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NOVELS AND TALES 
 
 MRS. GASKELL. 
 
 VOLUME II. 
 
WOBKS BY MRS. GASKELL. 
 
 Unifoem Edition. In 7 vols., ,each containing Four 
 Illustrations, 3s. 6d. each, bound in cloth. 
 
 WIVES AND DAUGHTEKS. 
 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 SYLVIA'S LOVEKS. 
 CRANFOED, and other Tales. 
 MARY BARTON, and other Tales. 
 RUTH, and other Tales. 
 
 LIZZIE LEIGH, and other Tales. 
 
 *»* AUo the Popular Editicm, in 7 t-ofo. /cp. 8t)0. limp clothe 
 2s. 6rf. each. 
 
 I 
 
 London: SMITH, ELDER, & CO., 13 Waterloo Place. 
 
NOVELS AND TALES 
 
 MRS. GASKELL. 
 
 IN SEVEK VOLUMES. 
 
 Vol. n. 
 NOETH AND SOUTH, 
 
 LONDON: 
 SMITH, ELDEE, & CO., 15 WATEELOO PLACE. 
 
 1889. u 
 
 uwrvt-u&i'i Y 
 
Fronti^ieog, 
 
 "She took his hand in hers and grasped it tight." p. 30. 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 MES. GASKELL. 
 
 A NETR? EDITION, W/^ITH FOUR ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 LONDON: 
 SMITH, ELDER, & CO., 15 WATERLOO PLACE. 
 
 1889. 
 
A. Lf05^3 
 
 UNIVtR€:TY'| 
 
 ^ " ~ ' * -"' 
 
On its first appearance in '' Household Words," this 
 tale was obliged to conform to the conditions imposed 
 by the requirements of a weekly publication, and like- 
 wise to confine itself within certain advertised limits, 
 in order that faith might be kept with the public. 
 Although these conditions were made- as light as they 
 well could be, the author found it impossible to develope 
 the story in the manner originally intended, and, more 
 especially, was compelled to hurry on events with an 
 improbable rapidity towards the close. In some degree 
 to remedy this obvious defect, various short passages 
 have been inserted, and several new chapters added. 
 With this brief explanation, tlie tale is commended tc 
 the kindness of the reader ; 
 
 " Beseking hym lowly, of mercy and pite, 
 Of its rude mn.kyng to linve compansion," 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 CHAPTEE I. 
 
 "HASTE TO THE "WEDDING." 
 
 " Wooed and married and a'." 
 
 " Edith ! " said Margaret, gently, " Edith ! " 
 
 But as Margaret half suspected, Edith had fallen asleep^ 
 She lay curled up on the sofa in the back drawing-room in 
 Harley Street, looking very lovely in her white musUn and 
 blue ribbons. If Titania had ever been dressed in white 
 muslin and blue ribbons, and had fallen asleep on a crimson 
 damask sofa in a back drawing-room, Edith might have been 
 taken for her. Margaret was struck afresh by her cousin's 
 beauty. They had grown up together from childhood, and all 
 along Edith had been remarked upon by every one, except 
 Margaret, for .her prettiness ; but Margaret had never thought 
 about it until the last few days, when the prospect of soon 
 losing her companion seemed to give force to every sweet 
 quality and charm which Edith possessed. They had been 
 talking about wedding dresses, and wedding ceremonies ; and 
 Captain Lennox, and what he had told Edith about her future 
 life at Corfu, where his regiment was stationed ; and the diffi- 
 culty of keeping a piano in good tune (a difficulty which Edith 
 seemed to consider as one of the most formidable that could 
 befall her in her married life), and what gowns she should 
 want in the visits to Scotland, which would immediately 
 succeed her marriage ; but the whispered tone had latterly 
 become more drowsy ; and Margaret, after a pause of a few 
 minutes, found, as she fancied, that in spite of the buzz in the 
 next room, Edith had rolled herself up into a soft ball of 
 muslin and ribbon, and silken curls, and gone off into a peace- 
 ful little after-dinner nap. 
 
2 NOETH AND SOUTH. 
 
 Margaret had been on the point of telling her consin of 
 Boma of the plans and visions which she entertained as to her 
 future life in the country parsonage, where her father and 
 mother lived ; and where her bright hoUdays had always been 
 passed, though for the last ten years her aunt Shaw's house 
 had been considered as her home. But in default of a listener, 
 she had to brood over the change in her life silently as hereto- 
 fore. It was a happy brooding, although tinged with regret at 
 being separated for an indefinite time from her gentle aunt and 
 dear cousin. As she thought of the delight of filling the 
 important post of only daughter in Helstone parsonage, pieces 
 of the conversation out of the next room came upon her ears. 
 Her aunt Shaw was talking to the five or six ladies who had 
 been dining there, and whose husbands were still in the dining- 
 room. They were the familiar acquaintances of the house ; 
 neighbours whom Mrs. Shaw called friends, because she 
 happened to dine with them more frequently than with any 
 other people, and because if she or Edith wanted anything 
 from them, or they from her, they did not scruple to make a 
 call at each other's houses before luncheon. These ladies and 
 their husbands were invited, in their capacity of friends, to eat 
 a farewell dinner in honour of Edith's approaching marriage. 
 Edith had rather objected to this arrangement, for Captain 
 Lennox was expected to arrive by a late train this very 
 evening ; but, although she was a spoiled child, she was too 
 careless and idle to have a very strong will of her own, and 
 gave way when she found that her mother had absolutely 
 ordered those extra delicacies of the season which are always 
 supposed to be efficacious against immoderate grief at farewell 
 dinners. She contented herself by leaning back in her chair, 
 merely playing with the food on her plate, and looking grave 
 and absent ; while all around her were enjoying the mots of 
 Mr. Grey, the gentleman who always took the bottom of the 
 table at Mrs. Shaw's diimer parties, and asked Edith to give 
 them some music in the drawing-room. Mr. Grey was par- 
 ticularly agreeable over this farewell dinner, and the gentlemen 
 staid down stairs longer than usual. It was very well they 
 did — to judge from the fragments of conversation which 
 Margaret overheard. 
 
 " I suffered too much myself; not that I was not extremely 
 happy with the poor dear General, but still disparity of age is 
 a drawback ; one that I was resolved Edith should not have 
 to encounter. Of course, without any maternal partiality, I 
 
" HASTE TO THE WEDDING. " 8 
 
 foresaw that the dear child was likely to many early ; indeed 
 I had often said that I was sure she would be married before 
 she was nineteen. I had quite a prophetic feeling when 
 Captain Lennox " — and here the yoice dropped into a whisper, 
 but Margaret could easily supply the Want. The course of 
 true love in Edith's case had run remarkably smooth. Mrs. 
 Shaw had given way to the presentiment, as she expressed it ; 
 and had rather urged on the marriage, although it was below 
 the expectations which many of Edith's acquaintances had 
 formed for her, a young and pretty heiress. But Mrs. Shaw 
 said that her only child should marry for love, — and sighed 
 emphatically, as if love had not been her motive for marrying 
 the General. Mrs. Shaw enjoyed the romance of the present 
 engagement rather more than her daughter. Not but that 
 Edith was very thoroughly and properly in love; still she 
 would certainly have preferred a good house in Belgravia, to 
 all the picturesqueness of the life which Captain Lennox 
 described at Corfu. The very parts which made Margaret 
 glow as she listened, Edith pretended to shiver and shudder 
 at ; partly for the pleasure she had in being coaxed out of her 
 dislike by her fond lover, and partly because anything of a 
 gipsy or make-shift life was really distasteful to her. Yet had 
 any one come with a fine house, and a fine estate, and a fine 
 title to boot, Edith would still have clung to Captain Lennox 
 while the temptation lasted ; when it was over, it is possible 
 she might have had little qualms of ill- concealed regret that 
 Captain Lennox could not have united in his person every- 
 thing that was desirable. In this she was but her mother's 
 child ; who, after deliberately marrying General Shaw with no 
 warmer feeling than respect for his character and establishment, 
 was constantly, though quietly bemoaning her hard lot in being 
 united to one whom she could not love. 
 
 " I have spared no expense in her trousseau," were the next 
 words Margaret heard. " She has all the beautiful Indian 
 shawls and scarfs the General gave to me, but which I shall 
 never wear again." 
 
 " She is a lucky girl," replied another voice, which 
 Margeret knew to be that of Mrs. Gibson, a lady who was 
 taking a double interest in the conversation, from the fact oi 
 one of her daughters having been married within the last few 
 weeks. " Helen had set her heart upon an Indian shawl, but 
 really when I found what an extravagant price was asked, I was 
 obliged to refuse her. She will be quite envious when she 
 
 1—2 
 
'i MOUTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 hears of Edith having Indian shawls. What kind are they ? 
 Delhi ? with the lovely little borders ? " 
 
 Margaret heard her aunt's voice again, but this time it was 
 as if she had raised herself up from her half-recumbent 
 position, and were looking into the more dimly lighted back 
 drawing-room. "Edith! Edith!" cried she; and then she 
 sank as if wearied by the exertion. Margaret stepped forward. 
 
 " Edith is asleep, Aunt Shaw. Is it anything I can do ? " 
 
 All the ladies said " Poor child ! " on receiving this dis- 
 tressing intelligence about Edith ; and the minute lap-dog in 
 Mrs. Shaw's arms began to bark, as if excited by the burst of 
 pity. 
 
 "Hush, Tiny! you naughty little girl! you will waken your 
 mistress. It was only to ask Edith if she would tell Newton 
 to bring down her shawls : perhaps you would go, Margaret 
 dear ? " 
 
 Margaret went up into the old nursery at the very top of 
 the house, where Newton was busy getting up some laces which 
 were required for the wedding. While Newton went (not 
 without a muttered grumbling) to undo the shawls, which had 
 abeady been exhibited four or five times that day, Margaret 
 looked round upon the nursery ; the first room in that house 
 with which she had become familiar nine years ago, when she 
 was brought, all untamed from the forest, to share the home, the 
 play, and the lessons of her cousin Edith. She remembered 
 the dark, dim look of the London nursery, presided over by an 
 austere and ceremonious nurse, who was terribly particular 
 about clean hands and torn frocks. She recollected the first 
 tea up there — separate from her father and aunt, who were 
 dining somewhere down below, an infinite depth of stairs ; for 
 unless she were up in the sky (the child thought), they must 
 be deep down in the bowels of the earth. At home — before she 
 came to live in Harley Street — her mother's dressing-room had 
 been her nursery ; and as they kept early hours in the country 
 parsonage, Margaret had always had her meals with her father 
 and mother. Oh ! well did the tall stately girl of eighteen 
 remember the tears shed with such wild passion of grief by the 
 little girl of nine, as she hid her face under the bed-clothes in 
 that first night ; and how she was bidden not to cry by the nurse, 
 because it would disturb Miss Edith ; and how she had cried as 
 bitterly, but more quietly, till her newly-seen, grand, pretty aunt 
 had come softly upstairs with Mr. Hale to show him his little 
 Bleeping daughter. Then the little Margaret had hushed her 
 
" HASTE TO THE WEDDINGr." 5 
 
 sobs, and tried to lie quiet as if asleep, for fear of making her 
 father unhappy by her grief, which she dared not express before 
 her aunt, and which she rather thought it was wrong to feel at 
 all after the long hoping, and planning, and contriTiug they 
 had gone through at home, before her wardrobe could be 
 arranged so as to suit her grander circumstances, and before 
 papa could leave his parish to come up to London, even for 
 a few days. 
 
 Now she had got to love the old nursery, though it was but 
 a dismantled place ; and she looked all round, with a kind of 
 oat-like regret, at the idea of leaving it for ever in three days. 
 
 " Ah Newton ! " said she, " I think we shall all be sorry to 
 leave this dear old room." 
 
 " Indeed, miss, I shan't for one. My eyes are not so good 
 as they were, and the light here is so bad that I can't see to 
 mend laces except just at the window, where there's always a 
 shocking draught — enough to give one one's death of cold." 
 
 " Well, I dare say you wiU have both good light and plenty 
 of warmth at Naples. You must keep as much of your darning 
 as you can till then. Thank you, Newton, I can take them 
 down — you're busy." 
 
 So Margaret went down laden with shawls, and snuffing up 
 their spicy Eastern smell. Her aunt asked her to stand as a 
 sort of lay figure on which to display them, as Edith was stiU 
 asleep. No one thought about it ; but Margaret's tall, finely 
 made figure, in the black silk dress which she was wearing as 
 mourning for some distant relative of her father's, set off the 
 long beautiful folds of the gorgeous shawls that would have 
 half- smothered Edith. Margaret stood right under the chan- 
 dalier, quite silent and passive, while her aunt adjusted the 
 draperies. Occasionally, as she was turned round, she caught 
 a glimpse of herself in the mirror over the chimney-piece, and 
 smiled at her own appearance there — the familiar features in 
 the usual garb of a princess. She touched the shawls gently 
 as they hung around her, and took a pleasure in their soft feel 
 and their brilliant colours, and rather liked to be dressed in 
 such splendour — enjoying it much as a child would do, with 
 a quiet pleased smile on her lips. Just then the door opened, 
 and Mr. Henry Lennox was suddenly announced. Sonie of 
 the ladies started back, as if half-ashamed of their feminine 
 interest in dress. Mrs. Shaw held out her hand to the new- 
 comer ; Margaret stood perfectly still, thinking she might be 
 yet wanted as a sort of block for the shawls ; but looking at 
 
6 NOETH AND SOUTH. 
 
 Mr. Lennox with a bright, amused face, as if sure of his sympathy 
 in her sense of the ludicrousness at being thus surprised. 
 
 Her aunt was so much absorbed in asking Mr. Henry 
 Lennox — ^who had not been able to come to dinner — all sorts 
 of questions about his brother the bridegroom, his sister the 
 bridesmaid (coining with the Captain from Scotland for the 
 occasion), and various other members of the Lennox family, 
 that Margaret saw she was no more wanted as shawl-bearer, 
 and devoted herself to the amusement of the other visitors, 
 whom her aunt had for the moment forgotten. Almost imme- 
 diately, Edith came in from the back drawing-room, winking 
 and blinking her eyes at the stronger light, shaking back her 
 slightly-ruffled curls, and altogether looking like the Sleeping 
 Beauty just startled from her dreams. Even in her slumber 
 she had instinctively felt that a Lennox was worth rousing 
 herself for ; and she had a multitude of questions to ask about 
 dear Janet, the future, unseen sister-in-law, for whom she 
 professed so much affection, that if Margaret had not been very 
 proud she might have almost felt jealous of the mushroom rival. 
 As Margaret sank rather more into the background on her 
 aunt's joining the conversation, she saw Henry Lennox 
 directing his look towards a vacant seat near her ; and she 
 knew perfectly well that as soon as Edith released him from 
 her questioning, he would take possession of that chair. She 
 had not been quite sure, from her aunt's rather confused 
 account of his engagements, whether he would come that night ; 
 it was almost a surprise to see him ; and now she was sure of 
 a pleasant evening. He Hked and disliked pretty nearly the 
 same things that she did. Margaret's face was lightened up 
 into an honest, open brightness. By-and-by he came. She 
 received him with a smUe which had not a tinge of shyness or 
 self-consciousness in it. 
 
 " Well, I suppose you are all in the depths of business — 
 ladies' business, I mean. Very different to my business, which 
 is the real true law business. Playing with shawls is very 
 different work to drawing up settlements." 
 
 "Ah, I knew how you would be amused to find us all so 
 occupied in admiring finery. But really Indian shawls are 
 very perfect things of their kind." 
 
 " I have no doubt they are. Their prices are very perfect, 
 too. Kothing wanting." 
 
 The gentlemen came dropping in one by one, and the buzz 
 and noise deepened in tone. 
 
"HASTE TO THE WEDDING." 7 
 
 " This is your last dinner-party, is it not ? There are no 
 more before Thursday ?" 
 
 " No. I think after this evening we shall feel at rest, 
 flrhioh I am sure I have not done for many weeks ; at least, 
 that kind of rest when the hands have nothing more to do, 
 and all the arrangements are complete for an event which must 
 occupy one's head and heart. I shall be glad to have time to 
 think, and I am sure Edith will." 
 
 "I am not so sure about her; but I can fancy that yon 
 will. Whenever I have seen you lately, you have been carried 
 away by a whirlwind of some other person's making." 
 
 " Yes," said Margaret, rather sadly, remembering the 
 never-ending commotion about trifles that had been going on 
 for more than a month past : "I wonder if a marriage must 
 always be preceded by what you call a whirlwind, or whether 
 in some cases there might not rather be a calm and peaceful 
 time just before it." 
 
 " Cinderella's godmother ordering the trousseau, the 
 wedding-breakfast, writing the notes of invitation, for instance," 
 said Mr. Lennox, laughing. 
 
 " But are all these quite necessary troubles ?" asked 
 Margaret, looking up straight at him for an answer. A sense 
 of indescribable weariness of all the arrangements for a pretty 
 effect, in which Edith had been busied as supreme authority 
 for the last six weeks, oppressed her just now ; and she really 
 wanted some one to help her to a few pleasant, quiet ideas 
 connected fvith a marriage. 
 
 " Oh, of course," he replied with a change to gravity in 
 his tone. " There are forms and ceremonies to be gone through, 
 not so much to satisfy oneself, as to stop the world's mouth, 
 without which stoppage there would be very little satisfaction 
 in life. But how would you have a wedding arranged ?" 
 
 " Oh, I have never thought much about it ; only I should 
 like it to be a very fine summer morning ; and I should like 
 to walk to church through the shade of trees ; and not to have 
 so many bridesmaids, and to have no wedding-breakfast. I 
 dare say I am resolving against the very things that have given 
 me the most trouble just now." 
 
 " No, I don't think you are. The idea of stately simpli- 
 city accords well with your character." 
 
 Margaret did not quite like this speech ; she winced away 
 from it more, from remembering former occasions on which he 
 had tried to lead her into a discussion (in which he took the 
 
8 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 complimentary part) about her own character and ways of going 
 on. She cut his speech rather short by saying : 
 
 " It is natural for me to think of Helstone church, and the 
 walk to it, rather than of driving up to a London church in 
 the middle of a paved street." 
 
 " Tell me about Helstone. You have never described it 
 to me. I should like to have some idea of the place you will 
 be living in, when ninety-six Harley Street will be looking dingy 
 and dirty, and duU, and shut up. Is Helstone a village, or a 
 town, in the first place ?" 
 
 " Oh, only a hamlet ; I don't think I could call it a village 
 at all. There is the church and a few houses near it on the 
 green — cottages, rather — with roses growing all over them." 
 
 " And flowering all the year round, especially at Christmas 
 — make your picture complete," said he. 
 
 " No," replied Margaret, somewhat annoyed, " I am not 
 making a picture. I am trying to describe Helstone as it really 
 is. You should not have said that." 
 
 " I am penitent," he answered. " Only it really sounded 
 like a village in a tale rather than in real life." 
 
 " And so it is," replied Margaret, eagerly, " All the other 
 places in England that I have seen seem so hard and prosaic- 
 looking, after the New Forest. Helstone is like a village in a 
 poem— in one of Tennyson's poems. But I won't try and 
 describe it any more. You would only laugh at me if I told 
 you what I think of it — what it really is." 
 
 " Indeed, I would not. But I see you are going to be very 
 resolved. Well, then, tell me that which I should like still 
 better to know : what the parsonage is like." 
 
 '' Oh, I can't describe my home. It is home, and I can't 
 put its charm into words." 
 
 " I submit. You are rather severe to-night, Margaret." 
 
 " How ?" said she, turning her large soft eyes round ftdl 
 upon him. " I. did not know I was." 
 
 "Why, because I made an unlucky remark, you will 
 neither tell me what Helstone is like, nor will you say anything 
 about your home, though I have told you how much I want to 
 hear about both, the latter especially." 
 
 " But indeed I cannot tell you about my own home. I 
 don't quite think it is a thing to be talked about, unless you 
 knew it." 
 
 " Well, then " — pausing for a moment — " tell me what you 
 do there. Here you read, or have lessons, or othei-wise improve 
 
" HASTE TO THE WEDDING." B 
 
 your mind, till the middle of the day ; take a walk before 
 lunch, go a drive with your aunt after, and have some kind of 
 engagement in the evening. There, now fill up your day at 
 Helstone. Shall you ride, drive, or walk ? " 
 
 " Walk, decidedly. We have no horse, not even for papa. 
 He walks to the very extremity of his parish. The walks are 
 so beautiful, it would be a shame to drive — almost a shame 
 to ride." 
 
 " Shall you garden much ? That, I believe, is a proper 
 employment for yonng ladies in the country." 
 
 " I don't know. I am afraid I shan't like such hard work." 
 
 " Archery parties — pic-nies — race balls — hunt-balls ? " 
 
 " Oh no ! " said she, laughing. " Papa's living is very 
 small ; and even if we were near such things, I doubt if I 
 ehould go to them." 
 
 " I see, you won't tell me anything. You will only tell me 
 that you are not going to do this and that. Before the vacation 
 ends, I think I shall pay you a call, and see what you really do 
 employ yourself in." 
 
 " I hope you will. Then you will see for yourself how 
 beautiful Helstone is. Now I must go. Edith is sitting down 
 to play, and I just know enough of music to turn over the 
 leaves for her ; and besides. Aunt Shaw won't like us to talk." 
 
 Edith played brilliantly. In the middle of the piece the 
 door half-opened, and Edith saw Captain Lennox hesitating 
 whether to come in. She threw down her music, and rushed 
 out of the room, leaving Margaret standing confused and 
 blushing to explain to the astonished guests what vision had 
 shown itself to cause Edith's sudden flight. Captain Lennox 
 bad come earlier than was expected ; or was it really so late ? 
 They looked at their watches, were duly shocked, and took 
 their leave. 
 
 Then Edith came back, glowing with pleasure, half-shyly, 
 half-proudly leading in her tall handsome Captain. His brother 
 shook hands with him, and Mrs. Shaw welcomed him in her gentle 
 kindly way, which had always something plaintive in it, arising 
 from the long habit of considering herself a victim to an uncon- 
 genial marriage. Now that, the General being gone, she had 
 every good of life, with as few drawbacks as possible, she had 
 been rather perplexed to find an anxiety, if not a sorrow. She 
 had, however, of late settled upon her own health as a source 
 of apprehension ; she had a nervous little cough whenever she 
 thought about it; and some complaisant doctor ordered her just 
 
10 NOETH AND SOUTH. 
 
 what she desired, — a winter in Italy. Mrs. Shaw had as strong 
 wishes as most people, hut she never liked to do anything from 
 the open and acknowledged motive of her own good will and 
 pleasure ; she preferred being compelled to gratify herself by 
 some other person's command or desire. She reaUy did per- 
 suade herself that she was submitting to some hard external 
 necessity ; and thus she was able to moan and complain in her 
 soft manner, all the time she was in reality doing just what 
 she liked. 
 
 It was in this way she began to speak of her own journey 
 to Captain Lennox, who assented, as in duty bound, to all his 
 future mother-in-law said, while his eyes sought Edith, who 
 was busying herself in re-arranging the tea-table, and ordering 
 up all sorts of good things, in spite of his assurances that he 
 had dined within the last two hours. 
 
 Mr. Henry Lennox stood leaning against the chimney-piece, 
 amused with the family scene. He was close by his handsome 
 brother; he was the plain one in a singularly good-looking 
 family ; but his face was intelligent, keen, and mobile ; and 
 now and then Margaret wondered what it was that he could be 
 thinking about, while he kept silence, but was evidently obser- 
 ving, with an interest that was slightly sarcastic, all that Edith 
 and she were doing. The sarcastic feeling was caUed out by 
 Mrs. Shaw's conversation vrith his brother; it was separate 
 from the interest which was excited by what he saw. He 
 thought it a pretty sight to see the two cousins so busy in their 
 little arrangements about the table. Edith chose to do most 
 herself. She was in a humour to enjoy showing her lover how 
 well she could behave as a soldier's wife. She found out that 
 the water in the urn was cold, and ordered up the great kitchen 
 tea-kettle ; the only consequence of which was that when she 
 met it at the door, and tried to carry it in, it was too heavy for 
 her, and she came in pouting, with a black mark on her muslin 
 gown, and a little round white hand indented by the handle, 
 which she took to show to Captain Lennox, just like a hurt 
 child, and, of course, the remedy was the same in both cases. 
 Margaret's quickly-adjusted spirit-lamp was the most effica- 
 cious contrivance, though not so like the gypsy-encampment 
 which Edith, in some of her moods, chose to consider the 
 nearest resemblance to a ban-ack-life. 
 
 After this evening all was bustle till the wedding was over, 
 
( 11 ) 
 
 CHAPTEE n. 
 EOSBS AND THORNS. 
 
 * By the soft green light in the woody glade, 
 On the hanks of moss where thy childhood playeij ; 
 By the household tree, thro' which thine eye 
 First looked in love to the summer sky." 
 
 Mrs. Hemaks, 
 Maegaeet was once more in her morning dress, travelling 
 quietly home with her father, who had come up to assist at the 
 wedding. Her mother had been detained at home by a mul- 
 titude of half-reasons, none of which anybody fully understood, 
 except Mr. Hale, who was perfectly aware that all his argu- 
 ments in favour of a grey satin gown, which was midway 
 between oldness and newness, had proved unavailing ; and that, 
 as he had not the money to equip his wife afresh, from top to 
 toe, she would not show herself at her only sister's only child's 
 wedding. If Mrs. Shaw had guessed at the real reason why 
 Mrs. Hale did not accompany her husband, she would have 
 showered down gowns upon her ; but it was nearly twenty years 
 since Mrs. Shaw had been the poor pretty Miss Beresford, and she 
 had really forgotten all grievances except that of the unhappi- 
 ness arising from disparity of age in married life, on which 
 she could descant by the half-hour. Dearest Maria had married 
 the man of her heart, only eight years older than herself, with 
 the sweetest temper, and that blue black hair one so seldom 
 sees. Mr. Hale was one of the most delightful preachers she 
 had ever heard, and a perfect model of a parish priest. Perhaps 
 it was not quite a logical deduction from all these premises, 
 but it was still Mrs. Shaw's characteristic conclusion, as she 
 thought over her sister's lot: "Married for love, what can 
 dearest Maria have to wish for in this world ? " Mrs. Hale, if 
 she spoke truth, might have answered with a ready-made list, 
 " a silver-grey glac6 silk, a white chip boimet, oh ! dozens of 
 things for the wedding, and hundreds of things for the 
 house," 
 
 Margaret only knew that her mother had not found it con- 
 venient to come, and she was not sorry to think that their 
 meeting and greeting would take place at Helstone parsonage, 
 rather than, during the confusion of the last two or three days, 
 in the house in Harley Street, where she herself had had to 
 play the part of Figaro, and was wanted everywhere at one and 
 
12 NOETH AND SOUTH. 
 
 the same time. Her mind and body ached now with the 
 recollection of all she had done and said within the last forty- 
 eight hours. The farewells so hurriedly taken, amongst all the 
 otiiei good-byes, of those she had lived with so long, oppressed 
 her now with a sad regret for the times that were no more ; it 
 did not signify what those times had been, they were gone 
 never to return. Margaret's heart felt more hea'vy than she 
 could ever have thought it possible in going to her own dear 
 home, the place and the life she had longed for for years — at 
 that time of all times for yearning and longing, just before the 
 sharp senses lose their outlines in sleep. She took her mind 
 away with a wrench from the recollection of the past to the 
 bright serene contemplation of the hopeful future. Her eyes 
 began to see, not visions of what had been, but the sight 
 actually before her ; her dear father leaningback asleep in the 
 railway carriage. His blue-black hair was grey now, and lay 
 thinly over his brows. The bones of his face were plainly to 
 be seen — too plainly for beauty, if his features had been less 
 finely cut ; as it was, they had a grace if not a comeliness of 
 their own. The face was in repose ; but it was rather rest 
 after weariness than the serene calm of the countenance of 
 one who led a placid, contented life. Margaret was painfully 
 struck by the worn, anxious expression ; and she went back 
 over the open and avowed circumstances of her father's life, 
 to find the cause for the lines that spoke so plainly of habituiJ 
 distress and depression. 
 
