Frederick shook it off\nfirst:\n\n'Do you know, Margaret, I was very nearly giving both Dixon and myself a\ngood fright this afternoon. I was in my bedroom; I had heard a ring at\nthe front door, but I thought the ringer must have done his business and\ngone away long ago; so I was on the point of making my appearance in the\npassage, when, as I opened my room door, I saw Dixon coming downstairs;\nand she frowned and kicked me into hiding again. I kept the door open,\nand heard a message given to some man that was in my father's study, and\nthat then went away. Who could it have been? Some of the shopmen?'\n\n'Very likely,' said Margaret, indifferently. 'There was a little quiet\nman who came up for orders about two o'clock.'\n\n'But this was not a little man--a great powerful fellow; and it was past\nfour when he was here.'\n\n'It was Mr. Thornton,' said Mr. Hale. They were glad to have drawn him\ninto the conversation.\n\n'Mr. Thornton!' said Margaret, a little surprised. 'I thought---- '\n\n'Well, little one, what did you think?' asked Frederick, as she did not\nfinish her sentence.\n\n'Oh, only,' said she, reddening and looking straight at him, 'I fancied\nyou meant some one of a different class, not a gentleman; somebody come\non an errand.'\n\n'He looked like some one of that kind,' said Frederick, carelessly. 'I\ntook him for a shopman, and he turns out a manufacturer.'\n\nMargaret was silent. She remembered how at first, before she knew his\ncharacter, she had spoken and thought of him just as Frederick was\ndoing. It was but a natural impression that was made upon him, and yet\nshe was a little annoyed by it. She was unwilling to speak; she wanted\nto make Frederick understand what kind of person Mr. Thornton was--but\nshe was tongue-tied.\n\nMr. Hale went on. 'He came to offer any assistance in his power, I\nbelieve. But I could not see him. I told Dixon to ask him if he would\nlike to see you--I think I asked her to find you, and you would go to\nhim. I don't know what I said.'\n\n'He has been a very agreeable acquaintance, has he not?' asked\nFrederick, throwing the question like a ball for any one to catch who\nchose.\n\n'A very kind friend,' said Margaret, when her father did not answer.\n\nFrederick was silent for a time. At last he spoke:\n\n'Margaret, it is painful to think I can never thank those who have shown\nyou kindness. Your acquaintances and mine must be separate. Unless,\nindeed, I run the chances of a court-martial, or unless you and my\nfather would come to Spain.' He threw out this last suggestion as a kind\nof feeler; and then suddenly made the plunge. 'You don't know how I wish\nyou would. I have a good position--the chance of a better,' continued\nhe, reddening like a girl. 'That Dolores Barbour that I was telling you\nof, Margaret--I only wish you knew her; I am sure you would like--no,\nlove is the right word, like is so poor--you would love her, father, if\nyou knew her. She is not eighteen; but if she is in the same mind\nanother year, she is to be my wife. Mr. Barbour won't let us call it an\nengagement. But if you would come, you would find friends everywhere,\nbesides Dolores. Think of it, father. Margaret, be on my side.'\n\n'No--no more removals for me,' said Mr. Hale. 'One removal has cost me\nmy wife. No more removals in this life. She will be here; and here will\nI stay out my appointed time.'\n\n'Oh, Frederick,' said Margaret, 'tell us more about her. I never thought\nof this; but I am so glad. You will have some one to love and care for\nyou out there. Tell us all about it.'\n\n'In the first place, she is a Roman Catholic. That's the only objection\nI anticipated. But my father's change of opinion--nay, Margaret, don't\nsigh.'\n\nMargaret had reason to sigh a little more before the conversation ended.\nFrederick himself was Roman Catholic in fact, though not in profession\nas yet. This was, then, the reason why his sympathy in her extreme\ndistress at her father's leaving the Church had been so faintly\nexpressed in his letters. She had thought it was the carelessness of a\nsailor; but the truth was, that even then he was himself inclined to\ngive up the form of religion into which he had been baptised, only that\nhis opinions were tending in exactly the opposite direction to those of\nhis father. How much love had to do with this change not even Frederick\nhimself could have told. Margaret gave up talking about this branch of\nthe subject at last; and, returning to the fact of the engagement, she\nbegan to consider it in some fresh light:\n\n'But for her sake, Fred, you surely will try and clear yourself of the\nexaggerated charges brought against you, even if the charge of mutiny\nitself be true. If there were to be a court-martial, and you could find\nyour witnesses, you might, at any rate, show how your disobedience to\nauthority was because that authority was unworthily exercised.'\n\nMr. Hale roused himself up to listen to his son's answer.\n\n'In the first place, Margaret, who is to hunt up my witnesses? All of\nthem are sailors, drafted off to other ships, except those whose\nevidence would go for very little, as they took part, or sympathised in\nthe affair. In the next place, allow me to tell you, you don't know what\na court-martial is, and consider it as an assembly where justice is\nadministered, instead of what it really is--a court where authority\nweighs nine-tenths in the balance, and evidence forms only the other\ntenth. In such cases, evidence itself can hardly escape being influenced\nby the prestige of authority.'\n\n'But is it not worth trying, to see how much evidence might be\ndiscovered and arrayed on your behalf? At present, all those who knew\nyou formerly, believe you guilty without any shadow of excuse. You have\nnever tried to justify yourself, and we have never known where to seek\nfor proofs of your justification. Now, for Miss Barbour's sake, make\nyour conduct as clear as you can in the eye of the world. She may not\ncare for it; she has, I am sure, that trust in you that we all have; but\nyou ought not to let her ally herself to one under such a serious\ncharge, without showing the world exactly how it is you stand. You\ndisobeyed authority--that was bad; but to have stood by, without word or\nact, while the authority was brutally used, would have been infinitely\nworse. People know what you did; but not the motives that elevate it out\nof a crime into an heroic protection of the weak. For Dolores' sake,\nthey ought to know.'\n\n'But how must I make them know? I am not sufficiently sure of the purity\nand justice of those who would be my judges, to give myself up to a\ncourt-martial, even if I could bring a whole array of truth-speaking\nwitnesses. I can't send a bellman about, to cry aloud and proclaim in\nthe streets what you are pleased to call my heroism. No one would read a\npamphlet of self-justification so long after the deed, even if I put one\nout.'\n\n'Will you consult a lawyer as to your chances of exculpation?' asked\nMargaret, looking up, and turning very red.\n\n'I must first catch my lawyer, and have a look at him, and see how I\nlike him, before I make him into my confidant. Many a briefless\nbarrister might twist his conscience into thinking that he could earn a\nhundred pounds very easily by doing a good action--in giving me, a\ncriminal, up to justice.'\n\n'Nonsense, Frederick!--because I know a lawyer on whose honour I can\nrely; of whose cleverness in his profession people speak very highly;\nand who would, I think, take a good deal of trouble for any of--of Aunt\nShaw's relations. Mr. Henry Lennox, papa.'\n\n'I think it is a good idea,' said Mr. Hale. 'But don't propose anything\nwhich will detain Frederick in England. Don't, for your mother's sake.'\n\n'You could go to London to-morrow evening by a night-train,' continued\nMargaret, warming up into her plan. 'He must go to-morrow, I'm afraid,\npapa,' said she, tenderly; 'we fixed that, because of Mr. Bell, and\nDixon's disagreeable acquaintance.'\n\n'Yes; I must go to-morrow,' said Frederick decidedly.\n\nMr. Hale groaned. 'I can't bear to part with you, and yet I am miserable\nwith anxiety as long as you stop here.'\n\n'Well then,' said Margaret, 'listen to my plan. He gets to London on\nFriday morning. I will--you might--no! it would be better for me to give\nhim a note to Mr. Lennox. You will find him at his chambers in the\nTemple.'\n\n'I will write down a list of all the names I can remember on board the\nOrion. I could leave it with him to ferret them out. He is Edith's\nhusband's brother, isn't he? I remember your naming him in your letters.\nI have money in Barbour's hands. I can pay a pretty long bill, if there\nis any chance of success. Money, dear father, that I had meant for a\ndifferent purpose; so I shall only consider it as borrowed from you and\nMargaret.'\n\n'Don't do that,' said Margaret. 'You won't risk it if you do. And it\nwill be a risk only it is worth trying. You can sail from London as well\nas from Liverpool?'\n\n'To be sure, little goose. Wherever I feel water heaving under a plank,\nthere I feel at home. I'll pick up some craft or other to take me off,\nnever fear. I won't stay twenty-four hours in London, away from you on\nthe one hand, and from somebody else on the other.'\n\nIt was rather a comfort to Margaret that Frederick took it into his head\nto look over her shoulder as she wrote to Mr. Lennox. If she had not\nbeen thus compelled to write steadily and concisely on, she might have\nhesitated over many a word, and been puzzled to choose between many an\nexpression, in the awkwardness of being the first to resume the\nintercourse of which the concluding event had been so unpleasant to both\nsides. However, the note was taken from her before she had even had time\nto look it over, and treasured up in a pocket-book, out of which fell a\nlong lock of black hair, the sight of which caused Frederick's eyes to\nglow with pleasure.\n\n'Now you would like to see that, wouldn't you?' said he. 'No! you must\nwait till you see her herself. She is too perfect to be known by\nfragments. No mean brick shall be a specimen of the building of my\npalace.'\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXII\n\nMISCHANCES\n\n    'What! remain to be\n     Denounced--dragged, it may be, in chains.'\n             WERNER.\n\n\nAll the next day they sate together--they three. Mr. Hale hardly ever\nspoke but when his children asked him questions, and forced him, as it\nwere, into the present. Frederick's grief was no more to be seen or\nheard; the first paroxysm had passed over, and now he was ashamed of\nhaving been so battered down by emotion; and though his sorrow for the\nloss of his mother was a deep real feeling, and would last out his life,\nit was never to be spoken of again. Margaret, not so passionate at\nfirst, was more suffering now. At times she cried a good deal; and her\nmanner, even when speaking on indifferent things, had a mournful\ntenderness about it, which was deepened whenever her looks fell on\nFrederick, and she thought of his rapidly approaching departure. She was\nglad he was going, on her father's account, however much she might\ngrieve over it on her own. The anxious terror in which Mr. Hale lived\nlest his son should be detected and captured, far out-weighed the\npleasure he derived from his presence. The nervousness had increased\nsince Mrs. Hale's death, probably because he dwelt upon it more\nexclusively. He started at every unusual sound; and was never\ncomfortable unless Frederick sate out of the immediate view of any one\nentering the room. Towards evening he said:\n\n'You will go with Frederick to the station, Margaret? I shall want to\nknow he is safely off. You will bring me word that he is clear of\nMilton, at any rate?'\n\n'Certainly,' said Margaret. 'I shall like it, if you won't be lonely\nwithout me, papa.'\n\n'No, no! I should always be fancying some one had known him, and that he\nhad been stopped, unless you could tell me you had seen him off. And go\nto the Outwood station. It is quite as near, and not so many people\nabout. Take a cab there. There is less risk of his being seen. What time\nis your train, Fred?'\n\n'Ten minutes past six; very nearly dark. So what will you do, Margaret?'\n\n'Oh, I can manage. I am getting very brave and very hard. It is a\nwell-lighted road all the way home, if it should be dark. But I was out\nlast week much later.'\n\nMargaret was thankful when the parting was over--the parting from the\ndead mother and the living father. She hurried Frederick into the cab,\nin order to shorten a scene which she saw was so bitterly painful to her\nfather, who would accompany his son as he took his last look at his\nmother. Partly in consequence of this, and partly owing to one of the\nvery common mistakes in the 'Railway Guide' as to the times when trains\narrive at the smaller stations, they found, on reaching Outwood, that\nthey had nearly twenty minutes to spare. The booking-office was not\nopen, so they could not even take the ticket. They accordingly went down\nthe flight of steps that led to the level of the ground below the\nrailway. There was a broad cinder-path diagonally crossing a field which\nlay along-side of the carriage-road, and they went there to walk\nbackwards and forwards for the few minutes they had to spare.\n\nMargaret's hand lay in Frederick's arm. He took hold of it\naffectionately.\n\n'Margaret! I am going to consult Mr. Lennox as to the chance of\nexculpating myself, so that I may return to England whenever I choose,\nmore for your sake than for the sake of any one else. I can't bear to\nthink of your lonely position if anything should happen to my father. He\nlooks sadly changed--terribly shaken. I wish you could get him to think\nof the Cadiz plan, for many reasons. What could you do if he were taken\naway? You have no friend near. We are curiously bare of relations.'\n\nMargaret could hardly keep from crying at the tender anxiety with which\nFrederick was bringing before her an event which she herself felt was\nnot very improbable, so severely had the cares of the last few months\ntold upon Mr. Hale. But she tried to rally as she said:\n\n'There have been such strange unexpected changes in my life during these\nlast two years, that I feel more than ever that it is not worth while to\ncalculate too closely what I should do if any future event took place. I\ntry to think only upon the present.' She paused; they were standing\nstill for a moment, close on the field side of the stile leading into\nthe road; the setting sun fell on their faces. Frederick held her hand\nin his, and looked with wistful anxiety into her face, reading there\nmore care and trouble than she would betray by words. She went on:\n\n'We shall write often to one another, and I will promise--for I see it\nwill set your mind at ease--to tell you every worry I have. Papa\nis'--she started a little, a hardly visible start--but Frederick felt\nthe sudden motion of the hand he held, and turned his full face to the\nroad, along which a horseman was slowly riding, just passing the very\nstile where they stood. Margaret bowed; her bow was stiffly returned.\n\n'Who is that?' said Frederick, almost before he was out of hearing.\nMargaret was a little drooping, a little flushed, as she replied:\n\n'Mr. Thornton; you saw him before, you know.'\n\n'Only his back. He is an unprepossessing-looking fellow. What a scowl he\nhas!'\n\n'Something has happened to vex him,' said Margaret, apologetically. 'You\nwould not have thought him unprepossessing if you had seen him with\nmamma.'\n\n'I fancy it must be time to go and take my ticket. If I had known how\ndark it would be, we wouldn't have sent back the cab, Margaret.'\n\n'Oh, don't fidget about that. I can take a cab here, if I like; or go\nback by the rail-road, when I should have shops and people and lamps all\nthe way from the Milton station-house. Don't think of me; take care of\nyourself. I am sick with the thought that Leonards may be in the same\ntrain with you. Look well into the carriage before you get in.'\n\nThey went back to the station. Margaret insisted upon going into the\nfull light of the flaring gas inside to take the ticket. Some\nidle-looking young men were lounging about with the stationmaster.\nMargaret thought she had seen the face of one of them before, and\nreturned him a proud look of offended dignity for his somewhat\nimpertinent stare of undisguised admiration. She went hastily to her\nbrother, who was standing outside, and took hold of his arm. 'Have you\ngot your bag? Let us walk about here on the platform,' said she, a\nlittle flurried at the idea of so soon being left alone, and her bravery\noozing out rather faster than she liked to acknowledge even to herself.\nShe heard a step following them along the flags; it stopped when they\nstopped, looking out along the line and hearing the whizz of the coming\ntrain. They did not speak; their hearts were too full. Another moment,\nand the train would be here; a minute more, and he would be gone.\nMargaret almost repented the urgency with which she had entreated him to\ngo to London; it was throwing more chances of detection in his way. If\nhe had sailed for Spain by Liverpool, he might have been off in two or\nthree hours.\n\nFrederick turned round, right facing the lamp, where the gas darted up\nin vivid anticipation of the train. A man in the dress of a railway\nporter started forward; a bad-looking man, who seemed to have drunk\nhimself into a state of brutality, although his senses were in perfect\norder.\n\n'By your leave, miss!' said he, pushing Margaret rudely on one side, and\nseizing Frederick by the collar.\n\n'Your name is Hale, I believe?'\n\nIn an instant--how, Margaret did not see, for everything danced before\nher eyes--but by some sleight of wrestling, Frederick had tripped him\nup, and he fell from the height of three or four feet, which the\nplatform was elevated above the space of soft ground, by the side of the\nrailroad. There he lay.\n\n'Run, run!' gasped Margaret. 'The train is here. It was Leonards, was\nit? oh, run! I will carry your bag.' And she took him by the arm to push\nhim along with all her feeble force. A door was opened in a carriage--he\njumped in; and as he leant out to say, 'God bless you, Margaret!' the\ntrain rushed past her; an she was left standing alone. She was so\nterribly sick and faint that she was thankful to be able to turn into\nthe ladies' waiting-room, and sit down for an instant. At first she\ncould do nothing but gasp for breath. It was such a hurry; such a\nsickening alarm; such a near chance. If the train had not been there at\nthe moment, the man would have jumped up again and called for assistance\nto arrest him. She wondered if the man had got up: she tried to remember\nif she had seen him move; she wondered if he could have been seriously\nhurt. She ventured out; the platform was all alight, but still quite\ndeserted; she went to the end, and looked over, somewhat fearfully. No\none was there; and then she was glad she had made herself go, and\ninspect, for otherwise terrible thoughts would have haunted her dreams.\nAnd even as it was, she was so trembling and affrighted that she felt\nshe could not walk home along the road, which did indeed seem lonely and\ndark, as she gazed down upon it from the blaze of the station. She would\nwait till the down train passed and take her seat in it. But what if\nLeonards recognised her as Frederick's companion! She peered about,\nbefore venturing into the booking-office to take her ticket. There were\nonly some railway officials standing about; and talking loud to one\nanother.\n\n'So Leonards has been drinking again!' said one, seemingly in authority.\n'He'll need all his boasted influence to keep his place this time.'\n\n'Where is he?' asked another, while Margaret, her back towards them, was\ncounting her change with trembling fingers, not daring to turn round\nuntil she heard the answer to this question.\n\n'I don't know. He came in not five minutes ago, with some long story or\nother about a fall he'd had, swearing awfully; and wanted to borrow some\nmoney from me to go to London by the next up-train. He made all sorts of\ntipsy promises, but I'd something else to do than listen to him; I told\nhim to go about his business; and he went off at the front door.'\n\n'He's at the nearest vaults, I'll be bound,' said the first speaker.\n'Your money would have gone there too, if you'd been such a fool as to\nlend it.'\n\n'Catch me! I knew better what his London meant. Why, he has never paid\nme off that five shillings'--and so they went on.\n\nAnd now all Margaret's anxiety was for the train to come. She hid\nherself once more in the ladies' waiting-room, and fancied every noise\nwas Leonards' step--every loud and boisterous voice was his. But no one\ncame near her until the train drew up; when she was civilly helped into\na carriage by a porter, into whose face she durst not look till they\nwere in motion, and then she saw that it was not Leonards'.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIII\n\nPEACE\n\n    'Sleep on, my love, in thy cold bed,\n     Never to be disquieted!\n     My last Good Night--thou wilt not wake\n     Till I thy fate shall overtake.'\n             DR. KING.\n\n\nHome seemed unnaturally quiet after all this terror and noisy commotion.\nHer father had seen all due preparation made for her refreshment on her\nreturn; and then sate down again in his accustomed chair, to fall into\none of his sad waking dreams. Dixon had got Mary Higgins to scold and\ndirect in the kitchen; and her scolding was not the less energetic\nbecause it was delivered in an angry whisper; for, speaking above her\nbreath she would have thought irreverent, as long as there was any one\ndead lying in the house. Margaret had resolved not to mention the\ncrowning and closing affright to her father. There was no use in\nspeaking about it; it had ended well; the only thing to be feared was\nlest Leonards should in some way borrow money enough to effect his\npurpose of following Frederick to London, and hunting him out there. But\nthere were immense chances against the success of any such plan; and\nMargaret determined not to torment herself by thinking of what she could\ndo nothing to prevent. Frederick would be as much on his guard as she\ncould put him; and in a day or two at most he would be safely out of\nEngland.\n\n'I suppose we shall hear from Mr. Bell to-morrow,' said Margaret.\n\n'Yes,' replied her father. 'I suppose so.'\n\n'If he can come, he will be here to-morrow evening, I should think.'\n\n'If he cannot come, I shall ask Mr. Thornton to go with me to the\nfuneral. I cannot go alone. I should break down utterly.'\n\n'Don't ask Mr. Thornton, papa. Let me go with you,' said Margaret,\nimpetuously.\n\n'You! My dear, women do not generally go.'\n\n'No: because they can't control themselves. Women of our class don't go,\nbecause they have no power over their emotions, and yet are ashamed of\nshowing them. Poor women go, and don't care if they are seen overwhelmed\nwith grief. But I promise you, papa, that if you will let me go, I will\nbe no trouble. Don't have a stranger, and leave me out. Dear papa! if\nMr. Bell cannot come, I shall go. I won't urge my wish against your\nwill, if he does.'\n\nMr. Bell could not come. He had the gout. It was a most affectionate\nletter, and expressed great and true regret for his inability to attend.\nHe hoped to come and pay them a visit soon, if they would have him; his\nMilton property required some looking after, and his agent had written\nto him to say that his presence was absolutely necessary; or else he had\navoided coming near Milton as long as he could, and now the only thing\nthat would reconcile him to this necessary visit was the idea that he\nshould see, and might possibly be able to comfort his old friend.\n\nMargaret had all the difficulty in the world to persuade her father not\nto invite Mr. Thornton. She had an indescribable repugnance to this step\nbeing taken. The night before the funeral, came a stately note from Mrs.\nThornton to Miss Hale, saying that, at her son's desire, their carriage\nshould attend the funeral, if it would not be disagreeable to the\nfamily. Margaret tossed the note to her father.\n\n'Oh, don't let us have these forms,' said she. 'Let us go alone--you and\nme, papa. They don't care for us, or else he would have offered to go\nhimself, and not have proposed this sending an empty carriage.'\n\n'I thought you were so extremely averse to his going, Margaret,' said\nMr. Hale in some surprise.\n\n'And so I am. I don't want him to come at all; and I should especially\ndislike the idea of our asking him. But this seems such a mockery of\nmourning that I did not expect it from him.' She startled her father by\nbursting into tears. She had been so subdued in her grief, so thoughtful\nfor others, so gentle and patient in all things, that he could not\nunderstand her impatient ways to-night; she seemed agitated and\nrestless; and at all the tenderness which her father in his turn now\nlavished upon her, she only cried the more.\n\nShe passed so bad a night that she was ill prepared for the additional\nanxiety caused by a letter received from Frederick. Mr. Lennox was out\nof town; his clerk said that he would return by the following Tuesday at\nthe latest; that he might possibly be at home on Monday. Consequently,\nafter some consideration, Frederick had determined upon remaining in\nLondon a day or two longer. He had thought of coming down to Milton\nagain; the temptation had been very strong; but the idea of Mr. Bell\ndomesticated in his father's house, and the alarm he had received at the\nlast moment at the railway station, had made him resolve to stay in\nLondon. Margaret might be assured he would take every precaution against\nbeing tracked by Leonards. Margaret was thankful that she received this\nletter while her father was absent in her mother's room. If he had been\npresent, he would have expected her to read it aloud to him, and it\nwould have raised in him a state of nervous alarm which she would have\nfound it impossible to soothe away. There was not merely the fact, which\ndisturbed her excessively, of Frederick's detention in London, but there\nwere allusions to the recognition at the last moment at Milton, and the\npossibility of a pursuit, which made her blood run cold; and how then\nwould it have affected her father? Many a time did Margaret repent of\nhaving suggested and urged on the plan of consulting Mr. Lennox. At the\nmoment, it had seemed as if it would occasion so little delay--add so\nlittle to the apparently small chances of detection; and yet everything\nthat had since occurred had tended to make it so undesirable. Margaret\nbattled hard against this regret of hers for what could not now be\nhelped; this self-reproach for having said what had at the time appeared\nto be wise, but which after events were proving to have been so foolish.\nBut her father was in too depressed a state of mind and body to struggle\nhealthily; he would succumb to all these causes for morbid regret over\nwhat could not be recalled. Margaret summoned up all her forces to her\naid. Her father seemed to have forgotten that they had any reason to\nexpect a letter from Frederick that morning. He was absorbed in one\nidea--that the last visible token of the presence of his wife was to be\ncarried away from him, and hidden from his sight. He trembled pitifully\nas the undertaker's man was arranging his crape draperies around him. He\nlooked wistfully at Margaret; and, when released, he tottered towards\nher, murmuring, 'Pray for me, Margaret. I have no strength left in me. I\ncannot pray. I give her up because I must. I try to bear it: indeed I\ndo. I know it is God's will. But I cannot see why she died. Pray for me,\nMargaret, that I may have faith to pray. It is a great strait, my\nchild.'\n\nMargaret sat by him in the coach, almost supporting him in her arms; and\nrepeating all the noble verses of holy comfort, or texts expressive of\nfaithful resignation, that she could remember. Her voice never faltered;\nand she herself gained strength by doing this. Her father's lips moved\nafter her, repeating the well-known texts as her words suggested them;\nit was terrible to see the patient struggling effort to obtain the\nresignation which he had not strength to take into his heart as a part\nof himself.\n\nMargaret's fortitude nearly gave way as Dixon, with a slight motion of\nher hand, directed her notice to Nicholas Higgins and his daughter,\nstanding a little aloof, but deeply attentive to the ceremonial.\nNicholas wore his usual fustian clothes, but had a bit of black stuff\nsewn round his hat--a mark of mourning which he had never shown to his\ndaughter Bessy's memory. But Mr. Hale saw nothing. He went on repeating\nto himself, mechanically as it were, all the funeral service as it was\nread by the officiating clergyman; he sighed twice or thrice when all\nwas ended; and then, putting his hand on Margaret's arm, he mutely\nentreated to be led away, as if he were blind, and she his faithful\nguide.\n\nDixon sobbed aloud; she covered her face with her handkerchief, and was\nso absorbed in her own grief, that she did not perceive that the crowd,\nattracted on such occasions, was dispersing, till she was spoken to by\nsome one close at hand. It was Mr. Thornton. He had been present all the\ntime, standing, with bent head, behind a group of people, so that, in\nfact, no one had recognised him.\n\n'I beg your pardon,--but, can you tell me how Mr. Hale is? And Miss\nHale, too? I should like to know how they both are.'\n\n'Of course, sir. They are much as is to be expected. Master is terribly\nbroke down. Miss Hale bears up better than likely.'\n\nMr. Thornton would rather have heard that she was suffering the natural\nsorrow. In the first place, there was selfishness enough in him to have\ntaken pleasure in the idea that his great love might come in to comfort\nand console her; much the same kind of strange passionate pleasure which\ncomes stinging through a mother's heart, when her drooping infant\nnestles close to her, and is dependent upon her for everything. But this\ndelicious vision of what might have been--in which, in spite of all\nMargaret's repulse, he would have indulged only a few days ago--was\nmiserably disturbed by the recollection of what he had seen near the\nOutwood station. 'Miserably disturbed!' that is not strong enough. He\nwas haunted by the remembrance of the handsome young man, with whom she\nstood in an attitude of such familiar confidence; and the remembrance\nshot through him like an agony, till it made him clench his hands tight\nin order to subdue the pain. At that late hour, so far from home! It\ntook a great moral effort to galvanise his trust--erewhile so\nperfect--in Margaret's pure and exquisite maidenliness, into life; as\nsoon as the effort ceased, his trust dropped down dead and powerless:\nand all sorts of wild fancies chased each other like dreams through his\nmind. Here was a little piece of miserable, gnawing confirmation. 'She\nbore up better than likely' under this grief. She had then some hope to\nlook to, so bright that even in her affectionate nature it could come in\nto lighten the dark hours of a daughter newly made motherless. Yes! he\nknew how she would love. He had not loved her without gaining that\ninstinctive knowledge of what capabilities were in her. Her soul would\nwalk in glorious sunlight if any man was worthy, by his power of loving,\nto win back her love. Even in her mourning she would rest with a\npeaceful faith upon his sympathy. His sympathy! Whose? That other man's.\nAnd that it was another was enough to make Mr. Thornton's pale grave\nface grow doubly wan and stern at Dixon's answer.\n\n'I suppose I may call,' said he coldly. 'On Mr. Hale, I mean. He will\nperhaps admit me after to-morrow or so.'\n\nHe spoke as if the answer were a matter of indifference to him. But it\nwas not so. For all his pain, he longed to see the author of it.\nAlthough he hated Margaret at times, when he thought of that gentle\nfamiliar attitude and all the attendant circumstances, he had a restless\ndesire to renew her picture in his mind--a longing for the very\natmosphere she breathed. He was in the Charybdis of passion, and must\nperforce circle and circle ever nearer round the fatal centre.\n\n'I dare say, sir, master will see you. He was very sorry to have to deny\nyou the other day; but circumstances was not agreeable just then.'\n\nFor some reason or other, Dixon never named this interview that she had\nhad with Mr. Thornton to Margaret. It might have been mere chance, but\nso it was that Margaret never heard that he had attended her poor\nmother's funeral.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIV\n\nFALSE AND TRUE\n\n    'Truth will fail thee never, never!\n     Though thy bark be tempest-driven,\n     Though each plank be rent and riven,\n     Truth will bear thee on for ever!'\n             ANON.\n\n\nThe 'bearing up better than likely' was a terrible strain upon Margaret.\nSometimes she thought she must give way, and cry out with pain, as the\nsudden sharp thought came across her, even during her apparently\ncheerful conversations with her father, that she had no longer a mother.\nAbout Frederick, too, there was great uneasiness. The Sunday post\nintervened, and interfered with their London letters; and on Tuesday\nMargaret was surprised and disheartened to find that there was still no\nletter. She was quite in the dark as to his plans, and her father was\nmiserable at all this uncertainty. It broke in upon his lately acquired\nhabit of sitting still in one easy chair for half a day together. He\nkept pacing up and down the room; then out of it; and she heard him upon\nthe landing opening and shutting the bed-room doors, without any\napparent object. She tried to tranquillise him by reading aloud; but it\nwas evident he could not listen for long together. How thankful she was\nthen, that she had kept to herself the additional cause for anxiety\nproduced by their encounter with Leonards. She was thankful to hear Mr.\nThornton announced. His visit would force her father's thoughts into\nanother channel.\n\nHe came up straight to her father, whose hands he took and wrung without\na word--holding them in his for a minute or two, during which time his\nface, his eyes, his look, told of more sympathy than could be put into\nwords. Then he turned to Margaret. Not 'better than likely' did she\nlook. Her stately beauty was dimmed with much watching and with many\ntears. The expression on her countenance was of gentle patient\nsadness--nay of positive present suffering. He had not meant to greet\nher otherwise than with his late studied coldness of demeanour; but he\ncould not help going up to her, as she stood a little aside, rendered\ntimid by the uncertainty of his manner of late, and saying the few\nnecessary common-place words in so tender a voice, that her eyes filled\nwith tears, and she turned away to hide her emotion. She took her work\nand sate down very quiet and silent. Mr. Thornton's heart beat quick and\nstrong, and for the time he utterly forgot the Outwood lane. He tried to\ntalk to Mr. Hale: and--his presence always a certain kind of pleasure to\nMr. Hale, as his power and decision made him, and his opinions, a safe,\nsure port--was unusually agreeable to her father, as Margaret saw.\n\nPresently Dixon came to the door and said, 'Miss Hale, you are wanted.'\n\nDixon's manner was so flurried that Margaret turned sick at heart.\nSomething had happened to Fred. She had no doubt of that. It was well\nthat her father and Mr. Thornton were so much occupied by their\nconversation.\n\n'What is it, Dixon?' asked Margaret, the moment she had shut the\ndrawing-room door.\n\n'Come this way, miss,' said Dixon, opening the door of what had been\nMrs. Hale's bed-chamber, now Margaret's, for her father refused to sleep\nthere again after his wife's death. 'It's nothing, miss,' said Dixon,\nchoking a little. 'Only a police-inspector. He wants to see you, miss.\nBut I dare say, it's about nothing at all.'\n\n'Did he name--' asked Margaret, almost inaudibly.\n\n'No, miss; he named nothing. He only asked if you lived here, and if he\ncould speak to you. Martha went to the door, and let him in; she has\nshown him into master's study. I went to him myself, to try if that\nwould do; but no--it's you, miss, he wants.'\n\nMargaret did not speak again till her hand was on the lock of the study\ndoor. Here she turned round and said, 'Take care papa does not come\ndown. Mr. Thornton is with him now.'\n\nThe inspector was almost daunted by the haughtiness of her manner as she\nentered. There was something of indignation expressed in her\ncountenance, but so kept down and controlled, that it gave her a superb\nair of disdain. There was no surprise, no curiosity. She stood awaiting\nthe opening of his business there. Not a question did she ask.\n\n'I beg your pardon, ma'am, but my duty obliges me to ask you a few plain\nquestions. A man has died at the Infirmary, in consequence of a fall,\nreceived at Outwood station, between the hours of five and six on\nThursday evening, the twenty-sixth instant. At the time, this fall did\nnot seem of much consequence; but it was rendered fatal, the doctors\nsay, by the presence of some internal complaint, and the man's own habit\nof drinking.'\n\nThe large dark eyes, gazing straight into the inspector's face, dilated\na little. Otherwise there was no motion perceptible to his experienced\nobservation. Her lips swelled out into a richer curve than ordinary,\nowing to the enforced tension of the muscles, but he did not know what\nwas their usual appearance, so as to recognise the unwonted sullen\ndefiance of the firm sweeping lines. She never blenched or trembled. She\nfixed him with her eye. Now--as he paused before going on, she said,\nalmost as if she would encourage him in telling his tale--'Well--go on!'\n\n'It is supposed that an inquest will have to be held; there is some\nslight evidence to prove that the blow, or push, or scuffle that caused\nthe fall, was provoked by this poor fellow's half-tipsy impertinence to\na young lady, walking with the man who pushed the deceased over the edge\nof the platform. This much was observed by some one on the platform,\nwho, however, thought no more about the matter, as the blow seemed of\nslight consequence. There is also some reason to identify the lady with\nyourself; in which case--'\n\n'I was not there,' said Margaret, still keeping her expressionless eyes\nfixed on his face, with the unconscious look of a sleep-walker.\n\nThe inspector bowed but did not speak. The lady standing before him\nshowed no emotion, no fluttering fear, no anxiety, no desire to end the\ninterview. The information he had received was very vague; one of the\nporters, rushing out to be in readiness for the train, had seen a\nscuffle, at the other end of the platform, between Leonards and a\ngentleman accompanied by a lady, but heard no noise; and before the\ntrain had got to its full speed after starting, he had been almost\nknocked down by the headlong run of the enraged half intoxicated\nLeonards, swearing and cursing awfully. He had not thought any more\nabout it, till his evidence was routed out by the inspector, who, on\nmaking some farther inquiry at the railroad station, had heard from the\nstation-master that a young lady and gentleman had been there about that\nhour--the lady remarkably handsome--and said, by some grocer's assistant\npresent at the time, to be a Miss Hale, living at Crampton, whose family\ndealt at his shop. There was no certainty that the one lady and\ngentleman were identical with the other pair, but there was great\nprobability. Leonards himself had gone, half-mad with rage and pain, to\nthe nearest gin-palace for comfort; and his tipsy words had not been\nattended to by the busy waiters there; they, however, remembered his\nstarting up and cursing himself for not having sooner thought of the\nelectric telegraph, for some purpose unknown; and they believed that he\nleft with the idea of going there. On his way, overcome by pain or\ndrink, he had lain down in the road, where the police had found him and\ntaken him to the Infirmary: there he had never recovered sufficient\nconsciousness to give any distinct account of his fall, although once or\ntwice he had had glimmerings of sense sufficient to make the authorities\nsend for the nearest magistrate, in hopes that he might be able to take\ndown the dying man's deposition of the cause of his death. But when the\nmagistrate had come, he was rambling about being at sea, and mixing up\nnames of captains and lieutenants in an indistinct manner with those of\nhis fellow porters at the railway; and his last words were a curse on\nthe 'Cornish trick' which had, he said, made him a hundred pounds poorer\nthan he ought to have been. The inspector ran all this over in his\nmind--the vagueness of the evidence to prove that Margaret had been at\nthe station--the unflinching, calm denial which she gave to such a\nsupposition. She stood awaiting his next word with a composure that\nappeared supreme.\n\n'Then, madam, I have your denial that you were the lady accompanying the\ngentleman who struck the blow, or gave the push, which caused the death\nof this poor man?'\n\nA quick, sharp pain went through Margaret's brain. 'Oh God! that I knew\nFrederick were safe!' A deep observer of human countenances might have\nseen the momentary agony shoot out of her great gloomy eyes, like the\ntorture of some creature brought to bay. But the inspector though a very\nkeen, was not a very deep observer. He was a little struck,\nnotwithstanding, by the form of the answer, which sounded like a\nmechanical repetition of her first reply--not changed and modified in\nshape so as to meet his last question.\n\n'I was not there,' said she, slowly and heavily. And all this time she\nnever closed her eyes, or ceased from that glassy, dream-like stare. His\nquick suspicions were aroused by this dull echo of her former denial. It\nwas as if she had forced herself to one untruth, and had been stunned\nout of all power of varying it.\n\nHe put up his book of notes in a very deliberate manner. Then he looked\nup; she had not moved any more than if she had been some great Egyptian\nstatue.\n\n'I hope you will not think me impertinent when I say, that I may have to\ncall on you again. I may have to summon you to appear on the inquest,\nand prove an alibi, if my witnesses' (it was but one who had recognised\nher) 'persist in deposing to your presence at the unfortunate event.' He\nlooked at her sharply. She was still perfectly quiet--no change of\ncolour, or darker shadow of guilt, on her proud face. He thought to have\nseen her wince: he did not know Margaret Hale. He was a little abashed\nby her regal composure. It must have been a mistake of identity. He went\non:\n\n'It is very unlikely, ma'am, that I shall have to do anything of the\nkind. I hope you will excuse me for doing what is only my duty, although\nit may appear impertinent.'\n\nMargaret bowed her head as he went towards the door. Her lips were stiff\nand dry. She could not speak even the common words of farewell. But\nsuddenly she walked forwards, and opened the study door, and preceded\nhim to the door of the house, which she threw wide open for his exit.\nShe kept her eyes upon him in the same dull, fixed manner, until he was\nfairly out of the house. She shut the door, and went half-way into the\nstudy; then turned back, as if moved by some passionate impulse, and\nlocked the door inside.\n\nThen she went into the study, paused--tottered forward--paused\nagain--swayed for an instant where she stood, and fell prone on the\nfloor in a dead swoon.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXV\n\nEXPIATION\n\n    'There's nought so finely spun\n     But it cometh to the sun.'\n\n\nMr. Thornton sate on and on. He felt that his company gave pleasure to\nMr. Hale; and was touched by the half-spoken wishful entreaty that he\nwould remain a little longer--the plaintive 'Don't go yet,' which his\npoor friend put forth from time to time. He wondered Margaret did not\nreturn; but it was with no view of seeing her that he lingered. For the\nhour--and in the presence of one who was so thoroughly feeling the\nnothingness of earth--he was reasonable and self-controlled. He was\ndeeply interested in all her father said,\n\n    'Of death, and of the heavy lull,\n     And of the brain that has grown dull.'\n\nIt was curious how the presence of Mr. Thornton had power over Mr. Hale\nto make him unlock the secret thoughts which he kept shut up even from\nMargaret. Whether it was that her sympathy would be so keen, and show\nitself in so lively a manner, that he was afraid of the reaction upon\nhimself, or whether it was that to his speculative mind all kinds of\ndoubts presented themselves at such a time, pleading and crying aloud to\nbe resolved into certainties, and that he knew she would have shrunk\nfrom the expression of any such doubts--nay, from him himself as capable\nof conceiving them--whatever was the reason, he could unburden himself\nbetter to Mr. Thornton than to her of all the thoughts and fancies and\nfears that had been frost-bound in his brain till now. Mr. Thornton said\nvery little; but every sentence he uttered added to Mr. Hale's reliance\nand regard for him. Was it that he paused in the expression of some\nremembered agony, Mr. Thornton's two or three words would complete the\nsentence, and show how deeply its meaning was entered into. Was it a\ndoubt--a fear--a wandering uncertainty seeking rest, but finding\nnone--so tear-blinded were its eyes--Mr. Thornton, instead of being\nshocked, seemed to have passed through that very stage of thought\nhimself, and could suggest where the exact ray of light was to be found,\nwhich should make the dark places plain. Man of action as he was, busy\nin the world's great battle, there was a deeper religion binding him to\nGod in his heart, in spite of his strong wilfulness, through all his\nmistakes, than Mr. Hale had ever dreamed. They never spoke of such\nthings again, as it happened; but this one conversation made them\npeculiar people to each other; knit them together, in a way which no\nloose indiscriminate talking about sacred things can ever accomplish.\nWhen all are admitted, how can there be a Holy of Holies?\n\nAnd all this while, Margaret lay as still and white as death on the\nstudy floor! She had sunk under her burden. It had been heavy in weight\nand long carried; and she had been very meek and patient, till all at\nonce her faith had given way, and she had groped in vain for help! There\nwas a pitiful contraction of suffering upon her beautiful brows,\nalthough there was no other sign of consciousness remaining. The\nmouth--a little while ago, so sullenly projected in defiance--was\nrelaxed and livid.\n\n    'E par che de la sua labbia si mova\n     Uno spirto soave e pien d'amore,\n     Chi va dicendo a l'anima: sospira!'\n\nThe first symptom of returning life was a quivering about the lips--a\nlittle mute soundless attempt at speech; but the eyes were still closed;\nand the quivering sank into stillness. Then, feebly leaning on her arms\nfor an instant to steady herself, Margaret gathered herself up, and\nrose. Her comb had fallen out of her hair; and with an intuitive desire\nto efface the traces of weakness, and bring herself into order again,\nshe sought for it, although from time to time, in the course of the\nsearch, she had to sit down and recover strength. Her head drooped\nforwards--her hands meekly laid one upon the other--she tried to recall\nthe force of her temptation, by endeavouring to remember the details\nwhich had thrown her into such deadly fright; but she could not. She\nonly understood two facts--that Frederick had been in danger of being\npursued and detected in London, as not only guilty of manslaughter, but\nas the more unpardonable leader of the mutiny, and that she had lied to\nsave him. There was one comfort; her lie had saved him, if only by\ngaining some additional time. If the inspector came again to-morrow,\nafter she had received the letter she longed for to assure her of her\nbrother's safety, she would brave shame, and stand in her bitter\npenance--she, the lofty Margaret--acknowledging before a crowded\njustice-room, if need were, that she had been as 'a dog, and done this\nthing.' But if he came before she heard from Frederick; if he returned,\nas he had half threatened, in a few hours, why! she would tell that lie\nagain; though how the words would come out, after all this terrible\npause for reflection and self-reproach, without betraying her falsehood,\nshe did not know, she could not tell. But her repetition of it would\ngain time--time for Frederick.\n\nShe was roused by Dixon's entrance into the room; she had just been\nletting out Mr. Thornton.\n\nHe had hardly gone ten steps in the street, before a passing omnibus\nstopped close by him, and a man got down, and came up to him, touching\nhis hat as he did so. It was the police-inspector.\n\nMr. Thornton had obtained for him his first situation in the police, and\nhad heard from time to time of the progress of his protege, but they had\nnot often met, and at first Mr. Thornton did not remember him.\n\n'My name is Watson--George Watson, sir, that you got---- '\n\n'Ah, yes! I recollect. Why you are getting on famously, I hear.'\n\n'Yes, sir. I ought to thank you, sir. But it is on a little matter of\nbusiness I made so bold as to speak to you now. I believe you were the\nmagistrate who attended to take down the deposition of a poor man who\ndied in the Infirmary last night.'\n\n'Yes,' replied Mr. Thornton. 'I went and heard some kind of a rambling\nstatement, which the clerk said was of no great use. I'm afraid he was\nbut a drunken fellow, though there is no doubt he came to his death by\nviolence at last. One of my mother's servants was engaged to him, I\nbelieve, and she is in great distress to-day. What about him?'\n\n'Why, sir, his death is oddly mixed up with somebody in the house I saw\nyou coming out of just now; it was a Mr. Hale's, I believe.'\n\n'Yes!' said Mr. Thornton, turning sharp round and looking into the\ninspector's face with sudden interest. 'What about it?'\n\n'Why, sir, it seems to me that I have got a pretty distinct chain of\nevidence, inculpating a gentleman who was walking with Miss Hale that\nnight at the Outwood station, as the man who struck or pushed Leonards\noff the platform and so caused his death. But the young lady denies that\nshe was there at the time.'\n\n'Miss Hale denies she was there!' repeated Mr. Thornton, in an altered\nvoice. 'Tell me, what evening was it? What time?'\n\n'About six o'clock, on the evening of Thursday, the twenty-sixth.'\n\nThey walked on, side by side, in silence for a minute or two. The\ninspector was the first to speak.\n\n'You see, sir, there is like to be a coroner's inquest; and I've got a\nyoung man who is pretty positive,--at least he was at first;--since he\nhas heard of the young lady's denial, he says he should not like to\nswear; but still he's pretty positive that he saw Miss Hale at the\nstation, walking about with a gentleman, not five minutes before the\ntime, when one of the porters saw a scuffle, which he set down to some\nof Leonards' impudence--but which led to the fall which caused his\ndeath. And seeing you come out of the very house, sir, I thought I might\nmake bold to ask if--you see, it's always awkward having to do with\ncases of disputed identity, and one doesn't like to doubt the word of a\nrespectable young woman unless one has strong proof to the contrary.'\n\n'And she denied having been at the station that evening!' repeated Mr.\nThornton, in a low, brooding tone.\n\n'Yes, sir, twice over, as distinct as could be. I told her I should call\nagain, but seeing you just as I was on my way back from questioning the\nyoung man who said it was her, I thought I would ask your advice, both\nas the magistrate who saw Leonards on his death-bed, and as the\ngentleman who got me my berth in the force.'\n\n'You were quite right,' said Mr. Thornton. 'Don't take any steps till\nyou have seen me again.'\n\n'The young lady will expect me to call, from what I said.'\n\n'I only want to delay you an hour. It's now three. Come to my warehouse\nat four.'\n\n'Very well, sir!'