 " Poor Frederick ! " thought she, sighing. " Oh ! if 
 Frederick had but been a clergyman, instead of going into the 
 navy, and being lost to us all ! I wish I knew all about it. I 
 never understood it from Aunt Shaw ; I only knew he could 
 not come back to England because of that terrible afiair. Poor 
 dear papa ! how sad he looks ! I am so glad I am going home, 
 to be at hand to comfort him and mamma." 
 
 She was ready with a bright smile, in which there was not 
 a trace of fatigue, to greet her father when he awakened. He 
 smiled back again, but faintly, as if it were an unusual exer- 
 tion. His face returned into its lines of habitual anxiety. He 
 had a trick of half-opening his mouth as if to speak, which 
 consta,ntly unsettled the form of the lips, and gave the face an 
 undecided expression. But he had the same large, soft eyes 
 as his daughter, — eyes which moved slowly and almost grandly 
 round in their orbits, and were well veiled by their transparent 
 white eyelids. Margaret was more like him than like her 
 
EOSES AND THOENS. 13 
 
 jaother. Sometimes people wondered that parents so handsome 
 should have a daughter who was so far from regularly beautiful • 
 not beautiful at all, was occasionally said. Her mouth was 
 wide ; no rosebud that could only open just enough to let out 
 a " yes" and " no," and " an't please you, sir." But the wide 
 mouth was one soft curve of rich red lips ; and the skin, if not 
 white and fair, was of an ivory smoothness and delicacy. If 
 the look on her face was, in general, too dignified and reserved 
 for one so young, now, talking to her father, it was bright as 
 the morning, — full of dimples, and glances that spoke of 
 childish gladness, and boundless hope in the future. 
 
 It was the latter part of July when Margaret returned 
 home. The forest trees were all one dark, full, dusky green ; 
 the fern below them caught all the slanting sunbeams ; the 
 weather was sultry and' broodingly still. Margaret used to 
 tramp along by her father's side, crushing down the fern with 
 a cruel glee, as she felt it yield under her light foot, and send 
 up the fragrance peculiar to it, — out on the broad commons 
 into the warm scented light, seeing multitudes of wild, free, 
 living creatures, revelling in the sunshine, and the herbs and 
 flowers it called forth. This life — at least these walks — 
 realised all Margaret's anticipations. She took a pride in her 
 forest. Its people were her people. She made hearty friends 
 with them ; learned and delighted in using their peculiar words; 
 took up her freedom amongst them; nursed their babies; 
 talked or read with slow distinctness to their old people; 
 carried dainty messes to their sick ; resolved before long to 
 teach at the school, where her father went every day as to an 
 appointed task, but she was continually tempted off to go and 
 see some individual friend — man, woman, or child — in some 
 cottage in the green shade of the forest. Her out-of-doors life 
 was perfect. Her in-doors life had its drawbacks. With the 
 healthy shame of a child, she blamed herself for her keenness 
 of sight, in perceiving that all was not as it should be there. 
 Her mother — her mother always so. kind and tender towards 
 her — seemed now and then so much discontented with their 
 situation ; thought that the bishop strangely neglected his 
 episcopal duties, in not giving Mr. Hale a better living ; and 
 almost reproached her husband because he could not bring 
 himself to say that he wished to leave the parish, and under- 
 take the charge of a larger. He would sigh aloud as he 
 answered, that if he could do what he ought in little Helstone, 
 he should be thankful ; but every day he was more overpowered ; 
 
14 NOETH AND SOUTH. 
 
 the world became more bewildering. At each repeated urgency 
 of his wife, that he would put himself in the way of seeking 
 some preferment, Margaret saw that her father shrank more 
 and more ; and she strove at such times to reconcile her 
 mother to Helstone. Mrs. Hale said that the near neighbour- 
 hood of so many trees affected her health; and Margaret would 
 try to tempt her forth on to the beautiful, broad, upland, sun- 
 streaked, cloud-shadowed common ; for she was sure that her 
 mother had accustomed herself too much to an in-doors life, 
 seldom extending her walks beyond the church, the school, and 
 the neighbouring cottages. This did good for a time ; but 
 when the autumn drew on, an4 the weather became more 
 changeable, her mother's idea of the unhealthiness of the place 
 increased ; and she repined even more frequently that her 
 husband, who was more learned than Mr. Hume, a better 
 parish priest than Mr. Houldsworth, should not have met with 
 the preferment that these two former neighbours of theirs had 
 done. 
 
 This marring of the peace of home, by long hours of dis- 
 content, was what Margaret was unprepared for. She knew, 
 and had rather revelled in the idea, that she should have to 
 give up many luxuries, which had only been troubles and 
 trammels to her freedom in Harley Street. Her keen enjoy- 
 ment of every sensuous pleasure was balanced finely, if not 
 overbalanced, by her conscious pride in being able to do with- 
 out them all, if need were. But the cloud never comes in that 
 quarter of the horizon from which we watch for it. There had 
 been slight complaints and passing regrets on her mother's 
 part, over some trifle connected with Helstone, and her father's 
 position there, when Margaret had been spending her holidays 
 at home before; but in the general happiness of the recollection 
 of those times, she had forgotten the small details which were 
 not so pleasant. , 
 
 In the latter half of September, the autumnal rains and 
 storms came on, and Margaret was obliged to remain more in 
 the house than she had hitherto done. Helstone was at some 
 distance from any neighbours of their own standard of cultivation. 
 
 "It is undoubtedly one of the most out-of-the-way places 
 in England," said Mrs. Hale, in one of her plaintive moods. 
 " I can't help regretting constantly that papa has really no one 
 to associate with here ; he is so thrown away ; seeing no one 
 but farmers and labourers from week's end to week's end. If 
 we only lived at the other side of the parish, it would be some- 
 
ROSES AND THORNS. 16 
 
 thing; there we should be almost within walking distance 
 of the Stansfields ; certainly the Germans would be within 
 a walk." 
 
 " Germans," said Margaret. "Are those the Germans who 
 made their fortunes in trade at Southampton ? Oh ! I'm glad 
 we don't visit them. I don't like shoppy people. I think we 
 are far better off, knowing only cottagers and labourers, and 
 people without pretence." 
 
 " You must not be so fastidious, Margaret, dear ! " said 
 her mother, secretly thinking of a young and handsome 
 Mr. Gorman whom she had once met at Mr. Hume's. 
 
 " No ! I call mine a very comprehensive taste ; I like all 
 people whose occupations have to do with land ; I like soldiers 
 and sailors, and the three learned professions, as they call 
 them. I'm sure you don't want me to admire butchers and 
 bakers, and candlestick-makers, do you, mamma ? " 
 
 " But the Germans were neither butchers nor bakers, but 
 very respectable coach-builders." 
 
 " Very well. Coach-building is a trade all the same, and 
 I think a much more useless one than that of butchers or 
 bakers. Oh ! how tired I used to be of the drives every day in 
 Aunt Shaw's carriage, and how I longed to walk ! " 
 
 And walk Margaret did, in spite of the weather. She was 
 so happy out of doors, at her father's side, that she almost 
 danced ; and with the soft violence of the west wind behind 
 her, as she crossed some heath, she seemed to be borne 
 onwards, as lightly and easily as the fallen leaf that was wafted 
 along by the autumnal breeze. But the evenings were rather 
 difficult to fill up agreeably. Immediately after tea her father 
 withdrew into his small library, and she and her mother were 
 left alone. Mrs. Hale had never cared much for books, and 
 had discouraged her husband, very early in their married life, 
 in his desire of reading aloud to her, while she worked. At 
 one time they had tried backgammon as a resource ; but as 
 Mr. Hale grew to take an increasing interest in his school and 
 his parishioners, he found that the interruptions which arose 
 out of these duties were regarded as hardships by his wife, not 
 to be accepted as the natural conditions of his profession, 
 but to be regretted and struggled against by her as they 
 severally arose. So he withdrew, while the children were yet 
 young, into his library, to spend his evenings (if he were at 
 home), in reading the speculative and metaphysical books which 
 were his delight. 
 
16 NOETH AND SOUTH. 
 
 When Margaret had been here before, she had brought 
 ilown with her a great box of books, recommended by masters 
 or governess, and had found the summer's day all too short to 
 get through the reading she had to do before her return to 
 town. Now there were only the well-bound little-read English 
 Classics, which were weeded out of her father's library to till 
 up the small book-shelves in the drawing-room. Thomson s 
 Season's, Hayley's Cowper, Middleton's Cicero, were by far the 
 lightest, newest, and most amusing. The book-shelves did 
 not afford much resource. Margaret told her mother every 
 particular of her London life, to all of which Mrs. Hale hstened 
 with interest, sometimes amused and questioning, at others a 
 little inclined to compare her sister's circumstances of ease and 
 comfort with the narrower means at Helstone vicarage. On 
 such evenings Margaret was apt to stop talking rather abruptly, 
 and listen to the drip-drip of the rain upon the leads of the 
 little bow-window. Once or twice Margaret found herself 
 mechanically counting the repetition of the monotonous sound, 
 while she wondered if she might venture to put a question on 
 a subject very near to her heart, and ask where Frederick was 
 now ; what he was doing ; how long it was since they had 
 heard from him. But a consciousness that her mother's deli- 
 cate health, and positive dislike to Helstone, all dated from 
 the time of the mutiny in which Frederick had been engaged, 
 — the full account of which Margaret had never heard, and 
 which now seemed doomed to be buried in sad oblivion, — ^made 
 her pause and turn away from the subject each time she 
 approached it. When she was with her mother, her father 
 seemed the best person to apply to for information ; and when 
 with him, she thought that she could speak more easily to her 
 mother. Probably there was nothing much to be heard that 
 was new. In one of the letters she had received before leaving 
 Harley Street, her father had told her that they had heard 
 from Frederick ; he was still at Rio, and very well in health, 
 and sent his best love to her ; which was dry bones, but not 
 the living intelligence she longed for. Frederick was always 
 spoken of, in the rare times when his name was mentioned, as 
 " Poor Frederick." His room was kept exactly as he had left 
 it ; and was regularly dusted, and put into order by Dixon, 
 Mrs. Hale's maid, who touched no other part of the household 
 work, but always remembered the day when she had been 
 engaged by Lady Beresford as ladies' maid to Sir John's wards, 
 the pretty Miss Beresfords, the belles of Rutlandshire. Dixon 
 
EOSES AND THOENS. 17 
 
 had always considered Mr. Hale as the blight which had fallen 
 upon her young lady's prospects in life. K Miss Beresford had 
 not been in such a hurry to marry a poor country clergyman, 
 there was no knowing what she might not have become. But 
 Dixon was too loyal to desert her in her affliction and downfall 
 (alas her married life). She remained with her, and was 
 devoted to her interests ; always considering herself as the 
 good and protecting fairy, whose duty it was to baffle the 
 malignant giant, Mr. Hale. Master Frederick had been her 
 favourite and pride ; and it was with a little softening of her 
 dignified look and manner, that she went in weekly to arrange 
 the chamber as carefully as if he might be coming home that 
 very evening. 
 
 Margaret could not help believing that there had been some 
 late intelligence of Frederick, unknown to her mother, which 
 was making her father anxious and uneasy. Mrs. Hale did 
 not seem to perceive any alteration in her husband's looks or 
 ways. His spirits were always tender and gentle, readily 
 affected by any small piece of intelligence concerning the wel- 
 fare of others. He would be depressed for many days after 
 witnessing a death-bed, or hearing of any crime. But now 
 Margaret noticed an absence of mind, as if his thoughts were 
 pre-occupied by some subject, the oppression of which could 
 not be relieved by any daily action, such as comforting the 
 survivors, or teaching at the school in hope of lessening the 
 evils in the generation to come. Mr. Hale did not go out 
 among his parishioners as much as usual ; he was more shut 
 up in his study ; was anxious for the village postman, whose 
 summons to the household was a rap on the back-kitchen 
 window-shutter — a signal which at one time had often to be 
 repeated before any one was sufficiently alive to the hour of 
 the day to understand what it was, and attend to him. Now 
 Mr. Hale loitered about the garden if the morning was fine, 
 and if not, stood dreamily by the study window until the post- 
 man had called, or gone down the lane, giving a half-respectful, 
 half-confidential shake of the head to the parson, who watched 
 him away beyond the sweet-briar hedge, and past the great 
 arbutus, before he turned into the room to begin his day's 
 work, with all the signs of a heavy heart and an occupied mind. 
 
 But Margaret was at an age when any apprehension, not 
 absolutely based on a knowledge of facts, is easily banished 
 for a time by a bright sunny day, or some happy outward 
 circumstance. And when the brilliant fourteen fine days of 
 
 2 
 
18 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 October came on, her cares were all blown away as lightly as 
 thistledown, and she thought of nothing but the glories of the 
 forest. The fem-harvest was over ; and now that the rain 
 was gone, many a deep glade was accessible, iuto which 
 Margaret had only peeped in July and August weather. She 
 had learnt drawing with Edith ; and she had sufficiently 
 regretted, during the gloom of the bad weather, her idle 
 revelling in the beauty of the woodlands, while it had yet been 
 fine, to make her determined to sketch what she could before 
 winter fairly set in. Accordingly, she was busy preparing her 
 board one morning, when Sarah, the housemaid, threw wide 
 open the drawing-room door, and announced, " Mr. Henry 
 Lennox." 
 
 CHAPTEE in. 
 
 " THE MORE HASTE THE WOESE SPEED." 
 
 " Learn to win a lady's faith 
 Nobly, as the thing is high ; 
 Bravely, as for life and death — 
 With a loyal gravity. 
 
 Lead her from the festive boards, 
 
 Point her to the starry skies. 
 Guard her, by your truthful words, 
 
 Pure from courtship's flatteries." 
 
 Mks. Bkowhino. 
 
 " Mh. Henky Lennox." Margaret had been thinking of him 
 only a moment before, and remembering his inquiry into her 
 probable occupations at home. It was "parler du soleil 
 et Ton en voit les rayons ;" and the brightness of the sun came 
 over Margaret's face as she put down her board, and went 
 forward to shake hands with him. " Tell mamma, Sarah," 
 said she. " Mamma and I want to ask you so many questions 
 about Edith ; I am so much obliged to you for coming." 
 
 " Did not I say that I should ? " asked he, in a lower tone 
 than that in which he had spoken. 
 
 " But I heard of you so far away in the Highlands that I 
 never thought Hampshire could come in." 
 
 " Oh ! " said he, more lightly, " our young couple were 
 playing such foolish pranks, running all sorts of risks, climbing 
 this mountain, sailing on that lake, that I really thought they 
 
" THE MOKE HASTE THE WORSE SPEED." 19 
 
 needed a Mentor to take care of them. And indeed they did : 
 they were quite beyond my uncle's management, and kept the 
 old gentleman in a panic for sixteen hours out of the twenty- 
 four. Indeed, when I once saw how unfit they were to be 
 trusted alone, I thought it my duty not to leave them till I 
 had seen them safely embarked at Plymouth." 
 
 " Have you been at Plymouth ? Oh ! Edith never named 
 that. To be sure, she has written in such a hurry lately. 
 Did they really sail on Tuesday ? " 
 
 " Keally sailed, and relieved me from many responsibilities. 
 Edith gave me all sorts of messages for you. I believe I have 
 a little diminutive note somewhere ; yes, here it is." 
 
 " Oh I thank you," exclaimed Margaret ; and then, half 
 wishing to read it alone and unwatched, she made the excuse 
 of going to tell her mother again (Sarah surely had made some 
 mistake) that Mr. Lennox was there. 
 
 When she had left the room, he began in his scrutinising 
 way to look about him. The little drawing-room was looking 
 its best in the streaming light of the morning sun. The middle 
 window in the bow was opened, and clustering roses and the 
 scarlet honeysuckle came peeping round the corner ; the small 
 lawn was gorgeous with verbenas and geraniums of all bright 
 colours. But the very brightness outside made the colours 
 within seem poor and faded. The carpet was far from new ; 
 the chintz had been often washed ; the whole apartment was 
 smaller and shabbier than he had expected, as back-ground and 
 frame-work for Margaret, herself so queenly. He took up one 
 of the books lying on the table ; it was the Paradiso of Dante, 
 in the proper old ItaKan binding of white vellum and gold; 
 by it lay a dictionary, and some words copied out in Margaret's 
 hand-writing. They were a duU list of words, but somehow 
 he liked looking at them. He put them down with a sigh. 
 
 " The living is evidently as small as she said. It seems 
 strange, for the Beresfords belong to a good family." 
 
 Margaret meanwhile had found her mother. It was one ol 
 Mrs. Hale's fitful days, when everything was a difficulty and a 
 hardship : and Mr. Lennox's appearance took this shape, 
 although secretly she felt complimented by his thinking it worth 
 while to call. 
 
 " It is most unfortunate ! We are dining early to-day, and 
 having nothing but cold meat, in order that the servants may 
 get on with their ironing ; and yet, of course, we must ask hini 
 to dinner— Edith's brother-in-law and all. And your papa is 
 
 2—2 
 
20 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 in such low spirits this morning about something — 1 don't 
 know what. I went into the 'study just now, and he had his 
 face on the table, covering it with his hands. I told him I was 
 sure Helstone air did not agree with him any more than with 
 me, and he suddenly lifted up his head, and begged me not to 
 speak a word more against Helstone, he could not bear it ; if 
 there was one place he loved on earth it was Helstone. , But I 
 am sure, for aU that, it is the damp and relaxing air." 
 
 Margaret felt as if a thin cold cloud had come between her 
 and the sun. She had listened patiently, in hopes that it 
 might be some relief to her mother to unburden herself ; but 
 now it was time to draw her back to Mr. Lennox. 
 
 " Papa likes Mr. Lennox; they got on together fomously 
 at the wedding breakfast. I dare say his coming will do papa 
 good. And never mind the dinner, dear mamma. Cold meat 
 will do capitally for a lunch, which is the light in which Mr. 
 Lennox wiU most likely look upon a two o'clock dinner." 
 
 " But what are we to do with him till then ? It is only 
 half-past ten now." 
 
 " I'll ask him to go out sketching with me. I know he 
 draws, and that will take him out of your way, mamma. Only 
 do come in now ; he will think it so strange if you don't." 
 
 Mrs. Hale took off her black sUk apron, and smoothed her 
 face. She looked a very pretty lady-like woman, as she greeted 
 Mr. Lennox with the cordiality due to one who was almost a 
 relation. He evidently expected to be asked to spend the day, 
 and accepted the invitation with a glad readiness that made 
 Mrs. Hale wish she could add something to the cold beef. 
 He was pleased with everything ; delighted with Margaret's 
 idea of going out sketching together; would not have Mr. 
 Hale disturbed for the world, with the prospect of so soon 
 meeting him at dinner. Margaret brought out her drawing 
 materials for him to choose from , and after the paper and 
 brushes had been duly selected, the two set out in the merriest 
 spirits in the world. 
 
 " Now, please, just stop here for a minute or two," said 
 Margaret. "These are the cottages that haunted me so 
 during the rainy fortnight, reproaching me for not having 
 sketched them." 
 
 " Before they tumbled down and were no more seen. Truly, 
 
 if they are to be sketched — and they are very picturesque 
 
 we had better not put it off till next year. But where shall 
 we sit ?" 
 
"THE MORE HASTE THE WORSE SPEED." 21 
 
 " Oh ! Yon might have come straight from chamhers in 
 the Temple, instead of having been two months in the High- 
 lands ! Look at this beautiful trunk of a tree, which the wood- 
 cntters have left just in the right place for the light. I will 
 put my plaid over it, and it will be a regular forest throne." 
 
 " With your feet in that puddle for a regal footstool 1 Stay, 
 I will move, and then you can come nearer this way. Who 
 lives in these cottages ? " 
 
 " They were built by squatters fifty or sixty years ago. One 
 is uninhabited ; the foresters are going to take it down, as 
 soon as the old man who lives in the other is dead, poor old 
 fellow ! Look — there he is — I must go and speak to him. 
 He is so deaf you will hear all our secrets." 
 
 The old man stood bareheaded in the sun, leaning on his 
 , stick at the front of his cottage. His stiff features relaxed 
 into a slow smile as Margaret went up and spoke to him. 
 Mr. Lennox hastily introduced the two figures into his sketch, 
 and finished up the landscape with a subordinate reference to 
 them — as Margaret perceived, when the time came for getting 
 up, putting away water, and scraps of paper, and exhibiting to 
 each other their sketches. She laughed and blushed : Mr. 
 Lennox watched her countenance. 
 
 " Now, I call that treacherous,'' said she. " I little 
 thought you were making old Isaac and me into subjects, when 
 you told me to ask him the history of these cottages." 
 
 " It was irresistible. You can't know how strong a temp- 
 tation it was. I hardly dare tell you how much I shall like 
 this sketch." 
 
 He was not quite sure whether she heard this latter sentence 
 before she went to the brook to wash her palette. She came 
 back rather flushed, but looking perfectly innocent and uncon- 
 Bcions. He was glad of it, for the speech had slipped from him 
 unawares — a rare thing in the case of a man who premeditated 
 his actions so much as Henry Lennox. 
 
 The aspect of home was all right and bright when they 
 reached it. The clouds on her mother's brow had cleared off 
 under the propitious influence of a brace of carp, most oppor- 
 tunely presented by a neighbour. Mr. Hale had returned from 
 his morning's round, and was awaiting his visitor just outside 
 the wicket gate that led into the garden. He looked a com- 
 plete gentleman in his rather threadbare coat and well-worn 
 hat. Margaret was proud of her father ; she had always a 
 fresh and tender pride in seeing how lavourably he impressed 
 
22 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 every stranger ; still her quick eye sought over his face and 
 found there traces of some unusual disturbance, which was only 
 put aside, not cleared away. 
 
 Mr. Hale asked to look at their sketches. 
 
 " I think you have made the tints on the thatch too dark, 
 have yon not ? " as he returned Margaret's to her, and held 
 out his hand for Mr. Lennox's, which was withheld from him 
 one moment, no more. 
 
 " No, papa ! I don't think I have. The house-leek and 
 stone-crop have grown so much darker in the rain. Is it not 
 like, papa ? " said she, peeping over his shoulder, as he looked 
 at the figures in Mr. Lennox's drawing. 
 
 " Yes, very like. Your figure and way of holding yourself 
 is capital. And it is just poor old Isaac's stiff way of stooping 
 his long rheumatic back. What is this hanging from the 
 branch of the tree ? Not a bird's nest, surely. 
 
 " Oh no ! that is my bonnet. I never can draw with my 
 bonnet on ; it makes my head so hot. I wonder if I could 
 manage figures. There are so many people about here whom 
 I should like to sketch. 
 
 " I should say that a likeness you very much wish to take 
 you would always succeed in," said Mr. Lennox. " I have 
 great faith in the power of will. I think myseK I have suc- 
 ceeded pretty well in yours." Mr. Hale had preceded them 
 into the house, while Margaret was lingering to pluck some 
 roses, with which to adorn her morning gown for dinner. 
 
 " A regular London girl would understand the implied 
 meaning of that speech," thought Mr. Lennox. " She would 
 be up to looking through every speech that a young man made 
 her for the arrifere-pens^e of a compliment. But I don't believe- 
 Margaret, — Stay ! " exclaimed he, " Let me help you ; " and 
 he gathered for her some velvety cramoisy roses that were 
 above her reach, and then dividing the spoil he placed two in 
 his button-hole, and sent her in, pleased and happy, to arrange 
 her flowers. 
 
 The conversation at dinner flowed on quietly and agreeably. 
 There were plenty of questions to be asked on both sides — 
 the latest intelligence which each could give of Mrs. Shaw's 
 movements in Italy to be exchanged; and in the interest 
 of what was said, the unpretending simplicity of the 
 parsonage-ways — above all, in the neighbourhood of Margaret, 
 Mr. Lennox forgot the little feeling of disappointment with 
 which be had at first perceived that she had spoken but the* 
 
"THE MORE HASTE THE WORSE SPEED." 23 
 
 simple truth when she had described her father's living as very 
 small. 
 
 " Margaret, my child, you might have gathered us some 
 pears for our dessert," said Mr. Hale, as the hospitable luxury 
 of a freshly-decanted bottle of wine was placed on the table. 
 
 Mrs. Hale was hurried. It seemed as if desserts were 
 impromptu and unusual things at the parsonage ; whereas, if 
 Mr. Hale would only have looked behind him, he would have 
 seen biscuits and marmalade, and what not, all arranged in 
 formal order on the sideboard. But the idea of pears had 
 taken possession of Mr. Hale's mind, and was not to be got 
 rid of. 
 
 " There are a few brown beurres against the south wall 
 which are worth all foreign fruits and preserves. Run, Mar- 
 garet, and gather some." 
 
 " I propose that we adjourn into the garden, and eat them 
 there," said Mr. Lennox. " Nothing is so delicious as to set 
 one's teeth into the crisp, juicy fruit, warm and scented by the 
 sun. The worst is, the wasps are impudent enough to dispute 
 it with one, even at the very crisis and summit of enjoyment." 
 
 He rose, as if to follow Margaret, who had disappeared 
 through the window : he only awaited Mrs. Hale's permission. 
 She would rather have wound up the dinner in the proper way, 
 and with all the ceremonies which had gone on so smoothly 
 hitherto, especially as she and Dixon had got out the longer- 
 glasses from the store-room on purpose to be as correct as 
 became General Shaw's widow's sister ; but as Mr. Hale got 
 up directly, and prepared to accompany his guest, she could 
 only submit. 
 
 " I shall arm myself with a knife," said Mr. Hale : " the 
 days of eating fruit so primitively as you describe are over 
 with me. I must pare it and quarter it before I can enjoy it," 
 
 Margaret made a plate for the pears out of a beet-root leaf, 
 which threw up their brown gold colour admirably. Mr. Lennox 
 looked more at her than at the pears ; but her father, inclined 
 to cull fastidiously the very zest and perfection of the hour he 
 had stolen from his anxiety, chose daintily the ripest fruit, and 
 sat down on the garden bench to enjoy it at his leisure. 
 Margaret and Mr. Lennox strolled along the little terrace-walk 
 under the south wall, where the bees still hummed and worked 
 busily in their hives. 
 
 " What a perfect life you seem to live here ! I have always 
 felt rather contemptuously towards the poets before, with their 
 
24 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 wishes, ' Mine be a cot beside a hill,' and tliat sort of thing ; 
 but now I am afraid that the truth is, I have been nothing 
 better than a Cockney. Just now I feel as if twenty years' 
 hard study of law would be amply rewarded by one year of 
 such an exquisite serene life as this — such skies ! " looking 
 up — << such crimson and amber foliage, so perfectly motionless 
 as that 1 " pointing to some of the great forest trees which 
 shut in the garden as if it were a nest. 
 
 " You must please to remember that our skies are not 
 always as deep a blue as they are now. We have rain, and 
 our leaves do fall, and get sodden : though I think Helstone is 
 about as perfect a place as any in the world. EecoUect how 
 you rather scorned my description of it one evening in Harley 
 Street : ' a village in a tale.' " 
 
 " Scorned, Margaret ! That is rather a hard word." 
 
 " Perhaps it is. Only I know I should have liked to have 
 talked to you of what I was very full at the time, and you — 
 what must I call it then ? — spoke disrespectfully of Helstone 
 as a mere village in a tale." 
 
 " I will never do so again," said he, warmly. They turned 
 the comer of the walk. 
 
 " I could almost wish, Margaret " he stopped and 
 
 hesitated. It was so unusual for the fluent lawyer to hesitate 
 that Margaret looked up at him, in a little state of questioning 
 wonder ; but in an instant — from what about him she could 
 not tell — she wished herself back with her mother — her 
 father — anywhere away from him, for she was sure he was 
 going to say something to which she should not know what to 
 reply. In another moment the strong pride that was in her 
 came to conquer her sudden agitation, which she hoped he had 
 not perceived. Of course she could answer, and answer the 
 right thing ; and it was poor and despicable of her to shrink 
 from hearing any speech, as if she had not power to put an end 
 to it with her high maidenly dignity. 
 
 " Margaret," said he, taking her by surprise, and getting 
 sudden possession of her hand, so that she was forced to stand 
 still and listen, despising herself for the fluttering at her heart 
 all the time ; " Margaret, J wish you did not like Helstone so 
 much— did not seem so perfectly calm and happy here. I have 
 been hoping for these three months past to find you regretting 
 London — and London friends, a little — enough to make you 
 listen more kindly " (for she was quietly, but firmly, striving to 
 extricate her hand from his grasp) " to one who has not much 
 
" THE MORE HASTE THE WORSE SPEED." 25 
 
 to offer, it is true — nothing but prospects in the future — ^but 
 who does love you, Margaret, almost in spite of himself. 
 Margaret, have I startled you too much ? Speak ! " For he 
 saw her lips quivering almost as if she were going to cry. She 
 made a strong effort to be calm ; she would not speak till she 
 had succeeded in mastering her voice, and then she said : 
 
 " I was startled. I did not know that you cared for me in 
 that way. I have always thought of you as a friend ; and, 
 please, I would rather go on thinking of you so. I don't like 
 to be spoken to as you have been doing. I cannot answer you 
 as you want me to do, and yet I should feel so sorry if I vexed 
 joii." 
 
 " Margaret," said he, looking into her eyes, which met his 
 with their open, straight look, expressive of the utmost good 
 faith and reluctance to give pain, " Do you " — he was going to 
 flay — " love any one else ? " But it seemed as if this question 
 would be an insult to the pure serenity of those eyes. "Forgive 
 me ! I have been too abrupt. I am punished. Only let me 
 hope. Give me the poor comfort of telling me you have never 
 
 seen any one whom you could " Again a pause. He could 
 
 not end his sentence. Margaret reproached herself acutely as 
 the cause of his distress. 
 
 " Ah ! if you had but never got this fancy into your head I 
 It was such a pleasure to think of you as a friend." 
 
 " But I may hope, may I not, Margaret, that some time 
 you will think of me as a lover ? Not yet, I see — ^there is no 
 hurry — ^but some time " 
 
 She was silent for a minute or two, trying to discover the 
 truth as it was in her own heart, before replying, then she said: 
 
 " I have never thought of — you, but as a friend. I like to 
 think of you so ; but I am sure I could never think of you as 
 anything else. Pray let us both forget that all this " (" disagree- 
 able," she was going to say, but stopped short) " conversation 
 has taken place." 
 
 He paused before he replied. Then, in his habitual cold- 
 ness of tone, he answered : 
 
 " Of course, as your feelings are so decided, and as this 
 conversation has been so evidently unpleasant to you, it had 
 better not be remembered. That is all very fine in theory, 
 that plan of forgetting whatever is painful, but it will be some- 
 what difficult for me, at least, to carry it into execution." 
 
 "You are vexed," said she, sadly; "yet how can I 
 help it ? " 
 
26 NORTH AKD SOUTH. 
 
 She looked so truly grieved as she said this, that he 
 struggled for a moment with his real disappointment, and then 
 answered more cheerfully, but still with a little hardness in 
 his tone : 
 
 "You should make allowances for the mortification, not 
 only of a lover, Margaret, but of a man not given to romance 
 in general — prudent, worldly, as some people call me — who 
 has been carried out of his usual habits by the force of a 
 passion— well, we will say no more of that ; but in the ont 
 outlet which he has formed for the deeper and better feelings 
 of his nature, he meets with rejection and repulse. I shall 
 have to console myself with scorning my own foUy. A struggling 
 barrister to think of matrimony ! " 
 
 Margaret could not answer this. The whole tone of it 
 annoyed her. It seemed to touch on and call out all the points 
 of difference which had often repelled her in him ; while yet he 
 was the pleasantest man, the most sympathising friend, the 
 person of all others who understood her best in Harley Street. 
 She felt a tinge of contempt mingle itself with her pain at 
 having refused him. Her beautiful lip curled in a slight 
 disdain. It was well that, having made the round of the 
 garden, they came suddenly upon Mr. Hale, whose whereabouts 
 had been quite forgotten by them. He had not yet finished 
 the pear, which he had delicately peeled in one long strip of 
 silver-paper thinness, and which he was enjoying in a deliberate 
 manner. It was like the story of the eastern king, who dipped 
 his head into a basin of water, at the magician's command, 
 and ere he instantly took it out went through the experience of 
 a lifetime. Margaret felt stunned, and unable to recover her 
 self-possession enough to join in the trivial conversation that 
 ensued between her father and Mr. Lennox. She was grave, and 
 little disposed to speak ; full of wonder when Mr. Lennox would 
 go, and allow her to relax into thought on the events of the last 
 quarter of an hour. He was almost as anxious to take his 
 departure as she was for him to leave ; but a few minutes light 
 and careless talking, carried on at whatever effort, was a sacrifice 
 which he owed to his mortified vanity, or his self-respect. He 
 glanced from time to time at her sad and pensive face. 
 
 " I am not so indifferent to her as she believes," thought he 
 to himself. " I do not give up hope." 
 
 Before a quarter of an hour was over, he had fallen into a 
 way of conversing with quiet sarcasm; speaking of life in 
 London and life in the country, as if he were conscious of his 
 
DOUBTS AND DIFFICULTIES. 27 
 
 Becond mocking self, and afraid of his own satire. Mr. Hale 
 was puzzled. His visitor was a different man to what he had 
 seen him before at the wedding-breakfast, and at dinner to-day; 
 a lighter, cleverer, more worldly man, and, as such, dissonaat 
 to Mr. Hale. It was a relief to all thi-ee when Mr. Lennox 
 said that he must go directly if he meant to catch the five 
 o'clock train. They proceeded to the house to find Mrs. Hale, 
 and wish her good-bye. At the last moment, Henry Lennox's 
 real self broke through the crust. 
 
 "Margaret, don't despise me; I have a heart, notwith- 
 standing all this good-for-nothing way of talking. As a proof 
 of it, I believe I love you more than ever — if I do not hate 
 yon— for the disdain with which you have listened to me 
 during this last half-hour. Good-bye, Margaret — Margaret 1 " 
 
 CHAPTEE IV. 
 
 DOUBTS AND DIFFICULTIES, 
 
 " Cast me upon some naked shore. 
 Where I may tracke 
 Only the print of some sad wracke. 
 If liiou be there though the seas roare, 
 I shall no gentler calm implore." 
 
 HAEINaiOII. 
 
 He was gone. The house was shut up for the evening. No 
 more deep blue skies or crimson and amber tints. Margaret 
 went up to dress for the early tea, finding Dixon in a pretty 
 temper from the interruption which a visitor had naturally occa- 
 sioned on a busy day. She showed it by brushing away 
 viciously at Margaret's hair, under pretence of being in a great 
 hurry to go to Wcs. Hale. Yet, after all, Margaret had to wait 
 a long time in the drawing-room before her mother came down. 
 She sat by herself at the fire, with unlighted candles on the 
 table behind her, thinking over the day, the happy walk, happy 
 sketching, cheerful pleasant dinner, and the uncomfortable, 
 miserable walk in the garden. 
 
 How difiierent men were to women ! Here was she dis- 
 turbed and unhappy, because her instinct had made anything 
 but a refusal impossible ; while he, not many minutes after he 
 had met with a rejection of what ought to have been the deepest, 
 
28 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 holiest proposal of his life, could speak as if briefs, success, 
 Mid all its superficial consequences of a good house, clever and 
 agreeable society, were the sole avowed objects of his desires. 
 Oh dear ! how she could have loved him if he had but been 
 different, with a difference which she felt, on reflection, to be 
 one that went low — deep down. Then she took it into her head 
 that, after all, his lightness might be but assumed, to cover a 
 bitterness of disappointment which would have been stamped on 
 her own heart if she had loved and been rejected. 
 
 Her mother came into the room before this whirl of 
 thoughts was adjusted into anything like order. Margaret had 
 to shake off the recollections of what had been done and said 
 through the day, and turn a sympathising listener to the 
 account of how Dixon had complained that the ironing-blanket 
 had been burnt again ; and how Susan Lightfoot had been seen 
 with artificial flowers in her bonnet, thereby giving evidence 
 of a vain and giddy character. Mr. Hale sipped his tea in 
 abstracted silence ; Margaret had the responses all to herself. 
 She wondered how her father and mother could be so forgetful, 
 80 regardless of their companion through the day, as never to 
 mention his name. She forgot that he had not made them an 
 offer. 
 
 After tea Mr. Hale got up, and stood with his elbow on the 
 chimney-piece, leaning his head on his hand, musing over 
 something, and fi-om time to time sighing deeply. Mrs. Hale 
 went out to consult with Dixon about some winter clothing for 
 the poor. Margaret was preparing her mother's worsted work, 
 and rather shrinking from the thought of the long evening, and 
 wishing bed-time were come that she might go over the events 
 of the day again. 
 
 " Margaret ! " said Mr. Hale, at last, in a sort of sudden 
 desperate way, that made her start. " Is that tapestry thing 
 of immediate consequence ? I mean, can you leave it and 
 come into my study ? I want to speak to you about something 
 very serious to us all." 
 
 " Very serious to us all." Mr. Lennox had never had the 
 opportunity of having any private conversation with her father 
 after her refusal, or else that would indeed be a very serious 
 affair. In the first place, Margaret felt guilty and ashamed of 
 having grown so much into a woman as to be thought of in 
 marriage ; and secondly, she did not know if her father might 
 not be displeased that she had taken upon herself to deolme 
 Mr. Lennox's proposal. But she soon felt it was not about 
 
DOUBTS AND DIFFICULTIES. 29 
 
 anything, which having only lately and suddenly occnrred, could 
 have given rise to any complicated thoughts, that her father 
 wished to speak to her. He made her take a chair by him ; 
 he stirred the fire, snuffed the candles, and sighed once or 
 twice before he could make up his mind to say — and it came 
 out with a jerk after all — " Margaret ! I am going to leave 
 Helstone." 
 
 " Leave Helstone, papa ! But why ? " 
 
 Mr. Hale did not answer for a minute or two. He played 
 with some papers on the table in a nervous and confused 
 manner, opening his lips to speak several times, hut closing 
 them again without having the courage to utter a word. 
 Margaret could not bear the sight of the suspense, which was 
 even more distressing to her father than to herself. 
 
 " But why, dear papa ? Do tell me ! " 
 
 He looked up at her suddenly, and then said with a slow 
 and enforced calmness : 
 
 " Because I must no longer be a minister in the Church of 
 England." 
 
 Margaret had imagined nothing less than that some of the 
 preferments which her mother had so much desired had 
 befallen her father at last — something that would force him to 
 leave beautiful, beloved Helstone, and perhaps compel him to 
 go and live in some of the stately and silent Closes which 
 Margaret had seen from time to time in Cathedral towns. They 
 were grand and imposing places^ but if, to go there, it was 
 necessary to leave Helstone as a home for ever, that would 
 have been a sad, long, lingering pain. Bat nothing to the 
 shock she received from Mr. Hale's last speech. What could 
 he mean ? It was all the worse for being so mysterious. The 
 aspect of piteous distress on his face, almost as imploring a 
 merciful and kind jugdment from his child, gave her a sudden 
 sickening. Could he have become implicated in anything 
 Frederick had done ? Frederick was an outlaw. Had her 
 father, out of a natural love for his son, connived at any — 
 
 " Oh ! what is it ? do speak, papa! tell me all ! Why can 
 you no longer be a clergyman ? Surely, if the bishop were 
 told all we loiow about Frederick, and the hard unjust — " 
 
 " It is nothing about Frederick ; the bishop would have 
 nothing to do with that. It is all myself. Margaret, I will 
 tell you about it. I will answer any questions this once, but 
 after to-night let us never speak of it again. I can meet the 
 consequences of my painful, miserable doubts ; but it is an 
 
30 NORTH AHD SOUTH. 
 
 effort beyond me to speak of what has caused me so mnch 
 suffering." 
 
 " Doubts, papa! Doubts as to religion?" asked Margaret, 
 more shocked than ever. 
 
 " No ! not doubts as to religion ; not the slightest injury 
 to that." 
 
 He paused. Margaret sighed, as if standing on the verge 
 of some new horror. He began again, speaking rapidly, as if 
 to get over a set task : 
 
 ' ' You could not understand it all, if I told you — my anxiety, 
 for years past, to know whether I had any right to hold my 
 living — my efforts to quench my smouldering doubts by the 
 authority of the Church. Oh ! Margaret, how I love the holy 
 Church from which I am to be shut out ! " He could not go on 
 for a moment or two. Margaret could not tell what to say ; it 
 seemed to her as terribly mysterious as if her father were about 
 to turn Mahometan. 
 
 " I have been reading to-day of the two thousand who were 
 ejected from their churches," — continued Mr. Hale, smiling 
 faintly, — " trying to steal some of their bravery ; but it is of 
 no use — no use — I cannot help feeling it acutely." 
 
 " But, papa, have you well considered ? Oh ! it seems so 
 terrible, so shocking," said l^argaret, suddenly bursting into 
 tears. The one staid foundation of her home, of her idea of 
 her beloved father, seemed reeling and rocking. What could 
 she say ? What was to be done ? The sight of her distress 
 made Mr. Hale nerve himself, in order to try and comfort her. 
 He swallowed down the dry choking sobs which had been 
 heaving up from his heart hitherto, and going to his bookcase 
 he took down a volume, which he had often been reading lately, 
 and fr-om which he thought he had derived strength to enter 
 upon the course in which he was now embarked. 
 
 "Listen, dear Margaret," said he, putting one arm round 
 her waist. She took his hand in hers and grasped it tight, 
 but she could not lift up her head ; nor indeed could she attend 
 to what he read, so great was her internal agitation. 
 
 " This is the soliloquy of one who was once a clergyman in 
 a country parish, like me ; it was written by Mr. Oldfield, 
 minister of Carsington, in Derbyshire, a hundred and sixty 
 years ago, or more. His trials are over. He fought the good 
 fight." These last two sentences he spoke low, as if to himself. 
 Then he read aloud, — 
 
 " When thou canst no longer ftjntinue in thy work without 
 
DOUBTS AND DIFFICULTIES. 31 
 
 dishononr to God, discredit to religion, foregoing thy integrity, 
 wounding conscience, spoiling thy peace, and hazarding the 
 loss of thy salvation; in a word, when the conditions upon 
 which thou must continue (if thou wilt continue) in thy employ- 
 ments are sinful, and unwarranted by the word of God, thou 
 mayest, yea, thou must believe that God will turn thy very 
 silence, suspension, deprivation, and laying aside, to His glory, 
 and the advancement of the Gospel's interest. When God 
 will not use thee in one kind, yet He will in another. A soul 
 that desires to serve and honour Him shall never want oppor- 
 tunity to do it ; nor must thou so limit the Holy One of Israel, 
 as to think He hath but one way in which He can glorify Him- 
 self by thee. He can do it by thy silence as well as by thy 
 preaching ; thy laying aside as well as thy continuance in thy 
 work. It is not pretence of doing God the greatest service, 
 or performing the weightiest duty, that will excuse the least sin, 
 though that sin capacitated or gave us the opportunity for 
 doing that duty. Thou wilt have little thanks, O my soul ! if, 
 when thou art charged with corrupting God's worship, falsifying 
 thy vows, thou pretendest a necessity for it in order to a con- 
 tinuance in the ministry." 
 
 As he read this, and glanced at much more which he did 
 not read, he gained resolution for himself, and felt as if he too 
 could be brave and firm in doing what he believed to be right ; 
 but as he ceased he heard Margaret's low convulsive sob ; and 
 his courage sank down under the keen sense of suffering. 
 
 " Margaret, dear ! " said he, drawing her closer, " think of 
 the early martyrs ; think of the thousands who have suffered." 
 
 " But, father," said she, suddenly lifting up her flushed, 
 tear-wet face, " the early martyrs suffered for the truth, while 
 you — oh ! dear, dear papa !" 
 
 " I suffer for conscience' sake, my child," said he, with a 
 dignity that was only tremulous from the acute sensitiveness of 
 his character ; "I must do what my conscience bids. I have 
 borne long with self-reproach that would have roused any mind 
 less torpid and cowardly than mine." He shook his head as 
 he went on. " Your poor mother's fond wish, gratified at last 
 in the mocking way in which over-fond wishes are too often 
 fulfilled — Sodom apples as they are — ^has brought on this 
 crisis, for which I ought to be, and I hope I am thankful. It 
 is not a month since the bishop offered me another living ; if 
 I had accepted it, I should have had to make a fresh declara- 
 tion of conformity to the Liturgy at my institution. Margaret, 
 
82 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 I tried to do it ; I tried to content myself with simply refusing 
 the additional preferment, and stopping quietly here, — 
 strangling my conscience now, as I had strained it hefore. 
 God forgive me !" 
 
 He rose and walked up and down the room, speaking low 
 words of self-reproach and humiliation, of which Margaret was 
 thankful to hear hut few. At last he said, 
 
 " Margaret, I return to the old sad burden : we must leave 
 Helstone." 
 
 " Yes ! I see. But when ? " 
 
 " I have written to the bishop — I dare say I have told yon 
 so, but I forget things just now," said Mr. Hale, collapsing 
 into his depressed manner as soon as he came to talk of hard 
 matter-of-fact details, "informing him of my intention to resign 
 this vicarage. He has been most kind ; he has used arguments 
 and expostulations, all in vain — ^in vain. They are but what 
 I have tried upon myself, without avail. I shall have to take 
 my deed of resignation, and wait upon the bishop myself, to 
 bid him farewell. That will be a trial. But worse, far worse, 
 will he the parting from my dear people. There is a curate 
 appointed to read prayers— a Mr. Brown. He will come to 
 stay with us to-morrow. Next Sunday I preach my farewell 
 sermon." 
 
 Was it to be so sudden then ? thought Margaret ; and yet 
 perhaps it was as well. Lingering would only add stings to 
 the pain ; it was better to be stunned into numbness by hearing 
 of all these arrangements, which seemed to be nearly completed 
 before she had been told. " What does mamma say ? " asked 
 she, with a deep sigh. 
 
 To her surprise, her father began to walk about again before 
 he answered. At length he stopped and replied : 
 
 " Margaret, I am a poor coward after aU. I cannot bear 
 to give pain. I know so well your mother's married life has 
 not been all she hoped — all she had a right to expect — and 
 this will be such a blow to her, that I have never had the 
 heart, the power to tell her. She must be told though, now," 
 said he, looking wistfully at his daughter. Margaret was 
 almost overpowered with the idea that her mother knew nothing 
 of it all, and yet the affair was so far advanced ! 
 
 " Yes, indeed she must," said Margaret. " Perhaps, after 
 all, she may not — Oh yes 1 she will, she must be shocked " — 
 as the force of the blow returned upon herself in trying to 
 realise how another would take it. " Where are we to go to ? " 
 
DOUBTS AND DIFFICULTIES. 83 
 
 said she at last, struck with a fresh wonder as to their future 
 plans, if plans indeed her father had. 
 
 " To Milton-Northern," he answered, with a dull indiffer- 
 ence, for he had perceived that, although his daughter's love 
 had made her cling to him, and for a moment strive to soothe 
 him with her love, yet the keenness of the pain was as fresh as 
 ever in her mind. 
 
 ' ' Milton-Northern ! The manufacturing town in Darkshire ? " 
 
 " Yes," said he, in the same despondent, indifferent way. 
 
 " Why there, papa ? " asked she. 
 
 " Because there I can earn hread for my family. Because 
 I know no one there, and no one knows Helstone, or can ever 
 talk to me about it." 
 
 ' ' Bread for your family ! I thought you and mamma had " 
 — and then she stopped, checking her natural interest regarding 
 their future life, as she saw the gathering gloom on her father's 
 brow. But he, with his quick intuitive sympathy, read in her 
 face, as in a mirror, the reflections of his own moody depres- 
 sion, and turned it off with an effort. 
 
 "You shall be told all, Margaret. Only help me to tell 
 your mother. I think I could do anything but that : the idea 
 of her distress turns me sick with dread. If I tell you all, 
 perhaps you could break it to her to-morrow. I am going out 
 for the day, to bid farmer Dobson and the poor people on Bracy 
 Common good-bye. Would you dislike breaking it to her very 
 much, Margaret ? " 
 
 Margaret did dislike it, did shrink from it more than from 
 anything she had ever had to do in her life before. She could 
 not speak, all at once. Her father said, " You dislike it very 
 much, don't you, Margaret ? " Then she conquered herself, 
 and said, with a bright strong look on her face : 
 
 " It is a painful thing, but it must be done, and I will do 
 it as well as ever I can. You must have many painful things 
 to do.' 
 
 Mr. Hale shook his head despondingly : he pressed her 
 hand in token of gratitude. Margaret was nearly upset again 
 into a burst of crying. To turn her thoughts, she said : " Now 
 tell me, papa, what our plans are. You and mamma have 
 some money, independent of the income from the living, have 
 not you ? Aunt Shaw has, I know." 
 
 " Yes. I suppose we have about a hundred and seventy 
 pounds a year of our own. Seventy of that has always gone 
 to Frederick, since he has been abroad. I don't know if he 
 
 •S 
 
34 NOETH AND SOUTH. 
 
 wants it all," he continued in a hesitating manner. "He 
 must have some pay for serving with the Spanish army." 
 
 "Frederick must not suffer," said Margaret, decidedly; 
 " in a foreign country ; so unjustly treated by his own. A 
 hundred is left. Could not you, and I, and mamma live on a 
 hundred a year in some very cheap — very quiet part of 
 England ? Oh ! I think we could." 
 
 "No!" said Mr. Hale. "That would not answer. I 
 must do something. I must make myself busy, to keep off 
 morbid thoughts. Besides, in a country parish I should be 
 so painfully reminded of Helstone, and my duties here. I 
 could not bear it, Margaret. And a hundred a year would go 
 a very little way, after the necessary wants of housekeeping 
 are met, towards providing your mother with all the comforts 
 she has been accustomed to, and ought to have. No : we 
 must go to Milton. That is settled. I can always decide 
 better by myself, and not influenced by those whom I love," 
 said he, as a half apology for having arranged so much before 
 he had told any one of his family of his intentions. " I can- 
 not stand objections. They make me so undecided." 
 
 Margaret resolved to keep silence. After all, what did it 
 signify where they went, compared to the one terrible change ? 
 
 Mr. Hale continued : " A few months ago, when my misery 
 of doubt became more than I could bear without speaking, I 
 wrote to Mr. Bell — you remember Mr. BeU, Margaret ? " 
 
 " No ; I never saw him, I think. But I know who he is. 
 Frederick's godfather — your old tutor at Oxford, don't you 
 mean ?" 
 
 " Yes. He is a Fellow of Plymouth College there. He is 
 a native of Milton-Northern, I believe. At any rate he has 
 property there, which has very much increased in value since 
 Milton has become such a large manufacturing town. Well ; 
 I had reason to suspect — to imagine — ^I had better say nothing 
 about it, however. But I felt sure of sympathy from Mr. Bell. 
 I don't know that he gave me much strength. He has lived 
 an easy life in his college all his days. But he has been as kind 
 as can be. And it is owing to him we are going to Milton." 
 
 " How ? " said Margaret. 
 
 " Why he has tenants, and houses, and mills there ; so, 
 though he dislikes the place — too bustling for one of his habits 
 — he is obliged to keep up some sort of connection ; and he 
 tells me that he hears there is a good opening for a private 
 tutor there." 
 
DOUBTS AND DIFFICULTIES. 35 
 
 " A private tutor ! " said Margaret, looking scornful : 
 '• What in the world do manufacturers want with the classics, 
 or literature, or the accomplishments of a gentleman ? " 
 
 " Oh," said her father, " some of them really seem to be 
 fine fellows, conscious of their own deficiencies, which is more 
 than many a man at Oxford is. Some want resolutely to learn, 
 though they have come to man's estate. Some want their 
 children to be better instructed than they themselves have been. 
 At any rate, there is an opening, as I have said, for a private 
 tutor. Mr. Bell has recommended me to a Mr. Thornton, a 
 tenant of his, and a very intelligent man, as far as I can judge 
 from his letters. And in Milton, Margaret, I shall find a busy 
 life, if not a happy one, and people and scenes so different that 
 I shall never be reminded of Helstone." 
 
 There was the secret motive, as Margaret knew from her own 
 feelings. It would be different. Discordant as it was — with 
 almost a detestation for all she had ever heard of the North of 
 England, the manufacturers, the people, the wild and bleak 
 country — there was this one recommendation — ^it would be 
 different from Helstone, and could never remind them of that 
 beloved place. 
 
 " When do we go?" asked Margaret, after a short silence. 
 
 " I do not know exactly. I wanted to talk it over with you. 
 You see, your mother knows nothing about it yet : but I think, 
 in a fortnight ; — after my deed of resignation is sent in, I shall 
 have no right to remain." 
 