\n\nAnd they parted company. Mr. Thornton hurried to his warehouse, and,\nsternly forbidding his clerks to allow any one to interrupt him, he went\nhis way to his own private room, and locked the door. Then he indulged\nhimself in the torture of thinking it all over, and realising every\ndetail. How could he have lulled himself into the unsuspicious calm in\nwhich her tearful image had mirrored itself not two hours before, till\nhe had weakly pitied her and yearned towards her, and forgotten the\nsavage, distrustful jealousy with which the sight of her--and that\nunknown to him--at such an hour--in such a place--had inspired him! How\ncould one so pure have stooped from her decorous and noble manner of\nbearing! But was it decorous--was it? He hated himself for the idea that\nforced itself upon him, just for an instant--no more--and yet, while it\nwas present, thrilled him with its old potency of attraction towards her\nimage. And then this falsehood--how terrible must be some dread of shame\nto be revealed--for, after all, the provocation given by such a man as\nLeonards was, when excited by drinking, might, in all probability, be\nmore than enough to justify any one who came forward to state the\ncircumstances openly and without reserve! How creeping and deadly that\nfear which could bow down the truthful Margaret to falsehood! He could\nalmost pity her. What would be the end of it? She could not have\nconsidered all she was entering upon; if there was an inquest and the\nyoung man came forward. Suddenly he started up. There should be no\ninquest. He would save Margaret. He would take the responsibility of\npreventing the inquest, the issue of which, from the uncertainty of the\nmedical testimony (which he had vaguely heard the night before, from the\nsurgeon in attendance), could be but doubtful; the doctors had\ndiscovered an internal disease far advanced, and sure to prove fatal;\nthey had stated that death might have been accelerated by the fall, or\nby the subsequent drinking and exposure to cold. If he had but known how\nMargaret would have become involved in the affair--if he had but\nforeseen that she would have stained her whiteness by a falsehood, he\ncould have saved her by a word; for the question, of inquest or no\ninquest, had hung trembling in the balance only the night before. Miss\nHale might love another--was indifferent and contemptuous to him--but he\nwould yet do her faithful acts of service of which she should never\nknow. He might despise her, but the woman whom he had once loved should\nbe kept from shame; and shame it would be to pledge herself to a lie in\na public court, or otherwise to stand and acknowledge her reason for\ndesiring darkness rather than light.\n\nVery gray and stern did Mr. Thornton look, as he passed out through his\nwondering clerks. He was away about half an hour; and scarcely less\nstern did he look when he returned, although his errand had been\nsuccessful.\n\nHe wrote two lines on a slip of paper, put it in an envelope, and sealed\nit up. This he gave to one of the clerks, saying:--\n\n'I appointed Watson--he who was a packer in the warehouse, and who went\ninto the police--to call on me at four o'clock. I have just met with a\ngentleman from Liverpool who wishes to see me before he leaves town.\nTake care to give this note to Watson when he calls.'\n\nThe note contained these words:\n\n'There will be no inquest. Medical evidence not sufficient to justify\nit. Take no further steps. I have not seen the coroner; but I will take\nthe responsibility.'\n\n'Well,' thought Watson, 'it relieves me from an awkward job. None of my\nwitnesses seemed certain of anything except the young woman. She was\nclear and distinct enough; the porter at the rail-road had seen a\nscuffle; or when he found it was likely to bring him in as a witness,\nthen it might not have been a scuffle, only a little larking, and\nLeonards might have jumped off the platform himself;--he would not stick\nfirm to anything. And Jennings, the grocer's shopman,--well, he was not\nquite so bad, but I doubt if I could have got him up to an oath after he\nheard that Miss Hale flatly denied it. It would have been a troublesome\njob and no satisfaction. And now I must go and tell them they won't be\nwanted.'\n\nHe accordingly presented himself again at Mr. Hale's that evening. Her\nfather and Dixon would fain have persuaded Margaret to go to bed; but\nthey, neither of them, knew the reason for her low continued refusals to\ndo so. Dixon had learnt part of the truth--but only part. Margaret would\nnot tell any human being of what she had said, and she did not reveal\nthe fatal termination to Leonards' fall from the platform. So Dixon\ncuriosity combined with her allegiance to urge Margaret to go to rest,\nwhich her appearance, as she lay on the sofa, showed but too clearly\nthat she required. She did not speak except when spoken to; she tried to\nsmile back in reply to her father's anxious looks and words of tender\nenquiry; but, instead of a smile, the wan lips resolved themselves into\na sigh. He was so miserably uneasy that, at last, she consented to go\ninto her own room, and prepare for going to bed. She was indeed inclined\nto give up the idea that the inspector would call again that night, as\nit was already past nine o'clock.\n\nShe stood by her father, holding on to the back of his chair.\n\n'You will go to bed soon, papa, won't you? Don't sit up alone!'\n\nWhat his answer was she did not hear; the words were lost in the far\nsmaller point of sound that magnified itself to her fears, and filled\nher brain. There was a low ring at the door-bell.\n\nShe kissed her father and glided down stairs, with a rapidity of motion\nof which no one would have thought her capable, who had seen her the\nminute before. She put aside Dixon.\n\n'Don't come; I will open the door. I know it is him--I can--I must\nmanage it all myself.'\n\n'As you please, miss!' said Dixon testily; but in a moment afterwards,\nshe added, 'But you're not fit for it. You are more dead than alive.'\n\n'Am I?' said Margaret, turning round and showing her eyes all aglow with\nstrange fire, her cheeks flushed, though her lips were baked and livid\nstill.\n\nShe opened the door to the Inspector, and preceded him into the study.\nShe placed the candle on the table, and snuffed it carefully, before she\nturned round and faced him.\n\n'You are late!' said she. 'Well?' She held her breath for the answer.\n\n'I'm sorry to have given any unnecessary trouble, ma'am; for, after all,\nthey've given up all thoughts of holding an inquest. I have had other\nwork to do and other people to see, or I should have been here before\nnow.'\n\n'Then it is ended,' said Margaret. 'There is to be no further enquiry.'\n\n'I believe I've got Mr. Thornton's note about me,' said the Inspector,\nfumbling in his pocket-book.\n\n'Mr. Thornton's!' said Margaret.\n\n'Yes! he's a magistrate--ah! here it is.' She could not see to read\nit--no, not although she was close to the candle. The words swam before\nher. But she held it in her hand, and looked at it as if she were\nintently studying it.\n\n'I'm sure, ma'am, it's a great weight off my mind; for the evidence was\nso uncertain, you see, that the man had received any blow at all,--and\nif any question of identity came in, it so complicated the case, as I\ntold Mr. Thornton--'\n\n'Mr. Thornton!' said Margaret, again.\n\n'I met him this morning, just as he was coming out of this house, and,\nas he's an old friend of mine, besides being the magistrate who saw\nLeonards last night, I made bold to tell him of my difficulty.'\n\nMargaret sighed deeply. She did not want to hear any more; she was\nafraid alike of what she had heard, and of what she might hear. She\nwished that the man would go. She forced herself to speak.\n\n'Thank you for calling. It is very late. I dare say it is past ten\no'clock. Oh! here is the note!' she continued, suddenly interpreting the\nmeaning of the hand held out to receive it. He was putting it up, when\nshe said, 'I think it is a cramped, dazzling sort of writing. I could\nnot read it; will you just read it to me?'\n\nHe read it aloud to her.\n\n'Thank you. You told Mr. Thornton that I was not there?'\n\n'Oh, of course, ma'am. I'm sorry now that I acted upon information,\nwhich seems to have been so erroneous. At first the young man was so\npositive; and now he says that he doubted all along, and hopes that his\nmistake won't have occasioned you such annoyance as to lose their shop\nyour custom. Good night, ma'am.'\n\n'Good night.' She rang the bell for Dixon to show him out. As Dixon\nreturned up the passage Margaret passed her swiftly.\n\n'It is all right!' said she, without looking at Dixon; and before the\nwoman could follow her with further questions she had sped up-stairs,\nand entered her bed-chamber, and bolted her door.\n\nShe threw herself, dressed as she was, upon her bed. She was too much\nexhausted to think. Half an hour or more elapsed before the cramped\nnature of her position, and the chilliness, supervening upon great\nfatigue, had the power to rouse her numbed faculties. Then she began to\nrecall, to combine, to wonder. The first idea that presented itself to\nher was, that all this sickening alarm on Frederick's behalf was over;\nthat the strain was past. The next was a wish to remember every word of\nthe Inspector's which related to Mr. Thornton. When had he seen him?\nWhat had he said? What had Mr. Thornton done? What were the exact words\nof his note? And until she could recollect, even to the placing or\nomitting an article, the very expressions which he had used in the note,\nher mind refused to go on with its progress. But the next conviction she\ncame to was clear enough;--Mr. Thornton had seen her close to Outwood\nstation on the fatal Thursday night, and had been told of her denial\nthat she was there. She stood as a liar in his eyes. She was a liar. But\nshe had no thought of penitence before God; nothing but chaos and night\nsurrounded the one lurid fact that, in Mr. Thornton's eyes, she was\ndegraded. She cared not to think, even to herself, of how much of excuse\nshe might plead. That had nothing to do with Mr. Thornton; she never\ndreamed that he, or any one else, could find cause for suspicion in what\nwas so natural as her accompanying her brother; but what was really\nfalse and wrong was known to him, and he had a right to judge her. 'Oh,\nFrederick! Frederick!' she cried, 'what have I not sacrificed for you!'\nEven when she fell asleep her thoughts were compelled to travel the same\ncircle, only with exaggerated and monstrous circumstances of pain.\n\nWhen she awoke a new idea flashed upon her with all the brightness of\nthe morning. Mr. Thornton had learnt her falsehood before he went to the\ncoroner; that suggested the thought, that he had possibly been\ninfluenced so to do with a view of sparing her the repetition of her\ndenial. But she pushed this notion on one side with the sick wilfulness\nof a child. If it were so, she felt no gratitude to him, as it only\nshowed her how keenly he must have seen that she was disgraced already,\nbefore he took such unwonted pains to spare her any further trial of\ntruthfulness, which had already failed so signally. She would have gone\nthrough the whole--she would have perjured herself to save Frederick,\nrather--far rather--than Mr. Thornton should have had the knowledge that\nprompted him to interfere to save her. What ill-fate brought him in\ncontact with the Inspector? What made him be the very magistrate sent\nfor to receive Leonards' deposition? What had Leonards said? How much of\nit was intelligible to Mr. Thornton, who might already, for aught she\nknew, be aware of the old accusation against Frederick, through their\nmutual friend, Mr. Bell? If so, he had striven to save the son, who came\nin defiance of the law to attend his mother's death-bed. And under this\nidea she could feel grateful--not yet, if ever she should, if his\ninterference had been prompted by contempt. Oh! had any one such just\ncause to feel contempt for her? Mr. Thornton, above all people, on whom\nshe had looked down from her imaginary heights till now! She suddenly\nfound herself at his feet, and was strangely distressed at her fall. She\nshrank from following out the premises to their conclusion, and so\nacknowledging to herself how much she valued his respect and good\nopinion. Whenever this idea presented itself to her at the end of a long\navenue of thoughts, she turned away from following that path--she would\nnot believe in it.\n\nIt was later than she fancied, for in the agitation of the previous\nnight, she had forgotten to wind up her watch; and Mr. Hale had given\nespecial orders that she was not to be disturbed by the usual awakening.\nBy and by the door opened cautiously, and Dixon put her head in.\nPerceiving that Margaret was awake, she came forwards with a letter.\n\n'Here's something to do you good, miss. A letter from Master Frederick.'\n\n'Thank you, Dixon. How late it is!'\n\nShe spoke very languidly, and suffered Dixon to lay it on the\ncounterpane before her, without putting out a hand to take it.\n\n'You want your breakfast, I'm sure. I will bring it you in a minute.\nMaster has got the tray all ready, I know.'\n\nMargaret did not reply; she let her go; she felt that she must be alone\nbefore she could open that letter. She opened it at last. The first\nthing that caught her eye was the date two days earlier than she\nreceived it. He had then written when he had promised, and their alarm\nmight have been spared. But she would read the letter and see. It was\nhasty enough, but perfectly satisfactory. He had seen Henry Lennox, who\nknew enough of the case to shake his head over it, in the first\ninstance, and tell him he had done a very daring thing in returning to\nEngland, with such an accusation, backed by such powerful influence,\nhanging over him. But when they had come to talk it over, Mr. Lennox had\nacknowledged that there might be some chance of his acquittal, if he\ncould but prove his statements by credible witnesses--that in such case\nit might be worth while to stand his trial, otherwise it would be a\ngreat risk. He would examine--he would take every pains. 'It struck me'\nsaid Frederick, 'that your introduction, little sister of mine, went a\nlong way. Is it so? He made many inquiries, I can assure you. He seemed\na sharp, intelligent fellow, and in good practice too, to judge from the\nsigns of business and the number of clerks about him. But these may be\nonly lawyer's dodges. I have just caught a packet on the point of\nsailing--I am off in five minutes. I may have to come back to England\nagain on this business, so keep my visit secret. I shall send my father\nsome rare old sherry, such as you cannot buy in England,--(such stuff as\nI've got in the bottle before me)! He needs something of the kind--my\ndear love to him--God bless him. I'm sure--here's my cab. P.S.--What an\nescape that was! Take care you don't breathe of my having been--not even\nto the Shaws.'\n\nMargaret turned to the envelope; it was marked 'Too late.' The letter\nhad probably been trusted to some careless waiter, who had forgotten to\npost it. Oh! what slight cobwebs of chances stand between us and\nTemptation! Frederick had been safe, and out of England twenty, nay,\nthirty hours ago; and it was only about seventeen hours since she had\ntold a falsehood to baffle pursuit, which even then would have been\nvain. How faithless she had been! Where now was her proud motto, 'Fais\nce que dois, advienne que pourra?' If she had but dared to bravely tell\nthe truth as regarded herself, defying them to find out what she refused\nto tell concerning another, how light of heart she would now have felt!\nNot humbled before God, as having failed in trust towards Him; not\ndegraded and abased in Mr. Thornton's sight. She caught herself up at\nthis with a miserable tremor; here was she classing his low opinion of\nher alongside with the displeasure of God. How was it that he haunted\nher imagination so persistently? What could it be? Why did she care for\nwhat he thought, in spite of all her pride in spite of herself? She\nbelieved that she could have borne the sense of Almighty displeasure,\nbecause He knew all, and could read her penitence, and hear her cries\nfor help in time to come. But Mr. Thornton--why did she tremble, and\nhide her face in the pillow? What strong feeling had overtaken her at\nlast?\n\nShe sprang out of bed and prayed long and earnestly. It soothed and\ncomforted her so to open her heart. But as soon as she reviewed her\nposition she found the sting was still there; that she was not good\nenough, nor pure enough to be indifferent to the lowered opinion of a\nfellow creature; that the thought of how he must be looking upon her\nwith contempt, stood between her and her sense of wrong-doing. She took\nher letter in to her father as soon as she was drest. There was so\nslight an allusion to their alarm at the rail-road station, that Mr.\nHale passed over it without paying any attention to it. Indeed, beyond\nthe mere fact of Frederick having sailed undiscovered and unsuspected,\nhe did not gather much from the letter at the time, he was so uneasy\nabout Margaret's pallid looks. She seemed continually on the point of\nweeping.\n\n'You are sadly overdone, Margaret. It is no wonder. But you must let me\nnurse you now.'\n\nHe made her lie down on the sofa, and went for a shawl to cover her\nwith. His tenderness released her tears; and she cried bitterly.\n\n'Poor child!--poor child!' said he, looking fondly at her, as she lay\nwith her face to the wall, shaking with her sobs. After a while they\nceased, and she began to wonder whether she durst give herself the\nrelief of telling her father of all her trouble. But there were more\nreasons against it than for it. The only one for it was the relief to\nherself; and against it was the thought that it would add materially to\nher father's nervousness, if it were indeed necessary for Frederick to\ncome to England again; that he would dwell on the circumstance of his\nson's having caused the death of a man, however unwittingly and\nunwillingly; that this knowledge would perpetually recur to trouble him,\nin various shapes of exaggeration and distortion from the simple truth.\nAnd about her own great fault--he would be distressed beyond measure at\nher want of courage and faith, yet perpetually troubled to make excuses\nfor her. Formerly Margaret would have come to him as priest as well as\nfather, to tell him of her temptation and her sin; but latterly they had\nnot spoken much on such subjects; and she knew not how, in his change of\nopinions, he would reply if the depth of her soul called unto his. No;\nshe would keep her secret, and bear the burden alone. Alone she would go\nbefore God, and cry for His absolution. Alone she would endure her\ndisgraced position in the opinion of Mr. Thornton. She was unspeakably\ntouched by the tender efforts of her father to think of cheerful\nsubjects on which to talk, and so to take her thoughts away from\ndwelling on all that had happened of late. It was some months since he\nhad been so talkative as he was this day. He would not let her sit up,\nand offended Dixon desperately by insisting on waiting upon her himself.\n\nAt last she smiled; a poor, weak little smile; but it gave him the\ntruest pleasure.\n\n'It seems strange to think, that what gives us most hope for the future\nshould be called Dolores,' said Margaret. The remark was more in\ncharacter with her father than with her usual self; but to-day they\nseemed to have changed natures.\n\n'Her mother was a Spaniard, I believe: that accounts for her religion.\nHer father was a stiff Presbyterian when I knew him. But it is a very\nsoft and pretty name.'\n\n'How young she is!--younger by fourteen months than I am. Just the age\nthat Edith was when she was engaged to Captain Lennox. Papa, we will go\nand see them in Spain.'\n\nHe shook his head. But he said, 'If you wish it, Margaret. Only let us\ncome back here. It would seem unfair--unkind to your mother, who always,\nI'm afraid, disliked Milton so much, if we left it now she is lying\nhere, and cannot go with us. No, dear; you shall go and see them, and\nbring me back a report of my Spanish daughter.'\n\n'No, papa, I won't go without you. Who is to take care of you when I am\ngone?'\n\n'I should like to know which of us is taking care of the other. But if\nyou went, I should persuade Mr. Thornton to let me give him double\nlessons. We would work up the classics famously. That would be a\nperpetual interest. You might go on, and see Edith at Corfu, if you\nliked.'\n\nMargaret did not speak all at once. Then she said rather gravely: 'Thank\nyou, papa. But I don't want to go. We will hope that Mr. Lennox will\nmanage so well, that Frederick may bring Dolores to see us when they are\nmarried. And as for Edith, the regiment won't remain much longer in\nCorfu. Perhaps we shall see both of them here before another year is\nout.'\n\nMr. Hale's cheerful subjects had come to an end. Some painful\nrecollection had stolen across his mind, and driven him into silence.\nBy-and-by Margaret said:\n\n'Papa--did you see Nicholas Higgins at the funeral? He was there, and\nMary too. Poor fellow! it was his way of showing sympathy. He has a good\nwarm heart under his bluff abrupt ways.'\n\n'I am sure of it,' replied Mr. Hale. 'I saw it all along, even while you\ntried to persuade me that he was all sorts of bad things. We will go and\nsee them to-morrow, if you are strong enough to walk so far.'\n\n'Oh yes. I want to see them. We did not pay Mary--or rather she refused\nto take it, Dixon says. We will go so as to catch him just after his\ndinner, and before he goes to his work.'\n\nTowards evening Mr. Hale said:\n\n'I half expected Mr. Thornton would have called. He spoke of a book\nyesterday which he had, and which I wanted to see. He said he would try\nand bring it to-day.'\n\nMargaret sighed. She knew he would not come. He would be too delicate to\nrun the chance of meeting her, while her shame must be so fresh in his\nmemory. The very mention of his name renewed her trouble, and produced a\nrelapse into the feeling of depressed, pre-occupied exhaustion. She gave\nway to listless languor. Suddenly it struck her that this was a strange\nmanner to show her patience, or to reward her father for his watchful\ncare of her all through the day. She sate up and offered to read aloud.\nHis eyes were failing, and he gladly accepted her proposal. She read\nwell: she gave the due emphasis; but had any one asked her, when she had\nended, the meaning of what she had been reading, she could not have\ntold. She was smitten with a feeling of ingratitude to Mr. Thornton,\ninasmuch as, in the morning, she had refused to accept the kindness he\nhad shown her in making further inquiry from the medical men, so as to\nobviate any inquest being held. Oh! she was grateful! She had been\ncowardly and false, and had shown her cowardliness and falsehood in\naction that could not be recalled; but she was not ungrateful. It sent a\nglow to her heart, to know how she could feel towards one who had reason\nto despise her. His cause for contempt was so just, that she should have\nrespected him less if she had thought he did not feel contempt. It was a\npleasure to feel how thoroughly she respected him. He could not prevent\nher doing that; it was the one comfort in all this misery.\n\nLate in the evening, the expected book arrived, 'with Mr. Thornton's\nkind regards, and wishes to know how Mr. Hale is.'\n\n'Say that I am much better, Dixon, but that Miss Hale--'\n\n'No, papa,' said Margaret, eagerly--'don't say anything about me. He\ndoes not ask.'\n\n'My dear child, how you are shivering!' said her father, a few minutes\nafterwards. 'You must go to bed directly. You have turned quite pale!'\n\nMargaret did not refuse to go, though she was loth to leave her father\nalone. She needed the relief of solitude after a day of busy thinking,\nand busier repenting.\n\nBut she seemed much as usual the next day; the lingering gravity and\nsadness, and the occasional absence of mind, were not unnatural symptoms\nin the early days of grief. And almost in proportion to her\nre-establishment in health, was her father's relapse into his abstracted\nmusing upon the wife he had lost, and the past era in his life that was\nclosed to him for ever.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVI\n\nUNION NOT ALWAYS STRENGTH\n\n    'The steps of the bearers, heavy and slow,\n     The sobs of the mourners, deep and low.'\n             SHELLEY.\n\n\nAt the time arranged the previous day, they set out on their walk to see\nNicholas Higgins and his daughter. They both were reminded of their\nrecent loss, by a strange kind of shyness in their new habiliments, and\nin the fact that it was the first time, for many weeks, that they had\ndeliberately gone out together. They drew very close to each other in\nunspoken sympathy.\n\nNicholas was sitting by the fire-side in his accustomed corner: but he\nhad not his accustomed pipe. He was leaning his head upon his hand, his\narm resting on his knee. He did not get up when he saw them, though\nMargaret could read the welcome in his eye.\n\n'Sit ye down, sit ye down. Fire's welly out,' said he, giving it a\nvigorous poke, as if to turn attention away from himself. He was rather\ndisorderly, to be sure, with a black unshaven beard of several days'\ngrowth, making his pale face look yet paler, and a jacket which would\nhave been all the better for patching.\n\n'We thought we should have a good chance of finding you, just after\ndinner-time,' said Margaret.\n\n'We have had our sorrow too, since we saw you,' said Mr. Hale.\n\n'Ay, ay. Sorrows is more plentiful than dinners just now; I reckon, my\ndinner hour stretches all o'er the day; yo're pretty sure of finding\nme.'\n\n'Are you out of work?' asked Margaret.\n\n'Ay,' he replied shortly. Then, after a moment's silence, he added,\nlooking up for the first time: 'I'm not wanting brass. Dunno yo' think\nit. Bess, poor lass, had a little stock under her pillow, ready to slip\ninto my hand, last moment, and Mary is fustian-cutting. But I'm out o'\nwork a' the same.'\n\n'We owe Mary some money,' said Mr. Hale, before Margaret's sharp\npressure on his arm could arrest the words.\n\n'If hoo takes it, I'll turn her out o' doors. I'll bide inside these\nfour walls, and she'll bide out. That's a'.'\n\n'But we owe her many thanks for her kind service,' began Mr. Hale again.\n\n'I ne'er thanked yo'r daughter theer for her deeds o' love to my poor\nwench. I ne'er could find th' words. I'se have to begin and try now, if\nyo' start making an ado about what little Mary could sarve yo'.'\n\n'Is it because of the strike you're out of work?' asked Margaret gently.\n\n'Strike's ended. It's o'er for this time. I'm out o' work because I\nne'er asked for it. And I ne'er asked for it, because good words is\nscarce, and bad words is plentiful.'\n\nHe was in a mood to take a surly pleasure in giving answers that were\nlike riddles. But Margaret saw that he would like to be asked for the\nexplanation.\n\n'And good words are--?'\n\n'Asking for work. I reckon them's almost the best words that men can\nsay. \"Gi' me work\" means \"and I'll do it like a man.\" Them's good\nwords.'\n\n'And bad words are refusing you work when you ask for it.'\n\n'Ay. Bad words is saying \"Aha, my fine chap! Yo've been true to yo'r\norder, and I'll be true to mine. Yo' did the best yo' could for them as\nwanted help; that's yo'r way of being true to yo'r kind; and I'll be\ntrue to mine. Yo've been a poor fool, as knowed no better nor be a true\nfaithful fool. So go and be d---- d to yo'. There's no work for yo'\nhere.\" Them's bad words. I'm not a fool; and if I was, folk ought to ha'\ntaught me how to be wise after their fashion. I could mappen ha' learnt,\nif any one had tried to teach me.'\n\n'Would it not be worth while,' said Mr. Hale, 'to ask your old master if\nhe would take you back again? It might be a poor chance, but it would be\na chance.'\n\nHe looked up again, with a sharp glance at the questioner; and then\ntittered a low and bitter laugh.\n\n'Measter! if it's no offence, I'll ask yo' a question or two in my\nturn.'\n\n'You're quite welcome,' said Mr. Hale.\n\n'I reckon yo'n some way of earning your bread. Folk seldom lives i'\nMilton just for pleasure, if they can live anywhere else.'\n\n'You are quite right. I have some independent property, but my intention\nin settling in Milton was to become a private tutor.'\n\n'To teach folk. Well! I reckon they pay yo' for teaching them, dunnot\nthey?'\n\n'Yes,' replied Mr. Hale, smiling. 'I teach in order to get paid.'\n\n'And them that pays yo', dun they tell yo' whatten to do, or whatten not\nto do wi' the money they gives you in just payment for your pains--in\nfair exchange like?'\n\n'No; to be sure not!'\n\n'They dunnot say, \"Yo' may have a brother, or a friend as dear as a\nbrother, who wants this here brass for a purpose both yo' and he think\nright; but yo' mun promise not give it to him. Yo' may see a good use,\nas yo' think, to put yo'r money to; but we don't think it good, and so\nif yo' spend it a-thatens we'll just leave off dealing with yo'.\" They\ndunnot say that, dun they?'\n\n'No: to be sure not!'\n\n'Would yo' stand it if they did?'\n\n'It would be some very hard pressure that would make me even think of\nsubmitting to such dictation.'\n\n'There's not the pressure on all the broad earth that would make me,\nsaid Nicholas Higgins. 'Now yo've got it. Yo've hit the bull's eye.\nHamper's--that's where I worked--makes their men pledge 'emselves\nthey'll not give a penny to help th' Union or keep turnouts fro'\nclemming. They may pledge and make pledge,' continued he, scornfully;\n'they nobbut make liars and hypocrites. And that's a less sin, to my\nmind, to making men's hearts so hard that they'll not do a kindness to\nthem as needs it, or help on the right and just cause, though it goes\nagain the strong hand. But I'll ne'er forswear mysel' for a' the work\nthe king could gi'e me. I'm a member o' the Union; and I think it's the\nonly thing to do the workman any good. And I've been a turn-out, and\nknown what it were to clem; so if I get a shilling, sixpence shall go to\nthem if they axe it from me. Consequence is, I dunnot see where I'm to\nget a shilling.'\n\n'Is that rule about not contributing to the Union in force at all the\nmills?' asked Margaret.\n\n'I cannot say. It's a new regulation at ourn; and I reckon they'll find\nthat they cannot stick to it. But it's in force now. By-and-by they'll\nfind out, tyrants makes liars.'\n\nThere was a little pause. Margaret was hesitating whether she should say\nwhat was in her mind; she was unwilling to irritate one who was already\ngloomy and despondent enough. At last out it came. But in her soft\ntones, and with her reluctant manner, showing that she was unwilling to\nsay anything unpleasant, it did not seem to annoy Higgins, only to\nperplex him.\n\n'Do you remember poor Boucher saying that the Union was a tyrant? I\nthink he said it was the worst tyrant of all. And I remember at the time\nI agreed with him.'\n\nIt was a long while before he spoke. He was resting his head on his two\nhands, and looking down into the fire, so she could not read the\nexpression on his face.\n\n'I'll not deny but what th' Union finds it necessary to force a man into\nhis own good. I'll speak truth. A man leads a dree life who's not i' th'\nUnion. But once i' the' Union, his interests are taken care on better\nnor he could do it for himsel', or by himsel', for that matter. It's the\nonly way working men can get their rights, by all joining together. More\nthe members, more chance for each one separate man having justice done\nhim. Government takes care o' fools and madmen; and if any man is\ninclined to do himsel' or his neighbour a hurt, it puts a bit of a check\non him, whether he likes it or no. That's all we do i' th' Union. We\ncan't clap folk into prison; but we can make a man's life so heavy to be\nborne, that he's obliged to come in, and be wise and helpful in spite of\nhimself. Boucher were a fool all along, and ne'er a worse fool than at\nth' last.'\n\n'He did you harm?' asked Margaret.\n\n'Ay, that did he. We had public opinion on our side, till he and his\nsort began rioting and breaking laws. It were all o'er wi' the strike\nthen.'\n\n'Then would it not have been far better to have left him alone, and not\nforced him to join the Union? He did you no good; and you drove him\nmad.'\n\n'Margaret,' said her father, in a low and warning tone, for he saw the\ncloud gathering on Higgins's face.\n\n'I like her,' said Higgins, suddenly. 'Hoo speaks plain out what's in\nher mind. Hoo doesn't comprehend th' Union for all that. It's a great\npower: it's our only power. I ha' read a bit o' poetry about a plough\ngoing o'er a daisy, as made tears come into my eyes, afore I'd other\ncause for crying. But the chap ne'er stopped driving the plough, I'se\nwarrant, for all he were pitiful about the daisy. He'd too much\nmother-wit for that. Th' Union's the plough, making ready the land for\nharvest-time. Such as Boucher--'twould be settin' him up too much to\nliken him to a daisy; he's liker a weed lounging over the ground--mun\njust make up their mind to be put out o' the way. I'm sore vexed wi' him\njust now. So, mappen, I dunnot speak him fair. I could go o'er him wi' a\nplough mysel', wi' a' the pleasure in life.'\n\n'Why? What has he been doing? Anything fresh?'\n\n'Ay, to be sure. He's ne'er out o' mischief, that man. First of a' he\nmust go raging like a mad fool, and kick up yon riot. Then he'd to go\ninto hiding, where he'd a been yet, if Thornton had followed him out as\nI'd hoped he would ha' done. But Thornton, having got his own purpose,\ndidn't care to go on wi' the prosecution for the riot. So Boucher slunk\nback again to his house. He ne'er showed himsel' abroad for a day or\ntwo. He had that grace. And then, where think ye that he went? Why, to\nHamper's. Damn him! He went wi' his mealy-mouthed face, that turns me\nsick to look at, a-asking for work, though he knowed well enough the new\nrule, o' pledging themselves to give nought to th' Unions; nought to\nhelp the starving turn-out! Why he'd a clemmed to death, if th' Union\nhad na helped him in his pinch. There he went, ossing to promise aught,\nand pledge himsel' to aught--to tell a' he know'd on our proceedings,\nthe good-for-nothing Judas! But I'll say this for Hamper, and thank him\nfor it at my dying day, he drove Boucher away, and would na listen to\nhim--ne'er a word--though folk standing by, says the traitor cried like\na babby!'\n\n'Oh! how shocking! how pitiful!' exclaimed Margaret. 'Higgins, I don't\nknow you to-day. Don't you see how you've made Boucher what he is, by\ndriving him into the Union against his will--without his heart going\nwith it. You have made him what he is!'\n\nMade him what he is! What was he?\n\nGathering, gathering along the narrow street, came a hollow, measured\nsound; now forcing itself on their attention. Many voices were hushed\nand low: many steps were heard not moving onwards, at least not with any\nrapidity or steadiness of motion, but as if circling round one spot.\nYes, there was one distinct, slow tramp of feet, which made itself a\nclear path through the air, and reached their ears; the measured\nlaboured walk of men carrying a heavy burden. They were all drawn\ntowards the house-door by some irresistible impulse; impelled\nthither--not by a poor curiosity, but as if by some solemn blast.\n\nSix men walked in the middle of the road, three of them being policemen.\nThey carried a door, taken off its hinges, upon their shoulders, on\nwhich lay some dead human creature; and from each side of the door there\nwere constant droppings. All the street turned out to see, and, seeing,\nto accompany the procession, each one questioning the bearers, who\nanswered almost reluctantly at last, so often had they told the tale.\n\n'We found him i' th' brook in the field beyond there.'\n\n'Th' brook!--why there's not water enough to drown him!'\n\n'He was a determined chap. He lay with his face downwards. He was sick\nenough o' living, choose what cause he had for it.'\n\nHiggins crept up to Margaret's side, and said in a weak piping kind of\nvoice: 'It's not John Boucher? He had na spunk enough. Sure! It's not\nJohn Boucher! Why, they are a' looking this way! Listen! I've a singing\nin my head, and I cannot hear.'\n\nThey put the door down carefully upon the stones, and all might see the\npoor drowned wretch--his glassy eyes, one half-open, staring right\nupwards to the sky. Owing to the position in which he had been found\nlying, his face was swollen and discoloured besides, his skin was\nstained by the water in the brook, which had been used for dyeing\npurposes. The fore part of his head was bald; but the hair grew thin and\nlong behind, and every separate lock was a conduit for water. Through\nall these disfigurements, Margaret recognised John Boucher. It seemed to\nher so sacrilegious to be peering into that poor distorted, agonised\nface, that, by a flash of instinct, she went forwards and softly covered\nthe dead man's countenance with her handkerchief. The eyes that saw her\ndo this followed her, as she turned away from her pious office, and were\nthus led to the place where Nicholas Higgins stood, like one rooted to\nthe spot. The men spoke together, and then one of them came up to\nHiggins, who would have fain shrunk back into his house.\n\n'Higgins, thou knowed him! Thou mun go tell the wife. Do it gently, man,\nbut do it quick, for we canna leave him here long.'\n\n'I canna go,' said Higgins. 'Dunnot ask me. I canna face her.'\n\n'Thou knows her best,' said the man. 'We'n done a deal in bringing him\nhere--thou take thy share.'\n\n'I canna do it,' said Higgins. 'I'm welly felled wi' seeing him. We\nwasn't friends; and now he's dead.'\n\n'Well, if thou wunnot thou wunnot. Some one mun, though. It's a dree\ntask; but it's a chance, every minute, as she doesn't hear on it in some\nrougher way nor a person going to make her let on by degrees, as it\nwere.'\n\n'Papa, do you go,' said Margaret, in a low voice.\n\n'If I could--if I had time to think of what I had better say; but all at\nonce---- ' Margaret saw that her father was indeed unable. He was\ntrembling from head to foot.\n\n'I will go,' said she.\n\n'Bless yo', miss, it will be a kind act; for she's been but a sickly\nsort of body, I hear, and few hereabouts know much on her.'\n\nMargaret knocked at the closed door; but there was such a noise, as of\nmany little ill-ordered children, that she could hear no reply; indeed,\nshe doubted if she was heard, and as every moment of delay made her\nrecoil from her task more and more, she opened the door and went in,\nshutting it after her, and even, unseen to the woman, fastening the\nbolt.\n\nMrs. Boucher was sitting in a rocking-chair, on the other side of the\nill-redd-up fireplace; it looked as if the house had been untouched for\ndays by any effort at cleanliness.\n\nMargaret said something, she hardly knew what, her throat and mouth were\nso dry, and the children's noise completely prevented her from being\nheard. She tried again.\n\n'How are you, Mrs. Boucher? But very poorly, I'm afraid.'\n\n'I've no chance o' being well,' said she querulously. 'I'm left alone to\nmanage these childer, and nought for to give 'em for to keep 'em quiet.\nJohn should na ha' left me, and me so poorly.'\n\n'How long is it since he went away?'\n\n'Four days sin'. No one would give him work here, and he'd to go on\ntramp toward Greenfield. But he might ha' been back afore this, or sent\nme some word if he'd getten work. He might---- '\n\n'Oh, don't blame him,' said Margaret. 'He felt it deeply, I'm sure---- '\n\n'Willto' hold thy din, and let me hear the lady speak!' addressing\nherself, in no very gentle voice, to a little urchin of about a year\nold. She apologetically continued to Margaret, 'He's always mithering me\nfor \"daddy\" and \"butty;\" and I ha' no butties to give him, and daddy's\naway, and forgotten us a', I think. He's his father's darling, he is,'\nsaid she, with a sudden turn of mood, and, dragging the child up to her\nknee, she began kissing it fondly.\n\nMargaret laid her hand on the woman's arm to arrest her attention. Their\neyes met.\n\n'Poor little fellow!' said Margaret, slowly; 'he _was_ his father's\ndarling.'\n\n'He _is_ his father's darling,' said the woman, rising hastily, and\nstanding face to face with Margaret. Neither of them spoke for a moment\nor two. Then Mrs. Boucher began in a low, growling tone, gathering in\nwildness as she went on: 'He _is_ his father's darling, I say. Poor folk\ncan love their childer as well as rich. Why dunno yo' speak? Why dun yo'\nstare at me wi' your great pitiful eyes? Where's John?' Weak as she was,\nshe shook Margaret to force out an answer. 'Oh, my God!' said she,\nunderstanding the meaning of that tearful look. She sank back into the\nchair. Margaret took up the child and put him into her arms.\n\n'He loved him,' said she.\n\n'Ay,' said the woman, shaking her head, 'he loved us a'. We had some one\nto love us once. It's a long time ago; but when he were in life and with\nus, he did love us, he did. He loved this babby mappen the best on us;\nbut he loved me and I loved him, though I was calling him five minutes\nagone. Are yo' sure he's dead?' said she, trying to get up. 'If it's\nonly that he's ill and like to die, they may bring him round yet. I'm\nbut an ailing creature mysel'--I've been ailing this long time.'\n\n'But he is dead--he is drowned!'\n\n'Folk are brought round after they're dead-drowned. Whatten was I\nthinking of, to sit still when I should be stirring mysel'? Here, whisth\nthee, child--whisth thee! tak' this, tak' aught to play wi', but dunnot\ncry while my heart's breaking! Oh, where is my strength gone to? Oh,\nJohn--husband!'\n\nMargaret saved her from falling by catching her in her arms. She sate\ndown in the rocking chair, and held the woman upon her knees, her head\nlying on Margaret's shoulder. The other children, clustered together in\naffright, began to understand the mystery of the scene; but the ideas\ncame slowly, for their brains were dull and languid of perception. They\nset up such a cry of despair as they guessed the truth, that Margaret\nknew not how to bear it. Johnny's cry was loudest of them all, though he\nknew not why he cried, poor little fellow.\n\nThe mother quivered as she lay in Margaret's arms. Margaret heard a\nnoise at the door.\n\n'Open it. Open it quick,' said she to the eldest child. 'It's bolted;\nmake no noise--be very still. Oh, papa, let them go upstairs very softly\nand carefully, and perhaps she will not hear them. She has\nfainted--that's all.'\n\n'It's as well for her, poor creature,' said a woman following in the\nwake of the bearers of the dead. 'But yo're not fit to hold her. Stay,\nI'll run fetch a pillow and we'll let her down easy on the floor.'\n\nThis helpful neighbour was a great relief to Margaret; she was evidently\na stranger to the house, a new-comer in the district, indeed; but she\nwas so kind and thoughtful that Margaret felt she was no longer needed;\nand that it would be better, perhaps, to set an example of clearing the\nhouse, which was filled with idle, if sympathising gazers.\n\nShe looked round for Nicholas Higgins. He was not there. So she spoke to\nthe woman who had taken the lead in placing Mrs. Boucher on the floor.\n\n'Can you give all these people a hint that they had better leave in\nquietness? So that when she comes round, she should only find one or two\nthat she knows about her. Papa, will you speak to the men, and get them\nto go away? She cannot breathe, poor thing, with this crowd about her.'\n\nMargaret was kneeling down by Mrs. Boucher and bathing her face with\nvinegar; but in a few minutes she was surprised at the gush of fresh\nair. She looked round, and saw a smile pass between her father and the\nwoman.\n\n'What is it?' asked she.\n\n'Only our good friend here,' replied her father, 'hit on a capital\nexpedient for clearing the place.'\n\n'I bid 'em begone, and each take a child with 'em, and to mind that they\nwere orphans, and their mother a widow. It was who could do most, and\nthe childer are sure of a bellyful to-day, and of kindness too. Does hoo\nknow how he died?'\n\n'No,' said Margaret; 'I could not tell her all at once.'\n\n'Hoo mun be told because of th' Inquest. See! Hoo's coming round; shall\nyou or I do it? or mappen your father would be best?'\n\n'No; you, you,' said Margaret.\n\nThey awaited her perfect recovery in silence. Then the neighbour woman\nsat down on the floor, and took Mrs. Boucher's head and shoulders on her\nlap.\n\n'Neighbour,' said she, 'your man is dead. Guess yo' how he died?'\n\n'He were drowned,' said Mrs. Boucher, feebly, beginning to cry for the\nfirst time, at this rough probing of her sorrows.\n\n'He were found drowned. He were coming home very hopeless o' aught on\nearth. He thought God could na be harder than men; mappen not so hard;\nmappen as tender as a mother; mappen tenderer. I'm not saying he did\nright, and I'm not saying he did wrong. All I say is, may neither me nor\nmine ever have his sore heart, or we may do like things.'\n\n'He has left me alone wi' a' these children!' moaned the widow, less\ndistressed at the manner of the death than Margaret expected; but it was\nof a piece with her helpless character to feel his loss as principally\naffecting herself and her children.\n\n'Not alone,' said Mr. Hale, solemnly. 'Who is with you? Who will take up\nyour cause?' The widow opened her eyes wide, and looked at the new\nspeaker, of whose presence she had not been aware till then.\n\n'Who has promised to be a father to the fatherless?' continued he.\n\n'But I've getten six children, sir, and the eldest not eight years of\nage. I'm not meaning for to doubt His power, sir,--only it needs a deal\no' trust;' and she began to cry afresh.\n\n'Hoo'll be better able to talk to-morrow, sir,' said the neighbour.\n'Best comfort now would be the feel of a child at her heart. I'm sorry\nthey took the babby.'\n\n'I'll go for it,' said Margaret. And in a few minutes she returned,\ncarrying Johnnie, his face all smeared with eating, and his hands loaded\nwith treasures in the shape of shells, and bits of crystal, and the head\nof a plaster figure. She placed him in his mother's arms.\n\n'There!' said the woman, 'now you go. They'll cry together, and comfort\ntogether, better nor any one but a child can do. I'll stop with her as\nlong as I'm needed, and if yo' come to-morrow, yo' can have a deal o'\nwise talk with her, that she's not up to to-day.'\n\nAs Margaret and her father went slowly up the street, she paused at\nHiggins's closed door.\n\n'Shall we go in?' asked her father. 'I was thinking of him too.'\n\nThey knocked. There was no answer, so they tried the door. It was\nbolted, but they thought they heard him moving within.\n\n'Nicholas!' said Margaret. There was no answer, and they might have gone\naway, believing the house to be empty, if there had not been some\naccidental fall, as of a book, within.\n\n'Nicholas!' said Margaret again. 'It is only us. Won't you let us come\nin?'\n\n'No,' said he. 'I spoke as plain as I could, 'bout using words, when I\nbolted th' door. Let me be, this day.'\n\nMr. Hale would have urged their desire, but Margaret placed her finger\non his lips.\n\n'I don't wonder at it,' said she. 'I myself long to be alone. It seems\nthe only thing to do one good after a day like this.'\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVII\n\nLOOKING SOUTH\n\n    'A spade! a rake! a hoe!\n     A pickaxe or a bill!\n     A hook to reap, or a scythe to mow,\n     A flail, or what ye will--\n     And here's a ready hand\n     To ply the needful tool,\n     And skill'd enough, by lessons rough,\n     In Labour's rugged school.'\n             HOOD.\n\n\nHiggins's door was locked the next day, when they went to pay their call\non the widow Boucher: but they learnt this time from an officious\nneighbour, that he was really from home. He had, however, been in to see\nMrs. Boucher, before starting on his day's business, whatever that was.\nIt was but an unsatisfactory visit to Mrs. Boucher; she considered\nherself as an ill-used woman by her poor husband's suicide; and there\nwas quite germ of truth enough in this idea to make it a very difficult\none to refute. Still, it was unsatisfactory to see how completely her\nthoughts were turned upon herself and her own position, and this\nselfishness extended even to her relations with her children, whom she\nconsidered as incumbrances, even in the very midst of her somewhat\nanimal affection for them. Margaret tried to make acquaintances with one\nor two of them, while her father strove to raise the widow's thoughts\ninto some higher channel than that of mere helpless querulousness. She\nfound that the children were truer and simpler mourners than the widow.\nDaddy had been a kind daddy to them; each could tell, in their eager\nstammering way, of some tenderness shown some indulgence granted by the\nlost father.\n\n'Is yon thing upstairs really him? it doesna look like him. I'm feared\non it, and I never was feared o' daddy.'\n\nMargaret's heart bled to hear that the mother, in her selfish\nrequirement of sympathy, had taken her children upstairs to see their\ndisfigured father. It was intermingling the coarseness of horror with\nthe profoundness of natural grief. She tried to turn their thoughts in\nsome other direction; on what they could do for mother; on what--for\nthis was a more efficacious way of putting it--what father would have\nwished them to do. Margaret was more successful than Mr. Hale in her\nefforts. The children seeing their little duties lie in action close\naround them, began to try each one to do something that she suggested\ntowards redding up the slatternly room. But her father set too high a\nstandard, and too abstract a view, before the indolent invalid. She\ncould not rouse her torpid mind into any vivid imagination of what her\nhusband's misery might have been before he had resorted to the last\nterrible step; she could only look upon it as it affected herself; she\ncould not enter into the enduring mercy of the God who had not specially\ninterposed to prevent the water from drowning her prostrate husband; and\nalthough she was secretly blaming her husband for having fallen into\nsuch drear despair, and denying that he had any excuse for his last rash\nact, she was inveterate in her abuse of all who could by any possibility\nbe supposed to have driven him to such desperation. The masters--Mr.\nThornton in particular, whose mill had been attacked by Boucher, and\nwho, after the warrant had been issued for his apprehension on the\ncharge of rioting, had caused it to be withdrawn,--the Union, of which\nHiggins was the representative to the poor woman,--the children so\nnumerous, so hungry, and so noisy--all made up one great army of\npersonal enemies, whose fault it was that she was now a helpless widow.\n\nMargaret heard enough of this unreasonableness to dishearten her; and\nwhen they came away she found it impossible to cheer her father.\n\n'It is the town life,' said she. 'Their nerves are quickened by the\nhaste and bustle and speed of everything around them, to say nothing of\nthe confinement in these pent-up houses, which of itself is enough to\ninduce depression and worry of spirits. Now in the country, people live\nso much more out of doors, even children, and even in the winter.'\n\n'But people must live in towns. And in the country some get such\nstagnant habits of mind that they are almost fatalists.'\n\n'Yes; I acknowledge that. I suppose each mode of life produces its own\ntrials and its own temptations. The dweller in towns must find it as\ndifficult to be patient and calm, as the country-bred man must find it\nto be active, and equal to unwonted emergencies. Both must find it hard\nto realise a future of any kind; the one because the present is so\nliving and hurrying and close around him; the other because his life\ntempts him to revel in the mere sense of animal existence, not knowing\nof, and consequently not caring for any pungency of pleasure for the\nattainment of which he can plan, and deny himself and look forward.'\n\n'And thus both the necessity for engrossment, and the stupid content in\nthe present, produce the same effects. But this poor Mrs. Boucher! how\nlittle we can do for her.'