 Margaret was almost stunned. 
 
 " In a fortnight ! " 
 
 "No — no, not exactly to a day. Nothing is fixed," said 
 her father, with anxious hesitation, as he noticed the filmy 
 sorrow that came over her eyes, and the sudden change in her 
 complexion. But she recovered herself immediately. 
 
 " Yes, papa, it had better be fixed soon and decidedly, as 
 you say. Only mamma to know nothing about it ! It is that 
 that is the great perplexity." 
 
 " Poor Maria ! " replied Mr. Hale tenderly. " Poor, poor 
 Maria ! Oh, if I were not married — if I were but myself in 
 the world, how easy it would be ! As it is — Margaret, I dare 
 not tell her ! " 
 
 "No," said Margaret, sadly, " I will do it. Give me till 
 to-morrow evening to ch'oose my time. Oh, papa,"_ cried she 
 with sudden passionate entreaty, " say — tell me it is a night- 
 mare — a horrid dream — not the real waking truth ! You cannot 
 
 ^ 2 
 
86 NORTH ANB SOUTH. 
 
 mean that you are really going to leave the Church — ^to give up 
 Helstone-^to be for ever separate from me, from mamma — ^led 
 away by some delusion — some temptation ! You do not really 
 mean it ! " 
 
 Mr. Hale sat in rigid stillness while she spoke. 
 
 Then he looked her in the face, and said in a slow, hoarse, 
 measured way — " I do mean it, Margaret. You must not 
 deceive yourself into doubting the reality of my words — my 
 fixed intention and resolve." He looked at her in the same 
 steady, stony manner, for some moments after he had done 
 spealung. She, too, gazed back with pleading eyes before 
 she would believe that it was irrevocable. Then she arose 
 and went, without another word or look, towards the door. 
 As her fingers were on the handle he called her back. 
 He was standing by the fireplace, shrunk and stooping ; but as 
 she came near he drew himself up to his full height, and, 
 placing his hands on her head, he said, solemnly : 
 
 " The blessing of God be upon thee, my child ! " 
 
 " And may He restore yon to His Church," responded 
 she, out of the fulness of her heart. The next moment she 
 feared lest this answer to his blessing might be irreverent, 
 wrong — might hurt him as coming from his daughter, and she 
 threw her arms round his neck. He held her to him for a 
 minute or two. She heard him murmur to himself, " The 
 martyrs and confessors had even more pain to bear — I will not 
 shrink." 
 
 They were startled by hearing Mrs. Hale inquiring for her 
 daughter. They started asunder in the full consciousness of 
 all that was before them. Mr. Hale hurriedly said " Go, 
 Margaret, go. I shall be out all to-morrow. Before night yon 
 will have told your mother." 
 
 " Yes," she replied, and she returned to the drawing-room 
 in a etunoed and dizzy state. 
 
( 37 ) 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 DECISION. 
 
 " I ask Thee for a thoughtful lore, 
 Through constant watching wise, 
 To meet the glad with joyful smiles, 
 
 And to wipe the weeping eyes ; 
 And a heart at leisure from itseliE 
 To soothe and sympathise." 
 
 Anoe. 
 
 Maegaebt made a good listener to all her mother's little plans 
 for adding some small comforts to the lot of the poorer parish- 
 ioners. She could not help listening, though each new project 
 was a stah to her heart. By the time the frost had set in, they 
 should be far away from Helstone. Old Simon's rheumatism 
 might be bad and his eyesight worse ; there would be no one 
 to go and read to him, and comfort him with little porringers of 
 broth and good red flannel : or if there was, it would be a 
 stranger, and the old man would watch in vain for her. Mary 
 Domville's little crippled boy would crawl in vain to the door 
 and look for her coming through the forest. These poor friends 
 would never understand why she had forsaken them ; and there 
 were many others besides. "Papa has always spent the 
 income he derived from his living in the parish. I am, 
 perhaps, encroaching upon the next dues, but the winter is likely 
 to be severe, and our poor old people must be helped." 
 
 " Oh, mamma, let us do all we can," said Margaret eagerly, 
 not seeing the prudential side of the question, only grasping 
 at the idea that they were rendering such help for the last 
 time ; "we may not be here long." 
 
 " Do you feel ill, my darling? " asked Mrs. Hale, anxiously, 
 misunderstanding Margaret's hint of the uncertainty of their 
 stay at Helstone. " You leok pale and tired. It is this soft, 
 damp, unhealthy air." 
 
 << No — no, mamma, it is not that : it is delicious air. It 
 smells of the freshest, purest fragrance, after the smokiness 
 of Harley Street. But I am tired : it surely must be near 
 bedtime." 
 
 " Not far off— it is half-past nine. You had better go to 
 bed at once, dear. Ask Dixon for some gruel. I will come 
 and see you as soon as you are in bed. I am afraid you 
 
88 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 have taken cold ; or the bad air from some of the stagnant 
 ponds — " 
 
 " Oh, mamma," said Margaret, faintly smiling as she kissed 
 her mother, " I am quite well — don't alarm yourself about me ; 
 I am only tired." 
 
 Margaret went up stairs. To soothe her mother's anxiety 
 she submitted to a basin of gruel. She was lying languidly in 
 bed when Mrs. Hale came up to make some last inquiries and 
 kiss her before going to her own room for the night. But the 
 instant she heard her mother's door locked, she sprang out of 
 bed, and throwing her dressing-gown on, she began to pace up 
 and down the room, until the creaking of one of the boards 
 reminded her that she must make no noise. She went and 
 curled herself up on the window-seat in the small, deeply- 
 recessed window. That morning when she had looked out, her 
 heart had danced at seemg the bright clear lights on the church 
 tower, which foretold a fine and sunny day. This evening — 
 sixteen hours at most had past by — she sat down, too full of 
 sorrow to cry, but with a dull cold pain, which seemed to have 
 pressed the youth and buoyancy out of her heart, never to 
 return. Mr. Henry Lennox's visit — ^his offer — was like a 
 dream, a thing beside her actual life. The hard reality was, 
 that her father had so admitted tempting doubts into his mind 
 as to become a schismatic — an outcast ; all the changes con- 
 sequent upon this grouped themselves around that one great 
 blighting fact. 
 
 She looked out upon the dark-gray lines of the church 
 towers, square and straight in the centre of the view, cutting 
 against the deep blue trasparent depths beyond, into which she 
 gazed, and felt that she might gaze for ever, seeing at every 
 moment some farther distance, and yet no sign of God ! It 
 seemed to her at the moment, as if the earth was more utterly 
 desolate than if girt in by an iron dome, behind which there 
 might be the ineffaceable peace and glory of the Almighty : 
 those never-ending depths of space, in their still serenity, were 
 more mocking to her than any material bounds could be — 
 shutting in the cries of earth's sufferers, which now might 
 ascend into that infinite splendour of vastness and be lost — 
 lost for ever, before they reached His throne. In this mood 
 her father came in nnheard. The moonlight was strong enough 
 to let him see his daughter in her unusual place and attitude. 
 He came to her and touched her shoulder before she was aware 
 that he was there. 
 
DECISION. 3» 
 
 " Margaret, I heard you were up. I could not help coming 
 in to ask you to pray with me — to say the Lord's Prayer ; that 
 will do good to both of us." 
 
 Mr. Hale and Margaret knelt by the window-seat — ^he 
 looking up, she bowed down in humble shame. God was there, 
 olose around them, hearing her father's whispered words. Her 
 father might be a heretic ; but had not she, in her despairing 
 doubts not five minutes before, shown herself a far more utter 
 sceptic ? She spoke not a word, but stole to bed after her 
 father had left her, like a child ashamed of its fault. K the 
 world was full of perplexing problems she would trust, and only 
 ask to see the one step needful for the hour. Mr. Lennox — 
 his visit, his proposal — the remembrance of which had been so 
 rudely pushed aside by the subsequent events of the day — 
 haunted her dreams that night. He was climbing up some tree 
 of fabulous height to reach the branch whereon was slung her 
 bonnet : he was falling and she was struggling to save him, 
 but held back by some invisible powerful hand. He was 
 dead. And yet, with a shifting of the scene, she was once 
 more in the Harley Street drawing-room, talking to him as of 
 old, and still with a consciousness all the time that she had 
 seen him killed by that terrible fall. 
 
 Miserable, unresting night ! Ill preparation for the coming 
 day ! She awoke with a start, unrefreshed, and conscious of 
 some reality worse even than her feverish dreams. It all came 
 back upon her ; not merely the sorrow, but the terrible discord 
 in the sorrow. Where, to what distance apart, had her father 
 wandered, led by doubts which were to her temptations of the 
 Evil One ? She longed to ask, and yet would not have heard 
 for all the world. 
 
 The fine crisp morning made her mother feel particularly 
 well and happy at breakfast-time. She talked on, planning 
 village kindnesses, unheeding the silence of her husband and 
 the monosyllabic answers of Margaret. Before the things were 
 cleared away, Mr. Hale got up ; he leaned one hand on the 
 table, as if to support himself : 
 
 " I shall not be at home till evening. I am going to Bracy 
 Common, and will ask Farmer Dobson to give me something 
 for dinner. I shall be back to tea at seven." 
 
 He did not .look at either of them, but Margaret knew what 
 he meant. By seven the announcement must be made to her 
 mother. Mr. Hale would have delayed making it till half-past 
 six, but Margaret was of different stuff. She could not bear 
 
40 NOKTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 the impending weight on her mind all the day long : better get 
 the worst over; the day would be too short to comfort her 
 mother. But while she stood by the window, thinking how to 
 begin, and waiting for the servant to have left the room, her 
 mother had gone up stairs to put on her things to go to the 
 school. She came down ready equipped, in a brisker mood 
 than usual. 
 
 " Mother, come round the garden with me this morning ; 
 just one turn," said Margaret, putting her arm round Mrs. 
 Hale's waist. 
 
 They passed through the open window. Mrs. Hale spoke — 
 said something — Margaret could not tell what. Her eye caught 
 on a bee entering a deep-belled flower : when that bee flew 
 forth with his spoil she would begin — that should be the sign. 
 Out he came. 
 
 "Mammal Papa is going to leave Helstone ! " she blurted 
 forth. " He's going to leave the Church, and live in Milton- 
 Northern." There were the three hard facts hardly spoken. 
 
 "What makes you say so ? " asked Mrs. Hale, in a surprised 
 incredulous voice. " Who has been telling you such non- 
 sense ? " 
 
 " Papa himself," said Margaret, longing to say something 
 gentle and consoling, but literally not knowing how. They 
 were close to a garden-bench. Mrs. Hale sat down and began 
 to cry. 
 
 "I don't understand you," she said. "Either you have 
 made some great mistake, or I don't quite understand you." 
 
 " No, mother, I have made no mistake. Papa has written 
 to the bishop, saying that he has such doubts that he cannot 
 conscientiously remain a priest of the Ghurch of England, and 
 that he must give up Helstone. He has also consulted Mr. 
 Bell — Frederick's godfather, you know, mamma ; and it is 
 arranged that we go to live in Milton-Northern." Mrs. Hale 
 looked up in Margaret's face all the time she was speaking 
 these words : the shadow on her countenance told that she at 
 least, believed in the truth of what she said. 
 
 "I don't think it can be true," said Mrs. Hale, at length. 
 " He would surely have told me before it came to this." 
 
 It came strongly upon Margaret's mind that her mother 
 ought to have been told : that whatever her faults of discontent 
 and repining might have been, it was an error in her father 
 to have left her to learn his change of opinion, and his 
 approaching change of life, from her better-informed child. 
 
-DECISION. 41 
 
 Margaret sat down by her mother, and took her unresisting 
 head on her breast, bending her own soft cheeks down 
 caressingly to touch her face. 
 
 " Dear, darling mamma ! we were so afraid of giving you 
 pain. Papa felt so acutely — you know you are not strong, and 
 there must have been such terrible suspense to go through." 
 
 " When did he tell you, MargaS.-et ? " 
 
 " Yesterday, only yesterday," replied Margaret, detecting 
 the jealousy which prompted the inquiry. " Poor papa ! " — 
 trying to divert her mother's thoughts into compassionate sym- 
 pathy for all her father had gone through. Mrs. Hale raised 
 her head. 
 
 " What does he mean by having doubts ? " she asked. 
 " Surely, he does not mean that he thinks differently — that he 
 knows better than the Church." 
 
 Margaret shook her head, and the tears came into her eyes, 
 as her mother touched the bare nerve of her own regret. 
 
 " Can't the bishop set him right ? " asked Mrs. Hale half 
 impatiently. 
 
 " I'm afraid not," said Margaret. " But I did not ask. 
 I could not bear to hear what he might answer. It is all 
 settled at any rate. He is going to leave Helstone in a fort- 
 night. I am n'ot sure if he did not say he had sent in his 
 deed of resignation." 
 
 " In a fortnight ! " exclaimed Mrs. Hale, " I do think this 
 is very strange — not at all right. I call it very unfeeling," 
 said she, beginning to take relief in tears. '" He has doubts 
 you say, and gives up his living, and all without consulting me. 
 I dare say, if he had told me his doubts at the first I could have 
 nipped them in the bud." 
 
 Mistaken as Margaret felt her father's conduct to have been, 
 she could not bear to hear it blamed by her mother. She knew 
 that his very reserve had originated in a tenderness for her, 
 which might be cowardly, but was not unfeeling. 
 
 " I almost hoped you might have been glad to leave Hel- 
 stone, mamma," said she, after a pause. " You have never been 
 well in this air, you know." 
 
 " You can't think the smoky air of a manufacturing town, 
 all chimneys and dirt like MUton-Northem, would be better 
 than this air, which is pure and sweet, if it is too soft and 
 /elaxing. Fancy living in the middle of factories, and factory 
 people ! Though, of course, if your father leaves the Church, 
 we .shall not be admitted into society anywhere. It will be 
 
42 NOETH AND SOUTH. 
 
 guch a disgrace to us ! Poor dear Sir John ! It is well he is 
 not alive to see what your father has come to ! Every day 
 after dinner, when I was a girl, living with your Aunt Shaw, 
 at Beresford Court, Sir John used to give for the first toast — 
 ' Church and King, and down with the Eump.' " 
 
 Margaret was glad that her mother's thoughts were 
 turned away from the fact of her husband's silence to her on 
 the point which must have been so near his heart. Next to the 
 serious vital anxiety as to the nature of her father's doubts, 
 this was the one circumstance of the case that gave Margaret 
 the most pain. 
 
 " You know, we have very little society here, mamma. 
 The Germans, who are our nearest neighbours (to call society 
 — and we hardly ever see them), have been in trade just as 
 much as these Milton-Northern people." 
 
 " Yes," said Mrs. Hale, almost indignantly, " but, at any 
 rate, the Germans made carriages for half the gentry of the 
 county, and were brought into some kind of intercourse with 
 them ; but these factory people, who on earth wears cotton 
 that can afford linen ? " 
 
 " Well, mamma, I give up the cotton-spinners ; I am not 
 standing up for them, any more than for any other trades-people. 
 Only we shall have little enough to do with them." 
 
 " Why on earth has your father fixed on Milton-Northern 
 to live in ? " 
 
 " Partly '' said Margaret, sighing, " because it is so very 
 different from Helstone — partly because Mr. Bell says there is 
 an opening there for a private tutor." 
 
 "Private tutor in MiltonJ Why can't he go to Oxford, and 
 be a tutor to gentlemen ? " 
 
 "You forget, mamma! He is leaving the Church on 
 account of his opinions — his doubts wocld do him no good at 
 Oxford." 
 
 Mrs. Hale was silent for some time, quietly ciTing. At last 
 she said : — 
 
 " And the furniture— How in the world are we to manage 
 the removal ? I never removed in my life, £flid only a fort- 
 night to think about it ! " 
 
 Margaret was inexpressibly relieved to find that her mother's 
 anxiety and distress was lowered to this point, so insignificant 
 to herself, and on which she could do so much to help. She 
 planned and promised, and led her mother on to arrange fully 
 as much as could be fixed before they knew somewhat more 
 
DECISION. 45 
 
 definitiTely what Mr. Hale intended to do. Throughout the 
 day Margaret never left her mother ; bending her whole soul 
 to sympathise in all the various turns her feelings took ; 
 towards evening especially, as she became more and more 
 anxious that her father should find a soothing welcome home 
 awaiting him, after his return from his day of fatigue and dis- 
 tress. She dwelt upon what he must have borne in secret for 
 long ; her mother only replied coldly that he ought to have told 
 her, and that then at any rate he would have had an adviser to 
 give him counsel ; and Margaret turned faint at heart when she 
 heard her father's step in the hall. She dared not go to meet 
 him, and tell him what she had done all day, for fear of her 
 mother's jealous annoyance. She heard him linger, as if 
 awaiting her, or some sign of her ; and she dared not stir ; she 
 saw by her mother's twitching lips, and changing colour, that 
 she too was aware that her husband had returned. Presently 
 he opened the room-door, and stood there uncertain whether to 
 come in. His face was gray and pale ; he had a timid fearful 
 look in his eyes ; something almost pitiful to see in a man's 
 fece ; but that look of despondent uncertainty, of mental and 
 bodily languor, touched his wife's heart. She went to him, 
 and threw herself on his breast, crying out : — 
 
 " Oh ! Eichard, Richard, you should have told me 
 sooner! " 
 
 And then, in tears, Margaret left her, as she rushed up stairs 
 to throw herself on her bed, and hide her face in the pillows to 
 stifle the hysteric sobs that would force their way at last, after 
 the rigid self-control of the whole day. 
 
 How long she lay thus she could not tell. She heard no 
 noise, though the housemaid came in to arrange the room. 
 The afirighted girl stole out again on tip-toe, and went and 
 told Mrs. Dixon that Miss Hale was crying as if her heart 
 would break : she was sure she would make herself deadly ill 
 if she went on at that rate. In consequence of this, Margaret 
 felt herself touched, and started up into a sitting posture ; she 
 saw the accustomed room, the figure of Dixon in shadow, as 
 the latter stood holding the candle a little behind her, for fear 
 of the efiect on Miss Hale's startled eyes, swollen and blinded 
 as they were. 
 
 " Oh, Dixon ! I did not hear you come into the room ! " 
 said Margaret, resuming her trembling self-restraint. "Is it 
 very late ? " continued she, lifting herself languidly off the bed, 
 yet letting her feet touch the ground without fairly standing 
 
44 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 down, as she shaded her wet ruflBed hair off her face, and tried 
 to look as though nothing were the matter ; as if she had only 
 been asleep. 
 
 " I hardly can tell what time it is," replied Dixon, in an 
 aggrieved tone of voice. " Since your mamma told me this 
 terrible news, when I dressed her for tea, I've lost all count 
 of time. I'm sure I don't know what is to become of us all. 
 When Charlotte told me just now you were sobbing. Miss Hale, 
 I thought, no wonder, poor thing ! And master thinking of 
 turning Dissenter at his time of life, when, if it is not to be 
 said he's done well in the Church, he's not done badly after all. 
 I had a cousin, miss, who turned Methodist preacher after he 
 was fifty years of age, and a tailor all his life ; but then he had 
 never been able to make a pair of trousers to fit, for as long as 
 he had been in the trade, so it was no wonder ; but for master! 
 as I said to missus, ' What would poor Sir John have said? he 
 never liked your marrying Mr. Hale, but if he could have 
 known it would have come to this, he would have sworn worse 
 oaths than ever, if that was possible ! ' " 
 
 Dixon had been so much accustomed to comment upon 
 Mr. Hale's proceedings to her mistress (who listened to her, or 
 not, as she was in the humour), that she never noticed 
 Margaret's flashing eye and dilating nostril. To hear her 
 father talked of in this way by a servant to her face ! 
 
 " Dixon," she said, in the low tone she always used when 
 much excited, which had a sound in it as of some distant 
 turmoil, or threatening storm breaking far away. " Dixon ! 
 you forget to whom you are speaking." She stood upright 
 and firm .on her feet now, confronting the waiting-maid, and 
 fixing her with her steady discerning eye. " I am Mr. Hale's 
 daughter. Go ! You have made a strange mistake, and one 
 that I am sure your own good feeling will make you sony for 
 when you think about it." 
 
 Dixon hung irresolutely about the room for a minute or 
 two. Margaret repeated, " You may leave me, Dixon. I wish 
 you to go." Dixon did not know whether to resent these 
 decided words or to cry ; either course would have done with 
 her mistress : but, as she said to herself, " Miss Margaret has 
 a touch of the old gentleman about her, as well as poor Master 
 Frederick ; I wonder where they get it from ? " and she, who 
 would have resented such words from any one less haughty 
 and determined in manner, was subdued enough to say, in a 
 half humble, half injured tone : 
 
DECISION. 45 
 
 " Mayn't I unfasten your gown, miss, and do your hair ? " 
 
 " No ! not to-night, thank you," And Margaret gravely 
 lighted her out of the room, and bolted the door. From 
 henceforth Dixon obeyed and admired Margaret. She said it 
 was because she was so like poor Master Frederick ; but the 
 truth was, that Dixon, as do many others, liked to feel herself 
 ruled by a powerful and decided nature. 
 
 Margaret needed all Dixon's help in action, and silence in 
 words ; for, for some time, the latter thought it her duty to 
 show her sense of affront by saying as little as possible to her 
 young lady ; so the energy came out in doing rather than in 
 speaking. A fortnight was a very short time io make arrange- 
 ments for so serious a removal ; as Dixon said, "Any one but 
 a gentleman — indeed almost any other gentleman — " but 
 catching a look at Margaret's straight, stem brow just here, 
 she coughed the remainder of- the sentence away, and meekly 
 took the horehound drop that Margaret offered her, to stop the 
 " little tickling at my chest, miss." But almost any one but 
 Mr. Hale would have had practical knowledge enough to see, 
 that in so short a time it would be diflScult to fix on any house 
 in MUton-Northern, or indeed elsewhere, to which they could 
 remove the furniture that had of necessity to be taken out of 
 Hektone Vicarage. 
 
 Mrs. Hale, overpowered by all the troubles and necessities 
 for immediate household decisions that seemed to come upon 
 her at once, became really ill, and Margaret almost felt it 
 as a relief when her mother fairly took to her bed, and left the 
 management of affairs to her. Dixon, true to her post of body- 
 guard, attended most faithfully to her mistress, and only 
 emerged from Mrs. Hale's bedroom to shake her head, and 
 murmur to herself in a manner which Margaret did not choose 
 to hear. For, the one thing clear and straight before her, was 
 the necessity for leaving Helstone. Mr. Hale's successor in 
 the living was appointed ; and, at any rate, after her father's 
 decision, there must be no lingering now, for his sake, as well 
 as from every other consideration. For he came home eveiy 
 evening more and more depressed, after the necessary leave- 
 taking which he had resolved to have with every individual 
 parishioner. Margaret, inexperienced as she was in all the 
 necessary matter-of-fact business to be got through, did not 
 know to whom to apply for advice. The cook and Charlotte 
 worked away with willing arms and stout hearts at all the 
 moving and packing; and as far as that went, Margaret'^ 
 
46 , NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 admirable sense enabled her to see what was best, and to direct 
 how it should be done. But where were they to go to ? In a 
 week they must be gone. Straight to Milton, or where ? So 
 many arrangements depended on this decision that Margaret 
 resolved to ask her father one evening, in spite of his evident 
 fatigue and low spirits. He answered : 
 
 " My dear ! I have really had too much to think about to 
 settle this. "What does your mother say ? What does she 
 wish ? Poor Maria ! " 
 
 He met with an echo even louder than his sigh. Dixon 
 had just come into the room for another cup of tea for 
 Mrs. Hale, and catching Mr. Hale's last words, and protected 
 by his presence from Margaret's upbraiding eyes, made bold to 
 say, " My poor mistress ! " 
 
 " You don't think her worse to-day," said Mr. Hale, turning 
 hastily. 
 
 " I am sure I can't say, sir. It's not for me to judge. 
 The illness seems so much more on the mind than on the body." 
 
 Mr. Hale looked infinitely distressed. 
 
 "You had better take mamma her tea while it is hot, 
 Dixon," said Margaret, in a tone of quiet authority. 
 
 "Oh! I beg your pardon, miss I My thoughts was other- 
 wise occupied in thinking of my poor of Mrs. Hale." 
 
 " Papa ! " said Margaret, "it is this suspense that is bad 
 for you both. Of course, mamma must feel your change of 
 opinions: we can't help that," she continued softly; "but 
 now the course is clear, at least to a certain point. And I 
 think, papa, that I could get mamma to help me in planning, 
 if you could tell me what to plan for. She has never expressed 
 any wish in any way, and only thinks of what can't be helped. Are 
 we to go straight to Milton ? Have you taken a house there ? " 
 
 " No," he replied., " I suppose we must go into lodgings, 
 and look about for a house." 
 
 " And pack up the furniture so that it can be left at the 
 railway station, till we have met with one ? " 
 
 " I suppose so. Do what you think best. Only remember, 
 we shall have much less money to spend." 
 
 They had never had much superfluity, as Margaret knew. 
 She felt that it was a great weight suddenly thrown upon her 
 shoulders. Four months ago, all the decisions she needed to 
 make were what dress she would wear for dinner, and to help 
 Edith to draw out the lists of who should take down whom 
 in the dinner parties at home. Nor was the household in 
 
DECISION. 47 
 
 ■which she lived one that called for much decision. Except in 
 the one grand case of Captain Lennox's offer, everything went 
 on with the regularity of clockwork. Once a year, there was 
 a long discussion between her aunt and Edith as to whether 
 they should go to the Isle of Wight, abroad, or to Scotland ; 
 but at such times Margaret herself was secure of drifting, 
 without any exertion of her own, into the quiet harbour of 
 home. Now, since that day when Mr. Lennox came, and 
 startled her into a decision, every day brought some question, 
 momentous to her, and to those whom she loved, to be settled. 
 
 Her father went up after tea to sit with his wife. Margaret 
 remained alone in the drawing-room. Suddenly she took a 
 candle and went into her father's study for a great atlas, and 
 lugging it back into the drawing-room, she began to pore over 
 the map of England. She was ready to look up brightly when 
 her father came down stairs. 
 
 "I have hit upon such a beautiful plan. Look here — in 
 Darkshire, hardly the breadth of my finger from Milton, is 
 Heston, which I have often heard of from people living in the 
 north as such a pleasant little bathing-place. Now, don't you 
 think we could get mamma there with Dixon, while you and I 
 go and look at houses, and get one all ready for her in Milton ? 
 She would get a breath of sea air to set her up for the winter, 
 and be spared all the fatigue, and Dixon would enjoy taking care 
 of her." 
 
 "Is Dixon to go with us ? " asked Mr. Hale, in a kind of 
 helpless dismay. 
 
 " Oh, yes ! " said Margaret. " Dixon quite intends it, and 
 I don't know what mamma would do without her." 
 
 " But we shall have to put up with a very different way of 
 living, I am afraid. Everything is so much dearer in a town. 
 I doubt if Dixon can make herself comfortable. To tell you 
 the truth, Margaret, I sometimes feel as if that woman gave 
 herself airs." 
 
 " To be sure she does, papa," replied Margaret ; " and if 
 she has to put up with a different style of living, we shall have 
 to put up with her airs, which will be worse. But she really 
 loves us all, and would be miserable to leave us, I am sure — 
 especially in this change ; so, for mamma's sake, and for the 
 sake of her faithfulness, I do think she must go." 
 
 " Very well, my dear. Go on. I am resigned. How far 
 is Heston from Milton ? The breadth of one of your fingers 
 does not give me a very clear idea of distance." 
 
*8 NOETH AND SOUTH. 
 
 " Well, then, I suppose it is thirty miles; that is not much !'' 
 " Not in distance, but in — . Never mind ! If you really 
 think it will do your mother good, let it be fixed so." 
 
 This was a great step. Now Margaret could work, and 
 act, and plan in good earnest. And now Mrs. Hale could 
 rouse herself from her languor, and forget her real suffering in 
 thinking of the pleasure and the delight of going to the sea- 
 side. Her only regret was that Mr. Hale could not be with 
 her all the fortnight she was to be there, as he had been for a 
 whole fortnight once, when they were engaged, and she was 
 staying with Sir John and Lady Beresford at Torquay. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 FAREWELL. 
 
 " tJnwatch'd the garden bough shall sway, 
 The tender blossom flatter down, 
 Unloved that beech will gather brown. 
 The maple burn itself away ; 
 
 Unloved, the sun-flower, shining fair, 
 
 Kay round with flames her disk of seed. 
 And many a rose-carnation feed 
 
 With summer spice the humming air ; 
 
 ****** 
 
 Till from the garden and the wild 
 A fresh association blow 
 And year by year the landscape grow 
 Familiar to the stranger's child ; 
 As year by year the labourer tills 
 
 His wonted glebe, or lops the glades ; 
 And year by year our memory fades 
 From all the circle of the hills." 
 
 Temnysoj.'. 
 The last day came; the house was full of packing-cases 
 which were being carted off at the front door, to the nearest 
 railway station. Even the pretty lawn at the side of the house 
 was made unsightly and untidy by the straw that had been 
 wafted upon it through the open door and windows. The 
 rooms had a strange echoing sound in them,— and the light 
 came harshly and strongly in through the uncurtained windows, 
 — seeming already unfamiliar and strange. Mrs. Hale's 
 dressing-room was left untouched to the last ; and there she 
 and Dixon were packing up clothes, and interripting each 
 
FAREWELL. 49 
 
 other every now and then to exclaim at, and turn over with 
 fond regard, some forgotten treasure, in the shape of some 
 relie of the children while they were yet little. They did not 
 make much progress with their work. Down-stairs, Margaret 
 stood calm and collected, ready to counsel or advise the men 
 who had been called in to help the cook and Charlotte. These 
 two last, crying between whiles, wondered how the young lady 
 could keep up so this last day, and settled it between them 
 that she was not likely to care much for Helstone, having been 
 so long in London. There she stood, very pale and quiet, 
 with her large grave eyes observing everything, — up to every 
 present circumstance however small. They could not under- 
 stand how her heart was aching all the time, with a heavy 
 pressure that no sighs could lift o£f or relieve, and how constant 
 exertion for her perceptive faculties was the only way to keep 
 herself from crying out with pain. Moreover, if she gave way, 
 who was to act ? Her father was examining papers, books, 
 registers, what not, in the vestry with the clerk ; and when he 
 came in, there were his own books to pack up, which ho one 
 but himself could do to his satisfaction. Besides, was Mar- 
 garet one to give way before strange men, or even household 
 friends like the cook and Charlotte? Not she! But at last 
 the four packers went into the kitchen to their tea ; and 
 Margaret moved stiflBy and slowly away from the place in the 
 hall where she had been standing so long, out through the 
 bare echoing drawing-room, into the twilight of an early 
 November evening. There was a filmy veil of soft dull mist 
 obscuring, but not hiding, all objects, giving them a lilac hue, 
 for the sun had not yet fully set ; a robin was singing, — 
 perhaps, Margaret thought, the very robin that her father had 
 so often talked of as his winter pet, and for which he had 
 made, with his own hands, a kind of robin-house by his study- 
 window. The leaves were more gorgeous than ever ; the first 
 touch of frost would lay them all low on the ground. Already 
 one or two kept constantly floating down, amber and golden in 
 the low slanting sun-rays. 
 
 'Margaret went along the walk under the pear-tree wall. 
 She had never been along it since she paced it at Henry 
 Lennox's side. Here, at this bed of thyme, he began to speak 
 of what she must not think of now. Her eyes were on that 
 late-blowing rose as she was trying to answer ; and she had 
 caught the idea of the vivid beauty of the feathery leaves of 
 the carrots in the veiy middle of his last sentence. Only a 
 
 4 
 
50 NORTH AJSD SOUTH. 
 
 fortnight ago ! And all so changed ! Where was he now ? 
 In London, — going through the old round ; dining with the old 
 Harley Street set, or with gayer young friends of his own. 
 Even now, while she walked sadly through that damp and 
 drear garden in the dusk, with everything falling and fading, 
 aiad turning to decay around her, he might he gladly putting 
 away his law-hooks after a day of satisfactory toil, and freshen- 
 ing himself up, as he had told her he often did, by a run in 
 the Temple Gardens, taking in the while the grand inarticulate 
 mighty roar of tens of thousands of busy men, nigh at hand, 
 but not seen, and catching ever, at his quick turns, glimpses 
 of the lights of the city coming up out of the depths of the 
 river. He had often spoken to Margaret of these hasty walks, 
 snatched in the intervals between study and dinner. At his 
 best times and in his best moods had he spoken of them; and 
 the thought of them had struck upon her fancy. Here there 
 was no sound. The robin had gone away into the vast stillness 
 of night. Now and then, a cottage door in the distance was 
 opened and shut, as if to admit the tired labourer to his home ; 
 but that sounded very far away. A stealthy, creeping, 
 cranching sound among the crisp fallen leaves of the forest, 
 beyond the garden, seemed almost close at hand. Margaret 
 knew it was some poacher. Sitting up in her bedroom this 
 past autumn, with the light of her candle extinguished, and 
 purely revelling in the solemn beauty of the heavens and the 
 earth, she had many a time seen the light noiseless leap of 
 the poachers over the garden-fence, their quick tramp across 
 the dewy moonlit lawn, their disappearance in the black still 
 shadow beyond. The wild adventurous freedom of their life 
 had taken her fancy ; she felt inclined to wish them success ; 
 she had no fear of them. But to-night she was afraid, she 
 knew not why. She heard Charlotte shutting the windows, 
 and fastening up for the night, unconscious that any one had 
 gone out into the garden. A small branch — it might be of 
 rotten wood, or it might be broken by force — came heavily 
 down in the nearest part of the forest ; Margaret ran, swift as 
 Camilla, down to the window, and rapped at it with a hurried 
 tremulousness which startled Charlotte within. 
 
 " Let me in ! Let me in ! It is only me, Charlotte !" 
 Her heart did not still its fluttering till she was safe in the 
 drawing-room, with the windows fastened and bolted, and the 
 familiar walls hemming her round, and shutting her in. bne 
 had sate down upon a packing-case ; cheerless, chill was the 
 
FAREWELL. 61 
 
 dreary and dismantled room — ^no fire, nor other light, but 
 Charlotte's long unsnuffed candle. Charlotte looked at Mar- 
 garet with surprise ; and Margaret, feeling it rather than seeing 
 it, rose up. 
 
 " I was afraid you were shutting me out altogether, 
 Charlotte," said she, half-smiling. " And then you would 
 never have heard me in the kitchen, and the doors into the 
 lane and churchyard are locked long ago." 
 
 " Oh, miss, I should have been sure to have missed you 
 soon. The men would have wanted you to tell them how to 
 go on. And I have put tea in master's study, as being the 
 most comfortable room, so to speak." 
 
 " Thank you, Charlotte. You are a kind girl. I shall be 
 sorry to leave you. You must try and write to me, if I can 
 ever give you any little help or good advice. I shall always 
 be glad to get a letter from Helstone, you know. I shall be 
 sure and send you my address when I know it." 
 
 The study was all ready for tea. There was a good blazing 
 fire, and unlighted candles on the table. Margaret sat down 
 on the rug, partly to warm herself, for the dampness of the 
 evening hung about her dress, and over-fatigue had made her 
 chilly. She kept herself balanced by clasping her hands 
 together round her knees ; her head dropped a little towards 
 her chest ; the attitude was one of despondency, whatever her 
 frame of mind might be. But when she heard her father's 
 step on the gravel outside, she started up, and hastily shaking 
 her heavy black hair back, and wiping a few tears away that 
 had come on her cheeks she knew not how, she went out to 
 open the door for him. He showed far more depression than 
 she did. She could hardly get him to talk, although she tried 
 to speak on subjects that would interest him, at the cost of an 
 effort every time which she thought would be her last. 
 
 " Have you been a very long walk to-day ? " asked she, on 
 seeing his refusal to touch food of any kind. 
 
 "As far as Fordham Beeches. I went to see Widow 
 Maltby ; she is sadly grieved at not having wished you good- 
 bye. She says little Susan has kept watch down the lane for 
 days past. — ^Nay, Margaret, what is the matter, dear ? " The 
 thought of the little child watching for her, and continually 
 disappointed — ^from no forgetfulness on her part, but from 
 sheer inability to leave home — ^was the last drop in poor Mar- 
 garet's cup, and she was sobbing away as if her heart would 
 breai. Mr. Hale was distressingly perplexed. He rose, and 
 
 4—2 
 
52 NORTH AHD SOUTH. 
 
 walked nervously up and down the room. Margaret tried to 
 check herself, but would not speak until she could do so with 
 firmness. She heard him talking, as if to himself. 
 
 " I cannot bear it. I cannot bear to see the sufferings of 
 others. I think I could go through my own with patience. 
 Ob, is there no going back ? " 
 
 " No, father," said Margaret, looking straight at him, and 
 speaking low and steadily. " It is bad to believe you in error. 
 It would be infinitely worse to have known you a hypocrite." 
 She dropped her voice at the last few words, as if entertaining 
 the idea of hypocrisy for a moment in connection with her 
 father savoured of irreverence. 
 
 " Besides," she went on, " it "is only that I am tired to- 
 night ; don't think that I am suffering from what you have 
 done, dear papa. We can't either of us talk about it to-night, 
 I believe," said she, finding that tears and sobs would come in 
 spite of herself. " I had better go and take mamma up this cup 
 of tea. She had hers very early, when I was too busy to go 
 to her, and I am sure she wiU be glad of another now." 
 
 Railroad time inexorably wrenched them away from lovely, 
 beloved Helstone, the next morning. They were gone ; they 
 had seen the last of the long low parsonage home, half-covered 
 with China-roses and pyracanthus — more homelike than ever 
 In the morning sun that glittered on its windows, each belonging 
 to some well-loved room. Almost before they had settled 
 themselves into the car, sent from Southampton to fetch them 
 to the station, they were gone away to return no more. A 
 sting at Margaret's heart made her strive to look out to catch 
 the last glimpse of the old church tower at the turn where she 
 knew it might be seen above a wave of the forest trees ; but 
 her father remembered this too, and she silently acknowledged 
 his greater right to the one window from which it could be 
 seen. She leant back and shut her eyes, and the tears weUed 
 forth, and hung glittering for an instant on the shadowing eye- 
 lashes before rolling slowly down her cheeks, and dropping, 
 unheeded, on her dress. 
 
 They were to stop in London all night at some quiet hotel. 
 Poor Mrs. Hale had cried in her way nearly all day long ; 
 and Dixon showed her son-ow by extreme crossness, and a 
 continual irritable attempt to keep her petticoats from even 
 touching the unconscious Mr. Hale, whom she regarded as the 
 origin of all this suffering. 
 
 They went through the well-known streets, past houses 
 
FAREWELL. 53 
 
 which they had often visited, past shops in which she had 
 lounged, impatient, by her aunt's side, while that lady was 
 making some important and interminable decision — nay, abso- 
 lutely past acquaintances in the streets ; for though the morning 
 had been of an incalculable length to them, and they felt as if 
 it ought long ago to have closed in for the repose of darkness, 
 it was the very busiest time of a London afternoon in November 
 when they arrived there. It was long since Mrs. Hale had 
 been in London ; and she roused up, almost IJke a child, to 
 look about her at the different streets, and to gaze after and 
 exclaim at the shops and carriages, — 
 
 " Oh, there's Harrison's, where I bought so many of my 
 wedding things. Dear ! how altered ! They've got immense 
 plate-glass windows, larger than Crawford's in Soflthampton. 
 Oh, and there, I declare — no, it is not — yes, it is — ^Margaret, 
 we have just passed Mr. Henry Lennox. Where can he be 
 going, among all these shops ? " 
 
 Margaret started forwards, and as quickly fell back, "half- 
 smiling at herself for the sudden motion. They were a hundred 
 yards away by this time ; but he seemed like a relic of Helstone 
 — he was associated with a bright morning, an eventful day, 
 and she should have liked to have seen him, without his seeing 
 her, — without the chance of their speaking. 
 
 The evening, without employment, passed in a room high 
 up in an hotel, was long and heavy. Mr. Hale went out to 
 his bookseller's, and to call on a friend or two. Every one 
 they saw, either in the house or out in the streets, appeared 
 hurrying to some appointment, expected by, or expecting some- 
 body. They alone seemed strange and friendless, and desolate. 
 Yet within a mile, Margaret knew of house after house, where 
 she for her own sake, and her mother for her aunt Shaw's, 
 would be welcomed, if they came in gladness, or even in peace 
 of mind. If they came sorrowing, and wanting sympathy in a 
 complicated trouble like the present, then they would be felt 
 as a shadow in all these houses of intimate acquaintances, not 
 friends. London life is too whirling and fuU to admit of even 
 an hour of that deep silence of feeling which the friends of 
 Job showed, when " they sat with him on the ground seven 
 days and seven nights, and none spake a word unto him ; for 
 they saw that his grief was very great." 
 
( 54 ) 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 NEW SCENES AND FACES. 
 
 " Mist clogs the sunshine. 
 Smoky dwarf houses 
 Have we round on every side." 
 
 Matthew Arnold. 
 
 The next afternoon, about twenty miles from Milton-Northern, 
 they entered on the little branch railway that led to Heston. 
 Heston itself was one long straggling street, running parallel 
 to the sea-shore. It had a character of its own, as diflferent 
 from the little bathing-places in the south of England as they 
 again from those of the continent. To use a Scotch word, 
 everything looked more "purpose-like." The country carts 
 had more iron, and less wood and leather about the horse-gear ; 
 the people in the streets, although on pleasure bent, had yet 
 a busy mind. The colours looked grayer — more enduring, 
 not so gay and pretty. There were no smock-frocks, even 
 among the country-folk ; they retarded motion, and were apt 
 to catch on machinery, and so the habit of wearing them had 
 died out. In such towns in the south of England, Margaret 
 had seen the shopmen, when not employed in their business, 
 lounging a little at their doors, enjoying the fresh air, and the 
 look up and down the street. Here, if they had any leisure 
 from customers, they made themselves business in the shop — 
 even, Margaret fancied, to the unnecessary unrolling and 
 re-rolling of ribbons. All these differences struck upon her 
 mind, as she and her mother went out next morning to look 
 for lodgings. 
 
 Their two nights at hotels had cost more than Mr. Hal,e 
 had anticipated, and they were glad to take the first clean, 
 cheerful rooms they met with that were at liberty to receive 
 them. There, for the first time for many days, did Mai-garet 
 feel at rest. There was a dreaminess in the rest, too, which 
 made it still more perfect and luxurious to repose in. The 
 distant sea, lapping the sandy shore with measured sound ; 
 the nearer cries of the donkey-boys ; the unusual scenes 
 moving before her like pictures, which she cared not in her 
 laziness to have fuUy explained before they passed away ; the 
 stroll down to the beach to breathe the sea-air, soft and warm 
 on that sandy shore even to the end of November ; the great 
 
NEW SCENES AND FACES. 56 
 
 long misty sea-line touching the tender-coloured sky; the 
 white sail of a distant hoat turning silver in some pale sun- 
 beam : — it seemed as if she could dream her life away in such 
 luxury of pensiveness, in which she made her present all in 
 all, from not daring to think of the past, or wishing to contem- 
 plate the future. 
 
 But the future must be met, however stern and iron it be. 
 One evening it was arranged -that Margaret and her father 
 should go the next day to Milton- Northern, and look out for 
 a house. Mr. Hale had received several letters from Mr. Bell, 
 and one or two from Mi'. Thornton, and he was anxious to 
 ascertain at once a good many particulars respecting his 
 position and chances of success there, which he could only 
 do by an interview with the latter gentleman. Margaret knew 
 that they ought to be removing ; but she had a repugnance 
 to the idea of a manufacturing town, and believed that her 
 mother was receiving benefit from Heston air, so she would 
 willingly have deferred the expedition to Milton. 
 
 For several miles before they reached Milton, they saw a 
 deep lead-coloured cloud hanging over the horizon in the 
 direction in which it lay. It was all the darker from, contrast 
 with the pale gray-blue of the wintry sky ; for in Heston there 
 had been the earliest signs of frost. Nearer to the town, the 
 air had a faint taste and smell of smoke ; perhaps, after all, 
 more a loss of the fragrance of grass and herbage than any 
 positive taste or smell. Quick they were whirled over long, 
 straight, hopeless streets of regularly-built houses, all small 
 and of brick. Here and there a great oblong many-vfindowed 
 factory stood up, hke a hen among her chickens, puffing out 
 black " unparliamentary " smoke, and sufficiently accounting 
 for the cloud which Margaret had taken to foretell rain. As 
 they drove through the larger and wider streets, from the 
 station to the hotel, they had to stop constantly ; great loaded 
 lurries blocked up the not over-wide thoroughfares. Margaret 
 had now and then been into the city in her drives with her 
 aunt. But there the heavy lumbering vehicles seemed various 
 in their purposes and intent ; here OTeiy van, every waggon 
 and truck, bore cotton, either in the raw shape in bags, or the 
 woven shape in bales of calico. ■ People thronged the footpaths, ^ 
 most of them well-dressed as regp,rded the material, but with 
 a slovenly looseness which struck Margaret as different from 
 the shabby, threadbare smartness of a similar class in London. 
 
 " New Street," said Mr. Hale. " This, I believe, is the 
 
66 
 
 NOETH AMD SOUTH. 
 
 principal street in Milton. Bell Las often spoken to me about 
 it. It was the opening of this street from a lane into a great 
 thoroughfare, thirty years ago, which has caused his property 
 to rise so much in value. Mr. Thornton's mill must be some- 
 where not very far off, for he is Mr. Bell's tenant. But I 
 fancy he dates from his warehouse." 
 " Where is our hotel, papa ? " 
 
 " Close to the end of this street, I believe. Shall we have 
 lunch before or after we have looked at the houses we marked 
 in the Milton Times ? " 
 
 " Oh, let us get our work done first." 
 " Very well. Then I will only see if there is any note or 
 letter for me from Mr. Thornton, who said he would let me 
 know anything he might hear about these houses, and then 
 we will set off. We will keep the cab ; it will be safer than 
 losmg ourselves, and being too late for the train this afternoon." 
 There were no letters awaiting him. They set out on 
 their house-hunting. Thirty pounds a-year was all they could 
 afford to give, but in Hampshire they could have met with a 
 roomy house and pleasant garden for the money. Here, even 
 the necessary accommodation of two sitting-rooms and four 
 bed-rooms seemed unattainable. They went through their 
 hst, rejecting each as they visited it. Then they looked at 
 each other in dismay. 
 
 _ " We must go back to the second, I think. That one — 
 in Crampton, don't they call the suburb ? There were three 
 sitting-rooms ; don't you remember how we laughed at the 
 number compared with the three bed-rooms ? But I have 
 planned it all. The front room down-staii-s is to be your study 
 and our dining-room (poor papa !), for you know, we settled 
 mamma IS to have as cheerful a sitting-room as we can get: 
 and that front room up-stairs, with the atrocious blue and pink 
 paper and heavy cornice, had really a pretty view over the plain, 
 with a great bend of river, or canal, or whatever it is, down 
 below. Then I could have the little bed-room behind, in that 
 projection at the head of the first flight of stairs over the 
 kitchen, you knor— and you and mamma the room behind the 
 drawing-room, and that closet in the roof wiU make vou a 
 splendid dressing-room. ^ 
 
 " But Dixon, and the girl we are to have to help 9 " 
 " Oh, wait a minute. I am overpowered by the'discovery 
 ot my own genms for management. Dixon is to have— let me 
 see, 1 had it once— the back sitting-room. I think she will 
 
NEW SCENES AND FACES. 57 
 
 like that. She grumbles so nmch about the stairs at Heston ; 
 and the girl is to have that sloping attic over j'our room and 
 mamma's. Won't that do ? " 
 
 " I dare say it will. But the papers. What taste ! And 
 the overloading such a house with colour and such heavy 
 cornices ! " 
 
 " Never mind, papa ! Surely you can charm the landlord 
 into re-papering one or two of the rooms — the drawing-room 
 and your bed-room — ^for mamma will come most in contactwith 
 them; and your hook- shelves will hide a great deal of that 
 gaudy pattern in the dining-room." 
 
 " Then you think it the best ? If so, I had better go at 
 once and call on this Mr. Donkin, to whom the advertisement 
 refers me. I will take you back to the hotel, where you can 
 order lunch, and rest, and by the time it is ready, I shall be 
 with you. I hope I shall be able to get new papers." 
 
 Margaret hoped so too, though she said nothing. She had 
 never come fairly in contact with the taste that loves ornament, 
 however bad, more than the plainness and simplicity which are 
 of themselves the framework of elegance. 
 
 Her father took her through the entrance of the hotel, and 
 leaving her at the foot of the staircase, went to the address of 
 the landlord of the house they had fixed upon. Just as Mar- 
 garet had her hand on the door of their sitting-room, she was 
 followed by a quick-stepping waiter : 
 
 " I beg your pardon, ma'am. The gentleman was gone so 
 quickly, I had no time to tell him. Mr. Thornton called 
 almost directly after you left ; and as I understood, from what 
 the gentleman said, you would be back in an hour, I told him 
 so, and he came again about five minutes ago, and said he 
 would wait for Mr. Hale. He is in your room now, ma'am." 
 
 " Thank you. My father will return soon, and then you 
 can tell him." 
 
 Margaret opened the door and went in with the straight, 
 fearless, dignified presence habitual to her. She felt no 
 awkwardness ; she had too much the habits of society for that. 
 Here was a person come on business to her father ; and, as he 
 was one who had shown himself obliging, she was disposed to 
 treat him with a full measure of civility. Mr. Thornton was 
 a good deal more surprised and discomfited than she. Instead 
 of a quiet, middle-aged clergyman, a young lady came forward 
 with frank dignity, — a young lady of a difierent type to most 
 of those he was in the habit of seeing. Her dress was very 
 
68 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 plain : a close straw bonnet of the best material and shape, 
 trimmed with white ribbon ; a dark silk gown, without any 
 trimming or flounce ; a large Indian shawl, which hung about 
 her in long heavy folds, and which she wore as an empress 
 wears her drapery. He did not understand who she was, as he 
 caught the simple, straight, unabashed look, which showed that 
 his being there was of no concern to the beautiful countenance, 
 and called up no flush of surprise to the pale ivory of the com- 
 plexion. He had heard that Mr. Hale had a daughter, but he 
 had imagined that she was a little girl. 
 
 " Mr. Thornton, I believe ! " said Margaret, after a half- 
 instant's pause, during which his unready words would not 
 come. " Will you sit down. My father brought me to the 
 door, not a minute ago, but unfortunately he was not told that 
 you were here, and he has gone away on some business. But 
 he will come back almost directly. I am sorry you have had 
 the trouble of calling twice." 
 
 Mr. Thornton was in habits of authority himself, but she 
 seemed to assume some kind of rule over him at once. He 
 had been getting impatient at the loss of his time on a market- 
 day, the moment before she appeared, yet now he calmly took 
 a seat at her bidding. 
 
 " Do you know where it is that Mr. Hale has gone to ? 
 Perhaps I might be able to find him." 
 
 " He has gone to a Mr. Donkin's in Canute Street. He 
 is the landlord of the house my father wishes to take in 
 Crampton." 
 
 Mr. Thornton knew the house. He had seen the adver- 
 tisement, and been to look at it, in compliance with a 
 request of Mr. Bell's that he would assist Mr. Hale to the best 
 of his power : and also instigated by his own interest in the 
 case of a clergyman who had given up his living under circum- 
 stances such as those of Mr. Hale. Mr. Thornton had thought 
 that the house in Crampton was really just the thing ; but now 
 that he saw Margaret, with her superb ways of moving and 
 looking, he began to feel ashamed of having imagined that it 
 would do very well for the Hales, in spite of a certain vulgarity 
 in it which had struck him at the time oi his looking it over. 
 
 Margaret could not help her looks ; but the short curled 
 upper lip, the round, massive up-tumed chin, the manner of 
 carrying her head, her movements, full of a soft leminine 
 defiance, always gave strangers the impression of haughtiness. 
 She was tired now, and would rather have remained silent, and 
 
NEW SCENES AND FACES. 59 
 
 taken the rest her father had planned for her ; but, of course, 
 she owed to herself to be a gentlewoman, and to speak cour- 
 teously from time to time to this stranger ; not over-brushed, 
 nor over-polished, it must be confessed, after his rough 
 encounter with Milton streets and crowds. She wished that he 
 would go, as he had once spoken of doing, instead of sitting 
 there, answering with curt sentences all the remarks she made. 
 She had taken off her shawl, and hung it over the back of her 
 chair. She sat facing him and facing the light ; her full 
 beauty met his eye ; her round white flexile throat rising out of 
 the full, yet lithe figure ; her lips, moving so slightly as she 
 spoke, not breaking the cold serene look of her face with any 
 variation from the one lovely haughty curve ; her eyes, with 
 their soft gloom, meeting his with quiet maiden freedom. He 
 almost said to himself that he did not like her, before their 
 conversation ended ; he tried so to compensate himself for the 
 mortified feeling, that while he looked upon her with an admi- 
 ration he could not repress, she looked at him with proud 
 indifference, taking him, he thought, for what, in his irritation, 
 he told himself he was — a great rough fellow, with not a grace 
 • or a refinement about him. Her quiet coldness of demeanour 
 he interpreted into contemptuousness, and resented it in his 
 heart to the pitch of almost inclining him to get up and go 
 away, and have nothing more to do with these Hales, and their 
 superciliousness. 
 
 Just as Margaret had exhausted her last subject of conver- 
 sation — and yet conversation that could hardly be called which 
 consisted of so few and such short speeches — her father came 
 in, and with his pleasant gentlemanly courteousn ess of apology, 
 reinstated his name and family in Mr. Thornton's good 
 opinion. 
 