\n\n'And yet we dare not leave her without our efforts, although they may\nseem so useless. Oh papa! it's a hard world to live in!'\n\n'So it is, my child. We feel it so just now, at any rate; but we have\nbeen very happy, even in the midst of our sorrow. What a pleasure\nFrederick's visit was!'\n\n'Yes, that it was,' said Margaret; brightly. 'It was such a charming,\nsnatched, forbidden thing.' But she suddenly stopped speaking. She had\nspoiled the remembrance of Frederick's visit to herself by her own\ncowardice. Of all faults the one she most despised in others was the\nwant of bravery; the meanness of heart which leads to untruth. And here\nhad she been guilty of it! Then came the thought of Mr. Thornton's\ncognisance of her falsehood. She wondered if she should have minded\ndetection half so much from any one else. She tried herself in\nimagination with her Aunt Shaw and Edith; with her father; with Captain\nand Mr. Lennox; with Frederick. The thought of the last knowing what she\nhad done, even in his own behalf, was the most painful, for the brother\nand sister were in the first flush of their mutual regard and love; but\neven any fall in Frederick's opinion was as nothing to the shame, the\nshrinking shame she felt at the thought of meeting Mr. Thornton again.\nAnd yet she longed to see him, to get it over; to understand where she\nstood in his opinion. Her cheeks burnt as she recollected how proudly\nshe had implied an objection to trade (in the early days of their\nacquaintance), because it too often led to the deceit of passing off\ninferior for superior goods, in the one branch; of assuming credit for\nwealth and resources not possessed, in the other. She remembered Mr.\nThornton's look of calm disdain, as in few words he gave her to\nunderstand that, in the great scheme of commerce, all dishonourable ways\nof acting were sure to prove injurious in the long run, and that,\ntesting such actions simply according to the poor standard of success,\nthere was folly and not wisdom in all such, and every kind of deceit in\ntrade, as well as in other things. She remembered--she, then strong in\nher own untempted truth--asking him, if he did not think that buying in\nthe cheapest and selling in the dearest market proved some want of the\ntransparent justice which is so intimately connected with the idea of\ntruth: and she had used the word chivalric--and her father had corrected\nher with the higher word, Christian; and so drawn the argument upon\nhimself, while she sate silent by with a slight feeling of contempt.\n\nNo more contempt for her!--no more talk about the chivalric!\nHenceforward she must feel humiliated and disgraced in his sight. But\nwhen should she see him? Her heart leaped up in apprehension at every\nring of the door-bell; and yet when it fell down to calmness, she felt\nstrangely saddened and sick at heart at each disappointment. It was very\nevident that her father expected to see him, and was surprised that he\ndid not come. The truth was, that there were points in their\nconversation the other night on which they had no time then to enlarge;\nbut it had been understood that if possible on the succeeding\nevening--if not then, at least the very first evening that Mr. Thornton\ncould command,--they should meet for further discussion. Mr. Hale had\nlooked forward to this meeting ever since they had parted. He had not\nyet resumed the instruction to his pupils, which he had relinquished at\nthe commencement of his wife's more serious illness, so he had fewer\noccupations than usual; and the great interest of the last day or so\n(Boucher's suicide) had driven him back with more eagerness than ever\nupon his speculations. He was restless all evening. He kept saying, 'I\nquite expected to have seen Mr. Thornton. I think the messenger who\nbrought the book last night must have had some note, and forgot to\ndeliver it. Do you think there has been any message left to-day?'\n\n'I will go and inquire, papa,' said Margaret, after the changes on these\nsentences had been rung once or twice. 'Stay, there's a ring!' She sate\ndown instantly, and bent her head attentively over her work. She heard a\nstep on the stairs, but it was only one, and she knew it was Dixon's.\nShe lifted up her head and sighed, and believed she felt glad.\n\n'It's that Higgins, sir. He wants to see you, or else Miss Hale. Or it\nmight be Miss Hale first, and then you, sir; for he's in a strange kind\nof way.\n\n'He had better come up here, Dixon; and then he can see us both, and\nchoose which he likes for his listener.'\n\n'Oh! very well, sir. I've no wish to hear what he's got to say, I'm\nsure; only, if you could see his shoes, I'm sure you'd say the kitchen\nwas the fitter place.\n\n'He can wipe them, I suppose, said Mr. Hale. So Dixon flung off, to bid\nhim walk up-stairs. She was a little mollified, however, when he looked\nat his feet with a hesitating air; and then, sitting down on the bottom\nstair, he took off the offending shoes, and without a word walked\nup-stairs.\n\n'Sarvant, sir!' said he, slicking his hair down when he came into the\nroom. 'If hoo'l excuse me (looking at Margaret) for being i' my\nstockings; I'se been tramping a' day, and streets is none o' th'\ncleanest.'\n\nMargaret thought that fatigue might account for the change in his\nmanner, for he was unusually quiet and subdued; and he had evidently\nsome difficulty in saying what he came to say.\n\nMr. Hale's ever-ready sympathy with anything of shyness or hesitation,\nor want of self-possession, made him come to his aid.\n\n'We shall have tea up directly, and then you'll take a cup with us, Mr.\nHiggins. I am sure you are tired, if you've been out much this wet\nrelaxing day. Margaret, my dear, can't you hasten tea?'\n\nMargaret could only hasten tea by taking the preparation of it into her\nown hands, and so offending Dixon, who was emerging out of her sorrow\nfor her late mistress into a very touchy, irritable state. But Martha,\nlike all who came in contact with Margaret--even Dixon herself, in the\nlong run--felt it a pleasure and an honour to forward any of her wishes;\nand her readiness, and Margaret's sweet forbearance, soon made Dixon\nashamed of herself.\n\n'Why master and you must always be asking the lower classes up-stairs,\nsince we came to Milton, I cannot understand. Folk at Helstone were\nnever brought higher than the kitchen; and I've let one or two of them\nknow before now that they might think it an honour to be even there.'\n\nHiggins found it easier to unburden himself to one than to two. After\nMargaret left the room, he went to the door and assured himself that it\nwas shut. Then he came and stood close to Mr. Hale.\n\n'Master,' said he, 'yo'd not guess easy what I've been tramping after\nto-day. Special if yo' remember my manner o' talk yesterday. I've been a\nseeking work. I have' said he. 'I said to mysel', I'd keep a civil\ntongue in my head, let who would say what 'em would. I'd set my teeth\ninto my tongue sooner nor speak i' haste. For that man's sake--yo'\nunderstand,' jerking his thumb back in some unknown direction.\n\n'No, I don't,' said Mr. Hale, seeing he waited for some kind of assent,\nand completely bewildered as to who 'that man' could be.\n\n'That chap as lies theer,' said he, with another jerk. 'Him as went and\ndrownded himself, poor chap! I did na' think he'd got it in him to lie\nstill and let th' water creep o'er him till he died. Boucher, yo' know.'\n\n'Yes, I know now,' said Mr. Hale. 'Go back to what you were saying:\nyou'd not speak in haste---- '\n\n'For his sake. Yet not for his sake; for where'er he is, and whate'er,\nhe'll ne'er know other clemming or cold again; but for the wife's sake,\nand the bits o' childer.'\n\n'God bless you!' said Mr. Hale, starting up; then, calming down, he said\nbreathlessly, 'What do you mean? Tell me out.'\n\n'I have telled yo',' said Higgins, a little surprised at Mr. Hale's\nagitation. 'I would na ask for work for mysel'; but them's left as a\ncharge on me. I reckon, I would ha guided Boucher to a better end; but I\nset him off o' th' road, and so I mun answer for him.'\n\nMr. Hale got hold of Higgins's hand and shook it heartily, without\nspeaking. Higgins looked awkward and ashamed.\n\n'Theer, theer, master! Theer's ne'er a man, to call a man, amongst us,\nbut what would do th' same; ay, and better too; for, belie' me, I'se\nne'er got a stroke o' work, nor yet a sight of any. For all I telled\nHamper that, let alone his pledge--which I would not sign--no, I could\nna, not e'en for this--he'd ne'er ha' such a worker on his mill as I\nwould be--he'd ha' none o' me--no more would none o' th' others. I'm a\npoor black feckless sheep--childer may clem for aught I can do, unless,\nparson, yo'd help me?'\n\n'Help you! How? I would do anything,--but what can I do?'\n\n'Miss there'--for Margaret had re-entered the room, and stood silent,\nlistening--'has often talked grand o' the South, and the ways down\nthere. Now I dunnot know how far off it is, but I've been thinking if I\ncould get 'em down theer, where food is cheap and wages good, and all\nthe folk, rich and poor, master and man, friendly like; yo' could, may\nbe, help me to work. I'm not forty-five, and I've a deal o' strength in\nme, measter.'\n\n'But what kind of work could you do, my man?'\n\n'Well, I reckon I could spade a bit---- '\n\n'And for that,' said Margaret, stepping forwards, 'for anything you\ncould do, Higgins, with the best will in the world, you would, may be,\nget nine shillings a week; maybe ten, at the outside. Food is much the\nsame as here, except that you might have a little garden---- '\n\n'The childer could work at that,' said he. 'I'm sick o' Milton anyways,\nand Milton is sick o' me.'\n\n'You must not go to the South,' said Margaret, 'for all that. You could\nnot stand it. You would have to be out all weathers. It would kill you\nwith rheumatism. The mere bodily work at your time of life would break\nyou down. The fare is far different to what you have been accustomed\nto.'\n\n'I'se nought particular about my meat,' said he, as if offended.\n\n'But you've reckoned on having butcher's meat once a day, if you're in\nwork; pay for that out of your ten shillings, and keep those poor\nchildren if you can. I owe it to you--since it's my way of talking that\nhas set you off on this idea--to put it all clear before you. You would\nnot bear the dulness of the life; you don't know what it is; it would\neat you away like rust. Those that have lived there all their lives, are\nused to soaking in the stagnant waters. They labour on, from day to day,\nin the great solitude of steaming fields--never speaking or lifting up\ntheir poor, bent, downcast heads. The hard spade-work robs their brain\nof life; the sameness of their toil deadens their imagination; they\ndon't care to meet to talk over thoughts and speculations, even of the\nweakest, wildest kind, after their work is done; they go home brutishly\ntired, poor creatures! caring for nothing but food and rest. You could\nnot stir them up into any companionship, which you get in a town as\nplentiful as the air you breathe, whether it be good or bad--and that I\ndon't know; but I do know, that you of all men are not one to bear a\nlife among such labourers. What would be peace to them would be eternal\nfretting to you. Think no more of it, Nicholas, I beg. Besides, you\ncould never pay to get mother and children all there--that's one good\nthing.'\n\n'I've reckoned for that. One house mun do for us a', and the furniture\no' t'other would go a good way. And men theer mun have their families to\nkeep--mappen six or seven childer. God help 'em!' said he, more\nconvinced by his own presentation of the facts than by all Margaret had\nsaid, and suddenly renouncing the idea, which had but recently formed\nitself in a brain worn out by the day's fatigue and anxiety. 'God help\n'em! North an' South have each getten their own troubles. If work's sure\nand steady theer, labour's paid at starvation prices; while here we'n\nrucks o' money coming in one quarter, and ne'er a farthing th' next. For\nsure, th' world is in a confusion that passes me or any other man to\nunderstand; it needs fettling, and who's to fettle it, if it's as yon\nfolks say, and there's nought but what we see?'\n\nMr. Hale was busy cutting bread and butter; Margaret was glad of this,\nfor she saw that Higgins was better left to himself: that if her father\nbegan to speak ever so mildly on the subject of Higgins's thoughts, the\nlatter would consider himself challenged to an argument, and would feel\nhimself bound to maintain his own ground. She and her father kept up an\nindifferent conversation until Higgins, scarcely aware whether he ate or\nnot, had made a very substantial meal. Then he pushed his chair away\nfrom the table, and tried to take an interest in what they were saying;\nbut it was of no use; and he fell back into dreamy gloom. Suddenly,\nMargaret said (she had been thinking of it for some time, but the words\nhad stuck in her throat), 'Higgins, have you been to Marlborough Mills\nto seek for work?'\n\n'Thornton's?' asked he. 'Ay, I've been at Thornton's.'\n\n'And what did he say?'\n\n'Such a chap as me is not like to see the measter. Th' o'erlooker bid me\ngo and be d---- d.'\n\n'I wish you had seen Mr. Thornton,' said Mr. Hale. 'He might not have\ngiven you work, but he would not have used such language.'\n\n'As to th' language, I'm welly used to it; it dunnot matter to me. I'm\nnot nesh mysel' when I'm put out. It were th' fact that I were na wanted\ntheer, no more nor ony other place, as I minded.'\n\n'But I wish you had seen Mr. Thornton,' repeated Margaret. 'Would you go\nagain--it's a good deal to ask, I know--but would you go to-morrow and\ntry him? I should be so glad if you would.'\n\n'I'm afraid it would be of no use,' said Mr. Hale, in a low voice. 'It\nwould be better to let me speak to him.' Margaret still looked at\nHiggins for his answer. Those grave soft eyes of hers were difficult to\nresist. He gave a great sigh.\n\n'It would tax my pride above a bit; if it were for mysel', I could stand\na deal o' clemming first; I'd sooner knock him down than ask a favour\nfrom him. I'd a deal sooner be flogged mysel'; but yo're not a common\nwench, axing yo'r pardon, nor yet have yo' common ways about yo'. I'll\ne'en make a wry face, and go at it to-morrow. Dunna yo' think that he'll\ndo it. That man has it in him to be burnt at the stake afore he'll give\nin. I do it for yo'r sake, Miss Hale, and it's first time in my life as\ne'er I give way to a woman. Neither my wife nor Bess could e'er say that\nmuch again me.'\n\n'All the more do I thank you,' said Margaret, smiling. 'Though I don't\nbelieve you: I believe you have just given way to wife and daughter as\nmuch as most men.'\n\n'And as to Mr. Thornton,' said Mr. Hale, 'I'll give you a note to him,\nwhich, I think I may venture to say, will ensure you a hearing.'\n\n'I thank yo' kindly, sir, but I'd as lief stand on my own bottom. I\ndunnot stomach the notion of having favour curried for me, by one as\ndoesn't know the ins and outs of the quarrel. Meddling 'twixt master and\nman is liker meddling 'twixt husband and wife than aught else: it takes\na deal o' wisdom for to do ony good. I'll stand guard at the lodge door.\nI'll stand there fro' six in the morning till I get speech on him. But\nI'd liefer sweep th' streets, if paupers had na' got hold on that work.\nDunna yo' hope, miss. There'll be more chance o' getting milk out of a\nflint. I wish yo' a very good night, and many thanks to yo'.'\n\n'You'll find your shoes by the kitchen fire; I took them there to dry,'\nsaid Margaret.\n\nHe turned round and looked at her steadily, and then he brushed his lean\nhand across his eyes and went his way.\n\n'How proud that man is!' said her father, who was a little annoyed at\nthe manner in which Higgins had declined his intercession with Mr.\nThornton.\n\n'He is,' said Margaret; 'but what grand makings of a man there are in\nhim, pride and all.'\n\n'It's amusing to see how he evidently respects the part in Mr.\nThornton's character which is like his own.'\n\n'There's granite in all these northern people, papa, is there not?'\n\n'There was none in poor Boucher, I am afraid; none in his wife either.'\n\n'I should guess from their tones that they had Irish blood in them. I\nwonder what success he'll have to-morrow. If he and Mr. Thornton would\nspeak out together as man to man--if Higgins would forget that Mr.\nThornton was a master, and speak to him as he does to us--and if Mr.\nThornton would be patient enough to listen to him with his human heart,\nnot with his master's ears--'\n\n'You are getting to do Mr. Thornton justice at last, Margaret,' said her\nfather, pinching her ear.\n\nMargaret had a strange choking at her heart, which made her unable to\nanswer. 'Oh!' thought she, 'I wish I were a man, that I could go and\nforce him to express his disapprobation, and tell him honestly that I\nknew I deserved it. It seems hard to lose him as a friend just when I\nhad begun to feel his value. How tender he was with dear mamma! If it\nwere only for her sake, I wish he would come, and then at least I should\nknow how much I was abased in his eyes.'\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVIII\n\nPROMISES FULFILLED\n\n    'Then proudly, proudly up she rose,\n     Tho' the tear was in her e'e,\n     \"Whate'er ye say, think what ye may,\n     Ye's get na word frae me!\"'\n             SCOTCH BALLAD.\n\n\nIt was not merely that Margaret was known to Mr. Thornton to have spoken\nfalsely,--though she imagined that for this reason only was she so\nturned in his opinion,--but that this falsehood of hers bore a distinct\nreference in his mind to some other lover. He could not forget the fond\nand earnest look that had passed between her and some other man--the\nattitude of familiar confidence, if not of positive endearment. The\nthought of this perpetually stung him; it was a picture before his eyes,\nwherever he went and whatever he was doing. In addition to this (and he\nground his teeth as he remembered it), was the hour, dusky twilight; the\nplace, so far away from home, and comparatively unfrequented. His nobler\nself had said at first, that all this last might be accidental,\ninnocent, justifiable; but once allow her right to love and be beloved\n(and had he any reason to deny her right?--had not her words been\nseverely explicit when she cast his love away from her?), she might\neasily have been beguiled into a longer walk, on to a later hour than\nshe had anticipated. But that falsehood! which showed a fatal\nconsciousness of something wrong, and to be concealed, which was unlike\nher. He did her that justice, though all the time it would have been a\nrelief to believe her utterly unworthy of his esteem. It was this that\nmade the misery--that he passionately loved her, and thought her, even\nwith all her faults, more lovely and more excellent than any other\nwoman; yet he deemed her so attached to some other man, so led away by\nher affection for him as to violate her truthful nature. The very\nfalsehood that stained her, was a proof how blindly she loved\nanother--this dark, slight, elegant, handsome man--while he himself was\nrough, and stern, and strongly made. He lashed himself into an agony of\nfierce jealousy. He thought of that look, that attitude!--how he would\nhave laid his life at her feet for such tender glances, such fond\ndetention! He mocked at himself, for having valued the mechanical way in\nwhich she had protected him from the fury of the mob; now he had seen\nhow soft and bewitching she looked when with a man she really loved. He\nremembered, point by point, the sharpness of her words--'There was not a\nman in all that crowd for whom she would not have done as much, far more\nreadily than for him.' He shared with the mob, in her desire of averting\nbloodshed from them; but this man, this hidden lover, shared with\nnobody; he had looks, words, hand-cleavings, lies, concealment, all to\nhimself.\n\nMr. Thornton was conscious that he had never been so irritable as he was\nnow, in all his life long; he felt inclined to give a short abrupt\nanswer, more like a bark than a speech, to every one that asked him a\nquestion; and this consciousness hurt his pride: he had always piqued\nhimself on his self-control, and control himself he would. So the manner\nwas subdued to a quiet deliberation, but the matter was even harder and\nsterner than common. He was more than usually silent at home; employing\nhis evenings in a continual pace backwards and forwards, which would\nhave annoyed his mother exceedingly if it had been practised by any one\nelse; and did not tend to promote any forbearance on her part even to\nthis beloved son.\n\n'Can you stop--can you sit down for a moment? I have something to say to\nyou, if you would give up that everlasting walk, walk, walk.'\n\nHe sat down instantly, on a chair against the wall.\n\n'I want to speak to you about Betsy. She says she must leave us; that\nher lover's death has so affected her spirits she can't give her heart\nto her work.'\n\n'Very well. I suppose other cooks are to be met with.'\n\n'That's so like a man. It's not merely the cooking, it is that she knows\nall the ways of the house. Besides, she tells me something about your\nfriend Miss Hale.'\n\n'Miss Hale is no friend of mine. Mr. Hale is my friend.'\n\n'I am glad to hear you say so, for if she had been your friend, what\nBetsy says would have annoyed you.'\n\n'Let me hear it,' said he, with the extreme quietness of manner he had\nbeen assuming for the last few days.\n\n'Betsy says, that the night on which her lover--I forget his name--for\nshe always calls him \"he\"---- '\n\n'Leonards.'\n\n'The night on which Leonards was last seen at the station--when he was\nlast seen on duty, in fact--Miss Hale was there, walking about with a\nyoung man who, Betsy believes, killed Leonards by some blow or push.'\n\n'Leonards was not killed by any blow or push.'\n\n'How do you know?'\n\n'Because I distinctly put the question to the surgeon of the Infirmary.\nHe told me there was an internal disease of long standing, caused by\nLeonards' habit of drinking to excess; that the fact of his becoming\nrapidly worse while in a state of intoxication, settled the question as\nto whether the last fatal attack was caused by excess of drinking, or\nthe fall.'\n\n'The fall! What fall?'\n\n'Caused by the blow or push of which Betsy speaks.'\n\n'Then there was a blow or push?'\n\n'I believe so.'\n\n'And who did it?'\n\n'As there was no inquest, in consequence of the doctor's opinion, I\ncannot tell you.'\n\n'But Miss Hale was there?'\n\nNo answer.\n\n'And with a young man?'\n\nStill no answer. At last he said: 'I tell you, mother, that there was no\ninquest--no inquiry. No judicial inquiry, I mean.'\n\n'Betsy says that Woolmer (some man she knows, who is in a grocer's shop\nout at Crampton) can swear that Miss Hale was at the station at that\nhour, walking backwards and forwards with a young man.'\n\n'I don't see what we have to do with that. Miss Hale is at liberty to\nplease herself.'\n\n'I'm glad to hear you say so,' said Mrs. Thornton, eagerly. 'It\ncertainly signifies very little to us--not at all to you, after what has\npassed! but I--I made a promise to Mrs. Hale, that I would not allow her\ndaughter to go wrong without advising and remonstrating with her. I\nshall certainly let her know my opinion of such conduct.'\n\n'I do not see any harm in what she did that evening,' said Mr. Thornton,\ngetting up, and coming near to his mother; he stood by the chimney-piece\nwith his face turned away from the room.\n\n'You would not have approved of Fanny's being seen out, after dark, in\nrather a lonely place, walking about with a young man. I say nothing of\nthe taste which could choose the time, when her mother lay unburied, for\nsuch a promenade. Should you have liked your sister to have been noticed\nby a grocer's assistant for doing so?'\n\n'In the first place, as it is not many years since I myself was a\ndraper's assistant, the mere circumstance of a grocer's assistant\nnoticing any act does not alter the character of the act to me. And in\nthe next place, I see a great deal of difference between Miss Hale and\nFanny. I can imagine that the one may have weighty reasons, which may\nand ought to make her overlook any seeming Impropriety in her conduct. I\nnever knew Fanny have weighty reasons for anything. Other people must\nguard her. I believe Miss Hale is a guardian to herself.'\n\n'A pretty character of your sister, indeed! Really, John, one would have\nthought Miss Hale had done enough to make you clear-sighted. She drew\nyou on to an offer, by a bold display of pretended regard for you,--to\nplay you off against this very young man, I've no doubt. Her whole\nconduct is clear to me now. You believe he is her lover, I suppose--you\nagree to that.'\n\nHe turned round to his mother; his face was very gray and grim. 'Yes,\nmother. I do believe he is her lover.' When he had spoken, he turned\nround again; he writhed himself about, like one in bodily pain. He leant\nhis face against his hand. Then before she could speak, he turned sharp\nagain:\n\n'Mother. He is her lover, whoever he is; but she may need help and\nwomanly counsel;--there may be difficulties or temptations which I don't\nknow. I fear there are. I don't want to know what they are; but as you\nhave ever been a good--ay! and a tender mother to me, go to her, and\ngain her confidence, and tell her what is best to be done. I know that\nsomething is wrong; some dread, must be a terrible torture to her.'\n\n'For God's sake, John!' said his mother, now really shocked, 'what do\nyou mean? What do you mean? What do you know?'\n\nHe did not reply to her.\n\n'John! I don't know what I shan't think unless you speak. You have no\nright to say what you have done against her.'\n\n'Not against her, mother! I _could_ not speak against her.'\n\n'Well! you have no right to say what you have done, unless you say more.\nThese half-expressions are what ruin a woman's character.'\n\n'Her character! Mother, you do not dare--' he faced about, and looked\ninto her face with his flaming eyes. Then, drawing himself up into\ndetermined composure and dignity, he said, 'I will not say any more than\nthis, which is neither more nor less than the simple truth, and I am\nsure you believe me,--I have good reason to believe, that Miss Hale is\nin some strait and difficulty connected with an attachment which, of\nitself, from my knowledge of Miss Hale's character, is perfectly\ninnocent and right. What my reason is, I refuse to tell. But never let\nme hear any one say a word against her, implying any more serious\nimputation than that she now needs the counsel of some kind and gentle\nwoman. You promised Mrs. Hale to be that woman!'\n\n'No!' said Mrs. Thornton. 'I am happy to say, I did not promise kindness\nand gentleness, for I felt at the time that it might be out of my power\nto render these to one of Miss Hale's character and disposition. I\npromised counsel and advice, such as I would give to my own daughter; I\nshall speak to her as I would do to Fanny, if she had gone gallivanting\nwith a young man in the dusk. I shall speak with relation to the\ncircumstances I know, without being influenced either one way or another\nby the \"strong reasons\" which you will not confide to me. Then I shall\nhave fulfilled my promise, and done my duty.'\n\n'She will never bear it,' said he passionately.\n\n'She will have to bear it, if I speak in her dead mother's name.'\n\n'Well!' said he, breaking away, 'don't tell me any more about it. I\ncannot endure to think of it. It will be better that you should speak to\nher any way, than that she should not be spoken to at all.--Oh! that\nlook of love!' continued he, between his teeth, as he bolted himself\ninto his own private room. 'And that cursed lie; which showed some\nterrible shame in the background, to be kept from the light in which I\nthought she lived perpetually! Oh, Margaret, Margaret! Mother, how you\nhave tortured me! Oh! Margaret, could you not have loved me? I am but\nuncouth and hard, but I would never have led you into any falsehood for\nme.'\n\nThe more Mrs. Thornton thought over what her son had said, in pleading\nfor a merciful judgment for Margaret's indiscretion, the more bitterly\nshe felt inclined towards her. She took a savage pleasure in the idea of\n'speaking her mind' to her, in the guise of fulfilment of a duty. She\nenjoyed the thought of showing herself untouched by the 'glamour,' which\nshe was well aware Margaret had the power of throwing over many people.\nShe snorted scornfully over the picture of the beauty of her victim; her\njet black hair, her clear smooth skin, her lucid eyes would not help to\nsave her one word of the just and stern reproach which Mrs. Thornton\nspent half the night in preparing to her mind.\n\n'Is Miss Hale within?' She knew she was, for she had seen her at the\nwindow, and she had her feet inside the little hall before Martha had\nhalf answered her question.\n\nMargaret was sitting alone, writing to Edith, and giving her many\nparticulars of her mother's last days. It was a softening employment,\nand she had to brush away the unbidden tears as Mrs. Thornton was\nannounced.\n\nShe was so gentle and ladylike in her mode of reception that her visitor\nwas somewhat daunted; and it became impossible to utter the speech, so\neasy of arrangement with no one to address it to. Margaret's low rich\nvoice was softer than usual; her manner more gracious, because in her\nheart she was feeling very grateful to Mrs. Thornton for the courteous\nattention of her call. She exerted herself to find subjects of interest\nfor conversation; praised Martha, the servant whom Mrs. Thornton had\nfound for them; had asked Edith for a little Greek air, about which she\nhad spoken to Miss Thornton. Mrs. Thornton was fairly discomfited. Her\nsharp Damascus blade seemed out of place, and useless among rose-leaves.\nShe was silent, because she was trying to task herself up to her duty.\nAt last, she stung herself into its performance by a suspicion which, in\nspite of all probability, she allowed to cross her mind, that all this\nsweetness was put on with a view of propitiating Mr. Thornton; that,\nsomehow, the other attachment had fallen through, and that it suited\nMiss Hale's purpose to recall her rejected lover. Poor Margaret! there\nwas perhaps so much truth in the suspicion as this: that Mrs. Thornton\nwas the mother of one whose regard she valued, and feared to have lost;\nand this thought unconsciously added to her natural desire of pleasing\none who was showing her kindness by her visit. Mrs. Thornton stood up to\ngo, but yet she seemed to have something more to say. She cleared her\nthroat and began:\n\n'Miss Hale, I have a duty to perform. I promised your poor mother that,\nas far as my poor judgment went, I would not allow you to act in any way\nwrongly, or (she softened her speech down a little here) inadvertently,\nwithout remonstrating; at least, without offering advice, whether you\ntook it or not.'\n\nMargaret stood before her, blushing like any culprit, with her eyes\ndilating as she gazed at Mrs. Thornton. She thought she had come to\nspeak to her about the falsehood she had told--that Mr. Thornton had\nemployed her to explain the danger she had exposed herself to, of being\nconfuted in full court! and although her heart sank to think he had not\nrather chosen to come himself, and upbraid her, and receive her\npenitence, and restore her again to his good opinion, yet she was too\nmuch humbled not to bear any blame on this subject patiently and meekly.\n\nMrs. Thornton went on:\n\n'At first, when I heard from one of my servants, that you had been seen\nwalking about with a gentleman, so far from home as the Outwood station,\nat such a time of the evening, I could hardly believe it. But my son, I\nam sorry to say, confirmed her story. It was indiscreet, to say the\nleast; many a young woman has lost her character before now---- '\n\nMargaret's eyes flashed fire. This was a new idea--this was too\ninsulting. If Mrs. Thornton had spoken to her about the lie she had\ntold, well and good--she would have owned it, and humiliated herself.\nBut to interfere with her conduct--to speak of her character! she--Mrs.\nThornton, a mere stranger--it was too impertinent! She would not answer\nher--not one word. Mrs. Thornton saw the battle-spirit in Margaret's\neyes, and it called up her combativeness also.\n\n'For your mother's sake, I have thought it right to warn you against\nsuch improprieties; they must degrade you in the long run in the\nestimation of the world, even if in fact they do not lead you to\npositive harm.'\n\n'For my mother's sake,' said Margaret, in a tearful voice, 'I will bear\nmuch; but I cannot bear everything. She never meant me to be exposed to\ninsult, I am sure.'\n\n'Insult, Miss Hale!'\n\n'Yes, madam,' said Margaret more steadily, 'it is insult. What do you\nknow of me that should lead you to suspect--Oh!' said she, breaking\ndown, and covering her face with her hands--'I know now, Mr. Thornton\nhas told you---- '\n\n'No, Miss Hale,' said Mrs. Thornton, her truthfulness causing her to\narrest the confession Margaret was on the point of making, though her\ncuriosity was itching to hear it. 'Stop. Mr. Thornton has told me\nnothing. You do not know my son. You are not worthy to know him. He said\nthis. Listen, young lady, that you may understand, if you can, what sort\nof a man you rejected. This Milton manufacturer, his great tender heart\nscorned as it was scorned, said to me only last night, \"Go to her. I\nhave good reason to know that she is in some strait, arising out of some\nattachment; and she needs womanly counsel.\" I believe those were his\nvery words. Farther than that--beyond admitting the fact of your being\nat the Outwood station with a gentleman, on the evening of the\ntwenty-sixth--he has said nothing--not one word against you. If he has\nknowledge of anything which should make you sob so, he keeps it to\nhimself.'\n\nMargaret's face was still hidden in her hands, the fingers of which were\nwet with tears. Mrs. Thornton was a little mollified.\n\n'Come, Miss Hale. There may be circumstances, I'll allow, that, if\nexplained, may take off from the seeming impropriety.'\n\nStill no answer. Margaret was considering what to say; she wished to\nstand well with Mrs. Thornton; and yet she could not, might not, give\nany explanation. Mrs. Thornton grew impatient.\n\n'I shall be sorry to break off an acquaintance; but for Fanny's sake--as\nI told my son, if Fanny had done so we should consider it a great\ndisgrace--and Fanny might be led away---- '\n\n'I can give you no explanation,' said Margaret, in a low voice. 'I have\ndone wrong, but not in the way you think or know about. I think Mr.\nThornton judges me more mercifully than you;'--she had hard work to keep\nherself from choking with her tears--'but, I believe, madam, you mean to\ndo rightly.'\n\n'Thank you,' said Mrs. Thornton, drawing herself up; 'I was not aware\nthat my meaning was doubted. It is the last time I shall interfere. I\nwas unwilling to consent to do it, when your mother asked me. I had not\napproved of my son's attachment to you, while I only suspected it. You\ndid not appear to me worthy of him. But when you compromised yourself as\nyou did at the time of the riot, and exposed yourself to the comments of\nservants and workpeople, I felt it was no longer right to set myself\nagainst my son's wish of proposing to you--a wish, by the way, which he\nhad always denied entertaining until the day of the riot.' Margaret\nwinced, and drew in her breath with a long, hissing sound; of which,\nhowever, Mrs. Thornton took no notice. 'He came; you had apparently\nchanged your mind. I told my son yesterday, that I thought it possible,\nshort as was the interval, you might have heard or learnt something of\nthis other lover---- '\n\n'What must you think of me, madam?' asked Margaret, throwing her head\nback with proud disdain, till her throat curved outwards like a swan's.\n'You can say nothing more, Mrs. Thornton. I decline every attempt to\njustify myself for anything. You must allow me to leave the room.'\n\nAnd she swept out of it with the noiseless grace of an offended\nprincess. Mrs. Thornton had quite enough of natural humour to make her\nfeel the ludicrousness of the position in which she was left. There was\nnothing for it but to show herself out. She was not particularly annoyed\nat Margaret's way of behaving. She did not care enough for her for that.\nShe had taken Mrs. Thornton's remonstrance to the full as keenly to\nheart as that lady expected; and Margaret's passion at once mollified\nher visitor, far more than any silence or reserve could have done. It\nshowed the effect of her words. 'My young lady,' thought Mrs. Thornton\nto herself; 'you've a pretty good temper of your own. If John and you\nhad come together, he would have had to keep a tight hand over you, to\nmake you know your place. But I don't think you will go a-walking again\nwith your beau, at such an hour of the day, in a hurry. You've too much\npride and spirit in you for that. I like to see a girl fly out at the\nnotion of being talked about. It shows they're neither giddy, nor bold\nby nature. As for that girl, she might be bold, but she'd never be\ngiddy. I'll do her that justice. Now as to Fanny, she'd be giddy, and\nnot bold. She's no courage in her, poor thing!'\n\nMr. Thornton was not spending the morning so satisfactorily as his\nmother. She, at any rate, was fulfilling her determined purpose. He was\ntrying to understand where he stood; what damage the strike had done\nhim. A good deal of his capital was locked up in new and expensive\nmachinery; and he had also bought cotton largely, with a view to some\ngreat orders which he had in hand. The strike had thrown him terribly\nbehindhand, as to the completion of these orders. Even with his own\naccustomed and skilled workpeople, he would have had some difficulty in\nfulfilling his engagements; as it was, the incompetence of the Irish\nhands, who had to be trained to their work, at a time requiring unusual\nactivity, was a daily annoyance.\n\nIt was not a favourable hour for Higgins to make his request. But he had\npromised Margaret to do it at any cost. So, though every moment added to\nhis repugnance, his pride, and his sullenness of temper, he stood\nleaning against the dead wall, hour after hour, first on one leg, then\non the other. At last the latch was sharply lifted, and out came Mr.\nThornton.\n\n'I want for to speak to yo', sir.'\n\n'Can't stay now, my man. I'm too late as it is.'\n\n'Well, sir, I reckon I can wait till yo' come back.'\n\nMr. Thornton was half way down the street. Higgins sighed. But it was no\nuse. To catch him in the street was his only chance of seeing 'the\nmeaster;' if he had rung the lodge bell, or even gone up to the house to\nask for him, he would have been referred to the overlooker. So he stood\nstill again, vouchsafing no answer, but a short nod of recognition to\nthe few men who knew and spoke to him, as the crowd drove out of the\nmillyard at dinner-time, and scowling with all his might at the Irish\n'knobsticks' who had just been imported. At last Mr. Thornton returned.\n\n'What! you there still!'\n\n'Ay, sir. I mun speak to yo'.'\n\n'Come in here, then. Stay, we'll go across the yard; the men are not\ncome back, and we shall have it to ourselves. These good people, I see,\nare at dinner;' said he, closing the door of the porter's lodge.\n\nHe stopped to speak to the overlooker. The latter said in a low tone:\n\n'I suppose you know, sir, that that man is Higgins, one of the leaders\nof the Union; he that made that speech in Hurstfield.'\n\n'No, I didn't,' said Mr. Thornton, looking round sharply at his\nfollower. Higgins was known to him by name as a turbulent spirit.\n\n'Come along,' said he, and his tone was rougher than before. 'It is men\nsuch as this,' thought he, 'who interrupt commerce and injure the very\ntown they live in: mere demagogues, lovers of power, at whatever cost to\nothers.'\n\n'Well, sir! what do you want with me?' said Mr. Thornton, facing round\nat him, as soon as they were in the counting-house of the mill.\n\n'My name is Higgins'--\n\n'I know that,' broke in Mr. Thornton. 'What do you want, Mr. Higgins?\nThat's the question.'\n\n'I want work.'\n\n'Work! You're a pretty chap to come asking me for work. You don't want\nimpudence, that's very clear.'\n\n'I've getten enemies and backbiters, like my betters; but I ne'er heerd\no' ony of them calling me o'er-modest,' said Higgins. His blood was a\nlittle roused by Mr. Thornton's manner, more than by his words.\n\nMr. Thornton saw a letter addressed to himself on the table. He took it\nup and read it through. At the end, he looked up and said, 'What are you\nwaiting for?'\n\n'An answer to the question I axed.'\n\n'I gave it you before. Don't waste any more of your time.'\n\n'Yo' made a remark, sir, on my impudence: but I were taught that it was\nmanners to say either \"yes\" or \"no,\" when I were axed a civil question.\nI should be thankfu' to yo' if yo'd give me work. Hamper will speak to\nmy being a good hand.'\n\n'I've a notion you'd better not send me to Hamper to ask for a\ncharacter, my man. I might hear more than you'd like.'\n\n'I'd take th' risk. Worst they could say of me is, that I did what I\nthought best, even to my own wrong.'\n\n'You'd better go and try them, then, and see whether they'll give you\nwork. I've turned off upwards of a hundred of my best hands, for no\nother fault than following you and such as you; and d'ye think I'll take\nyou on? I might as well put a firebrand into the midst of the\ncotton-waste.'\n\nHiggins turned away; then the recollection of Boucher came over him, and\nhe faced round with the greatest concession he could persuade himself to\nmake.\n\n'I'd promise yo', measter, I'd not speak a word as could do harm, if so\nbe yo' did right by us; and I'd promise more: I'd promise that when I\nseed yo' going wrong, and acting unfair, I'd speak to yo' in private\nfirst; and that would be a fair warning. If yo' and I did na agree in\nour opinion o' your conduct, yo' might turn me off at an hour's notice.'\n\n'Upon my word, you don't think small beer of yourself! Hamper has had a\nloss of you. How came he to let you and your wisdom go?'\n\n'Well, we parted wi' mutual dissatisfaction. I wouldn't gi'e the pledge\nthey were asking; and they wouldn't have me at no rate. So I'm free to\nmake another engagement; and as I said before, though I should na' say\nit, I'm a good hand, measter, and a steady man--specially when I can\nkeep fro' drink; and that I shall do now, if I ne'er did afore.'\n\n'That you may have more money laid up for another strike, I suppose?'\n\n'No! I'd be thankful if I was free to do that; it's for to keep th'\nwidow and childer of a man who was drove mad by them knobsticks o'\nyourn; put out of his place by a Paddy that did na know weft fro' warp.'\n\n'Well! you'd better turn to something else, if you've any such good\nintention in your head. I shouldn't advise you to stay in Milton: you're\ntoo well known here.'\n\n'If it were summer,' said Higgins, 'I'd take to Paddy's work, and go as\na navvy, or haymaking, or summut, and ne'er see Milton again. But it's\nwinter, and th' childer will clem.'\n\n'A pretty navvy you'd make! why, you couldn't do half a day's work at\ndigging against an Irishman.'\n\n'I'd only charge half-a-day for th' twelve hours, if I could only do\nhalf-a-day's work in th' time. Yo're not knowing of any place, where\nthey could gi' me a trial, away fro' the mills, if I'm such a firebrand?\nI'd take any wage they thought I was worth, for the sake of those\nchilder.'\n\n'Don't you see what you would be? You'd be a knobstick. You'd be taking\nless wages than the other labourers--all for the sake of another man's\nchildren. Think how you'd abuse any poor fellow who was willing to take\nwhat he could get to keep his own children. You and your Union would\nsoon be down upon him. No! no! if it's only for the recollection of the\nway in which you've used the poor knobsticks before now, I say No! to\nyour question. I'll not give you work. I won't say, I don't believe your\npretext for coming and asking for work; I know nothing about it. It may\nbe true, or it may not. It's a very unlikely story, at any rate. Let me\npass. I'll not give you work. There's your answer.'\n\n'I hear, sir. I would na ha' troubled yo', but that I were bid to come,\nby one as seemed to think yo'd getten some soft place in yo'r heart.\nHoo were mistook, and I were misled. But I'm not the first man as is\nmisled by a woman.'\n\n'Tell her to mind her own business the next time, instead of taking up\nyour time and mine too. I believe women are at the bottom of every\nplague in this world. Be off with you.'\n\n'I'm obleeged to yo' for a' yo'r kindness, measter, and most of a' for\nyo'r civil way o' saying good-bye.'\n\nMr. Thornton did not deign a reply. But, looking out of the window a\nminute after, he was struck with the lean, bent figure going out of the\nyard: the heavy walk was in strange contrast with the resolute, clear\ndetermination of the man to speak to him. He crossed to the porter's\nlodge:\n\n'How long has that man Higgins been waiting to speak to me?'\n\n'He was outside the gate before eight o'clock, sir. I think he's been\nthere ever since.'\n\n'And it is now--?'\n\n'Just one, sir.'\n\n'Five hours,' thought Mr. Thornton; 'it's a long time for a man to wait,\ndoing nothing but first hoping and then fearing.'\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIX\n\nMAKING FRIENDS\n\n    'Nay, I have done; you get no more of me:\n     And I am glad, yea glad with all my heart,\n     That thus so clearly I myself am free.'\n             DRAYTON.\n\n\nMargaret shut herself up in her own room, after she had quitted Mrs.\nThornton. She began to walk backwards and forwards, in her old habitual\nway of showing agitation; but, then, remembering that in that\nslightly-built house every step was heard from one room to another, she\nsate down until she heard Mrs. Thornton go safely out of the house. She\nforced herself to recollect all the conversation that had passed between\nthem; speech by speech, she compelled her memory to go through with it.\nAt the end, she rose up, and said to herself, in a melancholy tone:\n\n'At any rate, her words do not touch me; they fall off from me; for I am\ninnocent of all the motives she attributes to me. But still, it is hard\nto think that any one--any woman--can believe all this of another so\neasily. It is hard and sad. Where I have done wrong, she does not accuse\nme--she does not know. He never told her: I might have known he would\nnot!'\n\nShe lifted up her head, as if she took pride in any delicacy of feeling\nwhich Mr. Thornton had shown. Then, as a new thought came across her,\nshe pressed her hands tightly together.\n\n'He, too, must take poor Frederick for some lover.' (She blushed as the\nword passed through her mind.) 'I see it now. It is not merely that he\nknows of my falsehood, but he believes that some one else cares for me;\nand that I---- Oh dear!--oh dear! What shall I do? What do I mean? Why\ndo I care what he thinks, beyond the mere loss of his good opinion as\nregards my telling the truth or not? I cannot tell. But I am very\nmiserable! Oh, how unhappy this last year has been! I have passed out of\nchildhood into old age. I have had no youth--no womanhood; the hopes of\nwomanhood have closed for me--for I shall never marry; and I anticipate\ncares and sorrows just as if I were an old woman, and with the same\nfearful spirit. I am weary of this continual call upon me for strength.\nI could bear up for papa; because that is a natural, pious duty. And I\nthink I could bear up against--at any rate, I could have the energy to\nresent, Mrs. Thornton's unjust, impertinent suspicions. But it is hard\nto feel how completely he must misunderstand me. What has happened to\nmake me so morbid to-day? I do not know. I only know I cannot help it. I\nmust give way sometimes. No, I will not, though,' said she, springing to\nher feet. 'I will not--I _will_ not think of myself and my own position.\nI won't examine into my own feelings. It would be of no use now. Some\ntime, if I live to be an old woman, I may sit over the fire, and,\nlooking into the embers, see the life that might have been.'\n\nAll this time, she was hastily putting on her things to go out, only\nstopping from time to time to wipe her eyes, with an impatience of\ngesture at the tears that would come, in spite of all her bravery.\n\n'I dare say, there's many a woman makes as sad a mistake as I have done,\nand only finds it out too late. And how proudly and impertinently I\nspoke to him that day! But I did not know then. It has come upon me\nlittle by little, and I don't know where it began. Now I won't give way.\nI shall find it difficult to behave in the same way to him, with this\nmiserable consciousness upon me; but I will be very calm and very quiet,\nand say very little. But, to be sure, I may not see him; he keeps out of\nour way evidently. That would be worse than all. And yet no wonder that\nhe avoids me, believing what he must about me.'\n\nShe went out, going rapidly towards the country, and trying to drown\nreflection by swiftness of motion.\n\nAs she stood on the door-step, at her return, her father came up:\n\n'Good girl!' said he. 'You've been to Mrs. Boucher's. I was just meaning\nto go there, if I had time, before dinner.'\n\n'No, papa; I have not,' said Margaret, reddening. 'I never thought about\nher. But I will go directly after dinner; I will go while you are taking\nyour nap.'\n\nAccordingly Margaret went. Mrs. Boucher was very ill; really ill--not\nmerely ailing. The kind and sensible neighbour, who had come in the\nother day, seemed to have taken charge of everything. Some of the\nchildren were gone to the neighbours. Mary Higgins had come for the\nthree youngest at dinner-time; and since then Nicholas had gone for the\ndoctor. He had not come as yet; Mrs. Boucher was dying; and there was\nnothing to do but to wait. Margaret thought that she should like to know\nhis opinion, and that she could not do better than go and see the\nHigginses in the meantime. She might then possibly hear whether Nicholas\nhad been able to make his application to Mr. Thornton.\n\nShe found Nicholas busily engaged in making a penny spin on the dresser,\nfor the amusement of three little children, who were clinging to him in\na fearless manner. He, as well as they, was smiling at a good long spin;\nand Margaret thought, that the happy look of interest in his occupation\nwas a good sign. When the penny stopped spinning, 'lile Johnnie' began\nto cry.\n\n'Come to me,' said Margaret, taking him off the dresser, and holding him\nin her arms; she held her watch to his ear, while she asked Nicholas if\nhe had seen Mr. Thornton.\n\nThe look on his face changed instantly.\n\n'Ay!' said he. 'I've seen and heerd too much on him.'\n\n'He refused you, then?' said Margaret, sorrowfully.\n\n'To be sure. I knew he'd do it all long. It's no good expecting marcy at\nthe hands o' them measters. Yo're a stranger and a foreigner, and aren't\nlikely to know their ways; but I knowed it.'\n\n'I am sorry I asked you. Was he angry? He did not speak to you as Hamper\ndid, did he?'\n\n'He weren't o'er-civil!' said Nicholas, spinning the penny again, as\nmuch for his own amusement as for that of the children. 'Never yo' fret,\nI'm only where I was. I'll go on tramp to-morrow. I gave him as good as\nI got. I telled him, I'd not that good opinion on him that I'd ha' come\na second time of mysel'; but yo'd advised me for to come, and I were\nbeholden to yo'.'\n\n'You told him I sent you?'\n\n'I dunno' if I ca'd yo' by your name. I dunnot think I did. I said, a\nwoman who knew no better had advised me for to come and see if there was\na soft place in his heart.'\n\n'And he--?' asked Margaret.\n\n'Said I were to tell yo' to mind yo'r own business.--That's the longest\nspin yet, my lads.--And them's civil words to what he used to me. But\nne'er mind. We're but where we was; and I'll break stones on th' road\nafore I let these little uns clem.'\n\nMargaret put the struggling Johnnie out of her arms, back into his\nformer place on the dresser.