 Mr. Hale and his visitor had a good deal to say respecting 
 their mutual friend, Mr. Bell ; and Margaret, glad that her 
 part of entertaining the visitor was over, went to the window 
 to try and make herself more familiar with the strange aspect 
 of the street. She got so much absorbed in watching what 
 was going on outside that she hardly heard her father when he 
 spoke to her, and he had to repeat what he said : 
 
 " Margaret !' the landlord will persist in admiring that 
 hideous paper, and I am afraid we must let it remain." 
 
 " Oh dear! I am sorry ! " she replied, and began to turn 
 over in her mind the possibility of hiding part of it, at least, 
 by some of her sketches, but gave up the idea at last, as likely 
 
60 NORTH AND SO0TH. 
 
 only to make bad worse. Her father, meanwhile, with his 
 kindly country hospitality, was pressing Mr. Thornton to stay 
 to luncheon with them. It would have been very inconvenient 
 to him to do so, yet he felt that he should have yielded, if 
 Margaret by word or look had seconded her father's invitation ; 
 he. was glad she did not, and yet he was irritated at her for not 
 doing it. She gave him a low, grave bow when he left, and 
 he felt more awkward and self-conscious in every limb than he 
 had ever done in all his life before. 
 
 " "Well, Margaret, now to luncheon, as fast as we can. 
 Have you ordered it ? " 
 
 " No, papa ; that man was here when I came home, and I 
 have never had an opportunity." 
 
 " Then we must take anything we can get. He must have 
 been waiting a long time, I'm afraid." 
 
 " It seemed exceedingly long to me. I was just at the 
 last gasp when you came in. He never went on with any 
 subject, but gave little, short, abrupt answers." 
 
 ' ' Very much to the point though, I should think. He is 
 a clear-headed fellow. He said (did you hear ?) that Crampton 
 is on gravelly soil, and by far the most healthy suburb in the 
 neighbourhood of Milton." 
 
 When they returned to Heston, there was the day's account 
 to be given to Mrs. Hale, who was full of questions, which they 
 answered in the intervals of tea-drinking. 
 
 " And what is your correspondent, Mr. Thornton, like ? " 
 
 " Ask Margaret," said her husband. " She and he had a 
 long attempt at conversation, while I was away speaking to the 
 landlord." 
 
 " Oh ! I hardly know what he is like," said Margaret, 
 lazily ; too tired to tax her powers of description much. And 
 then rousing herself, she said, "He is a tall, broad-shouldered 
 man, about — how old, papa ? " 
 
 " I should guess about thirty." 
 
 " About thirty — with a face that is neither exactly plain, 
 nor yet handsome, nothing remarkable — not quite a gentieman ; 
 but that was hardly to be expected." 
 
 "Not vulgar, or common though," put in her father, 
 rather jealous of any disparagement of the sole friend he had 
 in Milton. 
 
 " Oh no 1 " said Margaret. " "With such an expression of 
 resolution and power, no face, however plain in feature, could 
 be either vulgar or common. I should not like to have to 
 
HOME SICKNESS. 61 
 
 bargain with him ; he looks very inflexihle. Altogether a man 
 who seems made for his niche, mamma ; sagacious, and strong, 
 as becomes a great tradesman." 
 
 " Don't call the Milton manufacturers tradesmen, Mar- 
 garet," said her father. " They are very different." 
 
 •' Are they ? I apply the word to all who have something 
 tangible to sell ; but if you think the term is not correct, papa, 
 I won't use it. But, oh mamma ! speaking of vulgarity and 
 commonness, you must prepare yourself for our drawing-room 
 paper. Pink and blue roses, with yellow leaves ! And such 
 a heavy cornice round the room ! " 
 
 But when they removed to their new house in Milton, the 
 obnoxious papers were gone. The landlord received their 
 thanks very composedly ; and let them think, if they liked, 
 that he had relented from his expressed determination not to 
 repaper. There was no particular need to tell them, that what 
 he did not care to do for a Eeverend Mr. Hale, unknown in 
 Milton, he was only too glad to db at the one short sharp 
 remonstrance of Mr. Thornton, the wealthy manufacturer. 
 
 CHAPTEE Yin. 
 HOME SICKNESS. 
 
 ' And it's hame, hajne, hame, 
 Hame fain wad I be." 
 
 It needed the pretty light papering of the rooms to reconcile 
 them to Milton. It needed more — more that could not be had. 
 The thick yellow November fogs had come on ; and the view of 
 the plain in the valley, made by the sweeping bend of the river, 
 was all shut out when Mrs. Hale arrived at her new home. 
 
 Margaret and Dixon had been at work for two days, unpack- 
 ing and arranging, but everything inside the house still looked 
 in disorder; and outside a thick fog crept up to the very 
 windows, and was driven in to every open door in choking 
 white wreaths of unwholesome mist. 
 
 " Oh, Margaret ! are we to live here ? " asked Mrs. Hale 
 in blank dismay. 
 
 Margaret's heart echoed the dreariness of the tone in which 
 this question was put. She could scarcely command herself 
 enough to say, " Oh, the fogs in London are sometimes far 
 worse ! " 
 
62 NOllTH AlfD SOUTH. 
 
 " But then you knew that London itself, and friends lay 
 behind it. Here— well ! we are desolate. Oh Dixon, what a 
 
 place this is ! " 
 
 " Indeed, ma'am, I'm sure it will be yonr death betore 
 long, and then I know who'll— stay ! Miss Hale, that's far too 
 heavy for you to lift." 
 
 " Not at all, thank you, Dixon," replied Margaret coldly. 
 " The best thing we can do for mamma is to get her room 
 quite ready for her to go to bed, while I go and bring her a 
 cup of coffee." 
 
 Mr. Hale was equally out of spirits, and equally came upon 
 Margaret for sympathy. 
 
 " Margaret, I do believe this is an unhealthy place. Only 
 suppose that your mother's health or yours should suffer. 1 
 wish I had gone into some country place in Wales ; this is 
 really terrible," said he, going up to the window. 
 
 There was no comfort to be given. They were settled in 
 Milton, and must endure 'smoke and fogs for a season ; indeed, 
 all other life seemed shut out from them by as thick a fog 
 of circumstance. Only the day before, Mr. Hale had been 
 reckoning up with dismay how much their removal and fort- 
 night at Heston had cost, and he found it had absorbed nearly 
 all his little st6ck of ready money. No ! here they were, and 
 here they must remain. 
 
 At night when Margaret realised this, she felt inclined to 
 sit down in a stupor of despair. The heavy smoky air hung 
 about her bed-room, which occupied the long narrow projection 
 at the back of the house. The window, placed at the side of 
 the oblong, looked to the blank wall of a similar projection, not 
 above ten feet distant. It loomed through the fog Hke a great 
 barrier to hope. Inside the room everything was in confusion. 
 All their efforts had been directed to make her mother's room 
 comfortable. Margaret sat down on a box, the direction card 
 upon which struck her as having been written at Helstone — 
 beautiful, beloved Helstone ! She lost herself in dismal 
 thought : but at last she determined to take her mind away 
 from the present ; and suddenly remembered that she had a 
 letter from Edith which she had only half read in the bustle of 
 the morning. It was to tell of their arrival at Corfu ; their 
 voyage along the Mediterranean — ^their music, and dancing on 
 board ship ; the gay new life opening upon her ; her house 
 with its trellised balcony, and its views over white cliffs and 
 deep blue sea. 
 
HOME SICKNESS. 63 
 
 Edith -wrote fluently and well, if not graphically. She 
 could not only seize the salient and characteristic points of a 
 scene, but she could enumerate enough of indiscriminate 
 particulars for Margaret to make it oHt for herself. Captain 
 Lennox and another lately married oflBcer shared a villa, high 
 up on the beautiful precipitous rocks overhanging the sea. 
 Their days, late as it was in the year, seemed spent in boating 
 or land pic-nics ; all out-of-doors, pleasure-seeking and glad, 
 Edith's life seemed like the deep vault of blue sky above her, 
 free — utterly free from fleck or cloud. Her husband had to 
 attend drill, and she, the most musical officer's wife there, had 
 to copy the new and popular tunes out of the most recent 
 English music, for the benefit of the bandmaster ; those seemed 
 their most severe and arduous duties. She expressed an aflec- 
 tionate. hope that, if the regiment stopped another year at 
 Corfu, Margaret might come out and pay her a long visit. She 
 asked Margaret if she remembered the day twelve-month on 
 which she, Edith, wrote — ^how it rained all day long in Harley 
 Street ; and how she would not put on her new gown to go to 
 a stupid dinner, and get it all wet and splashed in going to 
 the carriage ; and how at that very dinner they had first met 
 Captain Lennox. 
 
 Yes ! Margaret remembered it well. Edith and Mrs. Shaw 
 had gone to dinner. Margaret had joined the party in the 
 evening. The recollection of the plentiful luxury of all the 
 arrangements, the stately handsomeness of the furniture, the 
 size of the house, the peaceful, untroubled ease of the visitors- 
 all came vividly before her, in strange contrast to the present 
 time. The smooth sea of that old life closed up, without a 
 mark left to tell where they had all been. The habitual dinners, 
 the calls, the shopping, the dancing evenings, were all going 
 on, going on for ever, though her Aunt Shaw and Edith were 
 no longer there ; and she, of course, was even less missed. 
 She doubted if any one of that old set ever thought of her, 
 except Henry Lennox. He too, she knew, would strive to 
 forget her, because of the pain she had caused him. She had 
 heard him often boast of his power of putting any disagreeable 
 thought far away fi-om him. Then she penetrated farther into 
 what might have been. If she had cared for him as a lover, 
 and had accepted him, and this change in her father's opinions 
 and consequent station had taken place, she could not doubt 
 but that it would have been impatiently received by Mr. Lennox. 
 It was a bitter mortification to her in one sense ; but she couli 
 
64 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 bear it patiently, because she knew her father's purity of pur- 
 pose, and that strengthened her to endure his errors, gi-ave and 
 serious though in her estimation they were. But the fact of 
 the world esteeming her father degraded, in its rough wholesale, 
 judgment, would have oppressed and irritated Mr. Lennox. As 
 she realised what might have been, she grew to be thankfiil for 
 what was. They were at the lowest now ; they could not be 
 worse. Edith's astonishment and her Aunt Shaw's dismay 
 would have to be met bravely, when their letters came. So 
 Margaret rose up and began slowly to undress herself, feeling 
 the full luxury of acting leisurely, late as it was, after all the 
 past hurry of the day. She fell asleep, hoping for some bright- 
 ness, either internal or external. But if she had known how 
 long it would be before the brightness came, her heart would 
 have sunk low down. The time of the year was most unpro- 
 pitious to health as well as to spirits. Her mother caught a 
 severe cold, and Dixon herself was evidently not well, although 
 Margaret could 'not insult her more than by trying to save her, 
 or by taking any care of her. They could hear of no girl to 
 assist her ; all were at work in the factories ; at least, those 
 who applied were well scolded by Dixon, for thinking that such 
 as they could ever be trusted to work in a gentleman's house. 
 So they had to keep a charwoman in almost constant employ. 
 Margaret longed to send for Charlotte ; but besides the objection 
 of her being a better servant than they could now afford to 
 keep, the distance was too great. 
 
 Mr. Hale met with several pupils, recommended to him by 
 Mr. Bell, or by the more immediate influence of Mr. Thornton. 
 They were mostly of the age when many boys would be still at 
 school, but, according to the prevalent, and apparently well- 
 founded notions of Milton, to make a lad into a good tradesman 
 he must be caught young, and acclimated to the life of the 
 mill, or ofiice, or warehouse. If he were sent to even the 
 Scotch Universities, he came back unsettled for commercial 
 pursuits : how much more so if he went to Oxford or Cambridge, 
 where he could not be entered till he was eighteen ? So most 
 of the manufacturers placed their sons in sucking situations at 
 fourteen or fifteen years of age, unsparingly cutting away all 
 off-shoots in the direction of literature or high mental culti- 
 vation, in hopes of throwing the whole strength and vigour of 
 the plant into commerce. Still there were some wiser parents; 
 and some young men, who had sense enough to perceive their 
 own deficiences, and strive to remedy them. Nay, there were 
 
HOME SICKNESS. 65 
 
 a few no longer youths, but men in the prime of life, who had 
 the stem wisdom to acknowledge their own ignorance, and to 
 learn late what they should have learnt early. Mr. Thornton 
 was perhaps the oldest of Mr. Hale's pupils. He was certainly 
 the favourite. Mr. Hale got into the habit of quoting his 
 opinions so frequently, and with such regard, that it became a 
 little domestic joke to wonder what time, during the hour 
 appointed for instruction, could be given to absolute learning, 
 so much of it appeared to have been spent in conversation. 
 
 Margaret rather encouraged this light, merry way of viewing 
 her father's acquaintance with Mr. Thornton, because she felt 
 that her mother was inclined to look upon this new friendship 
 of her husband's with jealous eyes. As long as his time had 
 been solely occupied with his books and his parishioners, as at 
 Helstone, she had appeared to care little whether she saw much 
 of him or not ; but now that he looked eagerly forward to each 
 renewal of his intercourse with Mr. Thornton, she seemed hurt 
 and annoyed, as if he were slighting her companionship for the 
 first time. Mr. Hale's over-praise had the usual effect of over- 
 praise upon his auditors ; they were a little inclined to rebel 
 against Aristides being always called the Just. 
 
 After a quiet life in a country parsonage for more than 
 twenty years, there was something dazzling to Mr. Hale in 
 the energy which conquered immense difficulties with ease ; 
 the power of the machinery of Milton, the power of the men 
 of Milton, impressed him with a sense of grandeur, which he 
 yielded to without caring to inquire into the details of its 
 exercise. But Margaret went less abroad, among machinery 
 and men ; saw less of power in its public effect, and, as it 
 happened, she was thrown with one or two of those who, in all 
 measures affecting masses of people, must be acute sufferers 
 for the good of many. The question always is, has everything 
 been done to make the sufferings of these exceptions as small 
 as possible ? Or, in the triumph of the crowded procession, 
 have the helpless been trampled on, instead of being gently 
 lifted aside out of the roadway of the conqueror, whom they 
 have no power to accompany on his march ? 
 
 It fell to Margaret's share to have to look out for a servant 
 to assist Dixon, who had at first undertaken to find just the 
 person she wanted to do all the rough work of the house. But 
 Dixon's ideas of helpful girls were founded on the recollection 
 of tidy elder scholars at Helstone school, who were only too 
 proud to be allowed to come to the parsonage on a busy day, 
 
 5 
 
be NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 and treated Mrs. Dixon with aU the rsBpect, and a good deal 
 more of fright, which they paid to Mr. and Mrs. Hale. Dixon 
 was not unconscious of this awed reverence which was given 
 to her ; nor did she dislike it ; it flattered her much as Louis 
 the Fourteenth was flattered hy his courtiers shading their 
 eyes from the dazzling light of his presence. But nothmg 
 short of her faithful love for Mrs. Hale could have made her 
 endure the rough independent way in which all the Milton girls, 
 who made application for the servant's place, replied to her 
 inquiries respecting their qualifications. They even went the 
 length of questioning her back again ; having doubts and fears 
 of their own, as to the solvency of a family who lived in a 
 house of thirty pounds a-year, and yet gave themselves airs, 
 and kept two servants, one of them so very high and mighty. 
 I Mr. Hale was no longer looked upon as Yicar of Helstone, but 
 I as a man who only spent at a certain rate. Margaret was 
 weary and impatient of the accounts which Dixon perpetually 
 brought to Mrs. Hale of the behaviour of these would-be 
 servants. Not but what Margaret was repelled by the rough 
 uncourteous manners of these people ; not but what she shrunk 
 with fastidious pride from their hail-fellow accost, and severely 
 resented their unconcealed curiosity as to the means and 
 position of any family who lived in Milton, and yet were not 
 engaged in trade of some kind. But the more Margaret felt 
 impertinence, the more likely she was to be silent on the 
 subject ; and, at any rate, if she took upon herself to make 
 inquiry for a servant, she could spare her mother the recital of 
 all her disappointments and fancied or real insults. 
 
 Margaret accordingly went up and down to butchers and 
 grocers, seeking for a nonpareil of a girl ; and lowering her 
 hopes and expectations every week, as she found the difficulty 
 of meeting with any one in a manufacturing town who did not 
 prefer the better wages and greater independence of working in 
 a mill. It was something of a trial to Margaret to go out by 
 herself in this busy bustling place. Mrs. Shaw's ideas of 
 propriety and her own helpless dependence on others, had 
 always made her insist that a footman should accompany 
 Edith and Margaret, if they went beyond Harley Street or the 
 immediate neighbourhood. The limits by which this rule of 
 her aunt's had circumscribed Margaret's independence had 
 been silently rebelled against at the time : and she had doubly 
 enjoyed the free walks and rambles of her forest life from the 
 contrast which they presented. She went along there with a 
 
HOME SICKNESS. 67 
 
 bonndless fearless step, that occasionally broke out into a run, 
 if she were in a hurry, and occasionally was stilled into perfect 
 repose, as she stood listening to, or watching any of the wild 
 creatures who sang in the leafy courts, or glanced out with 
 their keen bright eyes from the low brushwood or tangled furze. ' 
 It was a trial to come down from such motion or siieh stillness, 
 only guided by her own sweet will, to the even and decorous 
 pace necessary in streets. But she could have laughed at her- 
 self for minding this change, if it had not been accompanied by 
 what was a more serious annoyance. 
 
 The side of the town on which Crampton lay was especiallj 
 a thoroughfare for the factory people. In the back streets 
 around them there were many mills, out of which poured 
 streams of men and women two or three times a day. Until 
 Margaret had learnt the times of their ingress and egress, she 
 was very unfortunate in constantly falling in with them. They 
 came rushilig along, with bold, fearless faces, and loud laughs 
 and jests, particularly aimed at all those who appeared to be 
 above them in rank or station. The tones of their unrestrained 
 voices, and their carelessness of all common rules of street 
 politeness, frightened Margaret a little at first. The girls, 
 with their rough, but not unfriendly freedom, would comment 
 on her dress, even touch her shawl or gown to ascertain the 
 exact material ; nay, once or twice she was asked questions 
 relative to some article which they particularly admired. There 
 was such a simple reliance on her womanly sympathy with their 
 love of dress, and on her kindliness, that she gladly replied to 
 these inquiries, as soon as she understood them ; and half 
 smiled back at their remarks. She did not mind meeting any 
 number of girls, loud spoken and boisterous though they might 
 be. But she alternately dreaded and fired up against the 
 workmen, who' commented not on her dress, but on her looks, 
 in the same open, fearless manner. She, who had hitherto 
 felt that even the most refined remark on her personal appear- 
 ance was an impertinence, had to endure undisguised admira- 
 tion from these outspoken men. But the very outspokenness 
 marked their innocence of any intention to hurt her delicacy, 
 as she would have perceived if she had been less frightened by 
 the disorderly tumult. Out of her fright came a flash of 
 indignation which made her face scarlet, and her dark eyes 
 gather flame, as she heard some of their speeches. Yet there 
 were other sayings of theirs, which, when she reached the 
 •quiet safety of home, amused her even while they irritated her. 
 
 5 — 2 
 
68 NORTH AND SOUTH 
 
 For instance, one day, after she had passed a number ot 
 men, several of whom, had paid her the not unusual compliment 
 of wishing she was their sweetheart, one of the lingerers added^. 
 "Your bonny face, my lass, makes the day look brighter." 
 And another day, as she was unconsciously smiling at some 
 passing thought, she was addressed by a poorly-dressed, 
 middle-aged workman, with "You may well smile, my lass; 
 many a one would smile to have such a bonny face." This 
 man looked so careworn that Margaret could not help giving 
 him an answering smile, glad to think that her looks, such as 
 they were, should have had the power to call up a pleasant 
 thought. He seemed to understand her acknowledging glance,, 
 and a silent recognition was established between them when- 
 ever the chances of the day brought them across each other's 
 paths. They had never exchanged a word ; nothing had been 
 said but that first compliment ; yet somehow Margaret looked 
 upon this man with more interest than upon any one else_ in 
 Milton. Once or twice, on Sundays, she saw him walking 
 with a girl, evidently his daughter, and, if possible, still more 
 unhealthy, than he was himself. 
 
 One day Margaret and her father had been as far as th» 
 fields that lay around the town ; it was early spring, and she 
 had gathered some of the hedge and ditch flowers, dog-violets,, 
 lesser celandines, and the like, with an unspoken lament in her 
 heart for the sweet profusion of the South. Her father had 
 left her to go into Milton upon some business ; and on the 
 road home she met her humble friends. The girl looked 
 wistfully at the flowers, and, acting on a sudden impulse, 
 Margaret ofiered them to her. Her pale blue eyes lightened 
 up as she took them, and her father spoke for her. 
 
 " Thank yo, Miss. Bessy '11 think a deal o' them flowers ;. 
 that hoo wiU ; and I shall think a deal o' yor kindness. Yo're 
 not of this country, I reckon ? " 
 
 "No ! " said Margaret, half sighing. " I come firom the 
 South — from Hampshire," she continued, a little a&ajd of 
 wounding his consciousness of ignorance, if she used a name 
 which he did not understand. 
 
 " That's beyond London, I reckon ? And I come fro' 
 Bumley.-ways, and forty miles to th' North. And yet, yo see. 
 North and South has both met and made kind o' friends in this 
 big smoky place." 
 
 Margaret had slackened her pace to walk alongside of the 
 man and his daughter, whose steps were regulated by th& 
 
'Thank yo, Miss. Bessy 11 think a deal o' them flowers." p. 68. 
 
1 
 
HOME SICKNESS. 69 
 
 feebleness of the latter. She now spoke to the girl, and there 
 was a sound of tender pity in the tone of her voice as she did 
 so that went right to the heart of the father, 
 
 " I'm afraid you are not very strong." 
 
 " No," said the girl, " nor never will be." 
 
 " Spring is coming," said Margaret, as if to suggest 
 pleasant, hopeful thoughts. 
 
 " Spring nor summer will do me good," said the girl 
 quietly. 
 
 Margaret looked up at the man, almost expecting some 
 contradiction from him, or at least some remark that would 
 modify his daughter's utter hopelessness. But, instead, he 
 added — 
 
 "I'm afeared hoo speaks truth. I'm afeared hoo's too far 
 gone in a waste." 
 
 " I shall have a spring where I'm boun to, and flowers, 
 and amaranths, and shining robes besides." 
 
 " Poor lass, poor lass 1 " said her father in a low tone. 
 *' I'm none so sure o' that; but it's a comfort to thee, poor 
 lass, poor lass. Poor father ! it'll be soon." 
 
 Margaret was shocked by his words — shocked but not 
 repelled ; rather attracted and interested. 
 
 " Where do you live ? I think we must be neighbours, we 
 meet so often on this road." 
 
 " We put up at nine Frances Street, second turn to th' 
 left at after yo've past th' Goulden Dragon." 
 
 " And your name ? I must not forget that." 
 
 " I'm none ashamed o' my name. It's Nicholas Higgins. 
 Hoo's called Bessy Higgins. Whatten yo' asking for?" 
 
 Margaret was surprised at this last question, for at Hel- 
 stone it would have been an understood thing, after the 
 inquiries she had made, that she intended to come and call 
 upon any poor neighbour whose name and habitation she had 
 asked for. 
 
 " I thought — I meant to come and see you." She sud- 
 denly felt rather shy of offering the visit, without having any 
 reason to give for her wish to make it, beyond a kindly interest 
 in a stranger. It seemed all at once to take the shape of an 
 impertinence on her part ; she read this meaning too in the 
 man's eyes. 
 
 " I'm none so fond of having strange folk in my house." 
 But then relenting, as he saw her heightened colour, he added, 
 " Yo're a foreigner, as one may say, and maybe don't know 
 
70 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 many folk here, and yo've given my wench here flowers out of 
 yo'r own hand ; — yo may come if yo like." 
 
 Margaret was half amused, half-nettled at this answer. 
 She was not sure if she would go where permission was given 
 so like a favour conferred. But when they came to the turn 
 into Frances Street, the girl stopped a minute, and said, 
 
 " Yo'U not forget yo're to come and see us." 
 
 " Aye, aye," said the father, impatiently, " hoo'll come. 
 Hoo's a bit set up now, because hoo thinks I might ha' spoken- 
 more civUly ; but hoo'll think better on it, and come. I can 
 read her proud bonny face like a book. Come along, Bess ; 
 there's the mUl bell ringing." 
 
 Margaret went home, wondering at her new friends, and 
 smiling at the man'^ insight into what had been passing in her 
 mind. From that day Milton became a brighter place to her. 
 It was not the long, bleak sunny days of spring, nor yet was it 
 that time was reconciling her to the town of her habitation. It 
 was that in it she had found a human interest. 
 
 CHAPTEE IX. 
 DRESSING FOE TEA. 
 
 " Let China's earth, enrich'd with coloured stains, 
 Pencil'd with gold, and streaked with aznre veins. 
 The grateful flavour of the Indian leaf. 
 Or Mocha's sunburnt berry glad receive." 
 
 Mbs. Basbauls. 
 
 The day after this meeting with Higgins and his daughter 
 Mr. Hale came upstairs into the little drawing-room at an 
 unusual hour. He went up to different objects in the room, 
 as if examining them, but Margaret saw that it was merely a 
 nervous trick — a way of putting off something he wished, yet 
 feared to say. Out it came at last — 
 
 " My dear ! I've asked Mr. Thornton to come to tea to- 
 night." 
 
 Mrs. Hale was leaning back in her easy chair, with her 
 eyes shut, and an expression of pain on her face which had 
 become habitual to her of late. But she roused up into 
 querulousness at this speech of her husband's. 
 
 " Mr. Thornton ! — and to-night ! What in the world does 
 the man want to come here for ? And Dixon is washing my 
 
DRESSING FOB TEA. 71 
 
 mnslius and laces, and there is no soft water with these horrid 
 east winds, which I suppose we shall have all the year round 
 in Milton." 
 
 "The wind is veering round, my dear," said Mr. Hale, 
 looking out at the smoke, which drifted right from the east, 
 only he did not yet understand the points of the compass, and 
 rather arranged them ad libitum according to circumstances. 
 
 "Don't teU me!" said Mrs. Hale, shuddering up, and 
 wrapping her shawl about her still more closely. " But, east 
 or west wind, I suppose this man comes." 
 
 " Oh mamma, that shows you never saw Mr. Thornton. 
 He looks like a person who would enjoy battling with every 
 adverse thing he could meet with — enemies, winds, or circum- 
 stances. The more it rains and blows, the more certain we 
 are to have him. But I'U go and help Dixon. I'm getting to 
 be a famous clear-starcher. And he won't want any amuse- 
 ment beyond talking to Papa. Papa, I am really longing to 
 see the Pythias to your Damon. You know I never saw him 
 but once, and then we were so puzzled to know what to say to 
 each other that we did not get on particularly well." 
 
 " I don't know that you would ever like him, or think him 
 agreeable, Margaret. He is not a lady's man." 
 
 Margaret wreathed her throat in a scornful curve. 
 
 " I don't particularly admire ladies' men, papa. But Mr. 
 Thornton comes here as your friend — as one who has appre- 
 ciated you " — 
 
 " The only person in Milton," said Mrs. Hale. 
 
 "So we will give him a welcome, and some cocoa-nut 
 cakes. Dixon will be flattered if we ask her to make some; 
 and I will undertake to iron your caps, mamma." 
 
 Many a time that morning did Margaret wish Mr. Thornton 
 far enough away. She had planned other employments for 
 herself: a letter to Edith, a good piece of Dante, a visit to 
 the Higginses. But, instead, she ironed away, listening to 
 Dixon's complaints, and only hoping that by an excess of 
 sympathy she might prevent her from carrying the recital of 
 her sorrows to Mrs. Hale. Every now and then, Margaret 
 had to remind herself of her father's regard for Mr. Thornton, 
 to subdue the irritation of weariness that was stealing over her, 
 and bringing on one of the bad headaches to which she had 
 lately become liable. She could hardly speak when she sat 
 down at last, and told her mother that she was no longer 
 Peggy the laundry-maid, but Margaret Hale the lady. She 
 
72 NOETH AND SOUTH. 
 
 meant this speech for a little joke, and was vexed enongh with 
 her busy tongue when she found her mother taking it 
 seriously. 
 
 " Yes ! if any one had told me, when I was Miss Beresford, 
 and one of the belles of the county, that a child of mine would 
 have to stand half a day, in a little poky kitchen, working away 
 like any servant, that we might prepare properly for the 
 reception of a tradesman, and that this tradesman should be 
 the only"— 
 
 " Oh, mamma ! " said Margaret, lifting herself up, " don't 
 punish me so for a careless speech. I don't mind ironing, or 
 any kind of work, for you and papa. I am myself a bom and 
 bred lady through it all, even though it comes to scouring a 
 floor, or washing dishes. I am tired now, just for a little 
 while ; but in half an hour I shall be ready to do the same over 
 again. And as to Mr. Thornton's being in trade, why he can't 
 help that now, poor fellow. I don't suppose his education 
 would fit him for much else." Margaret lifted herself slowly 
 up, and went to her own room ; for just now she could not 
 bear much more. 
 
 In Mr. Thornton's house, at this very same time, a similar, 
 yet different scene' was going on. A large-boned lady, long 
 past middle age, sat at work in a grim handsomely-famished 
 dinin g-room. Her features, like her frame, were strong and 
 massive, rather than heavy. Her face moved slowly from one 
 decided expression to another equally decided. There was no 
 great variety in her countenance ; but those who looked at it 
 once, generally looked at it agaiu ; even the passers-by in the 
 street, haK-tumed their heads to gaze an instant longer at the 
 firm, severe, dignified woman, who never gave way in street- 
 courtesy, or paused in her straight-onward course to the clearly- 
 defined end which she proposed to herself. 
 
 She was handsomely di-essed in stout black silk, of wliich 
 not a thread was worn or discoloured. She was mending a 
 large, long table-cloth of the finest texture, holding it up 
 against the light occasionally to discover t hin places, which 
 required her delicate care. There was not a book about in the 
 room, with the exception of Matthew Henry's Bible Commen- 
 taries, six volumes of which lay in the centre of the massive 
 side-board, flanked by a tea-urn on one side, and a lamp on 
 the other. In some remote apartment, there was exercise 
 upon the piano going on. Some one was practising up a 
 morceau de salon, playing it very rapidly, every third note, on 
 
DEESSING FOR TEA. 73 
 
 «n average, being either indistinct, or wholly missed out, and 
 the lond chords at the end being half of them false, but not the 
 less satisfactory to the performer. Mrs. Thornton heard a 
 step, like her own in its decisive character, pass the dining- 
 room door. 
 
 " John ! Is that you ? " 
 
 Her son opened the door, and showed himself. 
 
 " What has brought you home so early ? I thought you 
 were going to tea with that friend of Mr. Bell's ; that llr. 
 Hale ? " 
 
 " So I am, mother. I am come home to dress ! " 
 
 " Dress ! humph 1 "When I was a girl, young men were 
 satisfied with dressing once in a day. Why should you dress 
 to go and take a cup of tea with an old parson ? " 
 
 " Mr. Hale is a gentleman, and his wife and daughter are 
 ladies." 
 
 " Wife and daughter ! Do they teach too ? What do they 
 do ? You have never mentioned them." 
 
 " No ! mother, because I have never seen Mrs. Hale ; I 
 have only seen Miss Hale for half an hour." 
 
 " Take care you don't get caught by a penniless girl, 
 John." 
 
 " I am not easily caught, mother, as I think you know. 
 But I must not have Miss Hale spoken of in that way, which, 
 you know, is offensive to me. I never was aware of any young 
 lady trying to catch me yet, nor do I believe that any one has 
 ever given themselves that useless trouble." 
 
 Mrs. Thornton did not choose to yield the point to her son ; 
 or else she had, in general, pride enough for her sex. 
 
 " Well ! I only say, take care. Perhaps our Milton girls 
 have too much spirit and good feeling to go angling after hus- 
 bands; but this Miss Hale comes out of the aristocratic 
 bounties, where, if all tales be true, rich husbands are 
 reckoned prizes." 
 
 Mr. Thornton's brow contracted, and he came a step for- 
 ward into the room. 
 
 " Mother " (with a short scornful laugh), " you will make 
 me confess. The only time I saw Miss Hale, she treated me 
 with a haughty civility which had a strong flavour of contempf 
 in it. She held herself aloof from me as if she had been a 
 queen, and I her humble, unwashed vassal. Be easy, mother." 
 
 " No ! I am not easy nor content either. What business 
 tad she, a renegade clergyman's daughter, to turn up her nose 
 
74 NOETH AND SOUTH. 
 
 at you ! I would dress for none of them — a sauey set ! if I 
 were you." As he was leaving the room he said : — 
 
 " Mr. Hale is good, and gentle, and learned. He is not 
 saucy. As for Mrs. Hale, I will tell you what she is like to- 
 night, if you care to hear." He shut the door, and was gone. 
 " Despise my son ! treat him as her vassal, indeed ! Humph ! 
 I should like to know where she could find such another ! Boy 
 and man, he's the noblest, stoutest heart I ever knew. I don't 
 care if I am his mother ; I can see what's what, and not be 
 blind. I know what Fanny is ; and I know what John is. 
 Despise him ! I hate her !" 
 
 CHAPTEE X. 
 
 WKOUGHT lEON ANB GOLD. 
 
 " We axe the trees whom shaking fastens more." 
 
 GEOBas Hebbesi. 
 
 Mb. Thoenton left the house without coming into the dining- 
 room again. He was rather late, and walked rapidly out to 
 Crampton. He was anxious not to slight his new friend by any 
 disrespectful unpunctuality. The church-clock struck half-past 
 seven as he stood at the door awaiting Dixon's slow movements ; 
 always doubly tardy when she had to degrade herself by answer- 
 ing the door-bell. He was ushered into the little drawing-room, 
 and kindly greeted by Mr. Hale, who led biTn up to his wife, 
 whose pale face, and shawl-draped figure made a silent excuse 
 for the cold languor of her greeting. Margaret was lighting 
 the lamp when he entered, for the darkness was coming on. 
 The lamp threw a pretty light into the centre of the dusky room, 
 from which, with country habits, they did not exclude the night- 
 skies, and the outer darkness of air. Somehow, that room con- 
 trasted itself with the one he had lately left; handsome, ponderous, 
 with no sign of feminine habitation, except in the one spot 
 where his mother sate, and no convenience for any other em- 
 ployment than eating and drinking. To be sure, it was a 
 dining-room ; his mother preferred to sit in it ; and her will 
 was a household law. But the drawing-room was not like this 
 It was twice — twenty times as fine ; not one quarter as com- 
 fortable. Here were no mirrors, not even a scrap of glass to 
 reflect the light, and answer the same purpose as water in a 
 landscape ; no gilding ; a warm, sober breadth of colouring. 
 
WEOUGHT IRON AND GOLD. 75 
 
 well relieved by the dear old Helstone chintz-curtains and 
 chair covers. .An open davenport stood in the window 
 opposite the door ; in the other there was a stand, with a tall 
 white china vase, from which drooped wreaths of English ivy, 
 pale green birch, and copper-coloured beech-leaves. Pretty 
 baskets of work stood about in different places : and books, 
 not cared for on account of their binding solely, lay on 
 one table, as if recently put down. Behind the door was 
 another table decked out for tea, with a white table-cloth, on 
 which flourished the cocoa-nut cakes, and a basket piled with 
 oranges and ruddy American apples, heaped on leaves. 
 
 It appeared to Mr. Thornton that all these graceful cares 
 were habitual to the family ; and especially of a piece with 
 Margaret, She stood by the tea-table in a light-coloured mus- 
 lin gown, which had a good deal of pink about it. She looked 
 as if she was not attending to the conversation, but solely busy 
 with the tea-cups, among which her round ivory hands moved 
 with pretty, noiseless,' daintiness. She had a bracelet on one 
 taper arm, which would fall down over her round wrist. Mr. 
 Thornton watched the replacing of this troublesome ornament, 
 with far more attention than he listened to her father. It 
 seemed as if it fascinated him to see her push it up impatiently 
 until it tightened her soft flesh ; and then to mark the loosen- 
 ing — ^the fall. He could almost have exclaimed — " There it 
 goes, again ! " There was so little left to be done after he 
 arrived at the preparation for tea, that he was almost sorry the 
 obligation of eating and drinking came so soon to prevent his 
 watching Margaret. She handed him his cup of tea with the 
 proud air of an unwilling slave ; but her eye caught the moment 
 when he was ready for another cup ; and he almost longed to 
 ask her to do for him what he saw her compelled to do for her 
 father, who took her little finger and thumb in his masculine 
 hand, and made them serve as sugar-tongues. Mr. Thornton 
 saw her beautiful eyes lifted to her father, full of light, half- 
 laughter, and half-love, as this bit of pantomime went on 
 between the two, unobserved as they fancied, by any. Margaret's 
 head still ached, as the paleness of her complexion, and her 
 silence might have testified; but she was resolved to throw 
 herself into the breach, if there was any long untoward pause, 
 rather than that her father's friend, pupil, and guest should 
 have cause to think himself in any way neglected. But the 
 conversation went on ; and Margaret drew into a comer, near 
 her mother, with her work, after the tea-things were taken 
 
76 NOBTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 away ; and felt that she might let her thoughts roam, without 
 fear of being suddenly wanted to fill up a gap.. 
 
 Mr. Thornton and Mr. Hale were both absorbed in the con- 
 tinuation of some subject which had been started at their last 
 meeting. Margaret was recalled to a sense of the present by 
 some trivial, low-spoken remark of her mother's ; and on sud- 
 denly looking up from her work, her eye was caught by the 
 difference of outward appearance between her fother and Mr. 
 Thornton, as betokening such distinctly opposite natures. Her 
 father was of slight figure, which made him a,ppear taller than 
 he really was, when not contrasted, as at this time, with the tall, 
 massive frame of another. The lines in her fether's face 
 were soft and waving, with a frequent undulating kind of 
 trembling movement passing over them, showing every 
 fluctuating emotion ; the eyelids were large and arched, giving 
 to the eyes a peculiar languid beauty which was almost 
 feminine. The brows were finely arched, but were by the very 
 size of the dreamy lids, raised to a considerable distance from 
 the eyes. Now, in Mr. Thornton's face the straight brows fell 
 low over the clear, deep-set earnest eyes, which without being 
 unpleasantly sharp, seemed intent enough to penetrate into the 
 very heart and core of what he was looking at. The lines in 
 the face were few but firm, as if they were carved in marble, 
 and lay principally about the lips, which were sUghUy com-, 
 pressed over a set of teeth so faultless and beautifcd as to give 
 the effect of sudden sunlight when the rare bright smile, coming 
 in an instant and shining out of the eyes, changed the whole 
 look from the severe and resolved expression of a man ready 
 to do and dare everything, to the keen honest enjoyment of the 
 moment, which is seldom shown so fearlessly and instan- 
 taneously except by children. Margaret liked this smile; it 
 was the first thing she had admired in this new friend of her 
 father's ; and the opposition of character, shown in all these 
 details , of appearance she had just been noticing, seemed to 
 explain the attraction they evidently felt towards each other. 
 
 She rearranged her mother's worsted- work, and fell back 
 into her own thoughts — as completely forgotten by Mr. Thornton 
 as if she had not been in the room, so thoroughly was he 
 occupied in explaining to Mr. Hale the magnificent power, yet 
 delicate adjustment of the might of the steam-hammer, which 
 was recalling to Mr. Hale some of the wonderful stories of 
 subservient genii in the Arabian Nights — one moment stretch- 
 ing from earth to sky and filling all the width of the horizon. 
 
WEOUGHT lEON AND GOLD. 77 
 
 at the next obediently compressed into a vase small enough to 
 be home in the hand of a child. 
 
 "And this imagination of power, this practical realisation 
 of a gigantic thought, came out of one man's brain in our 
 good town. That very man has it within him to mount, step 
 by step, on each wonder he achieves to higher marvels still. 
 And I'U be bound to say, we have many among us who, if he 
 were gone, could spring into the breech and carry on the war 
 which compels, and shall compel, all material power to yield 
 to science." 
 
 " Your boast reminds me of the old lines — 
 
 ' I've a hundred captains in England,' he said, 
 ' As good as ever was he.' 
 
 At her father's quotation Margaret looked suddenly up, 
 with inquiring wonder in her eyes. How in the world had 
 they got from cog-wheels to Chevy Chace ? 
 
 " It is no boast of mine," replied Mr. Thornton ; " it is plain 
 matter-of-fact. I won't deny that I am proud of belonging to 
 a town — or perhaps I should rather say a district — ^the neces- 
 sities of which give birth to such grandeur of conception. I 
 would rather be a man toiling, suffering — nay, failing and 
 successless — here, than lead a dull prosperous life in the old 
 worn grooves of what you call more aristocratic society down in 
 the South, with their slow days of careless ease. One may be 
 clogged with honey and unable to rise and fly." 
 
 " You are mistaken," said Margaret, roused by the aspersion | 
 on her beloved South to a fond vehemence of defence, that 
 brought the colour into her cheeks and the angry tears into 
 her eyes. " You do not know anything about the South. If 
 there is less adventure qi less progress — ^I suppose I must not 
 say less excitement — from the gambling spirit of trade, which 
 seems requisite to force out these wonderful inventions, there is 
 less suffering also. I see men here going about in the streets- 
 who look ground down by some pinching sorrow or care — ^who 
 are not only sufferers but haters. Now, in the South we have 
 our poor, but there is not that terrible expression in their 
 countenances of a suUen sense of injustice which I see here. 
 You do not know the South, Mr. Thornton," she concluded, 
 collapsing into a determined silence, and angry with herself for^ 
 having said so much. | 
 
 " And may I say you do not know the North ? " asked he, j 
 with an inexpressible gentleness in his tone, as he saw that he/ 
 
78 NOKTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 lad really hurt her. She continued resolutely silent ; yearning 
 after the lovely haunts ,she had left far away in Hampshire, 
 with a passionate longing that made her feel her voice would 
 be unsteady and trembling if she spoke. 
 
 " At any rate, Mr. Thornton," said Mrs. Hale, " you will 
 allow that Milton is a much more smoky, dirty town than you 
 will ever meet with in the South." 
 
 " I'm afraid I must give up its cleanliness," said Mr. Thorn- 
 ton, with the quick gleaming smile. " But we are bidden by 
 parliament to bum our own smoke ; so I suppose, like good 
 little children, we shall do as we are bid — some time." 
 
 " But I think you told me you had altered your chimneys 
 so as to consume the smoke, did you not ? " asked Mr. Hale. 
 
 " Mine were altered by my own will, before parliament 
 meddled with the aflfair. It was an immediate outlay, but it 
 repays me in the saving of coal. I'm not sure whether I should 
 have done it, if I had waited until the act was passed. At any 
 rate, I should have waited to be informed against and fined, 
 and given all the trouble in yielding that I legally could. But 
 all laws which depend for their enforcement upon informers and 
 fines, become inert from the odiousness of the machinery. I 
 doubt if there has been a chimney in Milton informed against 
 for five years past, although some are constantly sending out 
 one-third of their coal in what is called here unparliamentary 
 smoke." 
 
 " I only know it is impossible to keep the muslin bUnds 
 clean here above a week together ; and at Helstone we have 
 had them up for a month or more, and they have not looked 
 dirty at the end of that time. And as for hands — Margaret, 
 how many times did you say you had washed your hands this 
 morning before twelve o'clock? Three times, was it not ?" 
 
 " Yes, mamma." 
 
 " You seem to have a strong objection to acts of parliament 
 and all legislation affecting your mode of management down 
 here at Milton," said Mr. Hale. 
 
 _" Yes, I have ; and many others have as well. And with 
 justice, I think. The whole machinery — I don't mean the 
 wood and iron machinery now— of the cotton trade is so new 
 that it is no wonder if it does not work well in every part all 
 at once. Seventy years ago what was it ? And now what is 
 it not ? Kaw, crude materials came together ; men of the 
 same level, as regarded education and station, took suddenly 
 the different positions of masters and men, owing to the 
 
WROUGHT IRON AHD GOLD. 79 
 
 motherwit, as regarded opportunities and probabilities, which 
 distinguished some, and made them far-seeing as to what great 
 future lay concealed in that rude model of Sir Bichard Ark- 
 wright's. The rapid development of what might be called a 
 new trade, gave those early masters enormous power of wealth 
 and command. I don't mean merely over the workmen ; I 
 mean over purchasers — over the whole world's market. Why, 
 I may give you, as an instance, an advertisement, inserted not 
 fifty years ago in a Milton paper, that so-and-so (one of the 
 half-dozen cahco-printers of the time) would close his warehouse 
 at noon each day; therefore, that all purchasers must come 
 before that hour. Fancy a man dictating in this manner the 
 time when he would sell and when he would not sell. Now, I 
 believe, if a good customer chose to come at midnight, I should 
 get up, and stand hat in hand to receive his orders." 
 
 Margaret's lip curled, but somehow she was compelled to 
 listen ; she could no longer abstract herself in her own thoughts. 
 
 " I only name such things to show what almost unlimited 
 power the manufacturers had about the beginning of this century. 
 The men were rendered dizzy by it. Because a man was suc- 
 cessful in his ventures, there was no reason that in all other 
 things his mind should be well-balanced. On the contrary, his 
 sense of justice, and his simplicity, were often utterly smothered 
 under the glut of wealth that came down upon him ; and they 
 tell strange tales of the wild extravagance of living indulged in 
 on gala-days by those early cotton-lords. There can be no 
 doubt, too, of the tyranny they exercised over their work-people. 
 You know the proverb, Mr. Hale, ' Set a beggar on horseback, 
 and he'll ride to the devil,' — well, some of these early manu- 
 facturers did ride to the devil in a magnificent style — crushing 
 human bone and flesh under their horses' hoofs without remorse. 
 But by-and-by came a reaction ; there were more factories, j 
 more masters ; more men were wanted. The power of masters j 
 and men became more evenly balanced; and now the battle/ 
 is pretty fairly waged between us. We will hardly submit to' 
 the decision of an umpire, much less to the interference of ai 
 meddler with only a smattering of the knowledge of the real' 
 facts of the case, even though that meddler be called the Highj 
 Court of Parliament." 
 
 " Is there necessity for calling it a battle between the two 
 classes?" asked Mr. Hale. "I know, from your using the 
 term, it is one which gives a true idea of the real state of things 
 to your mind." 
 
80 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 " It is true ; and I believe it to be as much a necessity as 
 that prudent wisdom and good conduct are always opposed to, 
 and doing battle with ignorance and improvidence. It is one 
 of the great beauties of our system, that a working-man may 
 raise himself into the power and position of a master by his 
 own exertions and behaviour ; that, in fact, every one who 
 rules himself to decency and sobriety of conduct, and attention 
 to his duties, comes over to our ranks ; it may not be always 
 as a master, but as an overlooker, a cashier, a book-keeper, a 
 clerk, one on the side of authority and order." 
 
 " You consider all who are unsuccessful in raising them- 
 selves in the world, from whatever cause, as your enemies^ 
 then, if I understand you rightly," said Margaret, in a clear, 
 cold voice. 
 
 " As their own enemies, certainly,'' said he, quickly, not a 
 little piqued by the haughty disapproval her form of expression 
 and tone of speaking implied. But, in a moment, his straight- 
 forward honesty made him feel that his words were but a poor 
 and quibbling answer to what she had said, and, be she as 
 scomfiil as she liked, it was a duty he owed to himself to 
 explain, as truly as he could, what he did mean. Yet it was 
 very difficult to separate her interpretation, and keep it distinct 
 from his meaning. He could best have illustrated what he 
 wanted to say by telling them something of his own life ; but 
 was it not too personal a subject to speak about to strangers ? 
 Stni, it was the simple straightforward way of explaining his 
 meaning ; so, putting aside the touch of shyness that brought a 
 momentary flush of colour into his dark cheek, he said : 
 
 " I am not speaking without book. Sixteen years ago, my 
 father died under very miserable circumstances. I was taken 
 from school, and had to become a man (as well as I could) in 
 a few days. I had such a mother as few are blest with ; a 
 woman of strong power, and firm resolve. We went into a 
 small country town, where living was cheaper than in Milton, 
 and where I got employment in a draper's shop (a capital place,, 
 by the way, for obtaining a knowledge of goods). Week by 
 week, our income came to fifteen shillings, out of which three 
 people had to be kept. My mother managed so that I put by 
 three out of these fifteen shillings regularly. This made the 
 beginning ; this taught me self-denial. Now that I am able to 
 afford my mother such comforts as her age, rather than her 
 own wish, requires, I thank her silently on each occasion for the 
 early training she gave me. Now when I feel that in my Cwn 
 
WKOUGHT IRON AND GOLD. 81 
 
 case it is no good luck, nor merit, nor talent, — but simply the 
 habits of life •which taught me to despise indulgences not 
 thoroughly earned, — ^indeed, never to think twice about them, — 
 I believe that this suffering, which Miss Hale says is impressed 
 on the countenances of the people of Milton, is but the natural 
 punishment of dishonestly-enjoyed pleasure, at some former 
 period of their lives. I do not look on self-indulgent, sensual 
 people as worthy of my hatred ; I simply look upon them with 
 contempt for their poorness of character." 
 
 " But you have had the rudiments of a good education," 
 remarked Mr. Hale. " The quick zest with which you are 
 now reading Homer, shows me that you do not come to it as an 
 unknown book : you have read it before, and are only recalling 
 your old knowledge." 
 
 " That is true, — I had blundered along it at school ; I dare 
 say, I was even considered a pretty fair classic in those days, 
 though my Latin and Greek have slipt away from me since. 
 But I ask you, what preparation they were for such a life as I 
 had to lead ? None at all. Utteily none at all. On the point of 
 education, any man who can read and write starts fair with me 
 in the amount of really useful knowledge that I had at that time." 
 
 " Well ! I don't agree with you. But there I am perhaps 
 somewhat of a pedant. Did not the recollection of the heroic 
 simplicity of the Homeric life nerve you up ? " 
 
 " Not one bit ! " exclaimed Mr. Thornton, laughing. " I was 
 too busy to think about any dead people, with the Uving 
 pressing alongside of me, neck to neck, in the struggle for 
 bread. Now that I have my mother safe in the quiet peace 
 that becomes her age, and duly rewards her former exertions, 
 I can turn to all that old narration and thoroughly enjoy it." 
 
 " I dare say, my remark came from the professional feeling 
 of there being nothing like leather," replied Mr. Hale. 
 
 When Mr. Thornton rose up to go away, after shaking 
 hands with Mr. and Mrs. Hale, he made an advance to Mar- 
 garet to wish her good-bye in a similar manner. It was the 
 frank famUiar custom of the place ; but Margaret was not pre- 
 pared for it. She simply bowed her farewell ; although the 
 instant she saw the hand, half put out, quickly drawn back, she 
 was sorry she had not been aware of the intention. Mr. Thorn- 
 ton, however, knew nothing of her sorrow, and, drawing himself 
 up to his full height, walked off, muttering as he left the house — 
 
 " Amore proud, disagreeable girl I never saw. Even her great 
 beauty is blotted out of one's memory by her scornful ways." 
 
( 6'A ) 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 irmST IMPRESSIONS. 
 
 •" 'I'here's iron, they say, in all our blood, 
 And a grain or two perhaps is good ; 
 But his, he makes me harshly feel. 
 Has got a little too much of steel." 
 
 Ahod. 
 
 " Maegabet ! " said Mr. Hale as he returned from showing hie 
 guest downstairs ; "I could not help watchiag your face ■with 
 some anxiety, when Mr. Thornton made his confession of having 
 been a shop-boy. I knew it all along from Mr. Bell ; so I was 
 aware of what was coming ; but I half expected to see you get 
 up and leave the room." 
 
 " Oh, papa ! you don't mean that you thought me so gilly ? 
 I really liked that account of himself better than anything else 
 he said. Everything else revolted me, from its hardness ; but 
 he spoke about himself so simply — with so little of the pretence 
 that makes the vulgarity of shop-people, and with such tender 
 respect for his mother, that I was less likely to leave the room 
 then than when he was boasting about Milton, as if there was 
 not such another place ia the world ; or quietly professing to 
 despise people for careless, wasteful improvidence, vrithont ever 
 seeming to think it his duty to try to make them different, — 
 to give them anything of the training which his mother gave 
 him, and to which he evidently owes his position, whatever 
 that may be. No ! his statement of having been a shop-boy 
 was the thing I liked best of all." 
 
 "I am sui-prised at you, Margaret," said her mother. 
 " You who were always accusing people of being shoppy at 
 Helstonel I don't think, Mr. Hale, yOu have done quite 
 right in introducing such a person to us without telling us what 
 he had been. I really was very much afraid of showing him 
 how much shocked I was at some parts of what he said. His 
 father ' dying in miserable circumstances.' Why it might have 
 been in the workhouse." 
 
 " I am not sure if it was not worse than being in the work- 
 house," replied her husband. "I heard a good deal of his 
 previous life from Mr. Bell before we came here ; and as he 
 has told you a part, I will fill up what he left out. His father 
 speculated wildly, failed, and then killed himself, because h^ 
 
TTRST imPKEa3lON8. 83 
 
 could not bear the disgrace. All his former friends shrunk 
 from the disclosures that had to be made of his dishonest 
 gambling — ^wild, hopeless struggles, made with other people's 
 money, to regain his own moderate portion of wealth. No one 
 came forward to help the mother and this boy. There was 
 another child, I believe, a girl ; too young to earn money, but 
 of course she had to be kept. At least, no friend came forward 
 immediately, and Mrs. Thornton is not one, I fancy, to wait 
 till tardy kindness comes to find her out. So they left Milton. 
 I knew he had gone into a shop, and that his earnings, with 
 some fragment of property secured to his mother, had been 
 made to keep them for a long time. Mr. Bell said they abso- 
 lutely lived upon water-porridge for years — how, he did not 
 know ; but long after the creditors had given up hope of any 
 payment of old Mr Thornton's debts (if, indeed, they ever had 
 hoped at all about it, after his suicide,) this young man returned 
 to Milton, and went quietly round to each creditor, paying him 
 the first instalment of the money owing to him. No noise — 
 no gathering together of creditors — it was done very silently 
 and quietly, but all was paid at last ; helped on materially by 
 the circumstance of one of the creditors, a crabbed old fellow 
 (Mr. Bell says), taking in Mr. Thornton as a kind of partner." 
 