\n\n'I am sorry I asked you to go to Mr. Thornton's. I am disappointed in\nhim.'\n\nThere was a slight noise behind her. Both she and Nicholas turned round\nat the same moment, and there stood Mr. Thornton, with a look of\ndispleased surprise upon his face. Obeying her swift impulse, Margaret\npassed out before him, saying not a word, only bowing low to hide the\nsudden paleness that she felt had come over her face. He bent equally\nlow in return, and then closed the door after her. As she hurried to\nMrs. Boucher's, she heard the clang, and it seemed to fill up the\nmeasure of her mortification. He too was annoyed to find her there. He\nhad tenderness in his heart--'a soft place,' as Nicholas Higgins called\nit; but he had some pride in concealing it; he kept it very sacred and\nsafe, and was jealous of every circumstance that tried to gain\nadmission. But if he dreaded exposure of his tenderness, he was equally\ndesirous that all men should recognise his justice; and he felt that he\nhad been unjust, in giving so scornful a hearing to any one who had\nwaited, with humble patience, for five hours, to speak to him. That the\nman had spoken saucily to him when he had the opportunity, was nothing\nto Mr. Thornton. He rather liked him for it; and he was conscious of his\nown irritability of temper at the time, which probably made them both\nquits. It was the five hours of waiting that struck Mr. Thornton. He had\nnot five hours to spare himself; but one hour--two hours, of his hard\npenetrating intellectual, as well as bodily labour, did he give up to\ngoing about collecting evidence as to the truth of Higgins's story, the\nnature of his character, the tenor of his life. He tried not to be, but\nwas convinced that all that Higgins had said was true. And then the\nconviction went in, as if by some spell, and touched the latent\ntenderness of his heart; the patience of the man, the simple generosity\nof the motive (for he had learnt about the quarrel between Boucher and\nHiggins), made him forget entirely the mere reasonings of justice, and\noverleap them by a diviner instinct. He came to tell Higgins he would\ngive him work; and he was more annoyed to find Margaret there than by\nhearing her last words, for then he understood that she was the woman\nwho had urged Higgins to come to him; and he dreaded the admission of\nany thought of her, as a motive to what he was doing solely because it\nwas right.\n\n'So that was the lady you spoke of as a woman?' said he indignantly to\nHiggins. 'You might have told me who she was.\n\n'And then, maybe, yo'd ha' spoken of her more civil than yo' did; yo'd\ngetten a mother who might ha' kept yo'r tongue in check when yo' were\ntalking o' women being at the root o' all the plagues.'\n\n'Of course you told that to Miss Hale?'\n\n'In coorse I did. Leastways, I reckon I did. I telled her she weren't to\nmeddle again in aught that concerned yo'.'\n\n'Whose children are those--yours?' Mr. Thornton had a pretty good notion\nwhose they were, from what he had heard; but he felt awkward in turning\nthe conversation round from this unpromising beginning.\n\n'They're not mine, and they are mine.'\n\n'They are the children you spoke of to me this morning?'\n\n'When yo' said,' replied Higgins, turning round, with ill-smothered\nfierceness, 'that my story might be true or might not, bur it were a\nvery unlikely one. Measter, I've not forgetten.'\n\nMr. Thornton was silent for a moment; then he said: 'No more have I. I\nremember what I said. I spoke to you about those children in a way I had\nno business to do. I did not believe you. I could not have taken care of\nanother man's children myself, if he had acted towards me as I hear\nBoucher did towards you. But I know now that you spoke truth. I beg your\npardon.'\n\nHiggins did not turn round, or immediately respond to this. But when he\ndid speak, it was in a softened tone, although the words were gruff\nenough.\n\n'Yo've no business to go prying into what happened between Boucher and\nme. He's dead, and I'm sorry. That's enough.'\n\n'So it is. Will you take work with me? That's what I came to ask.'\n\nHiggins's obstinacy wavered, recovered strength, and stood firm. He\nwould not speak. Mr. Thornton would not ask again. Higgins's eye fell on\nthe children.\n\n'Yo've called me impudent, and a liar, and a mischief-maker, and yo'\nmight ha' said wi' some truth, as I were now and then given to drink.\nAn' I ha' called you a tyrant, an' an oud bull-dog, and a hard, cruel\nmaster; that's where it stands. But for th' childer. Measter, do yo'\nthink we can e'er get on together?'\n\n'Well!' said Mr. Thornton, half-laughing, 'it was not my proposal that\nwe should go together. But there's one comfort, on your own showing. We\nneither of us can think much worse of the other than we do now.'\n\n'That's true,' said Higgins, reflectively. 'I've been thinking, ever\nsin' I saw you, what a marcy it were yo' did na take me on, for that I\nne'er saw a man whom I could less abide. But that's maybe been a hasty\njudgment; and work's work to such as me. So, measter, I'll come; and\nwhat's more, I thank yo'; and that's a deal fro' me,' said he, more\nfrankly, suddenly turning round and facing Mr. Thornton fully for the\nfirst time.\n\n'And this is a deal from me,' said Mr. Thornton, giving Higgins's hand a\ngood grip. 'Now mind you come sharp to your time,' continued he,\nresuming the master. 'I'll have no laggards at my mill. What fines we\nhave, we keep pretty sharply. And the first time I catch you making\nmischief, off you go. So now you know where you are.'\n\n'Yo' spoke of my wisdom this morning. I reckon I may bring it wi' me; or\nwould yo' rayther have me 'bout my brains?'\n\n''Bout your brains if you use them for meddling with my business; with\nyour brains if you can keep them to your own.'\n\n'I shall need a deal o' brains to settle where my business ends and\nyo'rs begins.'\n\n'Your business has not begun yet, and mine stands still for me. So good\nafternoon.'\n\nJust before Mr. Thornton came up to Mrs. Boucher's door, Margaret came\nout of it. She did not see him; and he followed her for several yards,\nadmiring her light and easy walk, and her tall and graceful figure. But,\nsuddenly, this simple emotion of pleasure was tainted, poisoned by\njealousy. He wished to overtake her, and speak to her, to see how she\nwould receive him, now she must know he was aware of some other\nattachment. He wished too, but of this wish he was rather ashamed, that\nshe should know that he had justified her wisdom in sending Higgins to\nhim to ask for work; and had repented him of his morning's decision. He\ncame up to her. She started.\n\n'Allow me to say, Miss Hale, that you were rather premature in\nexpressing your disappointment. I have taken Higgins on.'\n\n'I am glad of it,' said she, coldly.\n\n'He tells me, he repeated to you, what I said this morning about--' Mr.\nThornton hesitated. Margaret took it up:\n\n'About women not meddling. You had a perfect right to express your\nopinion, which was a very correct one, I have no doubt. But,' she went\non a little more eagerly, 'Higgins did not quite tell you the exact\ntruth.' The word 'truth,' reminded her of her own untruth, and she\nstopped short, feeling exceedingly uncomfortable.\n\nMr. Thornton at first was puzzled to account for her silence; and then\nhe remembered the lie she had told, and all that was foregone. 'The\nexact truth!' said he. 'Very few people do speak the exact truth. I have\ngiven up hoping for it. Miss Hale, have you no explanation to give me?\nYou must perceive what I cannot but think.'\n\nMargaret was silent. She was wondering whether an explanation of any\nkind would be consistent with her loyalty to Frederick.\n\n'Nay,' said he, 'I will ask no farther. I may be putting temptation in\nyour way. At present, believe me, your secret is safe with me. But you\nrun great risks, allow me to say, in being so indiscreet. I am now only\nspeaking as a friend of your father's: if I had any other thought or\nhope, of course that is at an end. I am quite disinterested.'\n\n'I am aware of that,' said Margaret, forcing herself to speak in an\nindifferent, careless way. 'I am aware of what I must appear to you, but\nthe secret is another person's, and I cannot explain it without doing\nhim harm.'\n\n'I have not the slightest wish to pry into the gentleman's secrets,' he\nsaid, with growing anger. 'My own interest in you is--simply that of a\nfriend. You may not believe me, Miss Hale, but it is--in spite of the\npersecution I'm afraid I threatened you with at one time--but that is\nall given up; all passed away. You believe me, Miss Hale?'\n\n'Yes,' said Margaret, quietly and sadly.\n\n'Then, really, I don't see any occasion for us to go on walking\ntogether. I thought, perhaps you might have had something to say, but I\nsee we are nothing to each other. If you're quite convinced, that any\nfoolish passion on my part is entirely over, I will wish you good\nafternoon.' He walked off very hastily.\n\n'What can he mean?' thought Margaret,--'what could he mean by speaking\nso, as if I were always thinking that he cared for me, when I know he\ndoes not; he cannot. His mother will have said all those cruel things\nabout me to him. But I won't care for him. I surely am mistress enough\nof myself to control this wild, strange, miserable feeling, which\ntempted me even to betray my own dear Frederick, so that I might but\nregain his good opinion--the good opinion of a man who takes such pains\nto tell me that I am nothing to him. Come poor little heart! be cheery\nand brave. We'll be a great deal to one another, if we are thrown off\nand left desolate.'\n\nHer father was almost startled by her merriment this afternoon. She\ntalked incessantly, and forced her natural humour to an unusual pitch;\nand if there was a tinge of bitterness in much of what she said; if her\naccounts of the old Harley Street set were a little sarcastic, her\nfather could not bear to check her, as he would have done at another\ntime--for he was glad to see her shake off her cares. In the middle of\nthe evening, she was called down to speak to Mary Higgins; and when she\ncame back, Mr. Hale imagined that he saw traces of tears on her cheeks.\nBut that could not be, for she brought good news--that Higgins had got\nwork at Mr. Thornton's mill. Her spirits were damped, at any rate, and\nshe found it very difficult to go on talking at all, much more in the\nwild way that she had done. For some days her spirits varied strangely;\nand her father was beginning to be anxious about her, when news arrived\nfrom one or two quarters that promised some change and variety for her.\nMr. Hale received a letter from Mr. Bell, in which that gentleman\nvolunteered a visit to them; and Mr. Hale imagined that the promised\nsociety of his old Oxford friend would give as agreeable a turn to\nMargaret's ideas as it did to his own. Margaret tried to take an\ninterest in what pleased her father; but she was too languid to care\nabout any Mr. Bell, even though he were twenty times her godfather. She\nwas more roused by a letter from Edith, full of sympathy about her\naunt's death; full of details about herself, her husband, and child; and\nat the end saying, that as the climate did not suit, the baby, and as\nMrs. Shaw was talking of returning to England, she thought it probable\nthat Captain Lennox might sell out, and that they might all go and live\nagain in the old Harley Street house; which, however, would seem very\nincomplete with-out Margaret. Margaret yearned after that old house, and\nthe placid tranquillity of that old well-ordered, monotonous life. She\nhad found it occasionally tiresome while it lasted; but since then she\nhad been buffeted about, and felt so exhausted by this recent struggle\nwith herself, that she thought that even stagnation would be a rest and\na refreshment. So she began to look towards a long visit to the\nLennoxes, on their return to England, as to a point--no, not of\nhope--but of leisure, in which she could regain her power and command\nover herself. At present it seemed to her as if all subjects tended\ntowards Mr. Thornton; as if she could not forget him with all her\nendeavours. If she went to see the Higginses, she heard of him there;\nher father had resumed their readings together, and quoted his opinions\nperpetually; even Mr. Bell's visit brought his tenant's name upon the\ntapis; for he wrote word that he believed he must be occupied some great\npart of his time with Mr. Thornton, as a new lease was in preparation,\nand the terms of it must be agreed upon.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XL\n\nOUT OF TUNE\n\n    'I have no wrong, where I can claim no right,\n     Naught ta'en me fro, where I have nothing had,\n     Yet of my woe I cannot so be quite;\n     Namely, since that another may be glad\n     With that, that thus in sorrow makes me sad.'\n             WYATT.\n\n\nMargaret had not expected much pleasure to herself from Mr. Bell's\nvisit--she had only looked forward to it on her father's account, but\nwhen her godfather came, she at once fell into the most natural position\nof friendship in the world. He said she had no merit in being what she\nwas, a girl so entirely after his own heart; it was an hereditary power\nwhich she had, to walk in and take possession of his regard; while she,\nin reply, gave him much credit for being so fresh and young under his\nFellow's cap and gown.\n\n'Fresh and young in warmth and kindness, I mean. I'm afraid I must own,\nthat I think your opinions are the oldest and mustiest I have met with\nthis long time.'\n\n'Hear this daughter of yours, Hale. Her residence in Milton has quite\ncorrupted her. She's a democrat, a red republican, a member of the Peace\nSociety, a socialist--'\n\n'Papa, it's all because I'm standing up for the progress of commerce.\nMr. Bell would have had it keep still at exchanging wild-beast skins for\nacorns.'\n\n'No, no. I'd dig the ground and grow potatoes. And I'd shave the\nwild-beast skins and make the wool into broad cloth. Don't exaggerate,\nmissy. But I'm tired of this bustle. Everybody rushing over everybody,\nin their hurry to get rich.'\n\n'It is not every one who can sit comfortably in a set of college rooms,\nand let his riches grow without any exertion of his own. No doubt there\nis many a man here who would be thankful if his property would increase\nas yours has done, without his taking any trouble about it,' said Mr.\nHale.\n\n'I don't believe they would. It's the bustle and the struggle they like.\nAs for sitting still, and learning from the past, or shaping out the\nfuture by faithful work done in a prophetic spirit--Why! Pooh! I don't\nbelieve there's a man in Milton who knows how to sit still; and it is a\ngreat art.'\n\n'Milton people, I suspect, think Oxford men don't know how to move. It\nwould be a very good thing if they mixed a little more.'\n\n'It might be good for the Miltoners. Many things might be good for them\nwhich would be very disagreeable for other people.'\n\n'Are you not a Milton man yourself?' asked Margaret. 'I should have\nthought you would have been proud of your town.'\n\n'I confess, I don't see what there is to be proud of. If you'll only\ncome to Oxford, Margaret, I will show you a place to glory in.'\n\n'Well!' said Mr. Hale, 'Mr. Thornton is coming to drink tea with us\nto-night, and he is as proud of Milton as you of Oxford. You two must\ntry and make each other a little more liberal-minded.'\n\n'I don't want to be more liberal-minded, thank you,' said Mr. Bell.\n\n'Is Mr. Thornton coming to tea, papa?' asked Margaret in a low voice.\n\n'Either to tea or soon after. He could not tell. He told us not to\nwait.'\n\nMr. Thornton had determined that he would make no inquiry of his mother\nas to how far she had put her project into execution of speaking to\nMargaret about the impropriety of her conduct. He felt pretty sure that,\nif this interview took place, his mother's account of what passed at it\nwould only annoy and chagrin him, though he would all the time be aware\nof the colouring which it received by passing through her mind. He\nshrank from hearing Margaret's very name mentioned; he, while he blamed\nher--while he was jealous of her--while he renounced her--he loved her\nsorely, in spite of himself. He dreamt of her; he dreamt she came\ndancing towards him with outspread arms, and with a lightness and gaiety\nwhich made him loathe her, even while it allured him. But the impression\nof this figure of Margaret--with all Margaret's character taken out of\nit, as completely as if some evil spirit had got possession of her\nform--was so deeply stamped upon his imagination, that when he wakened\nhe felt hardly able to separate the Una from the Duessa; and the dislike\nhe had to the latter seemed to envelope and disfigure the former. Yet he\nwas too proud to acknowledge his weakness by avoiding the sight of her.\nHe would neither seek an opportunity of being in her company nor avoid\nit. To convince himself of his power of self-control, he lingered over\nevery piece of business this afternoon; he forced every movement into\nunnatural slowness and deliberation; and it was consequently past eight\no'clock before he reached Mr. Hale's. Then there were business\narrangements to be transacted in the study with Mr. Bell; and the latter\nkept on, sitting over the fire, and talking wearily, long after all\nbusiness was transacted, and when they might just as well have gone\nupstairs. But Mr. Thornton would not say a word about moving their\nquarters; he chafed and chafed, and thought Mr. Bell a most prosy\ncompanion; while Mr. Bell returned the compliment in secret, by\nconsidering Mr. Thornton about as brusque and curt a fellow as he had\never met with, and terribly gone off both in intelligence and manner. At\nlast, some slight noise in the room above suggested the desirableness of\nmoving there. They found Margaret with a letter open before her, eagerly\ndiscussing its contents with her father. On the entrance of the\ngentlemen, it was immediately put aside; but Mr. Thornton's eager senses\ncaught some few words of Mr. Hale's to Mr. Bell.\n\n'A letter from Henry Lennox. It makes Margaret very hopeful.'\n\nMr. Bell nodded. Margaret was red as a rose when Mr. Thornton looked at\nher. He had the greatest mind in the world to get up and go out of the\nroom that very instant, and never set foot in the house again.\n\n'We were thinking,' said Mr. Hale, 'that you and Mr. Thornton had taken\nMargaret's advice, and were each trying to convert the other, you were\nso long in the study.'\n\n'And you thought there would be nothing left of us but an opinion, like\nthe Kilkenny cat's tail. Pray whose opinion did you think would have the\nmost obstinate vitality?'\n\nMr. Thornton had not a notion what they were talking about, and\ndisdained to inquire. Mr. Hale politely enlightened him.\n\n'Mr. Thornton, we were accusing Mr. Bell this morning of a kind of\nOxonian mediaeval bigotry against his native town; and we--Margaret, I\nbelieve--suggested that it would do him good to associate a little with\nMilton manufacturers.'\n\n'I beg your pardon. Margaret thought it would do the Milton\nmanufacturers good to associate a little more with Oxford men. Now\nwasn't it so, Margaret?'\n\n'I believe I thought it would do both good to see a little more of the\nother,--I did not know it was my idea any more than papa's.'\n\n'And so you see, Mr. Thornton, we ought to have been improving each\nother down-stairs, instead of talking over vanished families of Smiths\nand Harrisons. However, I am willing to do my part now. I wonder when\nyou Milton men intend to live. All your lives seem to be spent in\ngathering together the materials for life.'\n\n'By living, I suppose you mean enjoyment.'\n\n'Yes, enjoyment,--I don't specify of what, because I trust we should\nboth consider mere pleasure as very poor enjoyment.'\n\n'I would rather have the nature of the enjoyment defined.'\n\n'Well! enjoyment of leisure--enjoyment of the power and influence which\nmoney gives. You are all striving for money. What do you want it for?'\n\nMr. Thornton was silent. Then he said, 'I really don't know. But money\nis not what _I_ strive for.'\n\n'What then?'\n\n'It is a home question. I shall have to lay myself open to such a\ncatechist, and I am not sure that I am prepared to do it.'\n\n'No!' said Mr. Hale; 'don't let us be personal in our catechism. You are\nneither of you representative men; you are each of you too individual\nfor that.'\n\n'I am not sure whether to consider that as a compliment or not. I should\nlike to be the representative of Oxford, with its beauty and its\nlearning, and its proud old history. What do you say, Margaret; ought I\nto be flattered?'\n\n'I don't know Oxford. But there is a difference between being the\nrepresentative of a city and the representative man of its inhabitants.'\n\n'Very true, Miss Margaret. Now I remember, you were against me this\nmorning, and were quite Miltonian and manufacturing in your\npreferences.' Margaret saw the quick glance of surprise that Mr.\nThornton gave her, and she was annoyed at the construction which he\nmight put on this speech of Mr. Bell's. Mr. Bell went on--\n\n'Ah! I wish I could show you our High Street--our Radcliffe Square. I am\nleaving out our colleges, just as I give Mr. Thornton leave to omit his\nfactories in speaking of the charms of Milton. I have a right to abuse\nmy birth-place. Remember I am a Milton man.\n\nMr. Thornton was annoyed more than he ought to have been at all that Mr.\nBell was saying. He was not in a mood for joking. At another time, he\ncould have enjoyed Mr. Bell's half testy condemnation of a town where\nthe life was so at variance with every habit he had formed; but now, he\nwas galled enough to attempt to defend what was never meant to be\nseriously attacked.\n\n'I don't set up Milton as a model of a town.'\n\n'Not in architecture?' slyly asked Mr. Bell.\n\n'No! We've been too busy to attend to mere outward appearances.'\n\n'Don't say _mere_ outward appearances,' said Mr. Hale, gently. 'They\nimpress us all, from childhood upward--every day of our life.'\n\n'Wait a little while,' said Mr. Thornton. 'Remember, we are of a\ndifferent race from the Greeks, to whom beauty was everything, and to\nwhom Mr. Bell might speak of a life of leisure and serene enjoyment,\nmuch of which entered in through their outward senses. I don't mean to\ndespise them, any more than I would ape them. But I belong to Teutonic\nblood; it is little mingled in this part of England to what it is in\nothers; we retain much of their language; we retain more of their\nspirit; we do not look upon life as a time for enjoyment, but as a time\nfor action and exertion. Our glory and our beauty arise out of our\ninward strength, which makes us victorious over material resistance, and\nover greater difficulties still. We are Teutonic up here in Darkshire in\nanother way. We hate to have laws made for us at a distance. We wish\npeople would allow us to right ourselves, instead of continually\nmeddling, with their imperfect legislation. We stand up for\nself-government, and oppose centralisation.'\n\n'In short, you would like the Heptarchy back again. Well, at any rate, I\nrevoke what I said this morning--that you Milton people did not\nreverence the past. You are regular worshippers of Thor.'\n\n'If we do not reverence the past as you do in Oxford, it is because we\nwant something which can apply to the present more directly. It is fine\nwhen the study of the past leads to a prophecy of the future. But to men\ngroping in new circumstances, it would be finer if the words of\nexperience could direct us how to act in what concerns us most\nintimately and immediately; which is full of difficulties that must be\nencountered; and upon the mode in which they are met and conquered--not\nmerely pushed aside for the time--depends our future. Out of the wisdom\nof the past, help us over the present. But no! People can speak of\nUtopia much more easily than of the next day's duty; and yet when that\nduty is all done by others, who so ready to cry, \"Fie, for shame!\"'\n\n'And all this time I don't see what you are talking about. Would you\nMilton men condescend to send up your to-day's difficulty to Oxford? You\nhave not tried us yet.'\n\nMr. Thornton laughed outright at this. 'I believe I was talking with\nreference to a good deal that has been troubling us of late; I was\nthinking of the strikes we have gone through, which are troublesome and\ninjurious things enough, as I am finding to my cost. And yet this last\nstrike, under which I am smarting, has been respectable.'\n\n'A respectable strike!' said Mr. Bell. 'That sounds as if you were far\ngone in the worship of Thor.'\n\nMargaret felt, rather than saw, that Mr. Thornton was chagrined by the\nrepeated turning into jest of what he was feeling as very serious. She\ntried to change the conversation from a subject about which one party\ncared little, while, to the other, it was deeply, because personally,\ninteresting. She forced herself to say something.\n\n'Edith says she finds the printed calicoes in Corfu better and cheaper\nthan in London.'\n\n'Does she?' said her father. 'I think that must be one of Edith's\nexaggerations. Are you sure of it, Margaret?'\n\n'I am sure she says so, papa.'\n\n'Then I am sure of the fact,' said Mr. Bell. 'Margaret, I go so far in\nmy idea of your truthfulness, that it shall cover your cousin's\ncharacter. I don't believe a cousin of yours could exaggerate.'\n\n'Is Miss Hale so remarkable for truth?' said Mr. Thornton, bitterly. The\nmoment he had done so, he could have bitten his tongue out. What was he?\nAnd why should he stab her with her shame in this way? How evil he was\nto-night; possessed by ill-humour at being detained so long from her;\nirritated by the mention of some name, because he thought it belonged to\na more successful lover; now ill-tempered because he had been unable to\ncope, with a light heart, against one who was trying, by gay and\ncareless speeches, to make the evening pass pleasantly away,--the kind\nold friend to all parties, whose manner by this time might be well known\nto Mr. Thornton, who had been acquainted with him for many years. And\nthen to speak to Margaret as he had done! She did not get up and leave\nthe room, as she had done in former days, when his abruptness or his\ntemper had annoyed her. She sat quite still, after the first momentary\nglance of grieved surprise, that made her eyes look like some child's\nwho has met with an unexpected rebuff; they slowly dilated into\nmournful, reproachful sadness; and then they fell, and she bent over her\nwork, and did not speak again. But he could not help looking at her, and\nhe saw a sigh tremble over her body, as if she quivered in some unwonted\nchill. He felt as the mother would have done, in the midst of 'her\nrocking it, and rating it,' had she been called away before her slow\nconfiding smile, implying perfect trust in mother's love, had proved the\nrenewing of its love. He gave short sharp answers; he was uneasy and\ncross, unable to discern between jest and earnest; anxious only for a\nlook, a word of hers, before which to prostrate himself in penitent\nhumility. But she neither looked nor spoke. Her round taper fingers flew\nin and out of her sewing, as steadily and swiftly as if that were the\nbusiness of her life. She could not care for him, he thought, or else\nthe passionate fervour of his wish would have forced her to raise those\neyes, if but for an instant, to read the late repentance in his. He\ncould have struck her before he left, in order that by some strange\novert act of rudeness, he might earn the privilege of telling her the\nremorse that gnawed at his heart. It was well that the long walk in the\nopen air wound up this evening for him. It sobered him back into grave\nresolution, that henceforth he would see as little of her as\npossible,--since the very sight of that face and form, the very sounds\nof that voice (like the soft winds of pure melody) had such power to\nmove him from his balance. Well! He had known what love was--a sharp\npang, a fierce experience, in the midst of whose flames he was\nstruggling! but, through that furnace he would fight his way out into\nthe serenity of middle age,--all the richer and more human for having\nknown this great passion.\n\nWhen he had somewhat abruptly left the room, Margaret rose from her\nseat, and began silently to fold up her work; the long seams were heavy,\nand had an unusual weight for her languid arms. The round lines in her\nface took a lengthened, straighter form, and her whole appearance was\nthat of one who had gone through a day of great fatigue. As the three\nprepared for bed, Mr. Bell muttered forth a little condemnation of Mr.\nThornton.\n\n'I never saw a fellow so spoiled by success. He can't bear a word; a\njest of any kind. Everything seems to touch on the soreness of his high\ndignity. Formerly, he was as simple and noble as the open day; you could\nnot offend him, because he had no vanity.'\n\n'He is not vain now,' said Margaret, turning round from the table, and\nspeaking with quiet distinctness. 'To-night he has not been like\nhimself. Something must have annoyed him before he came here.'\n\nMr. Bell gave her one of his sharp glances from above his spectacles.\nShe stood it quite calmly; but, after she had left the room, he suddenly\nasked,--\n\n'Hale! did it ever strike you that Thornton and your daughter have what\nthe French call a tendresse for each other?'\n\n'Never!' said Mr. Hale, first startled and then flurried by the new\nidea. 'No, I am sure you are wrong. I am almost certain you are\nmistaken. If there is anything, it is all on Mr. Thornton's side. Poor\nfellow! I hope and trust he is not thinking of her, for I am sure she\nwould not have him.'\n\n'Well! I'm a bachelor, and have steered clear of love affairs all my\nlife; so perhaps my opinion is not worth having. Or else I should say\nthere were very pretty symptoms about her!'\n\n'Then I am sure you are wrong,' said Mr. Hale. 'He may care for her,\nthough she really has been almost rude to him at times. But she!--why,\nMargaret would never think of him, I'm sure! Such a thing has never\nentered her head.'\n\n'Entering her heart would do. But I merely threw out a suggestion of\nwhat might be. I dare say I was wrong. And whether I was wrong or right,\nI'm very sleepy; so, having disturbed your night's rest (as I can see)\nwith my untimely fancies, I'll betake myself with an easy mind to my\nown.'\n\nBut Mr. Hale resolved that he would not be disturbed by any such\nnonsensical idea; so he lay awake, determining not to think about it.\n\nMr. Bell took his leave the next day, bidding Margaret look to him as\none who had a right to help and protect her in all her troubles, of\nwhatever nature they might be. To Mr. Hale he said,--\n\n'That Margaret of yours has gone deep into my heart. Take care of her,\nfor she is a very precious creature,--a great deal too good for\nMilton,--only fit for Oxford, in fact. The town, I mean; not the men. I\ncan't match her yet. When I can, I shall bring my young man to stand\nside by side with your young woman, just as the genie in the Arabian\nNights brought Prince Caralmazan to match with the fairy's Princess\nBadoura.'\n\n'I beg you'll do no such thing. Remember the misfortunes that ensued;\nand besides, I can't spare Margaret.'\n\n'No; on second thoughts, we'll have her to nurse us ten years hence,\nwhen we shall be two cross old invalids. Seriously, Hale! I wish you'd\nleave Milton; which is a most unsuitable place for you, though it was my\nrecommendation in the first instance. If you would; I'd swallow my\nshadows of doubts, and take a college living; and you and Margaret\nshould come and live at the parsonage--you to be a sort of lay curate,\nand take the unwashed off my hands; and she to be our housekeeper--the\nvillage Lady Bountiful--by day; and read us to sleep in the evenings. I\ncould be very happy in such a life. What do you think of it?'\n\n'Never!' said Mr. Hale, decidedly. 'My one great change has been made\nand my price of suffering paid. Here I stay out my life; and here will I\nbe buried, and lost in the crowd.'\n\n'I don't give up my plan yet. Only I won't bait you with it any more\njust now. Where's the Pearl? Come, Margaret, give me a farewell kiss;\nand remember, my dear, where you may find a true friend, as far as his\ncapability goes. You are my child, Margaret. Remember that, and 'God\nbless you!'\n\nSo they fell back into the monotony of the quiet life they would\nhenceforth lead. There was no invalid to hope and fear about; even the\nHigginses--so long a vivid interest--seemed to have receded from any\nneed of immediate thought. The Boucher children, left motherless\norphans, claimed what of Margaret's care she could bestow; and she went\npretty often to see Mary Higgins, who had charge of them. The two\nfamilies were living in one house: the elder children were at humble\nschools, the younger ones were tended, in Mary's absence at her work, by\nthe kind neighbour whose good sense had struck Margaret at the time of\nBoucher's death. Of course she was paid for her trouble; and indeed, in\nall his little plans and arrangements for these orphan children,\nNicholas showed a sober judgment, and regulated method of thinking,\nwhich were at variance with his former more eccentric jerks of action.\nHe was so steady at his work, that Margaret did not often see him during\nthese winter months; but when she did, she saw that he winced away from\nany reference to the father of those children, whom he had so fully and\nheartily taken under his care. He did not speak easily of Mr. Thornton.\n\n'To tell the truth,' said he, 'he fairly bamboozles me. He's two chaps.\nOne chap I knowed of old as were measter all o'er. T'other chap hasn't\nan ounce of measter's flesh about him. How them two chaps is bound up in\none body, is a craddy for me to find out. I'll not be beat by it,\nthough. Meanwhile he comes here pretty often; that's how I know the chap\nthat's a man, not a measter. And I reckon he's taken aback by me pretty\nmuch as I am by him; for he sits and listens and stares, as if I were\nsome strange beast newly caught in some of the zones. But I'm none\ndaunted. It would take a deal to daunt me in my own house, as he sees.\nAnd I tell him some of my mind that I reckon he'd ha' been the better of\nhearing when he were a younger man.'\n\n'And does he not answer you?' asked Mr. Hale.\n\n'Well! I'll not say th' advantage is all on his side, for all I take\ncredit for improving him above a bit. Sometimes he says a rough thing or\ntwo, which is not agreeable to look at at first, but has a queer smack\no' truth in it when yo' come to chew it. He'll be coming to-night, I\nreckon, about them childer's schooling. He's not satisfied wi' the make\nof it, and wants for t' examine 'em.'\n\n'What are they'--began Mr. Hale; but Margaret, touching his arm, showed\nhim her watch.\n\n'It is nearly seven,' she said. 'The evenings are getting longer now.\nCome, papa.' She did not breathe freely till they were some distance\nfrom the house. Then, as she became more calm, she wished that she had\nnot been in so great a hurry; for, somehow, they saw Mr. Thornton but\nvery seldom now; and he might have come to see Higgins, and for the old\nfriendship's sake she should like to have seen him to-night.\n\nYes! he came very seldom, even for the dull cold purpose of lessons. Mr.\nHale was disappointed in his pupil's lukewarmness about Greek\nliterature, which had but a short time ago so great an interest for him.\nAnd now it often happened that a hurried note from Mr. Thornton would\narrive, just at the last moment, saying that he was so much engaged that\nhe could not come to read with Mr. Hale that evening. And though other\npupils had taken more than his place as to time, no one was like his\nfirst scholar in Mr. Hale's heart. He was depressed and sad at this\npartial cessation of an intercourse which had become dear to him; and he\nused to sit pondering over the reason that could have occasioned this\nchange.\n\nHe startled Margaret, one evening as she sate at her work, by suddenly\nasking:\n\n'Margaret! had you ever any reason for thinking that Mr. Thornton cared\nfor you?'\n\nHe almost blushed as he put this question; but Mr. Bell's scouted idea\nrecurred to him, and the words were out of his mouth before he well knew\nwhat he was about.\n\nMargaret did not answer immediately; but by the bent drooping of her\nhead, he guessed what her reply would be.\n\n'Yes; I believe--oh papa, I should have told you.' And she dropped her\nwork, and hid her face in her hands.\n\n'No, dear; don't think that I am impertinently curious. I am sure you\nwould have told me if you had felt that you could return his regard. Did\nhe speak to you about it?'\n\nNo answer at first; but by-and-by a little gentle reluctant 'Yes.'\n\n'And you refused him?'\n\nA long sigh; a more helpless, nerveless attitude, and another 'Yes.' But\nbefore her father could speak, Margaret lifted up her face, rosy with\nsome beautiful shame, and, fixing her eyes upon him, said:\n\n'Now, papa, I have told you this, and I cannot tell you more; and then\nthe whole thing is so painful to me; every word and action connected\nwith it is so unspeakably bitter, that I cannot bear to think of it. Oh,\npapa, I am sorry to have lost you this friend, but I could not help\nit--but oh! I am very sorry.' She sate down on the ground, and laid her\nhead on his knees.\n\n'I too, am sorry, my dear. Mr. Bell quite startled me when he said, some\nidea of the kind--'\n\n'Mr. Bell! Oh, did Mr. Bell see it?'\n\n'A little; but he took it into his head that you--how shall I say\nit?--that you were not ungraciously disposed towards Mr. Thornton. I\nknew that could never be. I hoped the whole thing was but an\nimagination; but I knew too well what your real feelings were to suppose\nthat you could ever like Mr. Thornton in that way. But I am very sorry.'\n\nThey were very quiet and still for some minutes. But, on stroking her\ncheek in a caressing way soon after, he was almost shocked to find her\nface wet with tears. As he touched her, she sprang up, and smiling with\nforced brightness, began to talk of the Lennoxes with such a vehement\ndesire to turn the conversation, that Mr. Hale was too tender-hearted to\ntry to force it back into the old channel.\n\n'To-morrow--yes, to-morrow they will be back in Harley Street. Oh, how\nstrange it will be! I wonder what room they will make into the nursery?\nAunt Shaw will be happy with the baby. Fancy Edith a mamma! And Captain\nLennox--I wonder what he will do with himself now he has sold out!'\n\n'I'll tell you what,' said her father, anxious to indulge her in this\nfresh subject of interest, 'I think I must spare you for a fortnight\njust to run up to town and see the travellers. You could learn more, by\nhalf an hour's conversation with Mr. Henry Lennox, about Frederick's\nchances, than in a dozen of these letters of his; so it would, in fact,\nbe uniting business with pleasure.'\n\n'No, papa, you cannot spare me, and what's more, I won't be spared.'\nThen after a pause, she added: 'I am losing hope sadly about Frederick;\nhe is letting us down gently, but I can see that Mr. Lennox himself has\nno hope of hunting up the witnesses under years and years of time. No,'\nsaid she, 'that bubble was very pretty, and very dear to our hearts; but\nit has burst like many another; and we must console ourselves with being\nglad that Frederick is so happy, and with being a great deal to each\nother. So don't offend me by talking of being able to spare me, papa,\nfor I assure you you can't.'\n\nBut the idea of a change took root and germinated in Margaret's heart,\nalthough not in the way in which her father proposed it at first. She\nbegan to consider how desirable something of the kind would be to her\nfather, whose spirits, always feeble, now became too frequently\ndepressed, and whose health, though he never complained, had been\nseriously affected by his wife's illness and death. There were the\nregular hours of reading with his pupils, but that all giving and no\nreceiving could no longer be called companion-ship, as in the old days\nwhen Mr. Thornton came to study under him. Margaret was conscious of the\nwant under which he was suffering, unknown to himself; the want of a\nman's intercourse with men. At Helstone there had been perpetual\noccasions for an interchange of visits with neighbouring clergymen; and\nthe poor labourers in the fields, or leisurely tramping home at eve, or\ntending their cattle in the forest, were always at liberty to speak or\nbe spoken to. But in Milton every one was too busy for quiet speech, or\nany ripened intercourse of thought; what they said was about business,\nvery present and actual; and when the tension of mind relating to their\ndaily affairs was over, they sunk into fallow rest until next morning.\nThe workman was not to be found after the day's work was done; he had\ngone away to some lecture, or some club, or some beer-shop, according to\nhis degree of character. Mr. Hale thought of trying to deliver a course\nof lectures at some of the institutions, but he contemplated doing this\nso much as an effort of duty, and with so little of the genial impulse\nof love towards his work and its end, that Margaret was sure that it\nwould not be well done until he could look upon it with some kind of\nzest.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLI\n\nTHE JOURNEY'S END\n\n    'I see my way as birds their trackless way--\n     I shall arrive! what time, what circuit first,\n     I ask not: but unless God send his hail\n     Or blinding fire-balls, sleet, or stifling snow,\n     In some time--his good time--I shall arrive;\n     He guides me and the bird. In His good time!'\n            BROWNING'S PARACELSUS.\n\n\nSo the winter was getting on, and the days were beginning to lengthen,\nwithout bringing with them any of the brightness of hope which usually\naccompanies the rays of a February sun. Mrs. Thornton had of course\nentirely ceased to come to the house. Mr. Thornton came occasionally,\nbut his visits were addressed to her father, and were confined to the\nstudy. Mr. Hale spoke of him as always the same; indeed, the very rarity\nof their intercourse seemed to make Mr. Hale set only the higher value\non it. And from what Margaret could gather of what Mr. Thornton had\nsaid, there was nothing in the cessation of his visits which could arise\nfrom any umbrage or vexation. His business affairs had become\ncomplicated during the strike, and required closer attention than he had\ngiven to them last winter. Nay, Margaret could even discover that he\nspoke from time to time of her, and always, as far as she could learn,\nin the same calm friendly way, never avoiding and never seeking any\nmention of her name.\n\nShe was not in spirits to raise her father's tone of mind. The dreary\npeacefulness of the present time had been preceded by so long a period\nof anxiety and care--even intermixed with storms--that her mind had lost\nits elasticity. She tried to find herself occupation in teaching the two\nyounger Boucher children, and worked hard at goodness; hard, I say most\ntruly, for her heart seemed dead to the end of all her efforts; and\nthough she made them punctually and painfully, yet she stood as far off\nas ever from any cheerfulness; her life seemed still bleak and dreary.\nThe only thing she did well, was what she did out of unconscious piety,\nthe silent comforting and consoling of her father. Not a mood of his but\nwhat found a ready sympathiser in Margaret; not a wish of his that she\ndid not strive to forecast, and to fulfil. They were quiet wishes to be\nsure, and hardly named without hesitation and apology. All the more\ncomplete and beautiful was her meek spirit of obedience. March brought\nthe news of Frederick's marriage. He and Dolores wrote; she in\nSpanish-English, as was but natural, and he with little turns and\ninversions of words which proved how far the idioms of his bride's\ncountry were infecting him.\n\nOn the receipt of Henry Lennox's letter, announcing how little hope\nthere was of his ever clearing himself at a court-martial, in the\nabsence of the missing witnesses, Frederick had written to Margaret a\npretty vehement letter, containing his renunciation of England as his\ncountry; he wished he could unnative himself, and declared that he would\nnot take his pardon if it were offered him, nor live in the country if\nhe had permission to do so. All of which made Margaret cry sorely, so\nunnatural did it seem to her at the first opening; but on consideration,\nshe saw rather in such expression the poignancy of the disappointment\nwhich had thus crushed his hopes; and she felt that there was nothing\nfor it but patience. In the next letter, Frederick spoke so joyfully of\nthe future that he had no thought for the past; and Margaret found a use\nin herself for the patience she had been craving for him. She would have\nto be patient. But the pretty, timid, girlish letters of Dolores were\nbeginning to have a charm for both Margaret and her father. The young\nSpaniard was so evidently anxious to make a favourable impression upon\nher lover's English relations, that her feminine care peeped out at\nevery erasure; and the letters announcing the marriage, were accompanied\nby a splendid black lace mantilla, chosen by Dolores herself for her\nunseen sister-in-law, whom Frederick had represented as a paragon of\nbeauty, wisdom and virtue. Frederick's worldly position was raised by\nthis marriage on to as high a level as they could desire. Barbour and\nCo. was one of the most extensive Spanish houses, and into it he was\nreceived as a junior partner. Margaret smiled a little, and then sighed\nas she remembered afresh her old tirades against trade. Here was her\npreux chevalier of a brother turned merchant, trader! But then she\nrebelled against herself, and protested silently against the confusion\nimplied between a Spanish merchant and a Milton mill-owner. Well! trade\nor no trade, Frederick was very, very happy. Dolores must be charming,\nand the mantilla was exquisite! And then she returned to the present\nlife.\n\nHer father had occasionally experienced a difficulty in breathing this\nspring, which had for the time distressed him exceedingly. Margaret was\nless alarmed, as this difficulty went off completely in the intervals;\nbut she still was so desirous of his shaking off the liability\naltogether, as to make her very urgent that he should accept Mr. Bell's\ninvitation to visit him at Oxford this April. Mr. Bell's invitation\nincluded Margaret. Nay more, he wrote a special letter commanding her to\ncome; but she felt as if it would be a greater relief to her to remain\nquietly at home, entirely free from any responsibility whatever, and so\nto rest her mind and heart in a manner which she had not been able to do\nfor more than two years past.\n\nWhen her father had driven off on his way to the railroad, Margaret felt\nhow great and long had been the pressure on her time and her spirits. It\nwas astonishing, almost stunning, to feel herself so much at liberty; no\none depending on her for cheering care, if not for positive happiness;\nno invalid to plan and think for; she might be idle, and silent, and\nforgetful,--and what seemed worth more than all the other\nprivileges--she might be unhappy if she liked. For months past, all her\nown personal cares and troubles had had to be stuffed away into a dark\ncupboard; but now she had leisure to take them out, and mourn over them,\nand study their nature, and seek the true method of subduing them into\nthe elements of peace. All these weeks she had been conscious of their\nexistence in a dull kind of way, though they were hidden out of sight.\nNow, once for all she would consider them, and appoint to each of them\nits right work in her life. So she sat almost motionless for hours in\nthe drawing-room, going over the bitterness of every remembrance with an\nunwincing resolution. Only once she cried aloud, at the stinging thought\nof the faithlessness which gave birth to that abasing falsehood.\n\nShe now would not even acknowledge the force of the temptation; her\nplans for Frederick had all failed, and the temptation lay there a dead\nmockery,--a mockery which had never had life in it; the lie had been so\ndespicably foolish, seen by the light of the ensuing events, and faith\nin the power of truth so infinitely the greater wisdom!\n\nIn her nervous agitation, she unconsciously opened a book of her\nfather's that lay upon the table,--the words that caught her eye in it,\nseemed almost made for her present state of acute self-abasement:--\n\n     'Je ne voudrois pas reprendre mon coeur en ceste sorte: meurs de\n     honte, aveugle, impudent, traistre et desloyal a ton Dieu, et\n     sembables choses; mais je voudrois le corriger par voye de\n     compassion. Or sus, mon pauvre coeur, nous voila tombez dans la\n     fosse, laquelle nous avions tant resolu d'eschapper. Ah!\n     relevons-nous, et quittons-la pour jamais, reclamons la misericorde\n     de Dieu, et esperons en elle qu'elle nous assistera pour desormais\n     estre plus fermes; et remettons-nous au chemin de l'humilite.\n     Courage, soyons meshuy sur nos gardes, Dieu nous aydera.'\n\n'The way of humility. Ah,' thought Margaret, 'that is what I have\nmissed! But courage, little heart. We will turn back, and by God's help\nwe may find the lost path.'\n\nSo she rose up, and determined at once to set to on some work which\nshould take her out of herself. To begin with, she called in Martha, as\nshe passed the drawing-room door in going up-stairs, and tried to find\nout what was below the grave, respectful, servant-like manner, which\ncrusted over her individual character with an obedience that was almost\nmechanical. She found it difficult to induce Martha to speak of any of\nher personal interests; but at last she touched the right chord, in\nnaming Mrs. Thornton. Martha's whole face brightened, and, on a little\nencouragement, out came a long story, of how her father had been in\nearly life connected with Mrs. Thornton's husband--nay, had even been in\na position to show him some kindness; what, Martha hardly knew, for it\nhad happened when she was quite a little child; and circumstances had\nintervened to separate the two families until Martha was nearly grown\nup, when, her father having sunk lower and lower from his original\noccupation as clerk in a warehouse, and her mother being dead, she and\nher sister, to use Martha's own expression, would have been 'lost' but\nfor Mrs. Thornton; who sought them out, and thought for them, and cared\nfor them.\n\n'I had had the fever, and was but delicate; and Mrs. Thornton, and Mr.\nThornton too, they never rested till they had nursed me up in their own\nhouse, and sent me to the sea and all. The doctors said the fever was\ncatching, but they cared none for that--only Miss Fanny, and she went\na-visiting these folk that she is going to marry into. So, though she\nwas afraid at the time, it has all ended well.'\n\n'Miss Fanny going to be married!' exclaimed Margaret.\n\n'Yes; and to a rich gentleman, too, only he's a deal older than she is.\nHis name is Watson; and his mills are somewhere out beyond Hayleigh;\nit's a very good marriage, for all he's got such gray hair.'\n\nAt this piece of information, Margaret was silent long enough for Martha\nto recover her propriety, and, with it, her habitual shortness of\nanswer. She swept up the hearth, asked at what time she should prepare\ntea, and quitted the room with the same wooden face with which she had\nentered it. Margaret had to pull herself up from indulging a bad trick,\nwhich she had lately fallen into, of trying to imagine how every event\nthat she heard of in relation to Mr. Thornton would affect him: whether\nhe would like it or dislike it.\n\nThe next day she had the little Boucher children for their lessons, and\ntook a long walk, and ended by a visit to Mary Higgins. Somewhat to\nMargaret's surprise, she found Nicholas already come home from his work;\nthe lengthening light had deceived her as to the lateness of the\nevening. He too seemed, by his manners, to have entered a little more on\nthe way of humility; he was quieter, and less self-asserting.\n\n'So th' oud gentleman's away on his travels, is he?' said he. 'Little\n'uns telled me so. Eh! but they're sharp 'uns, they are; I a'most think\nthey beat my own wenches for sharpness, though mappen it's wrong to say\nso, and one on 'em in her grave. There's summut in th' weather, I\nreckon, as sets folk a-wandering. My measter, him at th' shop yonder, is\nspinning about th' world somewhere.'\n\n'Is that the reason you're so soon at home to-night?' asked Margaret\ninnocently.\n\n'Thou know'st nought about it, that's all,' said he, contemptuously.\n'I'm not one wi' two faces--one for my measter, and t'other for his\nback. I counted a' th' clocks in the town striking afore I'd leave my\nwork. No! yon Thornton's good enough for to fight wi', but too good for\nto be cheated. It were you as getten me the place, and I thank yo' for\nit. Thornton's is not a bad mill, as times go. Stand down, lad, and say\nyo'r pretty hymn to Miss Margaret. That's right; steady on thy legs, and\nright arm out as straight as a shewer. One to stop, two to stay, three\nmak' ready, and four away!'\n\nThe little fellow repeated a Methodist hymn, far above his comprehension\nin point of language, but of which the swinging rhythm had caught his\near, and which he repeated with all the developed cadence of a member of\nparliament. When Margaret had duly applauded, Nicholas called for\nanother, and yet another, much to her surprise, as she found him thus\noddly and unconsciously led to take an interest in the sacred things\nwhich he had formerly scouted.\n\nIt was past the usual tea-time when she reached home; but she had the\ncomfort of feeling that no one had been kept waiting for her; and of\nthinking her own thoughts while she rested, instead of anxiously\nwatching another person to learn whether to be grave or gay. After tea\nshe resolved to examine a large packet of letters, and pick out those\nthat were to be destroyed.\n\nAmong them she came to four or five of Mr. Henry Lennox's, relating to\nFrederick's affairs; and she carefully read them over again, with the\nsole intention, when she began, to ascertain exactly on how fine a\nchance the justification of her brother hung. But when she had finished\nthe last, and weighed the pros and cons, the little personal revelation\nof character contained in them forced itself on her notice. It was\nevident enough, from the stiffness of the wording, that Mr. Lennox had\nnever forgotten his relation to her in any interest he might feel in the\nsubject of the correspondence. They were clever letters; Margaret saw\nthat in a twinkling; but she missed out of them all hearty and genial\natmosphere. They were to be preserved, however, as valuable; so she laid\nthem carefully on one side. When this little piece of business was\nended, she fell into a reverie; and the thought of her absent father ran\nstrangely in Margaret's head this night. She almost blamed herself for\nhaving felt her solitude (and consequently his absence) as a relief; but\nthese two days had set her up afresh, with new strength and brighter\nhope. Plans which had lately appeared to her in the guise of tasks, now\nappeared like pleasures. The morbid scales had fallen from her eyes, and\nshe saw her position and her work more truly. If only Mr. Thornton would\nrestore her the lost friendship,--nay, if he would only come from time\nto time to cheer her father as in former days,--though she should never\nsee him, she felt as if the course of her future life, though not\nbrilliant in prospect, might lie clear and even before her. She sighed\nas she rose up to go to bed. In spite of the 'One step's enough for\nme,'--in spite of the one plain duty of devotion to her father,--there\nlay at her heart an anxiety and a pang of sorrow.\n\nAnd Mr. Hale thought of Margaret, that April evening, just as strangely\nand as persistently as she was thinking of him. He had been fatigued by\ngoing about among his old friends and old familiar places. He had had\nexaggerated ideas of the change which his altered opinions might make in\nhis friends' reception of him; but although some of them might have felt\nshocked or grieved or indignant at his falling off in the abstract, as\nsoon as they saw the face of the man whom they had once loved, they\nforgot his opinions in himself; or only remembered them enough to give\nan additional tender gravity to their manner. For Mr. Hale had not been\nknown to many; he had belonged to one of the smaller colleges, and had\nalways been shy and reserved; but those who in youth had cared to\npenetrate to the delicacy of thought and feeling that lay below his\nsilence and indecision, took him to their hearts, with something of the\nprotecting kindness which they would have shown to a woman. And the\nrenewal of this kindliness, after the lapse of years, and an interval of\nso much change, overpowered him more than any roughness or expression of\ndisapproval could have done.\n\n'I'm afraid we've done too much,' said Mr. Bell. 'You're suffering now\nfrom having lived so long in that Milton air.\n\n'I am tired,' said Mr. Hale. 'But it is not Milton air. I'm fifty-five\nyears of age, and that little fact of itself accounts for any loss of\nstrength.'\n\n'Nonsense! I'm upwards of sixty, and feel no loss of strength, either\nbodily or mental. Don't let me hear you talking so. Fifty-five! why,\nyou're quite a young man.'\n\nMr. Hale shook his head. 'These last few years!' said he. But after a\nminute's pause, he raised himself from his half recumbent position, in\none of Mr. Bell's luxurious easy-chairs, and said with a kind of\ntrembling earnestness:\n\n'Bell! you're not to think, that if I could have foreseen all that would\ncome of my change of opinion, and my resignation of my living--no! not\neven if I could have known how _she_ would have suffered,--that I would\nundo it--the act of open acknowledgment that I no longer held the same\nfaith as the church in which I was a priest. As I think now, even if I\ncould have foreseen that cruellest martyrdom of suffering, through the\nsufferings of one whom I loved, I would have done just the same as far\nas that step of openly leaving the church went. I might have done\ndifferently, and acted more wisely, in all that I subsequently did for\nmy family. But I don't think God endued me with over-much wisdom or\nstrength,' he added, falling back into his old position.\n\nMr. Bell blew his nose ostentatiously before answering. Then he said:\n\n'He gave you strength to do what your conscience told you was right; and\nI don't see that we need any higher or holier strength than that; or\nwisdom either. I know I have not that much; and yet men set me down in\ntheir fool's books as a wise man; an independent character;\nstrong-minded, and all that cant. The veriest idiot who obeys his own\nsimple law of right, if it be but in wiping his shoes on a door-mat, is\nwiser and stronger than I. But what gulls men are!'\n\nThere was a pause. Mr. Hale spoke first, in continuation of his thought:\n\n'About Margaret.'\n\n'Well! about Margaret. What then?'\n\n'If I die---- '\n\n'Nonsense!'\n\n'What will become of her--I often think? I suppose the Lennoxes will ask\nher to live with them. I try to think they will. Her aunt Shaw loved her\nwell in her own quiet way; but she forgets to love the absent.'\n\n'A very common fault. What sort of people are the Lennoxes?'\n\n'He, handsome, fluent, and agreeable. Edith, a sweet little spoiled\nbeauty. Margaret loves her with all her heart, and Edith with as much of\nher heart as she can spare.'\n\n'Now, Hale; you know that girl of yours has got pretty nearly all my\nheart. I told you that before. Of course, as your daughter, as my\ngod-daughter, I took great interest in her before I saw her the last\ntime. But this visit that I paid to you at Milton made me her slave. I\nwent, a willing old victim, following the car of the conqueror. For,\nindeed, she looks as grand and serene as one who has struggled, and may\nbe struggling, and yet has the victory secure in sight. Yes, in spite of\nall her present anxieties, that was the look on her face. And so, all I\nhave is at her service, if she needs it; and will be hers, whether she\nwill or no, when I die. Moreover, I myself, will be her preux chevalier,\nsixty and gouty though I be. Seriously, old friend, your daughter shall\nbe my principal charge in life, and all the help that either my wit or\nmy wisdom or my willing heart can give, shall be hers. I don't choose\nher out as a subject for fretting. Something, I know of old, you must\nhave to worry yourself about, or you wouldn't be happy. But you're going\nto outlive me by many a long year. You spare, thin men are always\ntempting and always cheating Death! It's the stout, florid fellows like\nme, that always go off first.'\n\nIf Mr. Bell had had a prophetic eye he might have seen the torch all but\ninverted, and the angel with the grave and composed face standing very\nnigh, beckoning to his friend. That night Mr. Hale laid his head down on\nthe pillow on which it never more should stir with life. The servant who\nentered his room in the morning, received no answer to his speech; drew\nnear the bed, and saw the calm, beautiful face lying white and cold\nunder the ineffaceable seal of death. The attitude was exquisitely easy;\nthere had been no pain--no struggle. The action of the heart must have\nceased as he lay down.\n\nMr. Bell was stunned by the shock; and only recovered when the time came\nfor being angry at every suggestion of his man's.\n\n'A coroner's inquest? Pooh. You don't think I poisoned him! Dr. Forbes\nsays it is just the natural end of a heart complaint. Poor old Hale! You\nwore out that tender heart of yours before its time. Poor old friend!\nhow he talked of his---- Wallis, pack up a carpet-bag for me in five\nminutes. Here have I been talking. Pack it up, I say. I must go to\nMilton by the next train.'\n\nThe bag was packed, the cab ordered, the railway reached, in twenty\nminutes from the moment of this decision. The London train whizzed by,\ndrew back some yards, and in Mr. Bell was hurried by the impatient\nguard. He threw himself back in his seat, to try, with closed eyes, to\nunderstand how one in life yesterday could be dead to-day; and shortly\ntears stole out between his grizzled eye-lashes, at the feeling of which\nhe opened his keen eyes, and looked as severely cheerful as his set\ndetermination could make him. He was not going to blubber before a set\nof strangers. Not he!\n\nThere was no set of strangers, only one sitting far from him on the same\nside. By and bye Mr. Bell peered at him, to discover what manner of man\nit was that might have been observing his emotion; and behind the great\nsheet of the outspread 'Times,' he recognised Mr. Thornton.\n\n'Why, Thornton! is that you?' said he, removing hastily to a closer\nproximity. He shook Mr. Thornton vehemently by the hand, until the gripe\nended in a sudden relaxation, for the hand was wanted to wipe away\ntears. He had last seen Mr. Thornton in his friend Hale's company.\n\n'I'm going to Milton, bound on a melancholy errand. Going to break to\nHale's daughter the news of his sudden death!'\n\n'Death! Mr. Hale dead!'\n\n'Ay; I keep saying it to myself, \"Hale is dead!\" but it doesn't make it\nany the more real. Hale is dead for all that. He went to bed well, to\nall appearance, last night, and was quite cold this morning when my\nservant went to call him.'\n\n'Where? I don't understand!'\n\n'At Oxford. He came to stay with me; hadn't been in Oxford this\nseventeen years--and this is the end of it.'\n\nNot one word was spoken for above a quarter of an hour. Then Mr.\nThornton said:\n\n'And she!' and stopped full short.\n\n'Margaret you mean. Yes! I am going to tell her. Poor fellow! how full\nhis thoughts were of her all last night! Good God! Last night only. And\nhow immeasurably distant he is now! But I take Margaret as my child for\nhis sake. I said last night I would take her for her own sake. Well, I\ntake her for both.'\n\nMr. Thornton made one or two fruitless attempts to speak, before he\ncould get out the words:\n\n'What will become of her!'\n\n'I rather fancy there will be two people waiting for her: myself for\none. I would take a live dragon into my house to live, if, by hiring\nsuch a chaperon, and setting up an establishment of my own, I could make\nmy old age happy with having Margaret for a daughter. But there are\nthose Lennoxes!'\n\n'Who are they?' asked Mr. Thornton with trembling interest.\n\n'Oh, smart London people, who very likely will think they've the best\nright to her. Captain Lennox married her cousin--the girl she was\nbrought up with. Good enough people, I dare say. And there's her aunt,\nMrs. Shaw. There might be a way open, perhaps, by my offering to marry\nthat worthy lady! but that would be quite a pis aller. And then there's\nthat brother!'\n\n'What brother? A brother of her aunt's?'\n\n'No, no; a clever Lennox, (the captain's a fool, you must understand) a\nyoung barrister, who will be setting his cap at Margaret. I know he has\nhad her in his mind this five years or more: one of his chums told me as\nmuch; and he was only kept back by her want of fortune. Now that will be\ndone away with.'\n\n'How?' asked Mr. Thornton, too earnestly curious to be aware of the\nimpertinence of his question.\n\n'Why, she'll have my money at my death. And if this Henry Lennox is half\ngood enough for her, and she likes him--well! I might find another way\nof getting a home through a marriage. I'm dreadfully afraid of being\ntempted, at an unguarded moment, by the aunt.'\n\nNeither Mr. Bell nor Mr. Thornton was in a laughing humour; so the\noddity of any of the speeches which the former made was unnoticed by\nthem. Mr. Bell whistled, without emitting any sound beyond a long\nhissing breath; changed his seat, without finding comfort or rest while\nMr. Thornton sat immoveably still, his eyes fixed on one spot in the\nnewspaper, which he had taken up in order to give himself leisure to\nthink.\n\n'Where have you been?' asked Mr. Bell, at length.\n\n'To Havre. Trying to detect the secret of the great rise in the price of\ncotton.'\n\n'Ugh! Cotton, and speculations, and smoke, well-cleansed and\nwell-cared-for machinery, and unwashed and neglected hands. Poor old\nHale! Poor old Hale! If you could have known the change which it was to\nhim from Helstone. Do you know the New Forest at all?'\n\n'Yes.' (Very shortly).\n\n'Then you can fancy the difference between it and Milton. What part were\nyou in? Were you ever at Helstone? a little picturesque village, like\nsome in the Odenwald? You know Helstone?'\n\n'I have seen it. It was a great change to leave it and come to Milton.'\n\nHe took up his newspaper with a determined air, as if resolved to avoid\nfurther conversation; and Mr. Bell was fain to resort to his former\noccupation of trying to find out how he could best break the news to\nMargaret.\n\nShe was at an up-stairs window; she saw him alight; she guessed the\ntruth with an instinctive flash. She stood in the middle of the\ndrawing-room, as if arrested in her first impulse to rush downstairs,\nand as if by the same restraining thought she had been turned to stone;\nso white and immoveable was she.\n\n'Oh! don't tell me! I know it from your face! You would have sent--you\nwould not have left him--if he were alive! Oh papa, papa!'\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLII\n\nALONE! ALONE!\n\n    'When some beloved voice that was to you\n     Both sound and sweetness, faileth suddenly,\n     And silence, against which you dare not cry,\n     Aches round you like a strong disease and new--\n     What hope? what help? what music will undo\n     That silence to your sense?'\n             MRS. BROWNING.\n\n\nThe shock had been great. Margaret fell into a state of prostration,\nwhich did not show itself in sobs and tears, or even find the relief of\nwords. She lay on the sofa, with her eyes shut, never speaking but when\nspoken to, and then replying in whispers. Mr. Bell was perplexed. He\ndared not leave her; he dared not ask her to accompany him back to\nOxford, which had been one of the plans he had formed on the journey to\nMilton, her physical exhaustion was evidently too complete for her to\nundertake any such fatigue--putting the sight that she would have to\nencounter out of the question. Mr. Bell sate over the fire, considering\nwhat he had better do. Margaret lay motionless, and almost breathless by\nhim. He would not leave her, even for the dinner which Dixon had\nprepared for him down-stairs, and, with sobbing hospitality, would fain\nhave tempted him to eat. He had a plateful of something brought up to\nhim. In general, he was particular and dainty enough, and knew well each\nshade of flavour in his food, but now the devilled chicken tasted like\nsawdust. He minced up some of the fowl for Margaret, and peppered and\nsalted it well; but when Dixon, following his directions, tried to feed\nher, the languid shake of head proved that in such a state as Margaret\nwas in, food would only choke, not nourish her.\n\nMr. Bell gave a great sigh; lifted up his stout old limbs (stiff with\ntravelling) from their easy position, and followed Dixon out of the\nroom.\n\n'I can't leave her. I must write to them at Oxford, to see that the\npreparations are made: they can be getting on with these till I arrive.\nCan't Mrs. Lennox come to her? I'll write and tell her she must. The\ngirl must have some woman-friend about her, if only to talk her into a\ngood fit of crying.'\n\nDixon was crying--enough for two; but, after wiping her eyes and\nsteadying her voice, she managed to tell Mr. Bell, that Mrs. Lennox was\ntoo near her confinement to be able to undertake any journey at present.\n\n'Well! I suppose we must have Mrs. Shaw; she's come back to England,\nisn't she?'\n\n'Yes, sir, she's come back; but I don't think she will like to leave\nMrs. Lennox at such an interesting time,' said Dixon, who did not much\napprove of a stranger entering the household, to share with her in her\nruling care of Margaret.\n\n'Interesting time be--' Mr. Bell restricted himself to coughing over the\nend of his sentence. 'She could be content to be at Venice or Naples, or\nsome of those Popish places, at the last \"interesting time,\" which took\nplace in Corfu, I think. And what does that little prosperous woman's\n\"interesting time\" signify, in comparison with that poor creature\nthere,--that helpless, homeless, friendless Margaret--lying as still on\nthat sofa as if it were an altar-tomb, and she the stone statue on it. I\ntell you, Mrs. Shaw shall come. See that a room, or whatever she wants,\nis got ready for her by to-morrow night. I'll take care she comes.'\n\nAccordingly Mr. Bell wrote a letter, which Mrs. Shaw declared, with many\ntears, to be so like one of the dear general's when he was going to have\na fit of the gout, that she should always value and preserve it. If he\nhad given her the option, by requesting or urging her, as if a refusal\nwere possible, she might not have come--true and sincere as was her\nsympathy with Margaret. It needed the sharp uncourteous command to make\nher conquer her vis inertiae, and allow herself to be packed by her\nmaid, after the latter had completed the boxes. Edith, all cap, shawls,\nand tears, came out to the top of the stairs, as Captain Lennox was\ntaking her mother down to the carriage:\n\n'Don't forget, mamma; Margaret must come and live with us. Sholto will\ngo to Oxford on Wednesday, and you must send word by Mr. Bell to him\nwhen we're to expect you. And if you want Sholto, he can go on from\nOxford to Milton. Don't forget, mamma; you are to bring back Margaret.'\n\nEdith re-entered the drawing-room. Mr. Henry Lennox was there, cutting\nopen the pages of a new Review. Without lifting his head, he said, 'If\nyou don't like Sholto to be so long absent from you, Edith, I hope you\nwill let me go down to Milton, and give what assistance I can.'\n\n'Oh, thank you,' said Edith, 'I dare say old Mr. Bell will do everything\nhe can, and more help may not be needed. Only one does not look for much\nsavoir-faire from a resident Fellow. Dear, darling Margaret! won't it be\nnice to have her here, again? You were both great allies, years ago.'\n\n'Were we?' asked he indifferently, with an appearance of being\ninterested in a passage in the Review.\n\n'Well, perhaps not--I forget. I was so full of Sholto. But doesn't it\nfall out well, that if my uncle was to die, it should be just now, when\nwe are come home, and settled in the old house, and quite ready to\nreceive Margaret? Poor thing! what a change it will be to her from\nMilton! I'll have new chintz for her bedroom, and make it look new and\nbright, and cheer her up a little.'\n\nIn the same spirit of kindness, Mrs. Shaw journeyed to Milton,\noccasionally dreading the first meeting, and wondering how it would be\ngot over; but more frequently planning how soon she could get Margaret\naway from 'that horrid place,' and back into the pleasant comforts of\nHarley Street.\n\n'Oh dear!' she said to her maid; 'look at those chimneys! My poor sister\nHale! I don't think I could have rested at Naples, if I had known what\nit was! I must have come and fetched her and Margaret away.' And to\nherself she acknowledged, that she had always thought her brother-in-law\nrather a weak man, but never so weak as now, when she saw for what a\nplace he had exchanged the lovely Helstone home.\n\nMargaret had remained in the same state; white, motionless, speechless,\ntearless. They had told her that her aunt Shaw was coming; but she had\nnot expressed either surprise or pleasure, or dislike to the idea. Mr.\nBell, whose appetite had returned, and who appreciated Dixon's\nendeavours to gratify it, in vain urged upon her to taste some\nsweetbreads stewed with oysters; she shook her head with the same quiet\nobstinacy as on the previous day; and he was obliged to console himself\nfor her rejection, by eating them all himself. But Margaret was the\nfirst to hear the stopping of the cab that brought her aunt from the\nrailway station. Her eyelids quivered, her lips coloured and trembled.\nMr. Bell went down to meet Mrs. Shaw; and when they came up, Margaret\nwas standing, trying to steady her dizzy self; and when she saw her\naunt, she went forward to the arms open to receive her, and first found\nthe passionate relief of tears on her aunt's shoulder. All thoughts of\nquiet habitual love, of tenderness for years, of relationship to the\ndead,--all that inexplicable likeness in look, tone, and gesture, that\nseem to belong to one family, and which reminded Margaret so forcibly at\nthis moment of her mother,--came in to melt and soften her numbed heart\ninto the overflow of warm tears.\n\nMr. Bell stole out of the room, and went down into the study, where he\nordered a fire, and tried to divert his thoughts by taking down and\nexamining the different books. Each volume brought a remembrance or a\nsuggestion of his dead friend. It might be a change of employment from\nhis two days' work of watching Margaret, but it was no change of\nthought. He was glad to catch the sound of Mr. Thornton's voice, making\nenquiry at the door. Dixon was rather cavalierly dismissing him; for\nwith the appearance of Mrs. Shaw's maid, came visions of former\ngrandeur, of the Beresford blood, of the 'station' (so she was pleased\nto term it) from which her young lady had been ousted, and to which she\nwas now, please God, to be restored. These visions, which she had been\ndwelling on with complacency in her conversation with Mrs. Shaw's maid\n(skilfully eliciting meanwhile all the circumstances of state and\nconsequence connected with the Harley Street establishment, for the\nedification of the listening Martha), made Dixon rather inclined to be\nsupercilious in her treatment of any inhabitant of Milton; so, though\nshe always stood rather in awe of Mr. Thornton, she was as curt as she\ndurst be in telling him that he could see none of the inmates of the\nhouse that night. It was rather uncomfortable to be contradicted in her\nstatement by Mr. Bell's opening the study-door, and calling out:\n\n'Thornton! is that you? Come in for a minute or two; I want to speak to\nyou.' So Mr. Thornton went into the study, and Dixon had to retreat into\nthe kitchen, and reinstate herself in her own esteem by a prodigious\nstory of Sir John Beresford's coach and six, when he was high sheriff.\n\n'I don't know what I wanted to say to you after all. Only it's dull\nenough to sit in a room where everything speaks to you of a dead friend.\nYet Margaret and her aunt must have the drawing-room to themselves!'\n\n'Is Mrs.--is her aunt come?' asked Mr. Thornton.\n\n'Come? Yes! maid and all. One would have thought she might have come by\nherself at such a time! And now I shall have to turn out and find my way\nto the Clarendon.'\n\n'You must not go to the Clarendon. We have five or six empty bed-rooms\nat home.'\n\n'Well aired?'\n\n'I think you may trust my mother for that.'\n\n'Then I'll only run up-stairs and wish that wan girl good-night, and\nmake my bow to her aunt, and go off with you straight.'\n\nMr. Bell was some time up-stairs. Mr. Thornton began to think it long,\nfor he was full of business, and had hardly been able to spare the time\nfor running up to Crampton, and enquiring how Miss Hale was.\n\nWhen they had set out upon their walk, Mr. Bell said:\n\n'I was kept by those women in the drawing-room. Mrs. Shaw is anxious to\nget home--on account of her daughter, she says--and wants Margaret to go\noff with her at once. Now she is no more fit for travelling than I am\nfor flying. Besides, she says, and very justly, that she has friends she\nmust see--that she must wish good-bye to several people; and then her\naunt worried her about old claims, and was she forgetful of old friends?\nAnd she said, with a great burst of crying, she should be glad enough to\ngo from a place where she had suffered so much. Now I must return to\nOxford to-morrow, and I don't know on which side of the scale to throw\nin my voice.'\n\nHe paused, as if asking a question; but he received no answer from his\ncompanion, the echo of whose thoughts kept repeating--\n\n'Where she had suffered so much.' Alas! and that was the way in which\nthis eighteen months in Milton--to him so unspeakably precious, down to\nits very bitterness, which was worth all the rest of life's\nsweetness--would be remembered. Neither loss of father, nor loss of\nmother, dear as she was to Mr. Thornton, could have poisoned the\nremembrance of the weeks, the days, the hours, when a walk of two miles,\nevery step of which was pleasant, as it brought him nearer and nearer to\nher, took him to her sweet presence--every step of which was rich, as\neach recurring moment that bore him away from her made him recall some\nfresh grace in her demeanour, or pleasant pungency in her character.\nYes! whatever had happened to him, external to his relation to her, he\ncould never have spoken of that time, when he could have seen her every\nday--when he had her within his grasp, as it were--as a time of\nsuffering. It had been a royal time of luxury to him, with all its\nstings and contumelies, compared to the poverty that crept round and\nclipped the anticipation of the future down to sordid fact, and life\nwithout an atmosphere of either hope or fear.\n\nMrs. Thornton and Fanny were in the dining-room; the latter in a flutter\nof small exultation, as the maid held up one glossy material after\nanother, to try the effect of the wedding-dresses by candlelight. Her\nmother really tried to sympathise with her, but could not. Neither taste\nnor dress were in her line of subjects, and she heartily wished that\nFanny had accepted her brother's offer of having the wedding clothes\nprovided by some first-rate London dressmaker, without the endless\ntroublesome discussions, and unsettled wavering, that arose out of\nFanny's desire to choose and superintend everything herself. Mr.\nThornton was only too glad to mark his grateful approbation of any\nsensible man, who could be captivated by Fanny's second-rate airs and\ngraces, by giving her ample means for providing herself with the finery,\nwhich certainly rivalled, if it did not exceed, the lover in her\nestimation. When her brother and Mr. Bell came in, Fanny blushed and\nsimpered, and fluttered over the signs of her employment, in a way which\ncould not have failed to draw attention from any one else but Mr. Bell.\nIf he thought about her and her silks and satins at all, it was to\ncompare her and them with the pale sorrow he had left behind him,\nsitting motionless, with bent head and folded hands, in a room where the\nstillness was so great that you might almost fancy the rush in your\nstraining ears was occasioned by the spirits of the dead, yet hovering\nround their beloved. For, when Mr. Bell had first gone up-stairs, Mrs.\nShaw lay asleep on the sofa; and no sound broke the silence.\n\nMrs. Thornton gave Mr. Bell her formal, hospitable welcome. She was\nnever so gracious as when receiving her son's friends in her son's\nhouse; and the more unexpected they were, the more honour to her\nadmirable housekeeping preparations for comfort.\n\n'How is Miss Hale?' she asked.\n\n'About as broken down by this last stroke as she can be.'\n\n'I am sure it is very well for her that she has such a friend as you.'\n\n'I wish I were her only friend, madam. I daresay it sounds very brutal;\nbut here have I been displaced, and turned out of my post of comforter\nand adviser by a fine lady aunt; and there are cousins and what not\nclaiming her in London, as if she were a lap-dog belonging to them. And\nshe is too weak and miserable to have a will of her own.'\n\n'She must indeed be weak,' said Mrs. Thornton, with an implied meaning\nwhich her son understood well. 'But where,' continued Mrs. Thornton,\n'have these relations been all this time that Miss Hale has appeared\nalmost friendless, and has certainly had a good deal of anxiety to\nbear?' But she did not feel interest enough in the answer to her\nquestion to wait for it. She left the room to make her household\narrangements.\n\n'They have been living abroad. They have some kind of claim upon her. I\nwill do them that justice. The aunt brought her up, and she and the\ncousin have been like sisters. The thing vexing me, you see, is that I\nwanted to take her for a child of my own; and I am jealous of these\npeople, who don't seem to value the privilege of their right. Now it\nwould be different if Frederick claimed her.'\n\n'Frederick!' exclaimed Mr. Thornton. 'Who is he? What right--?' He\nstopped short in his vehement question.\n\n'Frederick,' said Mr. Bell in surprise. 'Why don't you know? He's her\nbrother. Have you not heard--'\n\n'I never heard his name before. Where is he? Who is he?'\n\n'Surely I told you about him, when the family first came to Milton--the\nson who was concerned in that mutiny.'\n\n'I never heard of him till this moment. Where does he live?'\n\n'In Spain. He's liable to be arrested the moment he sets foot on English\nground. Poor fellow! he will grieve at not being able to attend his\nfather's funeral. We must be content with Captain Lennox; for I don't\nknow of any other relation to summon.'\n\n'I hope I may be allowed to go?'\n\n'Certainly; thankfully. You're a good fellow, after all, Thornton. Hale\nliked you. He spoke to me, only the other day, about you at Oxford. He\nregretted he had seen so little of you lately. I am obliged to you for\nwishing to show him respect.'\n\n'But about Frederick. Does he never come to England?'\n\n'Never.'\n\n'He was not over here about the time of Mrs. Hale's death?'\n\n'No. Why, I was here then. I hadn't seen Hale for years and years and,\nif you remember, I came--No, it was some time after that that I came.\nBut poor Frederick Hale was not here then. What made you think he was?'\n\n'I saw a young man walking with Miss Hale one day,' replied Mr.\nThornton, 'and I think it was about that time.'\n\n'Oh, that would be this young Lennox, the Captain's brother. He's a\nlawyer, and they were in pretty constant correspondence with him; and I\nremember Mr. Hale told me he thought he would come down. Do you know,'\nsaid Mr. Bell, wheeling round, and shutting one eye, the better to bring\nthe forces of the other to bear with keen scrutiny on Mr. Thornton's\nface, 'that I once fancied you had a little tenderness for Margaret?'\n\nNo answer. No change of countenance.\n\n'And so did poor Hale. Not at first, and not till I had put it into his\nhead.'\n\n'I admired Miss Hale. Every one must do so. She is a beautiful\ncreature,' said Mr. Thornton, driven to bay by Mr. Bell's pertinacious\nquestioning.\n\n'Is that all! You can speak of her in that measured way, as simply a\n\"beautiful creature\"--only something to catch the eye. I did hope you\nhad had nobleness enough in you to make you pay her the homage of the\nheart. Though I believe--in fact I know, she would have rejected you,\nstill to have loved her without return would have lifted you higher than\nall those, be they who they may, that have never known her to love.\n\"Beautiful creature\" indeed! Do you speak of her as you would of a horse\nor a dog?'\n\nMr. Thornton's eyes glowed like red embers.\n\n'Mr. Bell,' said he, 'before you speak so, you should remember that all\nmen are not as free to express what they feel as you are. Let us talk of\nsomething else.' For though his heart leaped up, as at a trumpet-call,\nto every word that Mr. Bell had said, and though he knew that what he\nhad said would henceforward bind the thought of the old Oxford Fellow\nclosely up with the most precious things of his heart, yet he would not\nbe forced into any expression of what he felt towards Margaret. He was\nno mocking-bird of praise, to try because another extolled what he\nreverenced and passionately loved, to outdo him in laudation. So he\nturned to some of the dry matters of business that lay between Mr. Bell\nand him, as landlord and tenant.\n\n'What is that heap of brick and mortar we came against in the yard? Any\nrepairs wanted?'\n\n'No, none, thank you.'\n\n'Are you building on your own account? If you are, I'm very much obliged\nto you.'\n\n'I'm building a dining-room--for the men I mean--the hands.'\n\n'I thought you were hard to please, if this room wasn't good enough to\nsatisfy you, a bachelor.'\n\n'I've got acquainted with a strange kind of chap, and I put one or two\nchildren in whom he is interested to school. So, as I happened to be\npassing near his house one day, I just went there about some trifling\npayment to be made; and I saw such a miserable black frizzle of a\ndinner--a greasy cinder of meat, as first set me a-thinking. But it was\nnot till provisions grew so high this winter that I bethought me how, by\nbuying things wholesale, and cooking a good quantity of provisions\ntogether, much money might be saved, and much comfort gained. So I spoke\nto my friend--or my enemy--the man I told you of--and he found fault\nwith every detail of my plan; and in consequence I laid it aside, both\nas impracticable, and also because if I forced it into operation I\nshould be interfering with the independence of my men; when, suddenly,\nthis Higgins came to me and graciously signified his approval of a\nscheme so nearly the same as mine, that I might fairly have claimed it;\nand, moreover, the approval of several of his fellow-workmen, to whom he\nhad spoken. I was a little \"riled,\" I confess, by his manner, and\nthought of throwing the whole thing overboard to sink or swim. But it\nseemed childish to relinquish a plan which I had once thought wise and\nwell-laid, just because I myself did not receive all the honour and\nconsequence due to the originator. So I coolly took the part assigned to\nme, which is something like that of steward to a club. I buy in the\nprovisions wholesale, and provide a fitting matron or cook.'\n\n'I hope you give satisfaction in your new capacity. Are you a good judge\nof potatoes and onions? But I suppose Mrs. Thornton assists you in your\nmarketing.'\n\n'Not a bit,' replied Mr. Thornton. 'She disapproves of the whole plan,\nand now we never mention it to each other. But I manage pretty well,\ngetting in great stocks from Liverpool, and being served in butcher's\nmeat by our own family butcher. I can assure you, the hot dinners the\nmatron turns out are by no means to be despised.'\n\n'Do you taste each dish as it goes in, in virtue of your office? I hope\nyou have a white wand.'\n\n'I was very scrupulous, at first, in confining myself to the mere\npurchasing part, and even in that I rather obeyed the men's orders\nconveyed through the housekeeper, than went by my own judgment. At one\ntime, the beef was too large, at another the mutton was not fat enough.\nI think they saw how careful I was to leave them free, and not to\nintrude my own ideas upon them; so, one day, two or three of the men--my\nfriend Higgins among them--asked me if I would not come in and take a\nsnack. It was a very busy day, but I saw that the men would be hurt if,\nafter making the advance, I didn't meet them half-way, so I went in, and\nI never made a better dinner in my life. I told them (my next neighbours\nI mean, for I'm no speech-maker) how much I'd enjoyed it; and for some\ntime, whenever that especial dinner recurred in their dietary, I was\nsure to be met by these men, with a \"Master, there's hot-pot for dinner\nto-day, win yo' come?\" If they had not asked me, I would no more have\nintruded on them than I'd have gone to the mess at the barracks without\ninvitation.'\n\n'I should think you were rather a restraint on your hosts' conversation.\nThey can't abuse the masters while you're there. I suspect they take it\nout on non-hot-pot days.'\n\n'Well! hitherto we've steered clear of all vexed questions. But if any\nof the old disputes came up again, I would certainly speak out my mind\nnext hot-pot day. But you are hardly acquainted with our Darkshire\nfellows, for all you're a Darkshire man yourself. They have such a sense\nof humour, and such a racy mode of expression! I am getting really to\nknow some of them now, and they talk pretty freely before me.'\n\n'Nothing like the act of eating for equalising men. Dying is nothing to\nit. The philosopher dies sententiously--the pharisee ostentatiously--the\nsimple-hearted humbly--the poor idiot blindly, as the sparrow falls to\nthe ground; the philosopher and idiot, publican and pharisee, all eat\nafter the same fashion--given an equally good digestion. There's theory\nfor theory for you!'\n\n'Indeed I have no theory; I hate theories.'\n\n'I beg your pardon. To show my penitence, will you accept a ten pound\nnote towards your marketing, and give the poor fellows a feast?'\n\n'Thank you; but I'd rather not. They pay me rent for the oven and\ncooking-places at the back of the mill: and will have to pay more for\nthe new dining-room. I don't want it to fall into a charity. I don't\nwant donations. Once let in the principle, and I should have people\ngoing, and talking, and spoiling the simplicity of the whole thing.'\n\n'People will talk about any new plan. You can't help that.'\n\n'My enemies, if I have any, may make a philanthropic fuss about this\ndinner-scheme; but you are a friend, and I expect you will pay my\nexperiment the respect of silence. It is but a new broom at present, and\nsweeps clean enough. But by-and-by we shall meet with plenty of\nstumbling-blocks, no doubt.'\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLIII\n\nMARGARET'S FLITTIN'\n\n    'The meanest thing to which we bid adieu,\n     Loses its meanness in the parting hour.'\n              ELLIOTT.\n\n\nMrs. Shaw took as vehement a dislike as it was possible for one of her\ngentle nature to do, against Milton. It was noisy, and smoky, and the\npoor people whom she saw in the streets were dirty, and the rich ladies\nover-dressed, and not a man that she saw, high or low, had his clothes\nmade to fit him. She was sure Margaret would never regain her lost\nstrength while she stayed in Milton; and she herself was afraid of one\nof her old attacks of the nerves. Margaret must return with her, and\nthat quickly. This, if not the exact force of her words, was at any rate\nthe spirit of what she urged on Margaret, till the latter, weak, weary,\nand broken-spirited, yielded a reluctant promise that, as soon as\nWednesday was over she would prepare to accompany her aunt back to town,\nleaving Dixon in charge of all the arrangements for paying bills,\ndisposing of furniture, and shutting up the house. Before that\nWednesday--that mournful Wednesday, when Mr. Hale was to be interred,\nfar away from either of the homes he had known in life, and far away\nfrom the wife who lay lonely among strangers (and this last was\nMargaret's great trouble, for she thought that if she had not given way\nto that overwhelming stupor during the first sad days, she could have\narranged things otherwise)--before that Wednesday, Margaret received a\nletter from Mr. Bell.\n\n'MY DEAR MARGARET:--I did mean to have returned to Milton on Thursday,\nbut unluckily it turns out to be one of the rare occasions when we,\nPlymouth Fellows, are called upon to perform any kind of duty, and I\nmust not be absent from my post. Captain Lennox and Mr. Thornton are\nhere. The former seems a smart, well-meaning man; and has proposed to go\nover to Milton, and assist you in any search for the will; of course\nthere is none, or you would have found it by this time, if you followed\nmy directions. Then the Captain declares he must take you and his\nmother-in-law home; and, in his wife's present state, I don't see how\nyou can expect him to remain away longer than Friday. However, that\nDixon of yours is trusty; and can hold her, or your own, till I come. I\nwill put matters into the hands of my Milton attorney if there is no\nwill; for I doubt this smart captain is no great man of business.\nNevertheless, his moustachios are splendid. There will have to be a\nsale, so select what things you wish reserved. Or you can send a list\nafterwards. Now two things more, and I have done. You know, or if you\ndon't, your poor father did, that you are to have my money and goods\nwhen I die. Not that I mean to die yet; but I name this just to explain\nwhat is coming. These Lennoxes seem very fond of you now; and perhaps\nmay continue to be; perhaps not. So it is best to start with a formal\nagreement; namely, that you are to pay them two hundred and fifty pounds\na year, as long as you and they find it pleasant to live together.\n(This, of course, includes Dixon; mind you don't be cajoled into paying\nany more for her.) Then you won't be thrown adrift, if some day the\ncaptain wishes to have his house to himself, but you can carry yourself\nand your two hundred and fifty pounds off somewhere else; if, indeed, I\nhave not claimed you to come and keep house for me first. Then as to\ndress, and Dixon, and personal expenses, and confectionery (all young\nladies eat confectionery till wisdom comes by age), I shall consult some\nlady of my acquaintance, and see how much you will have from your father\nbefore fixing this. Now, Margaret, have you flown out before you have\nread this far, and wondered what right the old man has to settle your\naffairs for you so cavalierly? I make no doubt you have. Yet the old man\nhas a right. He has loved your father for five and thirty years; he\nstood beside him on his wedding-day; he closed his eyes in death.\nMoreover, he is your godfather; and as he cannot do you much good\nspiritually, having a hidden consciousness of your superiority in such\nthings, he would fain do you the poor good of endowing you materially.\nAnd the old man has not a known relation on earth; \"who is there to\nmourn for Adam Bell?\" and his whole heart is set and bent upon this one\nthing, and Margaret Hale is not the girl to say him nay. Write by\nreturn, if only two lines, to tell me your answer. But _no thanks_.'\n\nMargaret took up a pen and scrawled with trembling hand, 'Margaret Hale\nis not the girl to say him nay.' In her weak state she could not think\nof any other words, and yet she was vexed to use these. But she was so\nmuch fatigued even by this slight exertion, that if she could have\nthought of another form of acceptance, she could not have sate up to\nwrite a syllable of it. She was obliged to lie down again, and try not\nto think.\n\n'My dearest child! Has that letter vexed or troubled you?'\n\n'No!' said Margaret feebly. 'I shall be better when to-morrow is over.'\n\n'I feel sure, darling, you won't be better till I get you out of this\nhorrid air. How you can have borne it this two years I can't imagine.'\n\n'Where could I go to? I could not leave papa and mamma.'\n\n'Well! don't distress yourself, my dear. I dare say it was all for the\nbest, only I had no conception of how you were living. Our butler's wife\nlives in a better house than this.'\n\n'It is sometimes very pretty--in summer; you can't judge by what it is\nnow. I have been very happy here,' and Margaret closed her eyes by way\nof stopping the conversation.\n\nThe house teemed with comfort now, compared to what it had done. The\nevenings were chilly, and by Mrs. Shaw's directions fires were lighted\nin every bedroom. She petted Margaret in every possible way, and bought\nevery delicacy, or soft luxury in which she herself would have burrowed\nand sought comfort. But Margaret was indifferent to all these things;\nor, if they forced themselves upon her attention, it was simply as\ncauses for gratitude to her aunt, who was putting herself so much out of\nher way to think of her. She was restless, though so weak. All the day\nlong, she kept herself from thinking of the ceremony which was going on\nat Oxford, by wandering from room to room, and languidly setting aside\nsuch articles as she wished to retain. Dixon followed her by Mrs. Shaw's\ndesire, ostensibly to receive instructions, but with a private\ninjunction to soothe her into repose as soon as might be.\n\n'These books, Dixon, I will keep. All the rest will you send to Mr.\nBell? They are of a kind that he will value for themselves, as well as\nfor papa's sake. This---- I should like you to take this to Mr.\nThornton, after I am gone. Stay; I will write a note with it.' And she\nsate down hastily, as if afraid of thinking, and wrote:\n\n     'DEAR SIR,--The accompanying book I am sure will be valued by you\n     for the sake of my father, to whom it belonged.\n\n     'Yours sincerely,\n\n     'MARGARET HALE.'\n\nShe set out again upon her travels through the house, turning over\narticles, known to her from her childhood, with a sort of caressing\nreluctance to leave them--old-fashioned, worn and shabby, as they might\nbe. But she hardly spoke again; and Dixon's report to Mrs. Shaw was,\nthat 'she doubted whether Miss Hale heard a word of what she said,\nthough she talked the whole time, in order to divert her attention.' The\nconsequence of being on her feet all day was excessive bodily weariness\nin the evening, and a better night's rest than she had had since she had\nheard of Mr. Hale's death.\n\nAt breakfast time the next day, she expressed her wish to go and bid one\nor two friends good-bye. Mrs. Shaw objected:\n\n'I am sure, my dear, you can have no friends here with whom you are\nsufficiently intimate to justify you in calling upon them so soon;\nbefore you have been at church.'\n\n'But to-day is my only day; if Captain Lennox comes this afternoon, and\nif we must--if I must really go to-morrow---- '\n\n'Oh, yes; we shall go to-morrow. I am more and more convinced that this\nair is bad for you, and makes you look so pale and ill; besides, Edith\nexpects us; and she may be waiting me; and you cannot be left alone, my\ndear, at your age. No; if you must pay these calls, I will go with you.\nDixon can get us a coach, I suppose?'\n\nSo Mrs. Shaw went to take care of Margaret, and took her maid with her\nto take care of the shawls and air-cushions. Margaret's face was too sad\nto lighten up into a smile at all this preparation for paying two\nvisits, that she had often made by herself at all hours of the day. She\nwas half afraid of owning that one place to which she was going was\nNicholas Higgins'; all she could do was to hope her aunt would be\nindisposed to get out of the coach, and walk up the court, and at every\nbreath of wind have her face slapped by wet clothes, hanging out to dry\non ropes stretched from house to house.\n\nThere was a little battle in Mrs. Shaw's mind between ease and a sense\nof matronly propriety; but the former gained the day; and with many an\ninjunction to Margaret to be careful of herself, and not to catch any\nfever, such as was always lurking in such places, her aunt permitted her\nto go where she had often been before without taking any precaution or\nrequiring any permission.\n\nNicholas was out; only Mary and one or two of the Boucher children at\nhome. Margaret was vexed with herself for not having timed her visit\nbetter. Mary had a very blunt intellect, although her feelings were warm\nand kind; and the instant she understood what Margaret's purpose was in\ncoming to see them, she began to cry and sob with so little restraint\nthat Margaret found it useless to say any of the thousand little things\nwhich had suggested themselves to her as she was coming along in the\ncoach. She could only try to comfort her a little by suggesting the\nvague chance of their meeting again, at some possible time, in some\npossible place, and bid her tell her father how much she wished, if he\ncould manage it, that he should come to see her when he had done his\nwork in the evening.\n\nAs she was leaving the place, she stopped and looked round; then\nhesitated a little before she said:\n\n'I should like to have some little thing to remind me of Bessy.'\n\nInstantly Mary's generosity was keenly alive. What could they give? And\non Margaret's singling out a little common drinking-cup, which she\nremembered as the one always standing by Bessy's side with drink for her\nfeverish lips, Mary said:\n\n'Oh, take summut better; that only cost fourpence!'\n\n'That will do, thank you,' said Margaret; and she went quickly away,\nwhile the light caused by the pleasure of having something to give yet\nlingered on Mary's face.\n\n'Now to Mrs. Thornton's,' thought she to herself. 'It must be done.' But\nshe looked rather rigid and pale at the thought of it, and had hard work\nto find the exact words in which to explain to her aunt who Mrs.\nThornton was, and why she should go to bid her farewell.\n\nThey (for Mrs. Shaw alighted here) were shown into the drawing-room, in\nwhich a fire had only just been kindled. Mrs. Shaw huddled herself up in\nher shawl, and shivered.\n\n'What an icy room!' she said.\n\nThey had to wait for some time before Mrs. Thornton entered. There was\nsome softening in her heart towards Margaret, now that she was going\naway out of her sight. She remembered her spirit, as shown at various\ntimes and places even more than the patience with which she had endured\nlong and wearing cares. Her countenance was blander than usual, as she\ngreeted her; there was even a shade of tenderness in her manner, as she\nnoticed the white, tear-swollen face, and the quiver in the voice which\nMargaret tried to make so steady.\n\n'Allow me to introduce my aunt, Mrs. Shaw. I am going away from Milton\nto-morrow; I do not know if you are aware of it; but I wanted to see you\nonce again, Mrs. Thornton, to--to apologise for my manner the last time\nI saw you; and to say that I am sure you meant kindly--however much we\nmay have misunderstood each other.'\n\nMrs. Shaw looked extremely perplexed by what Margaret had said. Thanks\nfor kindness! and apologies for failure in good manners! But Mrs.\nThornton replied:\n\n'Miss Hale, I am glad you do me justice. I did no more than I believed\nto be my duty in remonstrating with you as I did. I have always desired\nto act the part of a friend to you. I am glad you do me justice.'\n\n'And,' said Margaret, blushing excessively as she spoke, 'will you do me\njustice, and believe that though I cannot--I do not choose--to give\nexplanations of my conduct, I have not acted in the unbecoming way you\napprehended?'\n\nMargaret's voice was so soft, and her eyes so pleading, that Mrs.\nThornton was for once affected by the charm of manner to which she had\nhitherto proved herself invulnerable.\n\n'Yes, I do believe you. Let us say no more about it. Where are you going\nto reside, Miss Hale? I understood from Mr. Bell that you were going to\nleave Milton. You never liked Milton, you know,' said Mrs. Thornton,\nwith a sort of grim smile; 'but for all that, you must not expect me to\ncongratulate you on quitting it. Where shall you live?'\n\n'With my aunt,' replied Margaret, turning towards Mrs. Shaw.\n\n'My niece will reside with me in Harley Street. She is almost like a\ndaughter to me,' said Mrs. Shaw, looking fondly at Margaret; 'and I am\nglad to acknowledge my own obligation for any kindness that has been\nshown to her. If you and your husband ever come to town, my son and\ndaughter, Captain and Mrs. Lennox, will, I am sure, join with me in\nwishing to do anything in our power to show you attention.'\n\nMrs. Thornton thought in her own mind, that Margaret had not taken much\ncare to enlighten her aunt as to the relationship between the Mr. and\nMrs. Thornton, towards whom the fine-lady aunt was extending her soft\npatronage; so she answered shortly,\n\n'My husband is dead. Mr. Thornton is my son. I never go to London; so I\nam not likely to be able to avail myself of your polite offers.'\n\nAt this instant Mr. Thornton entered the room; he had only just returned\nfrom Oxford. His mourning suit spoke of the reason that had called him\nthere.\n\n'John,' said his mother, 'this lady is Mrs. Shaw, Miss Hale's aunt. I am\nsorry to say, that Miss Hale's call is to wish us good-bye.'\n\n'You are going then!' said he, in a low voice.\n\n'Yes,' said Margaret. 'We leave to-morrow.'\n\n'My son-in-law comes this evening to escort us,' said Mrs. Shaw.\n\nMr. Thornton turned away. He had not sat down, and now he seemed to be\nexamining something on the table, almost as if he had discovered an\nunopened letter, which had made him forget the present company. He did\nnot even seem to be aware when they got up to take leave. He started\nforwards, however, to hand Mrs. Shaw down to the carriage. As it drove\nup, he and Margaret stood close together on the door-step, and it was\nimpossible but that the recollection of the day of the riot should force\nitself into both their minds. Into his it came associated with the\nspeeches of the following day; her passionate declaration that there was\nnot a man in all that violent and desperate crowd, for whom she did not\ncare as much as for him. And at the remembrance of her taunting words,\nhis brow grew stern, though his heart beat thick with longing love.\n'No!' said he, 'I put it to the touch once, and I lost it all. Let her\ngo,--with her stony heart, and her beauty;--how set and terrible her\nlook is now, for all her loveliness of feature! She is afraid I shall\nspeak what will require some stern repression. Let her go. Beauty and\nheiress as she may be, she will find it hard to meet with a truer heart\nthan mine. Let her go!'\n\nAnd there was no tone of regret, or emotion of any kind in the voice\nwith which he said good-bye; and the offered hand was taken with a\nresolute calmness, and dropped as carelessly as if it had been a dead\nand withered flower. But none in his household saw Mr. Thornton again\nthat day. He was busily engaged; or so he said.\n\nMargaret's strength was so utterly exhausted by these visits, that she\nhad to submit to much watching, and petting, and sighing\n'I-told-you-so's,' from her aunt. Dixon said she was quite as bad as she\nhad been on the first day she heard of her father's death; and she and\nMrs. Shaw consulted as to the desirableness of delaying the morrow's\njourney. But when her aunt reluctantly proposed a few days' delay to\nMargaret, the latter writhed her body as if in acute suffering, and\nsaid:\n\n'Oh! let us go. I cannot be patient here. I shall not get well here. I\nwant to forget.'\n\nSo the arrangements went on; and Captain Lennox came, and with him news\nof Edith and the little boy; and Margaret found that the indifferent,\ncareless conversation of one who, however kind, was not too warm and\nanxious a sympathiser, did her good. She roused up; and by the time that\nshe knew she might expect Higgins, she was able to leave the room\nquietly, and await in her own chamber the expected summons.\n\n'Eh!' said he, as she came in, 'to think of th' oud gentleman dropping\noff as he did! Yo' might ha' knocked me down wi' a straw when they\ntelled me. \"Mr. Hale?\" said I; \"him as was th' parson?\" \"Ay,\" said they.\n\"Then,\" said I, \"there's as good a man gone as ever lived on this earth,\nlet who will be t' other!\" And I came to see yo', and tell yo' how\ngrieved I were, but them women in th' kitchen wouldn't tell yo' I were\nthere. They said yo' were ill,--and butter me, but yo' dunnot look like\nth' same wench. And yo're going to be a grand lady up i' Lunnon, aren't\nyo'?'\n\n'Not a grand lady,' said Margaret, half smiling.\n\n'Well! Thornton said--says he, a day or two ago, \"Higgins, have yo' seen\nMiss Hale?\" \"No,\" says I; \"there's a pack o' women who won't let me at\nher. But I can bide my time, if she's ill. She and I knows each other\npretty well; and hoo'l not go doubting that I'm main sorry for th' oud\ngentleman's death, just because I can't get at her and tell her so.\" And\nsays he, \"Yo'll not have much time for to try and see her, my fine chap.\nShe's not for staying with us a day longer nor she can help. She's got\ngrand relations, and they're carrying her off; and we sha'n't see her no\nmore.\" \"Measter,\" said I, \"if I dunnot see her afore hoo goes, I'll\nstrive to get up to Lunnun next Whissuntide, that I will. I'll not be\nbaulked of saying her good-bye by any relations whatsomdever.\" But,\nbless yo', I knowed yo'd come. It were only for to humour the measter, I\nlet on as if I thought yo'd mappen leave Milton without seeing me.'\n\n'You're quite right,' said Margaret. 'You only do me justice. And you'll\nnot forget me, I'm sure. If no one else in Milton remembers me, I'm\ncertain you will; and papa too. You know how good and how tender he was.\nLook, Higgins! here is his bible. I have kept it for you. I can ill\nspare it; but I know he would have liked you to have it. I'm sure you'll\ncare for it, and study what is in it, for his sake.'\n\n'Yo' may say that. If it were the deuce's own scribble, and yo' axed me\nto read in it for yo'r sake, and th' oud gentleman's, I'd do it.\nWhatten's this, wench? I'm not going for to take yo'r brass, so dunnot\nthink it. We've been great friends, 'bout the sound o' money passing\nbetween us.'\n\n'For the children--for Boucher's children,' said Margaret, hurriedly.\n'They may need it. You've no right to refuse it for them. I would not\ngive you a penny,' she said, smiling; 'don't think there's any of it for\nyou.'\n\n'Well, wench! I can nobbut say, Bless yo'! and bless yo'!--and amen.'\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLIV\n\nEASE NOT PEACE\n\n    'A dull rotation, never at a stay,\n     Yesterday's face twin image of to-day.'\n              COWPER.\n\n    'Of what each one should be, he sees the form and rule,\n     And till he reach to that, his joy can ne'er be full.'\n              RUCKERT.\n\n\nIt was very well for Margaret that the extreme quiet of the Harley\nStreet house, during Edith's recovery from her confinement, gave her the\nnatural rest which she needed. It gave her time to comprehend the sudden\nchange which had taken place in her circumstances within the last two\nmonths. She found herself at once an inmate of a luxurious house, where\nthe bare knowledge of the existence of every trouble or care seemed\nscarcely to have penetrated. The wheels of the machinery of daily life\nwere well oiled, and went along with delicious smoothness. Mrs. Shaw and\nEdith could hardly make enough of Margaret, on her return to what they\npersisted in calling her home. And she felt that it was almost\nungrateful in her to have a secret feeling that the Helstone\nvicarage--nay, even the poor little house at Milton, with her anxious\nfather and her invalid mother, and all the small household cares of\ncomparative poverty, composed her idea of home. Edith was impatient to\nget well, in order to fill Margaret's bed-room with all the soft\ncomforts, and pretty nick-knacks, with which her own abounded. Mrs. Shaw\nand her maid found plenty of occupation in restoring Margaret's wardrobe\nto a state of elegant variety. Captain Lennox was easy, kind, and\ngentlemanly; sate with his wife in her dressing-room an hour or two\nevery day; played with his little boy for another hour, and lounged away\nthe rest of his time at his club, when he was not engaged out to dinner.\nJust before Margaret had recovered from her necessity for quiet and\nrepose--before she had begun to feel her life wanting and dull--Edith\ncame down-stairs and resumed her usual part in the household; and\nMargaret fell into the old habit of watching, and admiring, and\nministering to her cousin. She gladly took all charge of the semblances\nof duties off Edith's hands; answered notes, reminded her of\nengagements, tended her when no gaiety was in prospect, and she was\nconsequently rather inclined to fancy herself ill. But all the rest of\nthe family were in the full business of the London season, and Margaret\nwas often left alone. Then her thoughts went back to Milton, with a\nstrange sense of the contrast between the life there, and here. She was\ngetting surfeited of the eventless ease in which no struggle or\nendeavour was required. She was afraid lest she should even become\nsleepily deadened into forgetfulness of anything beyond the life which\nwas lapping her round with luxury. There might be toilers and moilers\nthere in London, but she never saw them; the very servants lived in an\nunderground world of their own, of which she knew neither the hopes nor\nthe fears; they only seemed to start into existence when some want or\nwhim of their master and mistress needed them. There was a strange\nunsatisfied vacuum in Margaret's heart and mode of life; and, once when\nshe had dimly hinted this to Edith, the latter, wearied with dancing the\nnight before, languidly stroked Margaret's cheek as she sat by her in\nthe old attitude,--she on a footstool by the sofa where Edith lay.\n\n'Poor child!' said Edith. 'It is a little sad for you to be left, night\nafter night, just at this time when all the world is so gay. But we\nshall be having our dinner-parties soon--as soon as Henry comes back\nfrom circuit--and then there will be a little pleasant variety for you.\nNo wonder it is moped, poor darling!'\n\nMargaret did not feel as if the dinner-parties would be a panacea. But\nEdith piqued herself on her dinner-parties; 'so different,' as she said,\n'from the old dowager dinners under mamma's regime;' and Mrs. Shaw\nherself seemed to take exactly the same kind of pleasure in the very\ndifferent arrangements and circle of acquaintances which were to Captain\nand Mrs. Lennox's taste, as she did in the more formal and ponderous\nentertainments which she herself used to give. Captain Lennox was always\nextremely kind and brotherly to Margaret. She was really very fond of\nhim, excepting when he was anxiously attentive to Edith's dress and\nappearance, with a view to her beauty making a sufficient impression on\nthe world. Then all the latent Vashti in Margaret was roused, and she\ncould hardly keep herself from expressing her feelings.\n\nThe course of Margaret's day was this; a quiet hour or two before a late\nbreakfast; an unpunctual meal, lazily eaten by weary and half-awake\npeople, but yet at which, in all its dragged-out length, she was\nexpected to be present, because, directly afterwards, came a discussion\nof plans, at which, although they none of them concerned her, she was\nexpected to give her sympathy, if she could not assist with her advice;\nan endless number of notes to write, which Edith invariably left to her,\nwith many caressing compliments as to her eloquence du billet; a little\nplay with Sholto as he returned from his morning's walk; besides the\ncare of the children during the servants' dinner; a drive or callers;\nand some dinner or morning engagement for her aunt and cousins, which\nleft Margaret free, it is true, but rather wearied with the inactivity\nof the day, coming upon depressed spirits and delicate health.\n\nShe looked forward with longing, though unspoken interest to the homely\nobject of Dixon's return from Milton; where, until now, the old servant\nhad been busily engaged in winding up all the affairs of the Hale\nfamily. It had appeared a sudden famine to her heart, this entire\ncessation of any news respecting the people amongst whom she had lived\nso long. It was true, that Dixon, in her business-letters, quoted, every\nnow and then, an opinion of Mr. Thornton's as to what she had better do\nabout the furniture, or how act in regard to the landlord of the\nCrampton Terrace house. But it was only here and there that the name\ncame in, or any Milton name, indeed; and Margaret was sitting one\nevening, all alone in the Lennoxes's drawing-room, not reading Dixon's\nletters, which yet she held in her hand, but thinking over them, and\nrecalling the days which had been, and picturing the busy life out of\nwhich her own had been taken and never missed; wondering if all went on\nin that whirl just as if she and her father had never been; questioning\nwithin herself, if no one in all the crowd missed her, (not Higgins, she\nwas not thinking of him,) when, suddenly, Mr. Bell was announced; and\nMargaret hurried the letters into her work-basket, and started up,\nblushing as if she had been doing some guilty thing.\n\n'Oh, Mr. Bell! I never thought of seeing you!'\n\n'But you give me a welcome, I hope, as well as that very pretty start of\nsurprise.'\n\n'Have you dined? How did you come? Let me order you some dinner.'\n\n'If you're going to have any. Otherwise, you know, there is no one who\ncares less for eating than I do. But where are the others? Gone out to\ndinner? Left you alone?'\n\n'Oh yes! and it is such a rest. I was just thinking--But will you run\nthe risk of dinner? I don't know if there is anything in the house.'\n\n'Why, to tell you the truth, I dined at my club. Only they don't cook as\nwell as they did, so I thought, if you were going to dine, I might try\nand make out my dinner. But never mind, never mind! There aren't ten\ncooks in England to be trusted at impromptu dinners. If their skill and\ntheir fires will stand it, their tempers won't. You shall make me some\ntea, Margaret. And now, what were you thinking of? you were going to\ntell me. Whose letters were those, god-daughter, that you hid away so\nspeedily?'\n\n'Only Dixon's,' replied Margaret, growing very red.\n\n'Whew! is that all? Who do you think came up in the train with me?'\n\n'I don't know,' said Margaret, resolved against making a guess.\n\n'Your what d'ye call him? What's the right name for a cousin-in-law's\nbrother?'\n\n'Mr. Henry Lennox?' asked Margaret.\n\n'Yes,' replied Mr. Bell. 'You knew him formerly, didn't you? What sort\nof a person is he, Margaret?'\n\n'I liked him long ago,' said Margaret, glancing down for a moment. And\nthen she looked straight up and went on in her natural manner. 'You know\nwe have been corresponding about Frederick since; but I have not seen\nhim for nearly three years, and he may be changed. What did you think of\nhim?'\n\n'I don't know. He was so busy trying to find out who I was, in the first\ninstance, and what I was in the second, that he never let out what he\nwas; unless indeed that veiled curiosity of his as to what manner of man\nhe had to talk to was not a good piece, and a fair indication of his\ncharacter. Do you call him good looking, Margaret?'\n\n'No! certainly not. Do you?'\n\n'Not I. But I thought, perhaps, you might. Is he a great deal here?'\n\n'I fancy he is when he is in town. He has been on circuit now since I\ncame. But--Mr. Bell--have you come from Oxford or from Milton?'\n\n'From Milton. Don't you see I'm smoke-dried?'\n\n'Certainly. But I thought that it might be the effect of the antiquities\nof Oxford.'\n\n'Come now, be a sensible woman! In Oxford, I could have managed all the\nlandlords in the place, and had my own way, with half the trouble your\nMilton landlord has given me, and defeated me after all. He won't take\nthe house off our hands till next June twelvemonth. Luckily, Mr.\nThornton found a tenant for it. Why don't you ask after Mr. Thornton,\nMargaret? He has proved himself a very active friend of yours, I can\ntell you. Taken more than half the trouble off my hands.'\n\n'And how is he? How is Mrs. Thornton?' asked Margaret hurriedly and\nbelow her breath, though she tried to speak out.\n\n'I suppose they're well. I've been staying at their house till I was\ndriven out of it by the perpetual clack about that Thornton girl's\nmarriage. It was too much for Thornton himself, though she was his\nsister. He used to go and sit in his own room perpetually. He's getting\npast the age for caring for such things, either as principal or\naccessory. I was surprised to find the old lady falling into the\ncurrent, and carried away by her daughter's enthusiasm for\norange-blossoms and lace. I thought Mrs. Thornton had been made of\nsterner stuff.'\n\n'She would put on any assumption of feeling to veil her daughter's\nweakness,' said Margaret in a low voice.\n\n'Perhaps so. You've studied her, have you? She doesn't seem over fond of\nyou, Margaret.'\n\n'I know it,' said Margaret. 'Oh, here is tea at last!' exclaimed she, as\nif relieved. And with tea came Mr. Henry Lennox, who had walked up to\nHarley Street after a late dinner, and had evidently expected to find\nhis brother and sister-in-law at home. Margaret suspected him of being\nas thankful as she was at the presence of a third party, on this their\nfirst meeting since the memorable day of his offer, and her refusal at\nHelstone. She could hardly tell what to say at first, and was thankful\nfor all the tea-table occupations, which gave her an excuse for keeping\nsilence, and him an opportunity of recovering himself. For, to tell the\ntruth, he had rather forced himself up to Harley Street this evening,\nwith a view of getting over an awkward meeting, awkward even in the\npresence of Captain Lennox and Edith, and doubly awkward now that he\nfound her the only lady there, and the person to whom he must naturally\nand perforce address a great part of his conversation. She was the first\nto recover her self-possession. She began to talk on the subject which\ncame uppermost in her mind, after the first flush of awkward shyness.\n\n'Mr. Lennox, I have been so much obliged to you for all you have done\nabout Frederick.'\n\n'I am only sorry it has been so unsuccessful,' replied he, with a quick\nglance towards Mr. Bell, as if reconnoitring how much he might say\nbefore him. Margaret, as if she read his thought, addressed herself to\nMr. Bell, both including him in the conversation, and implying that he\nwas perfectly aware of the endeavours that had been made to clear\nFrederick.\n\n'That Horrocks--that very last witness of all, has proved as unavailing\nas all the others. Mr. Lennox has discovered that he sailed for\nAustralia only last August; only two months before Frederick was in\nEngland, and gave us the names of---- '\n\n'Frederick in England! you never told me that!' exclaimed Mr. Bell in\nsurprise.\n\n'I thought you knew. I never doubted you had been told. Of course, it\nwas a great secret, and perhaps I should not have named it now,' said\nMargaret, a little dismayed.\n\n'I have never named it to either my brother or your cousin,' said Mr.\nLennox, with a little professional dryness of implied reproach.\n\n'Never mind, Margaret. I am not living in a talking, babbling world, nor\nyet among people who are trying to worm facts out of me; you needn't\nlook so frightened because you have let the cat out of the bag to a\nfaithful old hermit like me. I shall never name his having been in\nEngland; I shall be out of temptation, for no one will ask me. Stay!'\n(interrupting himself rather abruptly) 'was it at your mother's\nfuneral?'\n\n'He was with mamma when she died,' said Margaret, softly.\n\n'To be sure! To be sure! Why, some one asked me if he had not been over\nthen, and I denied it stoutly--not many weeks ago--who could it have\nbeen? Oh! I recollect!'\n\nBut he did not say the name; and although Margaret would have given much\nto know if her suspicions were right, and it had been Mr. Thornton who\nhad made the enquiry, she could not ask the question of Mr. Bell, much\nas she longed to do so.\n\nThere was a pause for a moment or two. Then Mr. Lennox said, addressing\nhimself to Margaret, 'I suppose as Mr. Bell is now acquainted with all\nthe circumstances attending your brother's unfortunate dilemma, I cannot\ndo better than inform him exactly how the research into the evidence we\nonce hoped to produce in his favour stands at present. So, if he will do\nme the honour to breakfast with me to-morrow, we will go over the names\nof these missing gentry.'\n\n'I should like to hear all the particulars, if I may. Cannot you come\nhere? I dare not ask you both to breakfast, though I am sure you would\nbe welcome. But let me know all I can about Frederick, even though there\nmay be no hope at present.'\n\n'I have an engagement at half-past eleven. But I will certainly come if\nyou wish it,' replied Mr. Lennox, with a little afterthought of extreme\nwillingness, which made Margaret shrink into herself, and almost wish\nthat she had not proposed her natural request. Mr. Bell got up and\nlooked around him for his hat, which had been removed to make room for\ntea.\n\n'Well!' said he, 'I don't know what Mr. Lennox is inclined to do, but\nI'm disposed to be moving off homewards. I've been a journey to-day, and\njourneys begin to tell upon my sixty and odd years.'\n\n'I believe I shall stay and see my brother and sister,' said Mr. Lennox,\nmaking no movement of departure. Margaret was seized with a shy awkward\ndread of being left alone with him. The scene on the little terrace in\nthe Helstone garden was so present to her, that she could hardly help\nbelieving it was so with him.\n\n'Don't go yet, please, Mr. Bell,' said she, hastily. 'I want you to see\nEdith; and I want Edith to know you. Please!' said she, laying a light\nbut determined hand on his arm. He looked at her, and saw the confusion\nstirring in her countenance; he sate down again, as if her little touch\nhad been possessed of resistless strength.\n\n'You see how she overpowers me, Mr. Lennox,' said he. 'And I hope you\nnoticed the happy choice of her expressions; she wants me to \"see\" this\ncousin Edith, who, I am told, is a great beauty; but she has the honesty\nto change her word when she comes to me--Mrs. Lennox is to \"know\" me. I\nsuppose I am not much to \"see,\" eh, Margaret?'\n\nHe joked, to give her time to recover from the slight flutter which he\nhad detected in her manner on his proposal to leave; and she caught the\ntone, and threw the ball back. Mr. Lennox wondered how his brother, the\nCaptain, could have reported her as having lost all her good looks. To\nbe sure, in her quiet black dress, she was a contrast to Edith, dancing\nin her white crape mourning, and long floating golden hair, all softness\nand glitter. She dimpled and blushed most becomingly when introduced to\nMr. Bell, conscious that she had her reputation as a beauty to keep up,\nand that it would not do to have a Mordecai refusing to worship and\nadmire, even in the shape of an old Fellow of a College, which nobody\nhad ever heard of. Mrs. Shaw and Captain Lennox, each in their separate\nway, gave Mr. Bell a kind and sincere welcome, winning him over to like\nthem almost in spite of himself, especially when he saw how naturally\nMargaret took her place as sister and daughter of the house.\n\n'What a shame that we were not at home to receive you,' said Edith.\n'You, too, Henry! though I don't know that we should have stayed at home\nfor you. And for Mr. Bell! for Margaret's Mr. Bell---- '\n\n'There is no knowing what sacrifices you would not have made,' said her\nbrother-in-law. 'Even a dinner-party! and the delight of wearing this\nvery becoming dress.'\n\nEdith did not know whether to frown or to smile. But it did not suit Mr.\nLennox to drive her to the first of these alternatives; so he went on.\n\n'Will you show your readiness to make sacrifices to-morrow morning,\nfirst by asking me to breakfast, to meet Mr. Bell, and secondly, by\nbeing so kind as to order it at half-past nine, instead of ten o'clock?\nI have some letters and papers that I want to show to Miss Hale and Mr.\nBell.'\n\n'I hope Mr. Bell will make our house his own during his stay in London,'\nsaid Captain Lennox. 'I am only so sorry we cannot offer him a\nbed-room.'\n\n'Thank you. I am much obliged to you. You would only think me a churl if\nyou had, for I should decline it, I believe, in spite of all the\ntemptations of such agreeable company,' said Mr. Bell, bowing all round,\nand secretly congratulating himself on the neat turn he had given to his\nsentence, which, if put into plain language, would have been more to\nthis effect: 'I couldn't stand the restraints of such a proper-behaved\nand civil-spoken set of people as these are: it would be like meat\nwithout salt. I'm thankful they haven't a bed. And how well I rounded my\nsentence! I am absolutely catching the trick of good manners.'\n\nHis self-satisfaction lasted him till he was fairly out in the streets,\nwalking side by side with Henry Lennox. Here he suddenly remembered\nMargaret's little look of entreaty as she urged him to stay longer, and\nhe also recollected a few hints given him long ago by an acquaintance of\nMr. Lennox's, as to his admiration of Margaret. It gave a new direction\nto his thoughts. 'You have known Miss Hale for a long time, I believe.\nHow do you think her looking? She strikes me as pale and ill.'\n\n'I thought her looking remarkably well. Perhaps not when I first came\nin--now I think of it. But certainly, when she grew animated, she looked\nas well as ever I saw her do.'\n\n'She has had a great deal to go through,' said Mr. Bell.\n\n'Yes! I have been sorry to hear of all she has had to bear; not merely\nthe common and universal sorrow arising from death, but all the\nannoyance which her father's conduct must have caused her, and then----'\n\n'Her father's conduct!' said Mr. Bell, in an accent of surprise. 'You\nmust have heard some wrong statement. He behaved in the most\nconscientious manner. He showed more resolute strength than I should\never have given him credit for formerly.'\n\n'Perhaps I have been wrongly informed. But I have been told, by his\nsuccessor in the living--a clever, sensible man, and a thoroughly active\nclergyman--that there was no call upon Mr. Hale to do what he did,\nrelinquish the living, and throw himself and his family on the tender\nmercies of private teaching in a manufacturing town; the bishop had\noffered him another living, it is true, but if he had come to entertain\ncertain doubts, he could have remained where he was, and so had no\noccasion to resign. But the truth is, these country clergymen live such\nisolated lives--isolated, I mean, from all intercourse with men of equal\ncultivation with themselves, by whose minds they might regulate their\nown, and discover when they were going either too fast or too slow--that\nthey are very apt to disturb themselves with imaginary doubts as to the\narticles of faith, and throw up certain opportunities of doing good for\nvery uncertain fancies of their own.'\n\n'I differ from you. I do not think they are very apt to do as my poor\nfriend Hale did.' Mr. Bell was inwardly chafing.\n\n'Perhaps I used too general an expression, in saying \"very apt.\" But\ncertainly, their lives are such as very often to produce either\ninordinate self-sufficiency, or a morbid state of conscience,' replied\nMr. Lennox with perfect coolness.\n\n'You don't meet with any self-sufficiency among the lawyers, for\ninstance?' asked Mr. Bell. 'And seldom, I imagine, any cases of morbid\nconscience.' He was becoming more and more vexed, and forgetting his\nlately-caught trick of good manners. Mr. Lennox saw now that he had\nannoyed his companion; and as he had talked pretty much for the sake of\nsaying something, and so passing the time while their road lay together,\nhe was very indifferent as to the exact side he took upon the question,\nand quietly came round by saying: 'To be sure, there is something fine\nin a man of Mr. Hale's age leaving his home of twenty years, and giving\nup all settled habits, for an idea which was probably erroneous--but\nthat does not matter--an untangible thought. One cannot help admiring\nhim, with a mixture of pity in one's admiration, something like what one\nfeels for Don Quixote. Such a gentleman as he was too! I shall never\nforget the refined and simple hospitality he showed to me that last day\nat Helstone.'\n\nOnly half mollified, and yet anxious, in order to lull certain qualms of\nhis own conscience, to believe that Mr. Hale's conduct had a tinge of\nQuixotism in it, Mr. Bell growled out--'Aye! And you don't know Milton.\nSuch a change from Helstone! It is years since I have been at\nHelstone--but I'll answer for it, it is standing there yet--every stick\nand every stone as it has done for the last century, while Milton! I go\nthere every four or five years--and I was born there--yet I do assure\nyou, I often lose my way--aye, among the very piles of warehouses that\nare built upon my father's orchard. Do we part here? Well, good night,\nsir; I suppose we shall meet in Harley Street to-morrow morning.'\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLV\n\nNOT ALL A DREAM\n\n    'Where are the sounds that swam along\n     The buoyant air when I was young?\n     The last vibration now is o'er,\n     And they who listened are no more;\n     Ah! let me close my eyes and dream.'\n              W. S. LANDOR.\n\n\nThe idea of Helstone had been suggested to Mr. Bell's waking mind by his\nconversation with Mr. Lennox, and all night long it ran riot through his\ndreams. He was again the tutor in the college where he now held the rank\nof Fellow; it was again a long vacation, and he was staying with his\nnewly married friend, the proud husband, and happy Vicar of Helstone.\nOver babbling brooks they took impossible leaps, which seemed to keep\nthem whole days suspended in the air. Time and space were not, though\nall other things seemed real. Every event was measured by the emotions\nof the mind, not by its actual existence, for existence it had none. But\nthe trees were gorgeous in their autumnal leafiness--the warm odours of\nflower and herb came sweet upon the sense--the young wife moved about\nher house with just that mixture of annoyance at her position, as\nregarded wealth, with pride in her handsome and devoted husband, which\nMr. Bell had noticed in real life a quarter of a century ago. The dream\nwas so like life that, when he awoke, his present life seemed like a\ndream. Where was he? In the close, handsomely furnished room of a London\nhotel! Where were those who spoke to him, moved around him, touched him,\nnot an instant ago? Dead! buried! lost for evermore, as far as earth's\nfor evermore would extend. He was an old man, so lately exultant in the\nfull strength of manhood. The utter loneliness of his life was\ninsupportable to think about. He got up hastily, and tried to forget\nwhat never more might be, in a hurried dressing for the breakfast in\nHarley Street.\n\nHe could not attend to all the lawyer's details, which, as he saw, made\nMargaret's eyes dilate, and her lips grow pale, as one by one fate\ndecreed, or so it seemed, every morsel of evidence which would exonerate\nFrederick, should fall from beneath her feet and disappear. Even Mr.\nLennox's well-regulated professional voice took a softer, tenderer tone,\nas he drew near to the extinction of the last hope. It was not that\nMargaret had not been perfectly aware of the result before. It was only\nthat the details of each successive disappointment came with such\nrelentless minuteness to quench all hope, that she at last fairly gave\nway to tears. Mr. Lennox stopped reading.\n\n'I had better not go on,' said he, in a concerned voice. 'It was a\nfoolish proposal of mine. Lieutenant Hale,' and even this giving him the\ntitle of the service from which he had so harshly been expelled, was\nsoothing to Margaret, 'Lieutenant Hale is happy now; more secure in\nfortune and future prospects than he could ever have been in the navy;\nand has, doubtless, adopted his wife's country as his own.'\n\n'That is it,' said Margaret. 'It seems so selfish in me to regret it,'\ntrying to smile, 'and yet he is lost to me, and I am so lonely.' Mr.\nLennox turned over his papers, and wished that he were as rich and\nprosperous as he believed he should be some day. Mr. Bell blew his nose,\nbut, otherwise, he also kept silence; and Margaret, in a minute or two,\nhad apparently recovered her usual composure. She thanked Mr. Lennox\nvery courteously for his trouble; all the more courteously and\ngraciously because she was conscious that, by her behaviour, he might\nhave probably been led to imagine that he had given her needless pain.\nYet it was pain she would not have been without.\n\nMr. Bell came up to wish her good-bye.\n\n'Margaret!' said he, as he fumbled with his gloves. 'I am going down to\nHelstone to-morrow, to look at the old place. Would you like to come\nwith me? Or would it give you too much pain? Speak out, don't be\nafraid.'\n\n'Oh, Mr. Bell,' said she--and could say no more. But she took his old\ngouty hand, and kissed it.\n\n'Come, come; that's enough,' said he, reddening with awkwardness. 'I\nsuppose your aunt Shaw will trust you with me. We'll go to-morrow\nmorning, and we shall get there about two o'clock, I fancy. We'll take a\nsnack, and order dinner at the little inn--the Lennard Arms, it used to\nbe,--and go and get an appetite in the forest. Can you stand it,\nMargaret? It will be a trial, I know, to both of us, but it will be a\npleasure to me, at least. And there we'll dine--it will be but\ndoe-venison, if we can get it at all--and then I'll take my nap while\nyou go out and see old friends. I'll give you back safe and sound,\nbarring railway accidents, and I'll insure your life for a thousand\npounds before starting, which may be some comfort to your relations; but\notherwise, I'll bring you back to Mrs. Shaw by lunch-time on Friday. So,\nif you say yes, I'll just go up-stairs and propose it.'\n\n'It's no use my trying to say how much I shall like it,' said Margaret,\nthrough her tears.\n\n'Well, then, prove your gratitude by keeping those fountains of yours\ndry for the next two days. If you don't, I shall feel queer myself about\nthe lachrymal ducts, and I don't like that.'\n\n'I won't cry a drop,' said Margaret, winking her eyes to shake the tears\noff her eye-lashes, and forcing a smile.\n\n'There's my good girl. Then we'll go up-stairs and settle it all.'\nMargaret was in a state of almost trembling eagerness, while Mr. Bell\ndiscussed his plan with her aunt Shaw, who was first startled, then\ndoubtful and perplexed, and in the end, yielding rather to the rough\nforce of Mr. Bell's words than to her own conviction; for to the last,\nwhether it was right or wrong, proper or improper, she could not settle\nto her own satisfaction, till Margaret's safe return, the happy\nfulfilment of the project, gave her decision enough to say, 'she was\nsure it had been a very kind thought of Mr. Bell's, and just what she\nherself had been wishing for Margaret, as giving her the very change\nwhich she required, after all the anxious time she had had.'\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLVI\n\nONCE AND NOW\n\n    'So on those happy days of yore\n     Oft as I dare to dwell once more,\n     Still must I miss the friends so tried,\n     Whom Death has severed from my side.\n\n     But ever when true friendship binds,\n     Spirit it is that spirit finds;\n     In spirit then our bliss we found,\n     In spirit yet to them I'm bound.'\n              UHLAND.\n\n\nMargaret was ready long before the appointed time, and had leisure\nenough to cry a little, quietly, when unobserved, and to smile brightly\nwhen any one looked at her. Her last alarm was lest they should be too\nlate and miss the train; but no! they were all in time; and she breathed\nfreely and happily at length, seated in the carriage opposite to Mr.\nBell, and whirling away past the well-known stations; seeing the old\nsouth country-towns and hamlets sleeping in the warm light of the pure\nsun, which gave a yet ruddier colour to their tiled roofs, so different\nto the cold slates of the north. Broods of pigeons hovered around these\npeaked quaint gables, slowly settling here and there, and ruffling their\nsoft, shiny feathers, as if exposing every fibre to the delicious\nwarmth. There were few people about at the stations, it almost seemed as\nif they were too lazily content to wish to travel; none of the bustle\nand stir that Margaret had noticed in her two journeys on the London and\nNorth-Western line. Later on in the year, this line of railway should be\nstirring and alive with rich pleasure-seekers; but as to the constant\ngoing to and fro of busy trades-people it would always be widely\ndifferent from the northern lines. Here a spectator or two stood\nlounging at nearly every station, with his hands in his pockets, so\nabsorbed in the simple act of watching, that it made the travellers\nwonder what he could find to do when the train whirled away, and only\nthe blank of a railway, some sheds, and a distant field or two were left\nfor him to gaze upon. The hot air danced over the golden stillness of\nthe land, farm after farm was left behind, each reminding Margaret of\nGerman Idyls--of Herman and Dorothea--of Evangeline. From this waking\ndream she was roused. It was the place to leave the train and take the\nfly to Helstone. And now sharper feelings came shooting through her\nheart, whether pain or pleasure she could hardly tell. Every mile was\nredolent of associations, which she would not have missed for the world,\nbut each of which made her cry upon 'the days that are no more,' with\nineffable longing. The last time she had passed along this road was when\nshe had left it with her father and mother--the day, the season, had\nbeen gloomy, and she herself hopeless, but they were there with her. Now\nshe was alone, an orphan, and they, strangely, had gone away from her,\nand vanished from the face of the earth. It hurt her to see the Helstone\nroad so flooded in the sun-light, and every turn and every familiar tree\nso precisely the same in its summer glory as it had been in former\nyears. Nature felt no change, and was ever young.\n\nMr. Bell knew something of what would be passing through her mind, and\nwisely and kindly held his tongue. They drove up to the Lennard Arms;\nhalf farm-house, half-inn, standing a little apart from the road, as\nmuch as to say, that the host did not so depend on the custom of\ntravellers, as to have to court it by any obtrusiveness; they, rather,\nmust seek him out. The house fronted the village green; and right before\nit stood an immemorial lime-tree benched all round, in some hidden\nrecesses of whose leafy wealth hung the grim escutcheon of the Lennards.\nThe door of the inn stood wide open, but there was no hospitable hurry\nto receive the travellers. When the landlady did appear--and they might\nhave abstracted many an article first--she gave them a kind welcome,\nalmost as if they had been invited guests, and apologised for her coming\nhaving been so delayed, by saying, that it was hay-time, and the\nprovisions for the men had to be sent a-field, and she had been too busy\npacking up the baskets to hear the noise of wheels over the road, which,\nsince they had left the highway, ran over soft short turf.\n\n'Why, bless me!' exclaimed she, as at the end of her apology, a glint of\nsunlight showed her Margaret's face, hitherto unobserved in that shady\nparlour. 'It's Miss Hale, Jenny,' said she, running to the door, and\ncalling to her daughter. 'Come here, come directly, it's Miss Hale!' And\nthen she went up to Margaret, and shook her hands with motherly\nfondness.\n\n'And how are you all? How's the Vicar and Miss Dixon? The Vicar above\nall! God bless him! We've never ceased to be sorry that he left.'\n\nMargaret tried to speak and tell her of her father's death; of her\nmother's it was evident that Mrs. Purkis was aware, from her omission of\nher name. But she choked in the effort, and could only touch her deep\nmourning, and say the one word, 'Papa.'\n\n'Surely, sir, it's never so!' said Mrs. Purkis, turning to Mr. Bell for\nconfirmation of the sad suspicion that now entered her mind. 'There was\na gentleman here in the spring--it might have been as long ago as last\nwinter--who told us a deal of Mr. Hale and Miss Margaret; and he said\nMrs. Hale was gone, poor lady. But never a word of the Vicar's being\nailing!'\n\n'It is so, however,' said Mr. Bell. 'He died quite suddenly, when on a\nvisit to me at Oxford. He was a good man, Mrs. Purkis, and there's many\nof us that might be thankful to have as calm an end as his. Come\nMargaret, my dear! Her father was my oldest friend, and she's my\ngod-daughter, so I thought we would just come down together and see the\nold place; and I know of old you can give us comfortable rooms and a\ncapital dinner. You don't remember me I see, but my name is Bell, and\nonce or twice when the parsonage has been full, I've slept here, and\ntasted your good ale.'\n\n'To be sure; I ask your pardon; but you see I was taken up with Miss\nHale. Let me show you to a room, Miss Margaret, where you can take off\nyour bonnet, and wash your face. It's only this very morning I plunged\nsome fresh-gathered roses head downward in the water-jug, for, thought\nI, perhaps some one will be coming, and there's nothing so sweet as\nspring-water scented by a musk rose or two. To think of the Vicar being\ndead! Well, to be sure, we must all die; only that gentleman said, he\nwas quite picking up after his trouble about Mrs. Hale's death.'\n\n'Come down to me, Mrs. Purkis, after you have attended to Miss Hale. I\nwant to have a consultation with you about dinner.'\n\nThe little casement window in Margaret's bed-chamber was almost filled\nup with rose and vine branches; but pushing them aside, and stretching a\nlittle out, she could see the tops of the parsonage chimneys above the\ntrees; and distinguish many a well-known line through the leaves.\n\n'Aye!' said Mrs. Purkis, smoothing down the bed, and despatching Jenny\nfor an armful of lavender-scented towels, 'times is changed, miss; our\nnew Vicar has seven children, and is building a nursery ready for more,\njust out where the arbour and tool-house used to be in old times. And he\nhas had new grates put in, and a plate-glass window in the drawing-room.\nHe and his wife are stirring people, and have done a deal of good; at\nleast they say it's doing good; if it were not, I should call it turning\nthings upside down for very little purpose. The new Vicar is a\nteetotaller, miss, and a magistrate, and his wife has a deal of receipts\nfor economical cooking, and is for making bread without yeast; and they\nboth talk so much, and both at a time, that they knock one down as it\nwere, and it's not till they're gone, and one's a little at peace, that\none can think that there were things one might have said on one's own\nside of the question. He'll be after the men's cans in the hay-field,\nand peeping in; and then there'll be an ado because it's not ginger\nbeer, but I can't help it. My mother and my grandmother before me sent\ngood malt liquor to haymakers; and took salts and senna when anything\nailed them; and I must e'en go on in their ways, though Mrs. Hepworth\ndoes want to give me comfits instead of medicine, which, as she says, is\na deal pleasanter, only I've no faith in it. But I must go, miss, though\nI'm wanting to hear many a thing; I'll come back to you before long.\n\nMr. Bell had strawberries and cream, a loaf of brown bread, and a jug of\nmilk, (together with a Stilton cheese and a bottle of port for his own\nprivate refreshment,) ready for Margaret on her coming down stairs; and\nafter this rustic luncheon they set out to walk, hardly knowing in what\ndirection to turn, so many old familiar inducements were there in each.\n\n'Shall we go past the vicarage?' asked Mr. Bell.\n\n'No, not yet. We will go this way, and make a round so as to come back\nby it,' replied Margaret.\n\nHere and there old trees had been felled the autumn before; or a\nsquatter's roughly-built and decaying cottage had disappeared. Margaret\nmissed them each and all, and grieved over them like old friends. They\ncame past the spot where she and Mr. Lennox had sketched. The white,\nlightning-scarred trunk of the venerable beech, among whose roots they\nhad sate down was there no more; the old man, the inhabitant of the\nruinous cottage, was dead; the cottage had been pulled down, and a new\none, tidy and respectable, had been built in its stead. There was a\nsmall garden on the place where the beech-tree had been.\n\n'I did not think I had been so old,' said Margaret after a pause of\nsilence; and she turned away sighing.\n\n'Yes!' said Mr. Bell. 'It is the first changes among familiar things\nthat make such a mystery of time to the young, afterwards we lose the\nsense of the mysterious. I take changes in all I see as a matter of\ncourse. The instability of all human things is familiar to me, to you it\nis new and oppressive.'\n\n'Let us go on to see little Susan,' said Margaret, drawing her companion\nup a grassy road-way, leading under the shadow of a forest glade.\n\n'With all my heart, though I have not an idea who little Susan may be.\nBut I have a kindness for all Susans, for simple Susan's sake.'\n\n'My little Susan was disappointed when I left without wishing her\ngoodbye; and it has been on my conscience ever since, that I gave her\npain which a little more exertion on my part might have prevented. But\nit is a long way. Are you sure you will not be tired?'\n\n'Quite sure. That is, if you don't walk so fast. You see, here there are\nno views that can give one an excuse for stopping to take breath. You\nwould think it romantic to be walking with a person \"fat and scant o'\nbreath\" if I were Hamlet, Prince of Denmark. Have compassion on my\ninfirmities for his sake.'\n\n'I will walk slower for your own sake. I like you twenty times better\nthan Hamlet.'\n\n'On the principle that a living ass is better than a dead lion?'\n\n'Perhaps so. I don't analyse my feelings.'\n\n'I am content to take your liking me, without examining too curiously\ninto the materials it is made of. Only we need not walk at a snail's'\npace.'\n\n'Very well. Walk at your own pace, and I will follow. Or stop still and\nmeditate, like the Hamlet you compare yourself to, if I go too fast.'\n\n'Thank you. But as my mother has not murdered my father, and afterwards\nmarried my uncle, I shouldn't know what to think about, unless it were\nbalancing the chances of our having a well-cooked dinner or not. What do\nyou think?'\n\n'I am in good hopes. She used to be considered a famous cook as far as\nHelstone opinion went.'\n\n'But have you considered the distraction of mind produced by all this\nhaymaking?'\n\nMargaret felt all Mr. Bell's kindness in trying to make cheerful talk\nabout nothing, to endeavour to prevent her from thinking too curiously\nabout the past. But she would rather have gone over these dear-loved\nwalks in silence, if indeed she were not ungrateful enough to wish that\nshe might have been alone.\n\nThey reached the cottage where Susan's widowed mother lived. Susan was\nnot there. She was gone to the parochial school. Margaret was\ndisappointed, and the poor woman saw it, and began to make a kind of\napology.\n\n'Oh! it is quite right,' said Margaret. 'I am very glad to hear it. I\nmight have thought of it. Only she used to stop at home with you.'\n\n'Yes, she did; and I miss her sadly. I used to teach her what little I\nknew at nights. It were not much to be sure. But she were getting such a\nhandy girl, that I miss her sore. But she's a deal above me in learning\nnow.' And the mother sighed.\n\n'I'm all wrong,' growled Mr. Bell. 'Don't mind what I say. I'm a hundred\nyears behind the world. But I should say, that the child was getting a\nbetter and simpler, and more natural education stopping at home, and\nhelping her mother, and learning to read a chapter in the New Testament\nevery night by her side, than from all the schooling under the sun.'\n\nMargaret did not want to encourage him to go on by replying to him, and\nso prolonging the discussion before the mother. So she turned to her and\nasked,\n\n'How is old Betty Barnes?'\n\n'I don't know,' said the woman rather shortly. 'We'se not friends.'\n\n'Why not?' asked Margaret, who had formerly been the peacemaker of the\nvillage.\n\n'She stole my cat.'\n\n'Did she know it was yours?'\n\n'I don't know. I reckon not.'\n\n'Well! could not you get it back again when you told her it was yours?'\n\n'No! for she'd burnt it.'\n\n'Burnt it!' exclaimed both Margaret and Mr. Bell.\n\n'Roasted it!' explained the woman.\n\nIt was no explanation. By dint of questioning, Margaret extracted from\nher the horrible fact that Betty Barnes, having been induced by a gypsy\nfortune-teller to lend the latter her husband's Sunday clothes, on\npromise of having them faithfully returned on the Saturday night before\nGoodman Barnes should have missed them, became alarmed by their\nnon-appearance, and her consequent dread of her husband's anger, and as,\naccording to one of the savage country superstitions, the cries of a\ncat, in the agonies of being boiled or roasted alive, compelled (as it\nwere) the powers of darkness to fulfil the wishes of the executioner,\nresort had been had to the charm. The poor woman evidently believed in\nits efficacy; her only feeling was indignation that her cat had been\nchosen out from all others for a sacrifice. Margaret listened in horror;\nand endeavoured in vain to enlighten the woman's mind; but she was\nobliged to give it up in despair. Step by step she got the woman to\nadmit certain facts, of which the logical connexion and sequence was\nperfectly clear to Margaret; but at the end, the bewildered woman simply\nrepeated her first assertion, namely, that 'it were very cruel for sure,\nand she should not like to do it; but that there were nothing like it\nfor giving a person what they wished for; she had heard it all her life;\nbut it were very cruel for all that.' Margaret gave it up in despair,\nand walked away sick at heart.\n\n'You are a good girl not to triumph over me,' said Mr. Bell.\n\n'How? What do you mean?'\n\n'I own, I am wrong about schooling. Anything rather than have that child\nbrought up in such practical paganism.'\n\n'Oh! I remember. Poor little Susan! I must go and see her; would you\nmind calling at the school?'\n\n'Not a bit. I am curious to see something of the teaching she is to\nreceive.'\n\nThey did not speak much more, but thridded their way through many a\nbosky dell, whose soft green influence could not charm away the shock\nand the pain in Margaret's heart, caused by the recital of such cruelty;\na recital too, the manner of which betrayed such utter want of\nimagination, and therefore of any sympathy with the suffering animal.\n\nThe buzz of voices, like the murmur of a hive of busy human bees, made\nitself heard as soon as they emerged from the forest on the more open\nvillage-green on which the school was situated. The door was wide open,\nand they entered. A brisk lady in black, here, there, and everywhere,\nperceived them, and bade them welcome with somewhat of the hostess-air\nwhich, Margaret remembered, her mother was wont to assume, only in a\nmore soft and languid manner, when any rare visitors strayed in to\ninspect the school. She knew at once it was the present Vicar's wife,\nher mother's successor; and she would have drawn back from the interview\nhad it been possible; but in an instant she had conquered this feeling,\nand modestly advanced, meeting many a bright glance of recognition, and\nhearing many a half-suppressed murmur of 'It's Miss Hale.' The Vicar's\nlady heard the name, and her manner at once became more kindly. Margaret\nwished she could have helped feeling that it also became more\npatronising. The lady held out a hand to Mr. Bell, with--\n\n'Your father, I presume, Miss Hale. I see it by the likeness. I am sure\nI am very glad to see you, sir, and so will the Vicar be.'\n\nMargaret explained that it was not her father, and stammered out the\nfact of his death; wondering all the time how Mr. Hale could have borne\ncoming to revisit Helstone, if it had been as the Vicar's lady supposed.\nShe did not hear what Mrs. Hepworth was saying, and left it to Mr. Bell\nto reply, looking round, meanwhile, for her old acquaintances.\n\n'Ah! I see you would like to take a class, Miss Hale. I know it by\nmyself. First class stand up for a parsing lesson with Miss Hale.'\n\nPoor Margaret, whose visit was sentimental, not in any degree\ninspective, felt herself taken in; but as in some way bringing her in\ncontact with little eager faces, once well-known, and who had received\nthe solemn rite of baptism from her father, she sate down, half losing\nherself in tracing out the changing features of the girls, and holding\nSusan's hand for a minute or two, unobserved by all, while the first\nclass sought for their books, and the Vicar's lady went as near as a\nlady could towards holding Mr. Bell by the button, while she explained\nthe Phonetic system to him, and gave him a conversation she had had with\nthe Inspector about it.\n\nMargaret bent over her book, and seeing nothing but that--hearing the\nbuzz of children's voices, old times rose up, and she thought of them,\nand her eyes filled with tears, till all at once there was a pause--one\nof the girls was stumbling over the apparently simple word 'a,'\nuncertain what to call it.\n\n'A, an indefinite article,' said Margaret, mildly.\n\n'I beg your pardon,' said the Vicar's wife, all eyes and ears; 'but we\nare taught by Mr. Milsome to call \"a\" an--who can remember?'\n\n'An adjective absolute,' said half-a-dozen voices at once. And Margaret\nsate abashed. The children knew more than she did. Mr. Bell turned away,\nand smiled.\n\nMargaret spoke no more during the lesson. But after it was over, she\nwent quietly round to one or two old favourites, and talked to them a\nlittle. They were growing out of children into great girls; passing out\nof her recollection in their rapid development, as she, by her three\nyears' absence, was vanishing from theirs. Still she was glad to have\nseen them all again, though a tinge of sadness mixed itself with her\npleasure. When school was over for the day, it was yet early in the\nsummer afternoon; and Mrs. Hepworth proposed to Margaret that she and\nMr. Bell should accompany her to the parsonage, and see the--the word\n'improvements' had half slipped out of her mouth, but she substituted\nthe more cautious term 'alterations' which the present Vicar was making.\nMargaret did not care a straw about seeing the alterations, which jarred\nupon her fond recollection of what her home had been; but she longed to\nsee the old place once more, even though she shivered away from the pain\nwhich she knew she should feel.\n\nThe parsonage was so altered, both inside and out, that the real pain\nwas less than she had anticipated. It was not like the same place. The\ngarden, the grass-plat, formerly so daintily trim that even a stray\nrose-leaf seemed like a fleck on its exquisite arrangement and\npropriety, was strewed with children's things; a bag of marbles here, a\nhoop there; a straw-hat forced down upon a rose-tree as on a peg, to the\ndestruction of a long beautiful tender branch laden with flowers, which\nin former days would have been trained up tenderly, as if beloved. The\nlittle square matted hall was equally filled with signs of merry healthy\nrough childhood.\n\n'Ah!' said Mrs. Hepworth, 'you must excuse this untidiness, Miss Hale.\nWhen the nursery is finished, I shall insist upon a little order. We are\nbuilding a nursery out of your room, I believe. How did you manage, Miss\nHale, without a nursery?'\n\n'We were but two,' said Margaret. 'You have many children, I presume?'\n\n'Seven. Look here! we are throwing out a window to the road on this\nside. Mr. Hepworth is spending an immense deal of money on this house;\nbut really it was scarcely habitable when we came--for so large a family\nas ours I mean, of course.' Every room in the house was changed, besides\nthe one of which Mrs. Hepworth spoke, which had been Mr. Hale's study\nformerly; and where the green gloom and delicious quiet of the place had\nconduced, as he had said, to a habit of meditation, but, perhaps, in\nsome degree to the formation of a character more fitted for thought than\naction. The new window gave a view of the road, and had many advantages,\nas Mrs. Hepworth pointed out. From it the wandering sheep of her\nhusband's flock might be seen, who straggled to the tempting beer-house,\nunobserved as they might hope, but not unobserved in reality; for the\nactive Vicar kept his eye on the road, even during the composition of\nhis most orthodox sermons, and had a hat and stick hanging ready at hand\nto seize, before sallying out after his parishioners, who had need of\nquick legs if they could take refuge in the 'Jolly Forester' before the\nteetotal Vicar had arrested them. The whole family were quick, brisk,\nloud-talking, kind-hearted, and not troubled with much delicacy of\nperception. Margaret feared that Mrs. Hepworth would find out that Mr.\nBell was playing upon her, in the admiration he thought fit to express\nfor everything that especially grated on his taste. But no! she took it\nall literally, and with such good faith, that Margaret could not help\nremonstrating with him as they walked slowly away from the parsonage\nback to their inn.\n\n'Don't scold, Margaret. It was all because of you. If she had not shown\nyou every change with such evident exultation in their superior sense,\nin perceiving what an improvement this and that would be, I could have\nbehaved well. But if you must go on preaching, keep it till after\ndinner, when it will send me to sleep, and help my digestion.'\n\nThey were both of them tired, and Margaret herself so much so, that she\nwas unwilling to go out as she had proposed to do, and have another\nramble among the woods and fields so close to the home of her childhood.\nAnd, somehow, this visit to Helstone had not been all--had not been\nexactly what she had expected. There was change everywhere; slight, yet\npervading all. Households were changed by absence, or death, or\nmarriage, or the natural mutations brought by days and months and years,\nwhich carry us on imperceptibly from childhood to youth, and thence\nthrough manhood to age, whence we drop like fruit, fully ripe, into the\nquiet mother earth. Places were changed--a tree gone here, a bough\nthere, bringing in a long ray of light where no light was before--a road\nwas trimmed and narrowed, and the green straggling pathway by its side\nenclosed and cultivated. A great improvement it was called; but Margaret\nsighed over the old picturesqueness, the old gloom, and the grassy\nwayside of former days. She sate by the window on the little settle,\nsadly gazing out upon the gathering shades of night, which harmonised\nwell with her pensive thought. Mr. Bell slept soundly, after his unusual\nexercise through the day. At last he was roused by the entrance of the\ntea-tray, brought in by a flushed-looking country-girl, who had\nevidently been finding some variety from her usual occupation of waiter,\nin assisting this day in the hayfield.\n\n'Hallo! Who's there! Where are we? Who's that,--Margaret? Oh, now I\nremember all. I could not imagine what woman was sitting there in such a\ndoleful attitude, with her hands clasped straight out upon her knees,\nand her face looking so steadfastly before her. What were you looking\nat?' asked Mr. Bell, coming to the window, and standing behind Margaret.\n\n'Nothing,' said she, rising up quickly, and speaking as cheerfully as\nshe could at a moment's notice.\n\n'Nothing indeed! A bleak back-ground of trees, some white linen hung out\non the sweet-briar hedge, and a great waft of damp air. Shut the window,\nand come in and make tea.'\n\nMargaret was silent for some time. She played with her teaspoon, and did\nnot attend particularly to what Mr. Bell said. He contradicted her, and\nshe took the same sort of smiling notice of his opinion as if he had\nagreed with her. Then she sighed, and putting down her spoon, she began,\napropos of nothing at all, and in the high-pitched voice which usually\nshows that the speaker has been thinking for some time on the subject\nthat they wish to introduce--'Mr. Bell, you remember what we were saying\nabout Frederick last night, don't you?'\n\n'Last night. Where was I? Oh, I remember! Why it seems a week ago. Yes,\nto be sure, I recollect we talked about him, poor fellow.'\n\n'Yes--and do you not remember that Mr. Lennox spoke about his having\nbeen in England about the time of dear mamma's death?' asked Margaret,\nher voice now lower than usual.\n\n'I recollect. I hadn't heard of it before.'\n\n'And I thought--I always thought that papa had told you about it.'\n\n'No! he never did. But what about it, Margaret?'\n\n'I want to tell you of something I did that was very wrong, about that\ntime,' said Margaret, suddenly looking up at him with her clear honest\neyes. 'I told a lie;' and her face became scarlet.\n\n'True, that was bad I own; not but what I have told a pretty round\nnumber in my life, not all in downright words, as I suppose you did, but\nin actions, or in some shabby circumlocutory way, leading people either\nto disbelieve the truth, or believe a falsehood. You know who is the\nfather of lies, Margaret? Well! a great number of folk, thinking\nthemselves very good, have odd sorts of connexion with lies, left-hand\nmarriages, and second cousins-once-removed. The tainting blood of\nfalsehood runs through us all. I should have guessed you as far from it\nas most people. What! crying, child? Nay, now we'll not talk of it, if\nit ends in this way. I dare say you have been sorry for it, and that you\nwon't do it again, and it's long ago now, and in short I want you to be\nvery cheerful, and not very sad, this evening.'\n\nMargaret wiped her eyes, and tried to talk about something else, but\nsuddenly she burst out afresh.\n\n'Please, Mr. Bell, let me tell you about it--you could perhaps help me a\nlittle; no, not help me, but if you knew the truth, perhaps you could\nput me to rights--that is not it, after all,' said she, in despair at\nnot being able to express herself more exactly as she wished.\n\nMr. Bell's whole manner changed. 'Tell me all about it, child,' said he.\n\n'It's a long story; but when Fred came, mamma was very ill, and I was\nundone with anxiety, and afraid, too, that I might have drawn him into\ndanger; and we had an alarm just after her death, for Dixon met some one\nin Milton--a man called Leonards--who had known Fred, and who seemed to\nowe him a grudge, or at any rate to be tempted by the recollection of\nthe reward offered for his apprehension; and with this new fright, I\nthought I had better hurry off Fred to London, where, as you would\nunderstand from what we said the other night, he was to go to consult\nMr. Lennox as to his chances if he stood the trial. So we--that is, he\nand I,--went to the railway station; it was one evening, and it was just\ngetting rather dusk, but still light enough to recognise and be\nrecognised, and we were too early, and went out to walk in a field just\nclose by; I was always in a panic about this Leonards, who was, I knew,\nsomewhere in the neighbourhood; and then, when we were in the field, the\nlow red sunlight just in my face, some one came by on horseback in the\nroad just below the field-style by which we stood. I saw him look at me,\nbut I did not know who it was at first, the sun was so in my eyes, but\nin an instant the dazzle went off, and I saw it was Mr. Thornton, and we\nbowed,'----\n\n'And he saw Frederick of course,' said Mr. Bell, helping her on with her\nstory, as he thought.\n\n'Yes; and then at the station a man came up--tipsy and reeling--and he\ntried to collar Fred, and over-balanced himself as Fred wrenched himself\naway, and fell over the edge of the platform; not far, not deep; not\nabove three feet; but oh! Mr. Bell, somehow that fall killed him!'\n\n'How awkward. It was this Leonards, I suppose. And how did Fred get\noff?'\n\n'Oh! he went off immediately after the fall, which we never thought\ncould have done the poor fellow any harm, it seemed so slight an\ninjury.'\n\n'Then he did not die directly?'\n\n'No! not for two or three days. And then--oh, Mr. Bell! now comes the\nbad part,' said she, nervously twining her fingers together. 'A police\ninspector came and taxed me with having been the companion of the young\nman, whose push or blow had occasioned Leonards' death; that was a false\naccusation, you know, but we had not heard that Fred had sailed, he\nmight still be in London and liable to be arrested on this false charge,\nand his identity with the Lieutenant Hale, accused of causing that\nmutiny, discovered, he might be shot; all this flashed through my mind,\nand I said it was not me. I was not at the railway station that night. I\nknew nothing about it. I had no conscience or thought but to save\nFrederick.'\n\n'I say it was right. I should have done the same. You forgot yourself in\nthought for another. I hope I should have done the same.'\n\n'No, you would not. It was wrong, disobedient, faithless. At that very\ntime Fred was safely out of England, and in my blindness I forgot that\nthere was another witness who could testify to my being there.'\n\n'Who?'\n\n'Mr. Thornton. You know he had seen me close to the station; we had\nbowed to each other.'\n\n'Well! he would know nothing of this riot about the drunken fellow's\ndeath. I suppose the inquiry never came to anything.'\n\n'No! the proceedings they had begun to talk about on the inquest were\nstopped. Mr. Thornton did know all about it. He was a magistrate, and he\nfound out that it was not the fall that had caused the death. But not\nbefore he knew what I had said. Oh, Mr. Bell!' She suddenly covered her\nface with her hands, as if wishing to hide herself from the presence of\nthe recollection.\n\n'Did you have any explanation with him? Did you ever tell him the\nstrong, instinctive motive?'\n\n'The instinctive want of faith, and clutching at a sin to keep myself\nfrom sinking,' said she bitterly. 'No! How could I? He knew nothing of\nFrederick. To put myself to rights in his good opinion, was I to tell\nhim of the secrets of our family, involving, as they seemed to do, the\nchances of poor Frederick's entire exculpation? Fred's last words had\nbeen to enjoin me to keep his visit a secret from all. You see, papa\nnever told, even you. No! I could bear the shame--I thought I could at\nleast. I did bear it. Mr. Thornton has never respected me since.'\n\n'He respects you, I am sure,' said Mr. Bell. 'To be sure, it accounts a\nlittle for----. But he always speaks of you with regard and esteem,\nthough now I understand certain reservations in his manner.'\n\nMargaret did not speak; did not attend to what Mr. Bell went on to say;\nlost all sense of it. By-and-by she said:\n\n'Will you tell me what you refer to about \"reservations\" in his manner\nof speaking of me?'\n\n'Oh! simply he has annoyed me by not joining in my praises of you. Like\nan old fool, I thought that every one would have the same opinions as I\nhad; and he evidently could not agree with me. I was puzzled at the\ntime. But he must be perplexed, if the affair has never been in the\nleast explained. There was first your walking out with a young man in\nthe dark--'\n\n'But it was my brother!' said Margaret, surprised.\n\n'True. But how was he to know that?'\n\n'I don't know. I never thought of anything of that kind,' said Margaret,\nreddening, and looking hurt and offended.\n\n'And perhaps he never would, but for the lie,--which, under the\ncircumstances, I maintain, was necessary.'\n\n'It was not. I know it now. I bitterly repent it.'\n\nThere was a long pause of silence. Margaret was the first to speak.\n\n'I am not likely ever to see Mr. Thornton again,'--and there she\nstopped.\n\n'There are many things more unlikely, I should say,' replied Mr. Bell.\n\n'But I believe I never shall. Still, somehow one does not like to have\nsunk so low in--in a friend's opinion as I have done in his.' Her eyes\nwere full of tears, but her voice was steady, and Mr. Bell was not\nlooking at her. 'And now that Frederick has given up all hope, and\nalmost all wish of ever clearing himself, and returning to England, it\nwould be only doing myself justice to have all this explained. If you\nplease, and if you can, if there is a good opportunity, (don't force an\nexplanation upon him, pray,) but if you can, will you tell him the whole\ncircumstances, and tell him also that I gave you leave to do so, because\nI felt that for papa's sake I should not like to lose his respect,\nthough we may never be likely to meet again?'\n\n'Certainly. I think he ought to know. I do not like you to rest even\nunder the shadow of an impropriety; he would not know what to think of\nseeing you alone with a young man.'\n\n'As for that,' said Margaret, rather haughtily, 'I hold it is \"Honi soit\nqui mal y pense.\" Yet still I should choose to have it explained, if any\nnatural opportunity for easy explanation occurs. But it is not to clear\nmyself of any suspicion of improper conduct that I wish to have him\ntold--if I thought that he had suspected me, I should not care for his\ngood opinion--no! it is that he may learn how I was tempted, and how I\nfell into the snare; why I told that falsehood, in short.'\n\n'Which I don't blame you for. It is no partiality of mine, I assure\nyou.'\n\n'What other people may think of the rightness or wrongness is nothing in\ncomparison to my own deep knowledge, my innate conviction that it was\nwrong. But we will not talk of that any more, if you please. It is\ndone--my sin is sinned. I have now to put it behind me, and be truthful\nfor evermore, if I can.'\n\n'Very well. If you like to be uncomfortable and morbid, be so. I always\nkeep my conscience as tight shut up as a jack-in-a-box, for when it\njumps into existence it surprises me by its size. So I coax it down\nagain, as the fisherman coaxed the genie. \"Wonderful,\" say I, \"to think\nthat you have been concealed so long, and in so small a compass, that I\nreally did not know of your existence. Pray, sir, instead of growing\nlarger and larger every instant, and bewildering me with your misty\noutlines, would you once more compress yourself into your former\ndimensions?\" And when I've got him down, don't I clap the seal on the\nvase, and take good care how I open it again, and how I go against\nSolomon, wisest of men, who confined him there.'\n\nBut it was no smiling matter to Margaret. She hardly attended to what\nMr. Bell was saying. Her thoughts ran upon the idea, before entertained,\nbut which now had assumed the strength of a conviction, that Mr.\nThornton no longer held his former good opinion of her--that he was\ndisappointed in her. She did not feel as if any explanation could ever\nreinstate her--not in his love, for that and any return on her part she\nhad resolved never to dwell upon, and she kept rigidly to her\nresolution--but in the respect and high regard which she had hoped would\nhave ever made him willing, in the spirit of Gerald Griffin's beautiful\nlines,\n\n    'To turn and look back when thou hearest\n     The sound of my name.'\n\nShe kept choking and swallowing all the time that she thought about it.\nShe tried to comfort herself with the idea, that what he imagined her to\nbe, did not alter the fact of what she was. But it was a truism, a\nphantom, and broke down under the weight of her regret. She had twenty\nquestions on the tip of her tongue to ask Mr. Bell, but not one of them\ndid she utter. Mr. Bell thought that she was tired, and sent her early\nto her room, where she sate long hours by the open window, gazing out on\nthe purple dome above, where the stars arose, and twinkled and\ndisappeared behind the great umbrageous trees before she went to bed.\nAll night long too, there burnt a little light on earth; a candle in her\nold bedroom, which was the nursery with the present inhabitants of the\nparsonage, until the new one was built. A sense of change, of individual\nnothingness, of perplexity and disappointment, over-powered Margaret.\nNothing had been the same; and this slight, all-pervading instability,\nhad given her greater pain than if all had been too entirely changed for\nher to recognise it.\n\n'I begin to understand now what heaven must be--and, oh! the grandeur\nand repose of the words--\"The same yesterday, to-day, and for ever.\"\nEverlasting! \"From everlasting to everlasting, Thou art God.\" That sky\nabove me looks as though it could not change, and yet it will. I am so\ntired--so tired of being whirled on through all these phases of my life,\nin which nothing abides by me, no creature, no place; it is like the\ncircle in which the victims of earthly passion eddy continually. I am in\nthe mood in which women of another religion take the veil. I seek\nheavenly steadfastness in earthly monotony. If I were a Roman Catholic\nand could deaden my heart, stun it with some great blow, I might become\na nun. But I should pine after my kind; no, not my kind, for love for my\nspecies could never fill my heart to the utter exclusion of love for\nindividuals. Perhaps it ought to be so, perhaps not; I cannot decide\nto-night.'\n\nWearily she went to bed, wearily she arose in four or five hours' time.\nBut with the morning came hope, and a brighter view of things.\n\n'After all it is right,' said she, hearing the voices of children at\nplay while she was dressing. 'If the world stood still, it would\nretrograde and become corrupt, if that is not Irish. Looking out of\nmyself, and my own painful sense of change, the progress all around me\nis right and necessary. I must not think so much of how circumstances\naffect me myself, but how they affect others, if I wish to have a right\njudgment, or a hopeful trustful heart.' And with a smile ready in her\neyes to quiver down to her lips, she went into the parlour and greeted\nMr. Bell.\n\n'Ah, Missy! you were up late last night, and so you're late this\nmorning. Now I've got a little piece of news for you. What do you think\nof an invitation to dinner? a morning call, literally in the dewy\nmorning. Why, I've had the Vicar here already, on his way to the school.\nHow much the desire of giving our hostess a teetotal lecture for the\nbenefit of the haymakers, had to do with his earliness, I don't know;\nbut here he was, when I came down just before nine; and we are asked to\ndine there to-day.'\n\n'But Edith expects me back--I cannot go,' said Margaret, thankful to\nhave so good an excuse.\n\n'Yes! I know; so I told him. I thought you would not want to go. Still\nit is open, if you would like it.'\n\n'Oh, no!' said Margaret. 'Let us keep to our plan. Let us start at\ntwelve. It is very good and kind of them; but indeed I could not go.'\n\n'Very well. Don't fidget yourself, and I'll arrange it all.'\n\nBefore they left Margaret stole round to the back of the Vicarage\ngarden, and gathered a little straggling piece of honeysuckle. She would\nnot take a flower the day before, for fear of being observed, and her\nmotives and feelings commented upon. But as she returned across the\ncommon, the place was reinvested with the old enchanting atmosphere. The\ncommon sounds of life were more musical there than anywhere else in the\nwhole world, the light more golden, the life more tranquil and full of\ndreamy delight. As Margaret remembered her feelings yesterday, she said\nto herself:\n\n'And I too change perpetually--now this, now that--now disappointed and\npeevish because all is not exactly as I had pictured it, and now\nsuddenly discovering that the reality is far more beautiful than I had\nimagined it. Oh, Helstone! I shall never love any place like you.\n\nA few days afterwards, she had found her level, and decided that she was\nvery glad to have been there, and that she had seen it again, and that\nto her it would always be the prettiest spot in the world, but that it\nwas so full of associations with former days, and especially with her\nfather and mother, that if it were all to come over again, she should\nshrink back from such another visit as that which she had paid with Mr.\nBell.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLVII\n\nSOMETHING WANTING\n\n    'Experience, like a pale musician, holds\n     A dulcimer of patience in his hand;\n     Whence harmonies we cannot understand,\n     Of God's will in His worlds, the strain unfolds\n     In sad, perplexed minors.'\n              MRS. BROWNING.\n\n\nAbout this time Dixon returned from Milton, and assumed her post as\nMargaret's maid. She brought endless pieces of Milton gossip: How Martha\nhad gone to live with Miss Thornton, on the latter's marriage; with an\naccount of the bridesmaids, dresses and breakfasts, at that interesting\nceremony; how people thought that Mr. Thornton had made too grand a\nwedding of it, considering he had lost a deal by the strike, and had had\nto pay so much for the failure of his contracts; how little money\narticles of furniture--long cherished by Dixon--had fetched at the sale,\nwhich was a shame considering how rich folks were at Milton; how Mrs.\nThornton had come one day and got two or three good bargains, and Mr.\nThornton had come the next, and in his desire to obtain one or two\nthings, had bid against himself, much to the enjoyment of the\nbystanders, so as Dixon observed, that made things even; if Mrs.\nThornton paid too little, Mr. Thornton paid too much. Mr. Bell had sent\nall sorts of orders about the books; there was no understanding him, he\nwas so particular; if he had come himself it would have been all right,\nbut letters always were and always will be more puzzling than they are\nworth. Dixon had not much to tell about the Higginses. Her memory had an\naristocratic bias, and was very treacherous whenever she tried to recall\nany circumstance connected with those below her in life. Nicholas was\nvery well she believed. He had been several times at the house asking\nfor news of Miss Margaret--the only person who ever did ask, except once\nMr. Thornton. And Mary? oh! of course she was very well, a great, stout,\nslatternly thing! She did hear, or perhaps it was only a dream of hers,\nthough it would be strange if she had dreamt of such people as the\nHigginses, that Mary had gone to work at Mr. Thornton's mill, because\nher father wished her to know how to cook; but what nonsense that could\nmean she didn't know. Margaret rather agreed with her that the story was\nincoherent enough to be like a dream. Still it was pleasant to have some\none now with whom she could talk of Milton, and Milton people. Dixon was\nnot over-fond of the subject, rather wishing to leave that part of her\nlife in shadow. She liked much more to dwell upon speeches of Mr.\nBell's, which had suggested an idea to her of what was really his\nintention--making Margaret his heiress. But her young lady gave her no\nencouragement, nor in any way gratified her insinuating enquiries,\nhowever disguised in the form of suspicions or assertions.\n\nAll this time, Margaret had a strange undefined longing to hear that Mr.\nBell had gone to pay one of his business visits to Milton; for it had\nbeen well understood between them, at the time of their conversation at\nHelstone, that the explanation she had desired should only be given to\nMr. Thornton by word of mouth, and even in that manner should be in\nnowise forced upon him. Mr. Bell was no great correspondent, but he\nwrote from time to time long or short letters, as the humour took him,\nand although Margaret was not conscious of any definite hope, on\nreceiving them, yet she always put away his notes with a little feeling\nof disappointment. He was not going to Milton; he said nothing about it\nat any rate. Well! she must be patient. Sooner or later the mists would\nbe cleared away. Mr. Bell's letters were hardly like his usual self;\nthey were short, and complaining, with every now and then a little touch\nof bitterness that was unusual. He did not look forward to the future;\nhe rather seemed to regret the past, and be weary of the present.\nMargaret fancied that he could not be well; but in answer to some\nenquiry of hers as to his health, he sent her a short note, saying there\nwas an old-fashioned complaint called the spleen; that he was suffering\nfrom that, and it was for her to decide if it was more mental or\nphysical; but that he should like to indulge himself in grumbling,\nwithout being obliged to send a bulletin every time.\n\nIn consequence of this note, Margaret made no more enquiries about his\nhealth. One day Edith let out accidentally a fragment of a conversation\nwhich she had had with Mr. Bell, when he was last in London, which\npossessed Margaret with the idea that he had some notion of taking her\nto pay a visit to her brother and new sister-in-law, at Cadiz, in the\nautumn. She questioned and cross-questioned Edith, till the latter was\nweary, and declared that there was nothing more to remember; all he had\nsaid was that he half-thought he should go, and hear for himself what\nFrederick had to say about the mutiny; and that it would be a good\nopportunity for Margaret to become acquainted with her new\nsister-in-law; that he always went somewhere during the long vacation,\nand did not see why he should not go to Spain as well as anywhere else.\nThat was all. Edith hoped Margaret did not want to leave them, that she\nwas so anxious about all this. And then, having nothing else particular\nto do, she cried, and said that she knew she cared much more for\nMargaret than Margaret did for her. Margaret comforted her as well as\nshe could, but she could hardly explain to her how this idea of Spain,\nmere chateau en Espagne as it might be, charmed and delighted her. Edith\nwas in the mood to think that any pleasure enjoyed away from her was a\ntacit affront, or at best a proof of indifference. So Margaret had to\nkeep her pleasure to herself, and could only let it escape by the\nsafety-valve of asking Dixon, when she dressed for dinner, if she would\nnot like to see Master Frederick and his new wife very much indeed?\n\n'She's a Papist, Miss, isn't she?'\n\n'I believe--oh yes, certainly!' said Margaret, a little damped for an\ninstant at this recollection.\n\n'And they live in a Popish country?'\n\n'Yes.'\n\n'Then I'm afraid I must say, that my soul is dearer to me than even\nMaster Frederick, his own dear self. I should be in a perpetual terror,\nMiss, lest I should be converted.'\n\n'Oh' said Margaret, 'I do not know that I am going; and if I go, I am\nnot such a fine lady as to be unable to travel without you. No! dear old\nDixon, you shall have a long holiday, if we go. But I'm afraid it is a\nlong \"if.\"'\n\nNow Dixon did not like this speech. In the first place, she did not like\nMargaret's trick of calling her 'dear old Dixon' whenever she was\nparticularly demonstrative. She knew that Miss Hale was apt to call all\npeople that she liked 'old,' as a sort of term of endearment; but Dixon\nalways winced away from the application of the word to herself, who,\nbeing not much past fifty, was, she thought, in the very prime of life.\nSecondly, she did not like being so easily taken at her word; she had,\nwith all her terror, a lurking curiosity about Spain, the Inquisition,\nand Popish mysteries. So, after clearing her throat, as if to show her\nwillingness to do away with difficulties, she asked Miss Hale, whether\nshe thought if she took care never to see a priest, or enter into one of\ntheir churches, there would be so very much danger of her being\nconverted? Master Frederick, to be sure, had gone over unaccountable.\n\n'I fancy it was love that first predisposed him to conversion,' said\nMargaret, sighing.\n\n'Indeed, Miss!' said Dixon; 'well! I can preserve myself from priests,\nand from churches; but love steals in unawares! I think it's as well I\nshould not go.'\n\nMargaret was afraid of letting her mind run too much upon this Spanish\nplan. But it took off her thoughts from too impatiently dwelling upon\nher desire to have all explained to Mr. Thornton. Mr. Bell appeared for\nthe present to be stationary at Oxford, and to have no immediate purpose\nof going to Milton, and some secret restraint seemed to hang over\nMargaret, and prevent her from even asking, or alluding again to any\nprobability of such a visit on his part. Nor did she feel at liberty to\nname what Edith had told her of the idea he had entertained,--it might\nbe but for five minutes,--of going to Spain. He had never named it at\nHelstone, during all that sunny day of leisure; it was very probably but\nthe fancy of a moment,--but if it were true, what a bright outlet it\nwould be from the monotony of her present life, which was beginning to\nfall upon her.\n\nOne of the great pleasures of Margaret's life at this time, was in\nEdith's boy. He was the pride and plaything of both father and mother,\nas long as he was good; but he had a strong will of his own, and as soon\nas he burst out into one of his stormy passions, Edith would throw\nherself back in despair and fatigue, and sigh out, 'Oh dear, what shall\nI do with him! Do, Margaret, please ring the bell for Hanley.'\n\nBut Margaret almost liked him better in these manifestations of\ncharacter than in his good blue-sashed moods. She would carry him off\ninto a room, where they two alone battled it out; she with a firm power\nwhich subdued him into peace, while every sudden charm and wile she\npossessed, was exerted on the side of right, until he would rub his\nlittle hot and tear-smeared face all over hers, kissing and caressing\ntill he often fell asleep in her arms or on her shoulder. Those were\nMargaret's sweetest moments. They gave her a taste of the feeling that\nshe believed would be denied to her for ever.\n\nMr. Henry Lennox added a new and not disagreeable element to the course\nof the household life by his frequent presence. Margaret thought him\ncolder, if more brilliant than formerly; but there were strong\nintellectual tastes, and much and varied knowledge, which gave flavour\nto the otherwise rather insipid conversation. Margaret saw glimpses in\nhim of a slight contempt for his brother and sister-in-law, and for\ntheir mode of life, which he seemed to consider as frivolous and\npurposeless. He once or twice spoke to his brother, in Margaret's\npresence, in a pretty sharp tone of enquiry, as to whether he meant\nentirely to relinquish his profession; and on Captain Lennox's reply,\nthat he had quite enough to live upon, she had seen Mr. Lennox's curl of\nthe lip as he said, 'And is that all you live for?'\n\nBut the brothers were much attached to each other, in the way that any\ntwo persons are, when the one is cleverer and always leads the other,\nand this last is patiently content to be led. Mr. Lennox was pushing on\nin his profession; cultivating, with profound calculation, all those\nconnections that might eventually be of service to him; keen-sighted,\nfar-seeing, intelligent, sarcastic, and proud. Since the one long\nconversation relating to Frederick's affairs, which she had with him the\nfirst evening in Mr. Bell's presence, she had had no great intercourse\nwith him, further than that which arose out of their close relations\nwith the same household. But this was enough to wear off the shyness on\nher side, and any symptoms of mortified pride and vanity on his. They\nmet continually, of course, but she thought that he rather avoided being\nalone with her; she fancied that he, as well as she, perceived that they\nhad drifted strangely apart from their former anchorage, side by side,\nin many of their opinions, and all their tastes.\n\nAnd yet, when he had spoken unusually well, or with remarkable\nepigrammatic point, she felt that his eye sought the expression of her\ncountenance first of all, if but for an instant; and that, in the family\nintercourse which constantly threw them together, her opinion was the\none to which he listened with a deference,--the more complete, because\nit was reluctantly paid, and concealed as much as possible.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLVIII\n\n'NE'ER TO BE FOUND AGAIN'\n\n    'My own, my father's friend!\n     I cannot part with thee!\n     I ne'er have shown, thou ne'er hast known,\n     How dear thou art to me.'\n              ANON.\n\n\nThe elements of the dinner-parties which Mrs. Lennox gave, were these;\nher friends contributed the beauty, Captain Lennox the easy knowledge of\nthe subjects of the day; and Mr. Henry Lennox and the sprinkling of\nrising men who were received as his friends, brought the wit, the\ncleverness, the keen and extensive knowledge of which they knew well\nenough how to avail themselves without seeming pedantic, or burdening\nthe rapid flow of conversation.\n\nThese dinners were delightful; but even here Margaret's dissatisfaction\nfound her out. Every talent, every feeling, every acquirement; nay, even\nevery tendency towards virtue was used up as materials for fireworks;\nthe hidden, sacred fire, exhausted itself in sparkle and crackle. They\ntalked about art in a merely sensuous way, dwelling on outside effects,\ninstead of allowing themselves to learn what it has to teach. They\nlashed themselves up into an enthusiasm about high subjects in company,\nand never thought about them when they were alone; they squandered their\ncapabilities of appreciation into a mere flow of appropriate words. One\nday, after the gentlemen had come up into the drawing-room, Mr. Lennox\ndrew near to Margaret, and addressed her in almost the first voluntary\nwords he had spoken to her since she had returned to live in Harley\nStreet.\n\n'You did not look pleased at what Shirley was saying at dinner.'\n\n'Didn't I? My face must be very expressive,' replied Margaret.\n\n'It always was. It has not lost the trick of being eloquent.'\n\n'I did not like,' said Margaret, hastily, 'his way of advocating what he\nknew to be wrong--so glaringly wrong--even in jest.'\n\n'But it was very clever. How every word told! Do you remember the happy\nepithets?'\n\n'Yes.'\n\n'And despise them, you would like to add. Pray don't scruple, though he\nis my friend.'\n\n'There! that is the exact tone in you, that--' she stopped short.\n\nHe listened for a moment to see if she would finish her sentence; but\nshe only reddened, and turned away; before she did so, however, she\nheard him say, in a very low, clear voice,--\n\n'If my tones, or modes of thought, are what you dislike, will you do me\nthe justice to tell me so, and so give me the chance of learning to\nplease you?'\n\nAll these weeks there was no intelligence of Mr. Bell's going to Milton.\nHe had spoken of it at Helstone as of a journey which he might have to\ntake in a very short time from then; but he must have transacted his\nbusiness by writing, Margaret thought, ere now, and she knew that if he\ncould, he would avoid going to a place which he disliked, and moreover\nwould little understand the secret importance which she affixed to the\nexplanation that could only be given by word of mouth. She knew that he\nwould feel that it was necessary that it should be done; but whether in\nsummer, autumn, or winter, it would signify very little. It was now\nAugust, and there had been no mention of the Spanish journey to which he\nhad alluded to Edith, and Margaret tried to reconcile herself to the\nfading away of this illusion.\n\nBut one morning she received a letter, saying that next week he meant to\ncome up to town; he wanted to see her about a plan which he had in his\nhead; and, moreover, he intended to treat himself to a little doctoring,\nas he had begun to come round to her opinion, that it would be\npleasanter to think that his health was more in fault than he, when he\nfound himself irritable and cross. There was altogether a tone of forced\ncheerfulness in the letter, as Margaret noticed afterwards; but at the\ntime her attention was taken up by Edith's exclamations.\n\n'Coming up to town! Oh dear! and I am so worn out by the heat that I\ndon't believe I have strength enough in me for another dinner. Besides,\neverybody has left but our dear stupid selves, who can't settle where to\ngo to. There would be nobody to meet him.'\n\n'I'm sure he would much rather come and dine with us quite alone than\nwith the most agreeable strangers you could pick up. Besides, if he is\nnot well he won't wish for invitations. I am glad he has owned it at\nlast. I was sure he was ill from the whole tone of his letters, and yet\nhe would not answer me when I asked him, and I had no third person to\nwhom I could apply for news.'\n\n'Oh! he is not very ill, or he would not think of Spain.'\n\n'He never mentions Spain.'\n\n'No! but his plan that is to be proposed evidently relates to that. But\nwould you really go in such weather as this?'\n\n'Oh! it will get cooler every day. Yes! Think of it! I am only afraid I\nhave thought and wished too much--in that absorbing wilful way which is\nsure to be disappointed--or else gratified, to the letter, while in the\nspirit it gives no pleasure.'\n\n'But that's superstitious, I'm sure, Margaret.'\n\n'No, I don't think it is. Only it ought to warn me, and check me from\ngiving way to such passionate wishes. It is a sort of \"Give me children,\nor else I die.\" I'm afraid my cry is, \"Let me go to Cadiz, or else I\ndie.\"'\n\n'My dear Margaret! You'll be persuaded to stay there; and then what\nshall I do? Oh! I wish I could find somebody for you to marry here, that\nI could be sure of you!'\n\n'I shall never marry.'\n\n'Nonsense, and double nonsense! Why, as Sholto says, you're such an\nattraction to the house, that he knows ever so many men who will be glad\nto visit here next year for your sake.'\n\nMargaret drew herself up haughtily. 'Do you know, Edith, I sometimes\nthink your Corfu life has taught you---- '\n\n'Well!'\n\n'Just a shade or two of coarseness.'\n\nEdith began to sob so bitterly, and to declare so vehemently that\nMargaret had lost all love for her, and no longer looked upon her as a\nfriend, that Margaret came to think that she had expressed too harsh an\nopinion for the relief of her own wounded pride, and ended by being\nEdith's slave for the rest of the day; while that little lady, overcome\nby wounded feeling, lay like a victim on the sofa, heaving occasionally\na profound sigh, till at last she fell asleep.\n\nMr. Bell did not make his appearance even on the day to which he had for\na second time deferred his visit. The next morning there came a letter\nfrom Wallis, his servant, stating that his master had not been feeling\nwell for some time, which had been the true reason of his putting off\nhis journey; and that at the very time when he should have set out for\nLondon, he had been seized with an apoplectic fit; it was, indeed,\nWallis added, the opinion of the medical men--that he could not survive\nthe night; and more than probable, that by the time Miss Hale received\nthis letter his poor master would be no more.\n\nMargaret received this letter at breakfast-time, and turned very pale as\nshe read it; then silently putting it into Edith's hands, she left the\nroom.\n\nEdith was terribly shocked as she read it, and cried in a sobbing,\nfrightened, childish way, much to her husband's distress. Mrs. Shaw was\nbreakfasting in her own room, and upon him devolved the task of\nreconciling his wife to the near contact into which she seemed to be\nbrought with death, for the first time that she could remember in her\nlife. Here was a man who was to have dined with them to-day lying dead\nor dying instead! It was some time before she could think of Margaret.\nThen she started up, and followed her upstairs into her room. Dixon was\npacking up a few toilette articles, and Margaret was hastily putting on\nher bonnet, shedding tears all the time, and her hands trembling so that\nshe could hardly tie the strings.\n\n'Oh, dear Margaret! how shocking! What are you doing? Are you going out?\nSholto would telegraph or do anything you like.'\n\n'I am going to Oxford. There is a train in half-an-hour. Dixon has\noffered to go with me, but I could have gone by myself. I must see him\nagain. Besides, he may be better, and want some care. He has been like a\nfather to me. Don't stop me, Edith.'\n\n'But I must. Mamma won't like it at all. Come and ask her about it,\nMargaret. You don't know where you're going. I should not mind if he had\na house of his own; but in his Fellow's rooms! Come to mamma, and do ask\nher before you go. It will not take a minute.'\n\nMargaret yielded, and lost her train. In the suddenness of the event,\nMrs. Shaw became bewildered and hysterical, and so the precious time\nslipped by. But there was another train in a couple of hours; and after\nvarious discussions on propriety and impropriety, it was decided that\nCaptain Lennox should accompany Margaret, as the one thing to which she\nwas constant was her resolution to go, alone or otherwise, by the next\ntrain, whatever might be said of the propriety or impropriety of the\nstep. Her father's friend, her own friend, was lying at the point of\ndeath; and the thought of this came upon her with such vividness, that\nshe was surprised herself at the firmness with which she asserted\nsomething of her right to independence of action; and five minutes\nbefore the time for starting, she found herself sitting in a\nrailway-carriage opposite to Captain Lennox.\n\nIt was always a comfort to her to think that she had gone, though it was\nonly to hear that he had died in the night. She saw the rooms that he\nhad occupied, and associated them ever after most fondly in her memory\nwith the idea of her father, and his one cherished and faithful friend.\n\nThey had promised Edith before starting, that if all had ended as they\nfeared, they would return to dinner; so that long, lingering look around\nthe room in which her father had died, had to be interrupted, and a\nquiet farewell taken of the kind old face that had so often come out\nwith pleasant words, and merry quips and cranks.\n\nCaptain Lennox fell asleep on their journey home; and Margaret could cry\nat leisure, and bethink her of this fatal year, and all the woes it had\nbrought to her. No sooner was she fully aware of one loss than another\ncame--not to supersede her grief for the one before, but to re-open\nwounds and feelings scarcely healed. But at the sound of the tender\nvoices of her aunt and Edith, of merry little Sholto's glee at her\narrival, and at the sight of the well-lighted rooms, with their mistress\npretty in her paleness and her eager sorrowful interest, Margaret roused\nherself from her heavy trance of almost superstitious hopelessness, and\nbegan to feel that even around her joy and gladness might gather. She\nhad Edith's place on the sofa; Sholto was taught to carry aunt\nMargaret's cup of tea very carefully to her; and by the time she went up\nto dress, she could thank God for having spared her dear old friend a\nlong or a painful illness.\n\nBut when night came--solemn night, and all the house was quiet, Margaret\nstill sate watching the beauty of a London sky at such an hour, on such\na summer evening; the faint pink reflection of earthly lights on the\nsoft clouds that float tranquilly into the white moonlight, out of the\nwarm gloom which lies motionless around the horizon. Margaret's room had\nbeen the day nursery of her childhood, just when it merged into\ngirlhood, and when the feelings and conscience had been first awakened\ninto full activity. On some such night as this she remembered promising\nto herself to live as brave and noble a life as any heroine she ever\nread or heard of in romance, a life sans peur et sans reproche; it had\nseemed to her then that she had only to will, and such a life would be\naccomplished. And now she had learnt that not only to will, but also to\npray, was a necessary condition in the truly heroic. Trusting to\nherself, she had fallen. It was a just consequence of her sin, that all\nexcuses for it, all temptation to it, should remain for ever unknown to\nthe person in whose opinion it had sunk her lowest. She stood face to\nface at last with her sin. She knew it for what it was; Mr. Bell's\nkindly sophistry that nearly all men were guilty of equivocal actions,\nand that the motive ennobled the evil, had never had much real weight\nwith her. Her own first thought of how, if she had known all, she might\nhave fearlessly told the truth, seemed low and poor. Nay, even now, her\nanxiety to have her character for truth partially excused in Mr.\nThornton's eyes, as Mr. Bell had promised to do, was a very small and\npetty consideration, now that she was afresh taught by death what life\nshould be. If all the world spoke, acted, or kept silence with intent to\ndeceive,--if dearest interests were at stake, and dearest lives in\nperil,--if no one should ever know of her truth or her falsehood to\nmeasure out their honour or contempt for her by, straight alone where\nshe stood, in the presence of God, she prayed that she might have\nstrength to speak and act the truth for evermore.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLIX\n\nBREATHING TRANQUILLITY\n\n    'And down the sunny beach she paces slowly,\n     With many doubtful pauses by the way;\n     Grief hath an influence so hush'd and holy.'\n              HOOD.\n\n\n'Is not Margaret the heiress?' whispered Edith to her husband, as they\nwere in their room alone at night after the sad journey to Oxford. She\nhad pulled his tall head down, and stood upon tiptoe, and implored him\nnot to be shocked, before she had ventured to ask this question. Captain\nLennox was, however, quite in the dark; if he had ever heard, he had\nforgotten; it could not be much that a Fellow of a small college had to\nleave; but he had never wanted her to pay for her board; and two hundred\nand fifty pounds a year was something ridiculous, considering that she\ndid not take wine. Edith came down upon her feet a little bit sadder;\nwith a romance blown to pieces.\n\nA week afterwards, she came prancing towards her husband, and made him a\nlow curtsey:\n\n'I am right, and you are wrong, most noble Captain. Margaret has had a\nlawyer's letter, and she is residuary legatee--the legacies being about\ntwo thousand pounds, and the remainder about forty thousand, at the\npresent value of property in Milton.'\n\n'Indeed! and how does she take her good fortune?'\n\n'Oh, it seems she knew she was to have it all along; only she had no\nidea it was so much. She looks very white and pale, and says she's\nafraid of it; but that's nonsense, you know, and will soon go off. I\nleft mamma pouring congratulations down her throat, and stole away to\ntell you.'\n\nIt seemed to be supposed, by general consent, that the most natural\nthing was to consider Mr. Lennox henceforward as Margaret's legal\nadviser. She was so entirely ignorant of all forms of business that in\nnearly everything she had to refer to him. He chose out her attorney; he\ncame to her with papers to be signed. He was never so happy as when\nteaching her of what all these mysteries of the law were the signs and\ntypes.\n\n'Henry,' said Edith, one day, archly; 'do you know what I hope and\nexpect all these long conversations with Margaret will end in?'\n\n'No, I don't,' said he, reddening. 'And I desire you not to tell me.'\n\n'Oh, very well; then I need not tell Sholto not to ask Mr. Montagu so\noften to the house.'\n\n'Just as you choose,' said he with forced coolness. 'What you are\nthinking of, may or may not happen; but this time, before I commit\nmyself, I will see my ground clear. Ask whom you choose. It may not be\nvery civil, Edith, but if you meddle in it you will mar it. She has been\nvery farouche with me for a long time; and is only just beginning to\nthaw a little from her Zenobia ways. She has the making of a Cleopatra\nin her, if only she were a little more pagan.'\n\n'For my part,' said Edith, a little maliciously, 'I am very glad she is\na Christian. I know so very few!'\n\nThere was no Spain for Margaret that autumn; although to the last she\nhoped that some fortunate occasion would call Frederick to Paris,\nwhither she could easily have met with a convoy. Instead of Cadiz, she\nhad to content herself with Cromer. To that place her aunt Shaw and the\nLennoxes were bound. They had all along wished her to accompany them,\nand, consequently, with their characters, they made but lazy efforts to\nforward her own separate wish. Perhaps Cromer was, in one sense of the\nexpression, the best for her. She needed bodily strengthening and\nbracing as well as rest.\n\nAmong other hopes that had vanished, was the hope, the trust she had\nhad, that Mr. Bell would have given Mr. Thornton the simple facts of the\nfamily circumstances which had preceded the unfortunate accident that\nled to Leonards' death. Whatever opinion--however changed it might be\nfrom what Mr. Thornton had once entertained, she had wished it to be\nbased upon a true understanding of what she had done; and why she had\ndone it. It would have been a pleasure to her; would have given her rest\non a point on which she should now all her life be restless, unless she\ncould resolve not to think upon it. It was now so long after the time of\nthese occurrences, that there was no possible way of explaining them\nsave the one which she had lost by Mr. Bell's death. She must just\nsubmit, like many another, to be misunderstood; but, though reasoning\nherself into the belief that in this hers was no uncommon lot, her heart\ndid not ache the less with longing that some time--years and years\nhence--before he died at any rate, he might know how much she had been\ntempted. She thought that she did not want to hear that all was\nexplained to him, if only she could be sure that he would know. But this\nwish was vain, like so many others; and when she had schooled herself\ninto this conviction, she turned with all her heart and strength to the\nlife that lay immediately before her, and resolved to strive and make\nthe best of that.\n\nShe used to sit long hours upon the beach, gazing intently on the waves\nas they chafed with perpetual motion against the pebbly shore,--or she\nlooked out upon the more distant heave, and sparkle against the sky, and\nheard, without being conscious of hearing, the eternal psalm, which went\nup continually. She was soothed without knowing how or why. Listlessly\nshe sat there, on the ground, her hands clasped round her knees, while\nher aunt Shaw did small shoppings, and Edith and Captain Lennox rode far\nand wide on shore and inland. The nurses, sauntering on with their\ncharges, would pass and repass her, and wonder in whispers what she\ncould find to look at so long, day after day. And when the family\ngathered at dinner-time, Margaret was so silent and absorbed that Edith\nvoted her moped, and hailed a proposal of her husband's with great\nsatisfaction, that Mr. Henry Lennox should be asked to take Cromer for a\nweek, on his return from Scotland in October.\n\nBut all this time for thought enabled Margaret to put events in their\nright places, as to origin and significance, both as regarded her past\nlife and her future. Those hours by the sea-side were not lost, as any\none might have seen who had had the perception to read, or the care to\nunderstand, the look that Margaret's face was gradually acquiring. Mr.\nHenry Lennox was excessively struck by the change.\n\n'The sea has done Miss Hale an immense deal of good, I should fancy,'\nsaid he, when she first left the room after his arrival in their family\ncircle. 'She looks ten years younger than she did in Harley Street.'\n\n'That's the bonnet I got her!' said Edith, triumphantly. 'I knew it\nwould suit her the moment I saw it.'\n\n'I beg your pardon,' said Mr. Lennox, in the half-contemptuous,\nhalf-indulgent tone he generally used to Edith. 'But I believe I know\nthe difference between the charms of a dress and the charms of a woman.\nNo mere bonnet would have made Miss Hale's eyes so lustrous and yet so\nsoft, or her lips so ripe and red--and her face altogether so full of\npeace and light.--She is like, and yet more,'--he dropped his\nvoice,--'like the Margaret Hale of Helstone.'\n\nFrom this time the clever and ambitious man bent all his powers to\ngaining Margaret. He loved her sweet beauty. He saw the latent sweep of\nher mind, which could easily (he thought) be led to embrace all the\nobjects on which he had set his heart. He looked upon her fortune only\nas a part of the complete and superb character of herself and her\nposition: yet he was fully aware of the rise which it would immediately\nenable him, the poor barrister, to take. Eventually he would earn such\nsuccess, and such honours, as would enable him to pay her back, with\ninterest, that first advance in wealth which he should owe to her. He\nhad been to Milton on business connected with her property, on his\nreturn from Scotland; and with the quick eye of a skilled lawyer, ready\never to take in and weigh contingencies, he had seen that much\nadditional value was yearly accruing to the lands and tenements which\nshe owned in that prosperous and increasing town. He was glad to find\nthat the present relationship between Margaret and himself, of client\nand legal adviser, was gradually superseding the recollection of that\nunlucky, mismanaged day at Helstone. He had thus unusual opportunities\nof intimate intercourse with her, besides those that arose from the\nconnection between the families.\n\nMargaret was only too willing to listen as long as he talked of Milton,\nthough he had seen none of the people whom she more especially knew. It\nhad been the tone with her aunt and cousin to speak of Milton with\ndislike and contempt; just such feelings as Margaret was ashamed to\nremember she had expressed and felt on first going to live there. But\nMr. Lennox almost exceeded Margaret in his appreciation of the character\nof Milton and its inhabitants. Their energy, their power, their\nindomitable courage in struggling and fighting; their lurid vividness of\nexistence, captivated and arrested his attention. He was never tired of\ntalking about them; and had never perceived how selfish and material\nwere too many of the ends they proposed to themselves as the result of\nall their mighty, untiring endeavour, till Margaret, even in the midst\nof her gratification, had the candour to point this out, as the tainting\nsin in so much that was noble, and to be admired. Still, when other\nsubjects palled upon her, and she gave but short answers to many\nquestions, Henry Lennox found out that an enquiry as to some Darkshire\npeculiarity of character, called back the light into her eye, the glow\ninto her cheek.\n\nWhen they returned to town, Margaret fulfilled one of her sea-side\nresolves, and took her life into her own hands. Before they went to\nCromer, she had been as docile to her aunt's laws as if she were still\nthe scared little stranger who cried herself to sleep that first night\nin the Harley Street nursery. But she had learnt, in those solemn hours\nof thought, that she herself must one day answer for her own life, and\nwhat she had done with it; and she tried to settle that most difficult\nproblem for women, how much was to be utterly merged in obedience to\nauthority, and how much might be set apart for freedom in working. Mrs.\nShaw was as good-tempered as could be; and Edith had inherited this\ncharming domestic quality; Margaret herself had probably the worst\ntemper of the three, for her quick perceptions, and over-lively\nimagination made her hasty, and her early isolation from sympathy had\nmade her proud; but she had an indescribable childlike sweetness of\nheart, which made her manners, even in her rarely wilful moods,\nirresistible of old; and now, chastened even by what the world called\nher good fortune, she charmed her reluctant aunt into acquiescence with\nher will. So Margaret gained the acknowledgment of her right to follow\nher own ideas of duty.\n\n'Only don't be strong-minded,' pleaded Edith. 'Mamma wants you to have a\nfootman of your own; and I'm sure you're very welcome, for they're great\nplagues. Only to please me, darling, don't go and have a strong mind;\nit's the only thing I ask. Footman or no footman, don't be\nstrong-minded.'\n\n'Don't be afraid, Edith. I'll faint on your hands at the servants'\ndinner-time, the very first opportunity; and then, what with Sholto\nplaying with the fire, and the baby crying, you'll begin to wish for a\nstrong-minded woman, equal to any emergency.'\n\n'And you'll not grow too good to joke and be merry?'\n\n'Not I. I shall be merrier than I have ever been, now I have got my own\nway.'\n\n'And you'll not go a figure, but let me buy your dresses for you?'\n\n'Indeed I mean to buy them for myself. You shall come with me if you\nlike; but no one can please me but myself.'\n\n'Oh! I was afraid you'd dress in brown and dust-colour, not to show the\ndirt you'll pick up in all those places. I'm glad you're going to keep\none or two vanities, just by way of specimens of the old Adam.'\n\n'I'm going to be just the same, Edith, if you and my aunt could but\nfancy so. Only as I have neither husband nor child to give me natural\nduties, I must make myself some, in addition to ordering my gowns.'\n\nIn the family conclave, which was made up of Edith, her mother, and her\nhusband, it was decided that perhaps all these plans of hers would only\nsecure her the more for Henry Lennox. They kept her out of the way of\nother friends who might have eligible sons or brothers; and it was also\nagreed that she never seemed to take much pleasure in the society of any\none but Henry, out of their own family. The other admirers, attracted by\nher appearance or the reputation of her fortune, were swept away, by her\nunconscious smiling disdain, into the paths frequented by other beauties\nless fastidious, or other heiresses with a larger amount of gold. Henry\nand she grew slowly into closer intimacy; but neither he nor she were\npeople to brook the slightest notice of their proceedings.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER L\n\nCHANGES AT MILTON\n\n    'Here we go up, up, up;\n     And here we go down, down, downee!'\n              NURSERY SONG.\n\n\nMeanwhile, at Milton the chimneys smoked, the ceaseless roar and mighty\nbeat, and dizzying whirl of machinery, struggled and strove perpetually.\nSenseless and purposeless were wood and iron and steam in their endless\nlabours; but the persistence of their monotonous work was rivalled in\ntireless endurance by the strong crowds, who, with sense and with\npurpose, were busy and restless in seeking after--What? In the streets\nthere were few loiterers,--none walking for mere pleasure; every man's\nface was set in lines of eagerness or anxiety; news was sought for with\nfierce avidity; and men jostled each other aside in the Mart and in the\nExchange, as they did in life, in the deep selfishness of competition.\nThere was gloom over the town. Few came to buy, and those who did were\nlooked at suspiciously by the sellers; for credit was insecure, and the\nmost stable might have their fortunes affected by the sweep in the great\nneighbouring port among the shipping houses. Hitherto there had been no\nfailures in Milton; but, from the immense speculations that had come to\nlight in making a bad end in America, and yet nearer home, it was known\nthat some Milton houses of business must suffer so severely that every\nday men's faces asked, if their tongues did not, 'What news? Who is\ngone? How will it affect me?' And if two or three spoke together, they\ndwelt rather on the names of those who were safe than dared to hint at\nthose likely, in their opinion, to go; for idle breath may, at such\ntimes, cause the downfall of some who might otherwise weather the storm;\nand one going down drags many after. 'Thornton is safe,' say they. 'His\nbusiness is large--extending every year; but such a head as he has, and\nso prudent with all his daring!' Then one man draws another aside, and\nwalks a little apart, and, with head inclined into his neighbour's ear,\nhe says, 'Thornton's business is large; but he has spent his profits in\nextending it; he has no capital laid by; his machinery is new within\nthese two years, and has cost him--we won't say what!--a word to the\nwise!' But that Mr. Harrison was a croaker,--a man who had succeeded to\nhis father's trade-made fortune, which he had feared to lose by altering\nhis mode of business to any having a larger scope; yet he grudged every\npenny made by others more daring and far-sighted.\n\nBut the truth was, Mr. Thornton was hard pressed. He felt it acutely in\nhis vulnerable point--his pride in the commercial character which he had\nestablished for himself. Architect of his own fortunes, he attributed\nthis to no special merit or qualities of his own, but to the power,\nwhich he believed that commerce gave to every brave, honest, and\npersevering man, to raise himself to a level from which he might see and\nread the great game of worldly success, and honestly, by such\nfar-sightedness, command more power and influence than in any other mode\nof life. Far away, in the East and in the West, where his person would\nnever be known, his name was to be regarded, and his wishes to be\nfulfilled, and his word pass like gold. That was the idea of\nmerchant-life with which Mr. Thornton had started. 'Her merchants be\nlike princes,' said his mother, reading the text aloud, as if it were a\ntrumpet-call to invite her boy to the struggle. He was but like many\nothers--men, women, and children--alive to distant, and dead to near\nthings. He sought to possess the influence of a name in foreign\ncountries and far-away seas,--to become the head of a firm that should\nbe known for generations; and it had taken him long silent years to come\neven to a glimmering of what he might be now, to-day, here in his own\ntown, his own factory, among his own people. He and they had led\nparallel lives--very close, but never touching--till the accident (or so\nit seemed) of his acquaintance with Higgins. Once brought face to face,\nman to man, with an individual of the masses around him, and (take\nnotice) out of the character of master and workman, in the first\ninstance, they had each begun to recognise that 'we have all of us one\nhuman heart.' It was the fine point of the wedge; and until now, when\nthe apprehension of losing his connection with two or three of the\nworkmen whom he had so lately begun to know as men,--of having a plan or\ntwo, which were experiments lying very close to his heart, roughly\nnipped off without trial,--gave a new poignancy to the subtle fear that\ncame over him from time to time; until now, he had never recognised how\nmuch and how deep was the interest he had grown of late to feel in his\nposition as manufacturer, simply because it led him into such close\ncontact, and gave him the opportunity of so much power, among a race of\npeople strange, shrewd, ignorant; but, above all, full of character and\nstrong human feeling.\n\nHe reviewed his position as a Milton manufacturer. The strike a year and\na half ago,--or more, for it was now untimely wintry weather, in a late\nspring,--that strike, when he was young, and he now was old--had\nprevented his completing some of the large orders he had then on hand.\nHe had locked up a good deal of his capital in new and expensive\nmachinery, and he had also bought cotton largely, for the fulfilment of\nthese orders, taken under contract. That he had not been able to\ncomplete them, was owing in some degree to the utter want of skill on\nthe part of the Irish hands whom he had imported; much of their work was\ndamaged and unfit to be sent forth by a house which prided itself on\nturning out nothing but first-rate articles. For many months, the\nembarrassment caused by the strike had been an obstacle in Mr.\nThornton's way; and often, when his eye fell on Higgins, he could have\nspoken angrily to him without any present cause, just from feeling how\nserious was the injury that had arisen from this affair in which he was\nimplicated. But when he became conscious of this sudden, quick\nresentment, he resolved to curb it. It would not satisfy him to avoid\nHiggins; he must convince himself that he was master over his own anger,\nby being particularly careful to allow Higgins access to him, whenever\nthe strict rules of business, or Mr. Thornton's leisure permitted. And\nby-and-bye, he lost all sense of resentment in wonder how it was, or\ncould be, that two men like himself and Higgins, living by the same\ntrade, working in their different ways at the same object, could look\nupon each other's position and duties in so strangely different a way.\nAnd thence arose that intercourse, which though it might not have the\neffect of preventing all future clash of opinion and action, when the\noccasion arose, would, at any rate, enable both master and man to look\nupon each other with far more charity and sympathy, and bear with each\nother more patiently and kindly. Besides this improvement of feeling,\nboth Mr. Thornton and his workmen found out their ignorance as to\npositive matters of fact, known heretofore to one side, but not to the\nother.\n\nBut now had come one of those periods of bad trade, when the market\nfalling brought down the value of all large stocks; Mr. Thornton's fell\nto nearly half. No orders were coming in; so he lost the interest of the\ncapital he had locked up in machinery; indeed, it was difficult to get\npayment for the orders completed; yet there was the constant drain of\nexpenses for working the business. Then the bills became due for the\ncotton he had purchased; and money being scarce, he could only borrow at\nexorbitant interest, and yet he could not realise any of his property.\nBut he did not despair; he exerted himself day and night to foresee and\nto provide for all emergencies; he was as calm and gentle to the women\nin his home as ever; to the workmen in his mill he spoke not many words,\nbut they knew him by this time; and many a curt, decided answer was\nreceived by them rather with sympathy for the care they saw pressing\nupon him, than with the suppressed antagonism which had formerly been\nsmouldering, and ready for hard words and hard judgments on all\noccasions. 'Th' measter's a deal to potter him,' said Higgins, one day,\nas he heard Mr. Thornton's short, sharp inquiry, why such a command had\nnot been obeyed; and caught the sound of the suppressed sigh which he\nheaved in going past the room where some of the men were working.\nHiggins and another man stopped over-hours that night, unknown to any\none, to get the neglected piece of work done; and Mr. Thornton never\nknew but that the overlooker, to whom he had given the command in the\nfirst instance, had done it himself.\n\n'Eh! I reckon I know who'd ha' been sorry for to see our measter sitting\nso like a piece o' grey calico! Th' ou'd parson would ha' fretted his\nwoman's heart out, if he'd seen the woeful looks I have seen on our\nmeaster's face,' thought Higgins, one day, as he was approaching Mr.\nThornton in Marlborough Street.\n\n'Measter,' said he, stopping his employer in his quick resolved walk,\nand causing that gentleman to look up with a sudden annoyed start, as if\nhis thoughts had been far away.\n\n'Have yo' heerd aught of Miss Marget lately?'\n\n'Miss--who?' replied Mr. Thornton.\n\n'Miss Marget--Miss Hale--th' oud parson's daughter--yo known who I mean\nwell enough, if yo'll only think a bit--' (there was nothing\ndisrespectful in the tone in which this was said).\n\n'Oh yes!' and suddenly, the wintry frost-bound look of care had left Mr.\nThornton's face, as if some soft summer gale had blown all anxiety away\nfrom his mind; and though his mouth was as much compressed as before,\nhis eyes smiled out benignly on his questioner.\n\n'She's my landlord now, you know, Higgins. I hear of her through her\nagent here, every now and then. She's well and among friends--thank you,\nHiggins.' That 'thank you' that lingered after the other words, and yet\ncame with so much warmth of feeling, let in a new light to the acute\nHiggins. It might be but a will-o'-th'-wisp, but he thought he would\nfollow it and ascertain whither it would lead him.\n\n'And she's not getten married, measter?'\n\n'Not yet.' The face was cloudy once more. 'There is some talk of it, as\nI understand, with a connection of the family.'\n\n'Then she'll not be for coming to Milton again, I reckon.'\n\n'No!'\n\n'Stop a minute, measter.' Then going up confidentially close, he said,\n'Is th' young gentleman cleared?' He enforced the depth of his\nintelligence by a wink of the eye, which only made things more\nmysterious to Mr. Thornton.\n\n'Th' young gentleman, I mean--Master Frederick, they ca'ad him--her\nbrother as was over here, yo' known.'\n\n'Over here.'\n\n'Ay, to be sure, at th' missus's death. Yo' need na be feared of my\ntelling; for Mary and me, we knowed it all along, only we held our\npeace, for we got it through Mary working in th' house.'\n\n'And he was over. It was her brother!'\n\n'Sure enough, and I reckoned yo' knowed it or I'd never ha' let on. Yo'\nknowed she had a brother?'\n\n'Yes, I know all about him. And he was over at Mrs. Hale's death?'\n\n'Nay! I'm not going for to tell more. I've maybe getten them into\nmischief already, for they kept it very close. I nobbut wanted to know\nif they'd getten him cleared?'\n\n'Not that I know of. I know nothing. I only hear of Miss Hale, now, as\nmy landlord, and through her lawyer.'\n\nHe broke off from Higgins, to follow the business on which he had been\nbent when the latter first accosted him; leaving Higgins baffled in his\nendeavour.\n\n'It was her brother,' said Mr. Thornton to himself. 'I am glad. I may\nnever see her again; but it is a comfort--a relief--to know that much. I\nknew she could not be unmaidenly; and yet I yearned for conviction. Now\nI am glad!'\n\nIt was a little golden thread running through the dark web of his\npresent fortunes; which were growing ever gloomier and more gloomy. His\nagent had largely trusted a house in the American trade, which went\ndown, along with several others, just at this time, like a pack of\ncards, the fall of one compelling other failures. What were Mr.\nThornton's engagements? Could he stand?\n\nNight after night he took books and papers into his own private room,\nand sate up there long after the family were gone to bed. He thought\nthat no one knew of this occupation of the hours he should have spent in\nsleep. One morning, when daylight was stealing in through the crevices\nof his shutters, and he had never been in bed, and, in hopeless\nindifference of mind, was thinking that he could do without the hour or\ntwo of rest, which was all that he should be able to take before the\nstir of daily labour began again, the door of his room opened, and his\nmother stood there, dressed as she had been the day before. She had\nnever laid herself down to slumber any more than he. Their eyes met.\nTheir faces were cold and rigid, and wan, from long watching.\n\n'Mother! why are not you in bed?'\n\n'Son John,' said she, 'do you think I can sleep with an easy mind, while\nyou keep awake full of care? You have not told me what your trouble is;\nbut sore trouble you have had these many days past.'\n\n'Trade is bad.'\n\n'And you dread--'\n\n'I dread nothing,' replied he, drawing up his head, and holding it\nerect. 'I know now that no man will suffer by me. That was my anxiety.'\n\n'But how do you stand? Shall you--will it be a failure?' her steady\nvoice trembling in an unwonted manner.\n\n'Not a failure. I must give up business, but I pay all men. I might\nredeem myself--I am sorely tempted--'\n\n'How? Oh, John! keep up your name--try all risks for that. How redeem\nit?'\n\n'By a speculation offered to me, full of risk; but, if successful,\nplacing me high above water-mark, so that no one need ever know the\nstrait I am in. Still, if it fails--'\n\n'And if it fails,' said she, advancing, and laying her hand on his arm,\nher eyes full of eager light. She held her breath to hear the end of his\nspeech.\n\n'Honest men are ruined by a rogue,' said he gloomily. 'As I stand now,\nmy creditors, money is safe--every farthing of it; but I don't know\nwhere to find my own--it may be all gone, and I penniless at this\nmoment. Therefore, it is my creditors' money that I should risk.'\n\n'But if it succeeded, they need never know. Is it so desperate a\nspeculation? I am sure it is not, or you would never have thought of it.\nIf it succeeded--'\n\n'I should be a rich man, and my peace of conscience would be gone!'\n\n'Why! You would have injured no one.'\n\n'No; but I should have run the risk of ruining many for my own paltry\naggrandisement. Mother, I have decided! You won't much grieve over our\nleaving this house, shall you, dear mother?'\n\n'No! but to have you other than what you are will break my heart. What\ncan you do?'\n\n'Be always the same John Thornton in whatever circumstances;\nendeavouring to do right, and making great blunders; and then trying to\nbe brave in setting to afresh. But it is hard, mother. I have so worked\nand planned. I have discovered new powers in my situation too late--and\nnow all is over. I am too old to begin again with the same heart. It is\nhard, mother.'\n\nHe turned away from her, and covered his face with his hands.\n\n'I can't think,' said she, with gloomy defiance in her tone, 'how it\ncomes about. Here is my boy--good son, just man, tender heart--and he\nfails in all he sets his mind upon: he finds a woman to love, and she\ncares no more for his affection than if he had been any common man; he\nlabours, and his labour comes to nought. Other people prosper and grow\nrich, and hold their paltry names high and dry above shame.'\n\n'Shame never touched me,' said he, in a low tone: but she went on.\n\n'I sometimes have wondered where justice was gone to, and now I don't\nbelieve there is such a thing in the world,--now you are come to this;\nyou, my own John Thornton, though you and I may be beggars together--my\nown dear son!'\n\nShe fell upon his neck, and kissed him through her tears.\n\n'Mother!' said he, holding her gently in his arms, 'who has sent me my\nlot in life, both of good and of evil?'\n\nShe shook her head. She would have nothing to do with religion just\nthen.\n\n'Mother,' he went on, seeing that she would not speak, 'I, too, have\nbeen rebellious; but I am striving to be so no longer. Help me, as you\nhelped me when I was a child. Then you said many good words--when my\nfather died, and we were sometimes sorely short of comforts--which we\nshall never be now; you said brave, noble, trustful words then, mother,\nwhich I have never forgotten, though they may have lain dormant. Speak\nto me again in the old way, mother. Do not let us have to think that the\nworld has too much hardened our hearts. If you would say the old good\nwords, it would make me feel something of the pious simplicity of my\nchildhood. I say them to myself, but they would come differently from\nyou, remembering all the cares and trials you have had to bear.'\n\n'I have had a many,' said she, sobbing, 'but none so sore as this. To\nsee you cast down from your rightful place! I could say it for myself,\nJohn, but not for you. Not for you! God has seen fit to be very hard on\nyou, very.'\n\nShe shook with the sobs that come so convulsively when an old person\nweeps. The silence around her struck her at last; and she quieted\nherself to listen. No sound. She looked. Her son sate by the table, his\narms thrown half across it, his head bent face downwards.\n\n'Oh, John!' she said, and she lifted his face up. Such a strange, pallid\nlook of gloom was on it, that for a moment it struck her that this look\nwas the forerunner of death; but, as the rigidity melted out of the\ncountenance and the natural colour returned, and she saw that he was\nhimself once again, all worldly mortification sank to nothing before the\nconsciousness of the great blessing that he himself by his simple\nexistence was to her. She thanked God for this, and this alone, with a\nfervour that swept away all rebellious feelings from her mind.\n\nHe did not speak readily; but he went and opened the shutters, and let\nthe ruddy light of dawn flood the room. But the wind was in the east;\nthe weather was piercing cold, as it had been for weeks; there would be\nno demand for light summer goods this year. That hope for the revival of\ntrade must utterly be given up.\n\nIt was a great comfort to have had this conversation with his mother;\nand to feel sure that, however they might henceforward keep silence on\nall these anxieties, they yet understood each other's feelings, and\nwere, if not in harmony, at least not in discord with each other, in\ntheir way of viewing them. Fanny's husband was vexed at Thornton's\nrefusal to take any share in the speculation which he had offered to\nhim, and withdrew from any possibility of being supposed able to assist\nhim with the ready money, which indeed the speculator needed for his own\nventure.\n\nThere was nothing for it at last, but that which Mr. Thornton had\ndreaded for many weeks; he had to give up the business in which he had\nbeen so long engaged with so much honour and success; and look out for a\nsubordinate situation. Marlborough Mills and the adjacent dwelling were\nheld under a long lease; they must, if possible, be relet. There was an\nimmediate choice of situations offered to Mr. Thornton. Mr. Hamper would\nhave been only too glad to have secured him as a steady and experienced\npartner for his son, whom he was setting up with a large capital in a\nneighbouring town; but the young man was half-educated as regarded\ninformation, and wholly uneducated as regarded any other responsibility\nthan that of getting money, and brutalised both as to his pleasures and\nhis pains. Mr. Thornton declined having any share in a partnership,\nwhich would frustrate what few plans he had that survived the wreck of\nhis fortunes. He would sooner consent to be only a manager, where he\ncould have a certain degree of power beyond the mere money-getting part,\nthan have to fall in with the tyrannical humours of a moneyed partner\nwith whom he felt sure that he should quarrel in a few months.\n\nSo he waited, and stood on one side with profound humility, as the news\nswept through the Exchange, of the enormous fortune which his\nbrother-in-law had made by his daring speculation. It was a nine days'\nwonder. Success brought with it its worldly consequence of extreme\nadmiration. No one was considered so wise and far-seeing as Mr. Watson.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LI\n\nMEETING AGAIN\n\n    'Bear up, brave heart! we will be calm and strong;\n     Sure, we can master eyes, or cheek, or tongue,\n     Nor let the smallest tell-tale sign appear\n     She ever was, and is, and will be dear.'\n              RHYMING PLAY.\n\n\nIt was a hot summer's evening. Edith came into Margaret's bedroom, the\nfirst time in her habit, the second ready dressed for dinner. No one was\nthere at first; the next time Edith found Dixon laying out Margaret's\ndress on the bed; but no Margaret. Edith remained to fidget about.\n\n'Oh, Dixon! not those horrid blue flowers to that dead gold-coloured\ngown. What taste! Wait a minute, and I will bring you some pomegranate\nblossoms.'\n\n'It's not a dead gold-colour, ma'am. It's a straw-colour. And blue\nalways goes with straw-colour.' But Edith had brought the brilliant\nscarlet flowers before Dixon had got half through her remonstrance.\n\n'Where is Miss Hale?' asked Edith, as soon as she had tried the effect\nof the garniture. 'I can't think,' she went on, pettishly, 'how my aunt\nallowed her to get into such rambling habits in Milton! I'm sure I'm\nalways expecting to hear of her having met with something horrible among\nall those wretched places she pokes herself into. I should never dare to\ngo down some of those streets without a servant. They're not fit for\nladies.'\n\nDixon was still huffed about her despised taste; so she replied, rather\nshortly:\n\n'It's no wonder to my mind, when I hear ladies talk such a deal about\nbeing ladies--and when they're such fearful, delicate, dainty ladies\ntoo--I say it's no wonder to me that there are no longer any saints on\nearth---- '\n\n'Oh, Margaret! here you are! I have been so wanting you. But how your\ncheeks are flushed with the heat, poor child! But only think what that\ntiresome Henry has done; really, he exceeds brother-in-law's limits.\nJust when my party was made up so beautifully--fitted in so precisely\nfor Mr. Colthurst--there has Henry come, with an apology it is true, and\nmaking use of your name for an excuse, and asked me if he may bring that\nMr. Thornton of Milton--your tenant, you know--who is in London about\nsome law business. It will spoil my number, quite.'\n\n'I don't mind dinner. I don't want any,' said Margaret, in a low voice.\n'Dixon can get me a cup of tea here, and I will be in the drawing-room\nby the time you come up. I shall really be glad to lie down.'\n\n'No, no! that will never do. You do look wretchedly white, to be sure;\nbut that is just the heat, and we can't do without you possibly. (Those\nflowers a little lower, Dixon. They look glorious flames, Margaret, in\nyour black hair.) You know we planned you to talk about Milton to Mr.\nColthurst. Oh! to be sure! and this man comes from Milton. I believe it\nwill be capital, after all. Mr. Colthurst can pump him well on all the\nsubjects in which he is interested, and it will be great fun to trace\nout your experiences, and this Mr. Thornton's wisdom, in Mr. Colthurst's\nnext speech in the House. Really, I think it is a happy hit of Henry's.\nI asked him if he was a man one would be ashamed of; and he replied,\n\"Not if you've any sense in you, my little sister.\" So I suppose he is\nable to sound his h's, which is not a common Darkshire accomplishment--eh,\nMargaret?'\n\n'Mr. Lennox did not say why Mr. Thornton was come up to town? Was it law\nbusiness connected with the property?' asked Margaret, in a constrained\nvoice.\n\n'Oh! he's failed, or something of the kind, that Henry told you of that\nday you had such a headache,--what was it? (There, that's capital,\nDixon. Miss Hale does us credit, does she not?) I wish I was as tall as\na queen, and as brown as a gipsy, Margaret.'\n\n'But about Mr. Thornton?'\n\n'Oh I really have such a terrible head for law business. Henry will like\nnothing better than to tell you all about it. I know the impression he\nmade upon me was, that Mr. Thornton is very badly off, and a very\nrespectable man, and that I'm to be very civil to him; and as I did not\nknow how, I came to you to ask you to help me. And now come down with\nme, and rest on the sofa for a quarter of an hour.'\n\nThe privileged brother-in-law came early and Margaret reddening as she\nspoke, began to ask him the questions she wanted to hear answered about\nMr. Thornton.\n\n'He came up about this sub-letting the property--Marlborough Mills, and\nthe house and premises adjoining, I mean. He is unable to keep it on;\nand there are deeds and leases to be looked over, and agreements to be\ndrawn up. I hope Edith will receive him properly; but she was rather put\nout, as I could see, by the liberty I had taken in begging for an\ninvitation for him. But I thought you would like to have some attention\nshown him: and one would be particularly scrupulous in paying every\nrespect to a man who is going down in the world.' He had dropped his\nvoice to speak to Margaret, by whom he was sitting; but as he ended he\nsprang up, and introduced Mr. Thornton, who had that moment entered, to\nEdith and Captain Lennox.\n\nMargaret looked with an anxious eye at Mr. Thornton while he was thus\noccupied. It was considerably more than a year since she had seen him;\nand events had occurred to change him much in that time. His fine figure\nyet bore him above the common height of men; and gave him a\ndistinguished appearance, from the ease of motion which arose out of it,\nand was natural to him; but his face looked older and care-worn; yet a\nnoble composure sate upon it, which impressed those who had just been\nhearing of his changed position, with a sense of inherent dignity and\nmanly strength. He was aware, from the first glance he had given round\nthe room, that Margaret was there; he had seen her intent look of\noccupation as she listened to Mr. Henry Lennox; and he came up to her\nwith the perfectly regulated manner of an old friend. With his first\ncalm words a vivid colour flashed into her cheeks, which never left them\nagain during the evening. She did not seem to have much to say to him.\nShe disappointed him by the quiet way in which she asked what seemed to\nhim to be the merely necessary questions respecting her old\nacquaintances, in Milton; but others came in--more intimate in the house\nthan he--and he fell into the background, where he and Mr. Lennox talked\ntogether from time to time.\n\n'You think Miss Hale looking well,' said Mr. Lennox, 'don't you? Milton\ndidn't agree with her, I imagine; for when she first came to London, I\nthought I had never seen any one so much changed. To-night she is\nlooking radiant. But she is much stronger. Last autumn she was fatigued\nwith a walk of a couple of miles. On Friday evening we walked up to\nHampstead and back. Yet on Saturday she looked as well as she does now.\n\n'We!' Who? They two alone?\n\nMr. Colthurst was a very clever man, and a rising member of parliament.\nHe had a quick eye at discerning character, and was struck by a remark\nwhich Mr. Thornton made at dinner-time. He enquired from Edith who that\ngentleman was; and, rather to her surprise, she found, from the tone of\nhis 'Indeed!' that Mr. Thornton of Milton was not such an unknown name\nto him as she had imagined it would be. Her dinner was going off well.\nHenry was in good humour, and brought out his dry caustic wit admirably.\nMr. Thornton and Mr. Colthurst found one or two mutual subjects of\ninterest, which they could only touch upon then, reserving them for more\nprivate after-dinner talk. Margaret looked beautiful in the pomegranate\nflowers; and if she did lean back in her chair and speak but little,\nEdith was not annoyed, for the conversation flowed on smoothly without\nher. Margaret was watching Mr. Thornton's face. He never looked at her;\nso she might study him unobserved, and note the changes which even this\nshort time had wrought in him. Only at some unexpected mot of Mr.\nLennox's, his face flashed out into the old look of intense enjoyment;\nthe merry brightness returned to his eyes, the lips just parted to\nsuggest the brilliant smile of former days; and for an instant, his\nglance instinctively sought hers, as if he wanted her sympathy. But when\ntheir eyes met, his whole countenance changed; he was grave and anxious\nonce more; and he resolutely avoided even looking near her again during\ndinner.\n\nThere were only two ladies besides their own party, and as these were\noccupied in conversation by her aunt and Edith, when they went up into\nthe drawing-room, Margaret languidly employed herself about some work.\nPresently the gentlemen came up, Mr. Colthurst and Mr. Thornton in close\nconversation. Mr. Lennox drew near to Margaret, and said in a low voice:\n\n'I really think Edith owes me thanks for my contribution to her party.\nYou've no idea what an agreeable, sensible fellow this tenant of yours\nis. He has been the very man to give Colthurst all the facts he wanted\ncoaching in. I can't conceive how he contrived to mismanage his\naffairs.'\n\n'With his powers and opportunities you would have succeeded,' said\nMargaret. He did not quite relish the tone in which she spoke, although\nthe words but expressed a thought which had passed through his own mind.\nAs he was silent, they caught a swell in the sound of conversation going\non near the fire-place between Mr. Colthurst and Mr. Thornton.\n\n'I assure you, I heard it spoken of with great interest--curiosity as to\nits result, perhaps I should rather say. I heard your name frequently\nmentioned during my short stay in the neighbourhood.' Then they lost\nsome words; and when next they could hear Mr. Thornton was speaking.\n\n'I have not the elements for popularity--if they spoke of me in that\nway, they were mistaken. I fall slowly into new projects; and I find it\ndifficult to let myself be known, even by those whom I desire to know,\nand with whom I would fain have no reserve. Yet, even with all these\ndrawbacks, I felt that I was on the right path, and that, starting from\na kind of friendship with one, I was becoming acquainted with many. The\nadvantages were mutual: we were both unconsciously and consciously\nteaching each other.'\n\n'You say \"were.\" I trust you are intending to pursue the same course?'\n\n'I must stop Colthurst,' said Henry Lennox, hastily. And by an abrupt,\nyet apropos question, he turned the current of the conversation, so as\nnot to give Mr. Thornton the mortification of acknowledging his want of\nsuccess and consequent change of position. But as soon as the\nnewly-started subject had come to a close, Mr. Thornton resumed the\nconversation just where it had been interrupted, and gave Mr. Colthurst\nthe reply to his inquiry.\n\n'I have been unsuccessful in business, and have had to give up my\nposition as a master. I am on the look out for a situation in Milton,\nwhere I may meet with employment under some one who will be willing to\nlet me go along my own way in such matters as these. I can depend upon\nmyself for having no go-ahead theories that I would rashly bring into\npractice. My only wish is to have the opportunity of cultivating some\nintercourse with the hands beyond the mere \"cash nexus.\" But it might be\nthe point Archimedes sought from which to move the earth, to judge from\nthe importance attached to it by some of our manufacturers, who shake\ntheir heads and look grave as soon as I name the one or two experiments\nthat I should like to try.'\n\n'You call them \"experiments\" I notice,' said Mr. Colthurst, with a\ndelicate increase of respect in his manner.\n\n'Because I believe them to be such. I am not sure of the consequences\nthat may result from them. But I am sure they ought to be tried. I have\narrived at the conviction that no mere institutions, however wise, and\nhowever much thought may have been required to organise and arrange\nthem, can attach class to class as they should be attached, unless the\nworking out of such institutions bring the individuals of the different\nclasses into actual personal contact. Such intercourse is the very\nbreath of life. A working man can hardly be made to feel and know how\nmuch his employer may have laboured in his study at plans for the\nbenefit of his workpeople. A complete plan emerges like a piece of\nmachinery, apparently fitted for every emergency. But the hands accept\nit as they do machinery, without understanding the intense mental labour\nand forethought required to bring it to such perfection. But I would\ntake an idea, the working out of which would necessitate personal\nintercourse; it might not go well at first, but at every hitch interest\nwould be felt by an increasing number of men, and at last its success in\nworking come to be desired by all, as all had borne a part in the\nformation of the plan; and even then I am sure that it would lose its\nvitality, cease to be living, as soon as it was no longer carried on by\nthat sort of common interest which invariably makes people find means\nand ways of seeing each other, and becoming acquainted with each others'\ncharacters and persons, and even tricks of temper and modes of speech.\nWe should understand each other better, and I'll venture to say we\nshould like each other more.'\n\n'And you think they may prevent the recurrence of strikes?'\n\n'Not at all. My utmost expectation only goes so far as this--that they\nmay render strikes not the bitter, venomous sources of hatred they have\nhitherto been. A more hopeful man might imagine that a closer and more\ngenial intercourse between classes might do away with strikes. But I am\nnot a hopeful man.'\n\nSuddenly, as if a new idea had struck him, he crossed over to where\nMargaret was sitting, and began, without preface, as if he knew she had\nbeen listening to all that had passed:\n\n'Miss Hale, I had a round-robin from some of my men--I suspect in\nHiggins' handwriting--stating their wish to work for me, if ever I was\nin a position to employ men again on my own behalf. That was good,\nwasn't it?'\n\n'Yes. Just right. I am glad of it,' said Margaret, looking up straight\ninto his face with her speaking eyes, and then dropping them under his\neloquent glance. He gazed back at her for a minute, as if he did not\nknow exactly what he was about. Then sighed; and saying, 'I knew you\nwould like it,' he turned away, and never spoke to her again until he\nbid her a formal 'good night.'\n\nAs Mr. Lennox took his departure, Margaret said, with a blush that she\ncould not repress, and with some hesitation,\n\n'Can I speak to you to-morrow? I want your help about--something.'\n\n'Certainly. I will come at whatever time you name. You cannot give me a\ngreater pleasure than by making me of any use. At eleven? Very well.'\n\nHis eye brightened with exultation. How she was learning to depend upon\nhim! It seemed as if any day now might give him the certainty, without\nhaving which he had determined never to offer to her again.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LII\n\n'PACK CLOUDS AWAY'\n\n    'For joy or grief, for hope or fear,\n     For all hereafter, as for here,\n     In peace or strife, in storm or shine.'\n              ANON.\n\n\nEdith went about on tip-toe, and checked Sholto in all loud speaking\nthat next morning, as if any sudden noise would interrupt the conference\nthat was taking place in the drawing-room. Two o'clock came; and they\nstill sate there with closed doors. Then there was a man's footstep\nrunning down stairs; and Edith peeped out of the drawing-room.\n\n'Well, Henry?' said she, with a look of interrogation.\n\n'Well!' said he, rather shortly.\n\n'Come in to lunch!'\n\n'No, thank you, I can't. I've lost too much time here already.'\n\n'Then it's not all settled,' said Edith despondingly.\n\n'No! not at all. It never will be settled, if the \"it\" is what I\nconjecture you mean. That will never be, Edith, so give up thinking\nabout it.'\n\n'But it would be so nice for us all,' pleaded Edith. 'I should always\nfeel comfortable about the children, if I had Margaret settled down near\nme. As it is, I am always afraid of her going off to Cadiz.'\n\n'I will try, when I marry, to look out for a young lady who has a\nknowledge of the management of children. That is all I can do. Miss Hale\nwould not have me. And I shall not ask her.'\n\n'Then, what have you been talking about?'\n\n'A thousand things you would not understand: investments, and leases,\nand value of land.'\n\n'Oh, go away if that's all. You and she will be unbearably stupid, if\nyou've been talking all this time about such weary things.'\n\n'Very well. I'm coming again to-morrow, and bringing Mr. Thornton with\nme, to have some more talk with Miss Hale.'\n\n'Mr. Thornton! What has he to do with it?'\n\n'He is Miss Hale's tenant,' said Mr. Lennox, turning away. 'And he\nwishes to give up his lease.'\n\n'Oh! very well. I can't understand details, so don't give them me.'\n\n'The only detail I want you to understand is, to let us have the back\ndrawing-room undisturbed, as it was to-day. In general, the children and\nservants are so in and out, that I can never get any business\nsatisfactorily explained; and the arrangements we have to make to-morrow\nare of importance.'\n\nNo one ever knew why Mr. Lennox did not keep to his appointment on the\nfollowing day. Mr. Thornton came true to his time; and, after keeping\nhim waiting for nearly an hour, Margaret came in looking very white and\nanxious.\n\nShe began hurriedly:\n\n'I am so sorry Mr. Lennox is not here,--he could have done it so much\nbetter than I can. He is my adviser in this'----\n\n'I am sorry that I came, if it troubles you. Shall I go to Mr. Lennox's\nchambers and try and find him?'\n\n'No, thank you. I wanted to tell you, how grieved I was to find that I\nam to lose you as a tenant. But, Mr. Lennox says, things are sure to\nbrighten'----\n\n'Mr. Lennox knows little about it,' said Mr. Thornton quietly. 'Happy\nand fortunate in all a man cares for, he does not understand what it is\nto find oneself no longer young--yet thrown back to the starting-point\nwhich requires the hopeful energy of youth--to feel one half of life\ngone, and nothing done--nothing remaining of wasted opportunity, but the\nbitter recollection that it has been. Miss Hale, I would rather not hear\nMr. Lennox's opinion of my affairs. Those who are happy and successful\nthemselves are too apt to make light of the misfortunes of others.'\n\n'You are unjust,' said Margaret, gently. 'Mr. Lennox has only spoken of\nthe great probability which he believes there to be of your\nredeeming--your more than redeeming what you have lost--don't speak till\nI have ended--pray don't!' And collecting herself once more, she went on\nrapidly turning over some law papers, and statements of accounts in a\ntrembling hurried manner. 'Oh! here it is! and--he drew me out a\nproposal--I wish he was here to explain it--showing that if you would\ntake some money of mine, eighteen thousand and fifty-seven pounds, lying\njust at this moment unused in the bank, and bringing me in only two and\na half per cent.--you could pay me much better interest, and might go on\nworking Marlborough Mills.' Her voice had cleared itself and become more\nsteady. Mr. Thornton did not speak, and she went on looking for some\npaper on which were written down the proposals for security; for she was\nmost anxious to have it all looked upon in the light of a mere business\narrangement, in which the principal advantage would be on her side.\nWhile she sought for this paper, her very heart-pulse was arrested by\nthe tone in which Mr. Thornton spoke. His voice was hoarse, and\ntrembling with tender passion, as he said:--\n\n'Margaret!'\n\nFor an instant she looked up; and then sought to veil her luminous eyes\nby dropping her forehead on her hands. Again, stepping nearer, he\nbesought her with another tremulous eager call upon her name.\n\n'Margaret!'\n\nStill lower went the head; more closely hidden was the face, almost\nresting on the table before her. He came close to her. He knelt by her\nside, to bring his face to a level with her ear; and whispered-panted\nout the words:--\n\n'Take care.--If you do not speak--I shall claim you as my own in some\nstrange presumptuous way.--Send me away at once, if I must\ngo;--Margaret!--'\n\nAt that third call she turned her face, still covered with her small\nwhite hands, towards him, and laid it on his shoulder, hiding it even\nthere; and it was too delicious to feel her soft cheek against his, for\nhim to wish to see either deep blushes or loving eyes. He clasped her\nclose. But they both kept silence. At length she murmured in a broken\nvoice:\n\n'Oh, Mr. Thornton, I am not good enough!'\n\n'Not good enough! Don't mock my own deep feeling of unworthiness.'\n\nAfter a minute or two, he gently disengaged her hands from her face, and\nlaid her arms as they had once before been placed to protect him from\nthe rioters.\n\n'Do you remember, love?' he murmured. 'And how I requited you with my\ninsolence the next day?'\n\n'I remember how wrongly I spoke to you,--that is all.'\n\n'Look here! Lift up your head. I have something to show you!' She slowly\nfaced him, glowing with beautiful shame.\n\n'Do you know these roses?' he said, drawing out his pocket-book, in\nwhich were treasured up some dead flowers.\n\n'No!' she replied, with innocent curiosity. 'Did I give them to you?'\n\n'No! Vanity; you did not. You may have worn sister roses very probably.'\n\nShe looked at them, wondering for a minute, then she smiled a little as\nshe said--\n\n'They are from Helstone, are they not? I know the deep indentations\nround the leaves. Oh! have you been there? When were you there?'\n\n'I wanted to see the place where Margaret grew to what she is, even at\nthe worst time of all, when I had no hope of ever calling her mine. I\nwent there on my return from Havre.'\n\n'You must give them to me,' she said, trying to take them out of his\nhand with gentle violence.\n\n'Very well. Only you must pay me for them!'\n\n'How shall I ever tell Aunt Shaw?' she whispered, after some time of\ndelicious silence.\n\n'Let me speak to her.'\n\n'Oh, no! I owe to her,--but what will she say?'\n\n'I can guess. Her first exclamation will be, \"That man!\"'\n\n'Hush!' said Margaret, 'or I shall try and show you your mother's\nindignant tones as she says, \"That woman!\"'"