 " That really is fine," said Margaret. " What a pity such 
 a nature should be tainted by his position as a Milton manu- 
 facturer." 
 
 " How tainted ? " asked her father. 
 
 " Oh, papa, by that testing everything by the standard of 
 wealth. When he spoke of the mechanical powers, he evidently 
 looked upon them only as new ways of extending trade and 
 making money. And the poor men around him — they were 
 poor because they were vicious — out of the pale of his sympa- 
 thies because they had not his iron nature, and the capabilities 
 that it gives him for being rich." 
 
 " Not vicious ; he never said that. Improvident and self- 
 indulgent were his words." 
 
 Margaret was collecting her mother's working materials, 
 and preparing to go to bed. Just as she was leaving the room, 
 she hesitated — she was inclined to make an acknowledgment 
 which she thought would please her father, but which to be 
 full and true must include a little annoyance. However, out 
 it came. 
 
 " Papa, I do think Mr. Thornton a very remarkable man ; 
 but personally I don't lilTe him at all." 
 
84 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 "And I do ! " said her father laughing. " Personally, as 
 you call it, and all. I don't set him up for a hero, or anything 
 of that kind. But good night, child. Your mother looks sadly 
 tired to-night, Margaret." 
 
 Margaret had noticed her mother's jaded appearance with 
 anxiety for some time past, and this remark of her father's sent 
 her up to hed with a dim fear lying like a weight on her heart. 
 The life in Milton was so different from what Mrs. Hale had 
 heen accustomed to live in Helstone, in and out perpetually into 
 the fresh and open air ; the air itself was so different, deprived 
 of all revivifying principle as it seemed to be here ; the 
 domestic worries pressed so very closely, and in so new and 
 sordid a form', upon all the women in the family, that there 
 was good reason to fear that her mother's health might be 
 becoming seriously affected. There were several other signs 
 of something wrong about Mrs. Hale. She and Dixon held 
 mysterious consultations in her bedroom, from which Dixon 
 would come out crying and cross, as was her custom when any 
 distress of her mistress called upon her sympathy. Once 
 Margaret had gone into the chamber soon after Dixon left it, 
 and found her mother on her knees, and as Margaret stole out 
 she caught a few words, which were evidently a prayer for 
 strength and patience to endure severe bodily suffering. Mar- 
 garet yearned to re-unite the bond of intimate confidence which 
 had been broken by her long residence at her aunt Shaw's and 
 strove by gentle caresses and softened words to creep into the 
 warmest place in her mother's heart. But though she received 
 caresses and fond words back again, in such profusion as would 
 have gladdened her formerly, yet she felt that there was a 
 secret withheld from her, and she believed it bore serious 
 reference to her mother's health. She lay awake very long 
 this night, planning how to lessen the evil influence of their 
 Milton life on her mother. A servant to give Dixon permanent 
 assistance should be got, if she gave up her whole time to the 
 search ; and then, at any rate, her mother might have all the 
 personal attention she required, and had been accustomed to 
 her whole life. 
 
 Visiting register offices, seeing all manner of unlikely 
 people, and very few in the least likely, absorbed Margaret's 
 time and thoughts for several days. One afternoon she met 
 Bessy Higgins in the street, and stopped to speak to her. 
 
 " Well, Bessy, how are you ? Better, I hope, now the 
 wind has changed." 
 
FIEST IMPRESSIONS. 82 
 
 •' Better and not better, if yo' know wtat that means. '"■ 
 
 " Not exactly," replied Margaret, smiling. 
 
 " I'm better in not being torn to pieces by coughing o' 
 oights, but I'm weary and tired o' Milton, and longing to get 
 away to the land o' Beulah ; and when I think I'm farther 
 and farther off, my heart sinks, and I'm no better; I'm worse." 
 
 Margaret turned round to walk alongside of the girl in her 
 feeble progress homeward. But for a minute or two she did 
 not speak. At last she said in a low voice, 
 
 " Bessy, do you wish to die ? " For she shrank from death 
 herself, with all the clinging to life so natural to the young 
 and healthy. 
 
 Bessy was silent in her turn for a minute or two. Then 
 ehe replied, 
 
 " If yo'd led the life I have, and gotten as weary of it as I 
 have, and thought at times, ' maybe it'll last for fifty or sixty 
 years — ^it does wi' some,' — and got dizzy and dazed, and sick, 
 as each of them sixty years seemed to spin about me, and 
 mock me with its length of hours and minutes, and endless 
 bits o' time — oh, wench ! I tell thee thou'd been glad enough 
 when th' doctor said he feared thou'd never see another wiater." 
 
 " Why, Bessy, what kind of a life has yours been ? " 
 
 " Nought worse than many others,' I reckon. Only I 
 fretted again it, and they didn't." 
 
 " But what was it ? You know, I'm a stranger here, so 
 perhaps I'm not so quick at understanding what you mean as 
 if I'd Hved all my life at MUton." 
 
 " If yo'd ha' come to our house when yo' said yo' would, I 
 could maybe ha' told you. But father says yo're just like th' 
 rest on 'em ; its out o' sight out o' mind wi' you." 
 
 " I don't know who the rest are ; and I've been very busy; 
 and, to tell the truth, I had forgotten my promise — " 
 
 " Yo' offered it ; we asked none of it." 
 
 " I had forgotten what I said for the time," continued 
 Margaret quietly. " I should have thought of it again when I 
 was less busy. May I go with you now ? " 
 
 Bessy gave a quick glance at Margaret's face, to see if the 
 wish expressed was really felt. The sharpness in her eye 
 turned to a wistful longing as she met Margaret's soft and 
 friendly gaze. 
 
 " I ha' none so many to care for me ; if yo' care yo' may 
 come." 
 
 So they walked on together in silence. As they turned 
 
Bfi NOETH AND SOUTH. 
 
 up into a small court, opening out of a squalid street, Bessy 
 said, 
 
 " Yo'll not be daunted if father's at home, and speaks a 
 bit gruffish at first. He took a mind to ye, yo' see, and he 
 thought a deal o' your coming to see us ; and just because he 
 liked yo' he were vexed and put about." 
 
 " Don't fear, Bessy." 
 
 But Nicholas was not at home when they entered. A 
 great slatternly girl, not so old as Bessy, but taller and 
 stronger, was busy at the wash-tub, knocking about the fur- 
 niture in a rough capable way, but altogether making so much 
 noise that Margaret shrunk, out of sympathy with poor Bessy, 
 who had sat down on the first chair, as if completely tired out 
 with her walk. Margaret asked the sister for a cup of water, 
 and while she ran to fetch it (knocking down the fire-irons, and 
 tumbling over a chair in her way), she unloosed Bessy's bonnet 
 strings, to relieve her catching breath. 
 
 "Do you think such life as this is worth caring for?" 
 gasped Bessy, at last. Margaret did not speak, but held the 
 water to her hps. Bessy took a long and feverish draught, 
 and then fell back and shut her eyes. Margaret heard her 
 murmur to herself: " They shall hunger no more, neither 
 thirst any more : neither shall the sun light on them, nor any 
 heat." 
 
 Margaret bent over and said, " Bessy don't be impatient 
 with your life, whatever it is — or may have been. Remember 
 who gave it you, and made it what it is !" 
 
 She was startled by hearing Nicholas speak behind her ; 
 he had come in without her noticing him. 
 
 " Now, I'll not have my wench preached to. She's bad 
 enough, as it is, with her dreams and her methodee fancies, 
 and her visions of cities with goulden gates and precious stones. 
 But if it amuses her I let it abe, but I'm none going to have 
 more stuff poured into her." 
 
 " But surely," said Margaret, facing round, " you believe 
 in what I said, that God gave her life, and ordered what kind 
 of life it was to be ? " 
 
 " I believe what I see, and no more. That's what I believe, 
 young woman. I don't believe all I hear — ^no! not by a big 
 deal. I did hear a young lass make an ado about knowing 
 where we lived, and coming to see us. And my wench here 
 thought a deal about it, and flushed up many a time, when hoo 
 little knew as I was looking at her, at the sound of a strange 
 
FIRST IMPRESSIONS. 87 
 
 step. But hoo's come at last, — and hoo's welcome, as long 
 as hoo'U keep from preaching on what hoo knows nought 
 about." 
 
 Bessy had been watching Margaret's face ; she half sate 
 up to speak now, laying her hand on Margaret's arm with a 
 gesture of entreaty. " Don't be vexed wi' him — there's many 
 a one thinks like him ; many and many a one here. If yo' 
 could hear them speak, yo'd not be shocked at him ; he's a 
 rare good man, is father — but oh ! " said she, falling back in 
 despair, " what he says at times makes me long to die more 
 than ever, for I want to know so many things, and am so tossed 
 about wi' wonder." 
 
 "Poor wench — poor old wench — I'm loth to vex thee, I 
 am ; but a man mun speak out for the truth, and when I see 
 the world going all wrong at this time o' day, bothering itself 
 wi' things it knows nought about, and leaving undone all the 
 things that lie in disorder close at its hand — why, I say, leave 
 a' this talk about religion alone, and set to work on what yo' 
 see and know. That's my creed. It's simple, and not far to 
 fetch, nor hard to work." 
 
 But the girl only pleaded the more with Margaret. 
 
 " Don't think hardly on him — he's a good man, he is. I 
 sometimes think I shall be moped wi' sorrow even in the City 
 of God, if father is not there." The feverish colour came into 
 her cheek, and the feverish flame into her eye. " But you 
 will be there, father ! you shall ! Oh ! my heart ! " She put 
 her hand to it, and became ghastly pale. 
 
 Margaret held her in her arms, and put the weary head to 
 rest upon her bosom. She lifted the thin soft hair from off 
 the temples, and bathed them with water. Nicholas understood 
 all her signs for different articles with the quickness of love, 
 and even the round-eyed sister moved with laborious gentleness 
 at Margaret's " hush ! " Presently the spasm that fore- 
 shadowed death had passed away, 'and Bessy roused herself 
 and said, — i- 
 
 " I'll go to bed, — it's best place ; but," catching at Mar- 
 garet's gown, " yo'U come again, — ^I know yo' wUl — but just 
 Bay it ! " 
 
 " I will come to-morrow," said Margaret. 
 
 Bessy leant back against her father, who prepared to carry 
 her upstairs ; but as Margaret rose to go, ho struggled to say 
 something : "I could wish there were a God, if it were only to 
 ask Him to bless thee." 
 
88 NOliTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 Margaret went away very sad and thoughtful. 
 
 She was late for tea at home. At Helstone unpunctnalitj 
 at meal-times was a great fault in her mother's eyes ; but now 
 this, as well as many other little irregularities, seemed to have 
 lost their power of irritation, and Margaret almost longed for 
 the old complainings. 
 
 " Have you met with a servant, dear ? " 
 
 "No, mamma ; that Anne Buckley would never have done." 
 
 "Suppose I try," said Mr. Hale. " Everybody else has 
 had their turn at this great difficulty. Now let me try. I may 
 be the Cinderella to put on the slipper after all." 
 
 Margaret could hardly smile at this little joke, so oppressed 
 was she by her visit to the Higginses. 
 
 " What would you do, papa ? How would you set about it?" 
 
 " Why, I would apply to some good house-mother to recom- 
 mend me one known to herself or her servants." 
 
 " Very good. But we must first catch our house-mother.'' 
 
 " You have caught her. Or rather she is coming into the 
 snare, and you will catch her to-morrow, if you're skilful." 
 
 " What do you mean, Mr. Hale ? " asked his wife, her 
 curiosity aroused. 
 
 "Why, my paragon pupil (as Margaret calls him) has told me 
 that his mother intends to call on Mrs. and Miss Hale to-morrow." 
 
 " Mi-s. Thornton ! " exclaimed Mrs. Hale. 
 
 " The mother of whom he spoke to us ? " said Margaret. 
 
 " Mrs. Thornton; the only mother he has, I believe," said 
 Mr. Hale quietly. 
 
 " I shall like to see her. She must be an uncommon 
 person," her mother added. "Perhaps she may have a relation 
 who might suit us, and be glad of our place. She sounded to 
 be such a careful economical person, that I should like any one 
 out of the same family." 
 
 " My dear," said Mr. Hale alarmed. " Pray don't go off 
 on that idea, I fancy Mrs. Thornton is as haughty and proud 
 in her way as our little Margaret here is in hers, and that she 
 completely ignores that old time of trial, and poverty, and 
 economy, of which he speaks so openly. I am sure, at any 
 rate, she would not like strangers to know anytldng about it." 
 
 " Take notice that is not my kind of haughtiness, papa, if 
 I have any at all ; which I don't agree to, though you're always 
 accusing me of it." 
 
 " I don't know positively that it is hers either; but from 
 little things I have gathered from him, I fancy so." 
 
MORNING CALLS. 89 
 
 They cared too little to ask in what manner her son had 
 spoken about her. Margaret only wanted to know if she must 
 stay in to receive this call, as it would prevent her going to 
 see how Bessy was, until late in the day, since the early morn- 
 ing was always occupied in household affairs ; and then she 
 recollected that her mother must not be left to have the whole 
 weight of entertainin'g her visitor. 
 
 CHAPTEE XII. 
 
 MOBNING CALLS. 
 
 " Well — I suppose we must." 
 
 Friends in Council. 
 
 Mb. Thoenton had had some difficulty in working up his 
 mother to the desired point of civility. She did not often 
 make calls ; and when she did, it was in heavy state that she 
 went through her duties. Her son had given her a carriage ; 
 but she refused to let him keep horses for it ; they were hired 
 for the solemn occasions, when she paid morning or evening 
 visits. She had had horses for three days, not a fortnight 
 before, and had comfortably " killed off" all her acquaintances, 
 who might now put themselves to trouble and expense in their 
 turn. Yet Crampton was too far off for her to walk ; and she 
 had repeatedly questioned her son as to whether his wish that 
 she should call on the Hales was strong enough to bear the 
 expense of cab-hire. She would have been thankful if it had 
 not ; for, as she said, " she saw no use in making up friend- 
 ships and intimacies with all the teachers and masters in 
 Milton; why, he would be wanting her to call on Fanny's 
 dancing-master's wife, the next thing! " 
 
 " And so I would, mother, if Mr. Mason and his wife were 
 friendless in a strange place, like the Hales." 
 
 "Oh! you need not speak so hastily. I am going to- 
 morrow. I only wanted you exactly to understand about it." 
 
 " If you are going to morrow, I shall order horses." 
 
 " Nonsense, John. One would think you were made of 
 money." 
 
 " Not quite, yet. But about the horses I'm determined. 
 The last time you were out in a cab, you came home with a 
 headache from the jolting." 
 
90 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 " I never complained of it, I'm sure." 
 
 " No I My mother is not given to complaints," said he, a 
 little proudly. " But so much the more I have to watch over 
 you. Now, as for Fanny there, a little hardship would do her 
 good." 
 
 " She is not made of the same stuff as you are, John. She 
 could not bear it." 
 
 Mrs. Thornton was silent after this; for her last words 
 bore relation to a subject which mortified her. She had an 
 unconscious contempt for a weak character ; and Fanny was 
 weak in the very points in which her mother and brother were 
 strong. Mrs. Thornton was not a woman much given to 
 reasoning ; her quick judgment and firm resolution served her 
 in good .stead of any long arguments and discussions with her- 
 self; she felt instinctively that nothing could strengthen Fanny 
 to endure hardships patiently, or face difficulties bravely ; and 
 though she winced as she made this acknowledgment to herself 
 about her daughter, it only gave her a kind of pitying tenderness 
 of manner towards her; much of the same description of 
 demeanour with which mothers are wont to treat their weak 
 and sickly children. A stranger, a careless observer might 
 have considered that Mrs. Thornton's manner to her children 
 betokened far more love to Fanny than to John. But such a 
 one would have been deeply mistaken. The very daringness 
 with which mother and son spoke out unpalatable truths, the 
 one to the other, showed a reliance on the firm centre of each 
 other's souls ; which the uneasy tenderness of Mrs. Thornton's 
 manner to her daughter, the shame with which she thought to 
 hide the poverty of her child in all the grand qualities which 
 she herself possessed unconsciously, and which she set so high 
 a value upon in others — ^this shame, I say, betrayed the want 
 of a secure resting-place for her affection. She never called 
 her son by any name but John; "love," and "dear," and 
 such like terms, were reserved for Fanny. But her heart gave 
 thanks for him day and night ; and she walked proudly among 
 women for his sake. 
 
 " Fanny dear ! I shall have horses to the carriage to-day, 
 to go and call on these Hales. Should not you go and see 
 nurse ? It's in the same direction, and she's always so glad to 
 see you. You could go on there while I am at Mrs. Hale's." 
 
 " Oh ! mamma, it's such a long way, and I am so tii-ed." 
 
 " With what ? " asked Mrs. Thornton, her brow slightly 
 tontracting. 
 
MOENING CALLS. 91 
 
 " I don't know — the weather, I think. It is so relaxing. 
 Couldn't you bring nurse here, mamma ? The carriage could 
 fetch her, and she could spend the rest of the day here, which 
 I know she would like." 
 
 Mrs. Thornton did not speak ; but she laid her work on 
 the table, and seemed to think. 
 
 " It will be a long way for her to walk back at night ! " 
 she remarked, at last. 
 
 " Oh but I will send her home in a cab. I never thought of 
 her walking." 
 
 At this point, Mr. Thornton came in, just before going to 
 the mill. 
 
 " Mother ! I need hardly say, that if there is any little 
 thing that could serve Mrs. Hale as an invalid, you will offer 
 it, I'm sure." 
 
 "If I can find it out, I will. But I have never been ill 
 myself, so I am not much up to invalids' fancies." 
 
 " Well ! here is Fanny then, who is seldom without an 
 ailment. She will be able to suggest something, perhaps — 
 won't you. Fan ? " 
 
 "I have not always an ailment," said Fanny, pettishly; 
 and I am not going with mamma. I have a headache to-day, 
 and I shan't go out." 
 
 Mr. Thornton looked annoyed. His mother's eyes were 
 bent on her work, at which she was now stitching away busily. 
 
 " Fanny ! I wish you to go," said he, authoritatively. " It 
 will do you good, instead of harm. You will oblige me by 
 going, without my saying anything more about it." 
 
 He went abruptly out of the room after saying this. 
 
 If he had staid a minute longer, Fanny would have cried 
 at his tone of command, even when he used the words, " You 
 will oblige me." As it was, she grumbled. 
 
 " John always speaks as if I fancied I was ill, and I am 
 sure I never do fancy any such thing. Who are these Hales 
 that he' makes such a fuss about ? " 
 
 " Fanny, don't speak so of your brother. He has good 
 reasons of some kind or other, or he would not wish us to go. 
 Make haste and put your things on." 
 
 But the little altercation between her son and her daughter 
 did not incline Mrs. Thornton more favourably towards " these 
 Hales." Her jealous heart repeated her daughter's question, 
 " Who are they, that he is so anxious we should pay them all 
 this attention ? " It came up like a burden to a song, long 
 
92 WORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 after Fanny had forgotten all about it in the pleasant excite- 
 ment of seeing the effect of a new bonnet in the looking-glass. 
 
 Mrs. Thornton was shy. It was only of late years that she 
 had had leisure enough in her life to go into society ; and as 
 society she did not enjoy it. As dinner-giving, and as criticis- 
 ing other people's dinners, she took satisfaction in it. But 
 this going to make acquaintance with strangers was a very 
 different thing. She was ill at ease, and looked more than 
 usually stem and forbidding as she entered the Hales' little 
 drawing-room. 
 
 Margaret was busy embroidering a small piece of cambric 
 for some little article of dress for Edith's expected baby — 
 " Flimsy, useless work," as Mrs. Thornton observed to herself. 
 She liked Mrs. Hale's double knitting far better; that was 
 sensible of its kind. The room altogether was full of knick- 
 knacks, which must take a long time to dust ; and time to 
 people of limited income was money. 
 
 She made all these reflections as she was talking in her 
 stately way to Mrs. Hale, and uttering all the stereotyped 
 commonplaces that most people can find to ■ say with their 
 senses blindfolded. Mrs. Hale was making rather more exer- 
 tion in her answers, captivated by some real old lace which 
 Mrs. Thornton wore; "lace," as she afterwards observed to 
 Dixon, "of that old English point which has not been made 
 for this seventy years, and which cannot be bought. It must 
 have been an heir-loom, and shows that she had ancestors." 
 So the owner of the ancestral lace became worthy of something 
 more than the languid exertion to be agreeable to a visitor, by 
 which Mrs. Hale's efforts at conversation would have been 
 otherwise, bounded. And presently, Margaret, racking her 
 brain to talk to Fanny, heard her mother and Mrs. Thornton 
 plunge into the interminable subject of servants. 
 
 " I suppose you are not musical," said Fanny, " as I see 
 no piano." 
 
 " I am fond of hearing good music ; I cannot play well 
 myself; and papa and mamma don't care much about it ; so 
 we sold our old piano when we came here." 
 
 " I wonder how you can exist vrithout one. It almost seems 
 to me a necessary of hfe." 
 
 " Fifteen shillings a week, and three saved out of them ! " 
 thought Margaret to herself. " But she must have been very 
 young. She probably has forgotten her own personal expe- 
 rience. But she must know of those days." Margaret's 
 
MOENING CALLS. 93 
 
 manner had an extra tinge of coldness in it when she next 
 spoke. 
 
 " You have good concerts here, I believe." 
 
 " Oh, yes ! Delicious ! Too crowded, that is the worst. 
 The directors admit so indiscriminately. But one is sure to 
 hear the newest music there. I always have a large order to 
 give to Johnson's, the day after a concert." 
 
 " Do you like new music simply for its newness, then ?" 
 
 " Oh ; one knows it is the fashion in London, or else the 
 singers would not bring it down here. You have been in 
 London, of course." 
 
 "Yes," said Margaret, "I have lived there for several 
 years." 
 
 " Oh ! London and the Alhambra are the two places I long 
 to see ! " 
 
 " London and the Alhambra ! " 
 
 " Yes ! ever since I read the Tales of the Alhambra. 
 Don't you know them ? " 
 
 " I don't think I do. But surely, it is a very easy journey 
 to London." 
 
 "Yes; but somehow," said Fanny, lowering her voice, 
 " mamma has never been to London herself, and can't under- 
 stand my longing. She is very proud of Milton ; dirty, smoky 
 place, as I feel it to be. I believe she admires it the more for 
 those very qualities." 
 
 " If it has been Mrs. Thornton's home for some years, I 
 can well understand her loving it," said Margaret, in her clear 
 bell-like voice. 
 
 "What are you saying about me, Miss Hale? May I 
 inquire ?" 
 
 Margaret had not the words ready for an answer to this 
 question, which took her a little by surprise, so Miss Thornton 
 replied : 
 
 " Oh, mamma ! we are only trying to account for your 
 being so fond of Milton." 
 
 " Thank you," said Mrs. Thornton. " I do not feel that 
 my very natural liking for the place where I was born and 
 brought up, — and which has since been my residence for 'some 
 years, requires any accounting for." 
 
 Margaret was vexed. As Fanny had put it, it did seem as 
 if they had been impertinently discussing Mrs. Thornton's 
 feelings ; but she also rose up against that lady's manner of 
 showing that she was offended. 
 
94 NOETH AND SOUTH. 
 
 Mrs. Thornton went on after a moment's pause : 
 
 " Do you know anything of Milton, Miss Hale ? Have 
 you seen any of our factories ? our magnificent warehouses ? " 
 
 " No ! " said Margaret. " I have not seen anything ol 
 that description as yet." 
 
 Then she felt that, by concealing her utter indiflference to 
 all such places, she was hardly speaking with truth ; so she 
 went on : 
 
 " I dare say, papa would have taken me before now if I had 
 cared. But I really do not find much pleasure in going over 
 manufactories." 
 
 " They are very curious places," said Mrs. Hale, " but 
 there is so much noise and dirt always. I remember once 
 going in a hlac BUk to see candles made, and my gown was 
 utterly ruined." 
 
 " Very probably," said Mrs. Thornton, in a short displeased 
 manner. " I merely thought, that as strangers newly come to 
 reside in a town which has risen to eminence in the country, 
 from the character and progress of its peculiar business, yon 
 might have cared to visit some of the places where it is carried 
 on ; places unique in the kingdom, I am informed. If Miss 
 Hale changes her mind and condescends to be curious as to 
 the manufactures of Milton, I can only say I shall be glad to 
 procure her admission to print-works, or reed-making, or the 
 more simple operations of spinning carried on in my son's mill. 
 Every improvement of machinery is, I believe, to be seen there, 
 in its highest perfection." 
 
 " I am so glad you don't like mills and manufactories, and 
 all those kind of things," said Fanny, in a half-whisper, as she 
 rose to accompany her mother, who was taking leave of Mrs. 
 Hale with rustling dignity. 
 
 " I think I should like to know all about them, if I were 
 you," replied Margaret quietly. 
 
 " Fanny ! " said her mother, as they drove away, " we will 
 be civil to these Hales : but don't form one of your hasty 
 friendships vrith the daughter. She will do you no good, I see. 
 The mother looks very ill, and seems a nice, quiet kind of 
 person." 
 
 "I don't want to form any friendship with Miss Hale, 
 mamma," said Fanny, pouting. "I thought I was doing my 
 duty by talking to her, and trying to amuse her." 
 
 " Well ! at any rate John must be satisfied now." 
 
( 95 ) 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 JOFT BREEZE IN A SULTET PLAOR. 
 
 ■* Tliat doubt and trouble, fear and pain, 
 And anguish, all, are shadows vain, 
 That death itself shall not remain ; 
 
 That weary deserts we may tread, 
 A dreary labyrinth may thread, 
 Thro' dark ways underground be led ; 
 Yet, if we will one Guide obey, 
 The dreariest path, the darkest way 
 Shall issue out in heavenly day ; 
 
 Ana we, on divers shores now cast, 
 Shall meet, our perilous voyage past. 
 All in our ^Father's house at last ! " 
 
 R. C. Thench. 
 
 Margabet flew np stairs as soon as their visitors were gone, 
 iind put on her bonnet and shawl, to run and inquire how Betsy 
 Higgins was, and sit with her as long as she could before 
 dinner. As she went along the crowded narrow streets, she 
 felt how much of interest they had gained by the simple fact 
 of her having learnt to care for a dweller in them. 
 
 Mary Higgins, the slatternly younger sister, had endeavoured 
 as well as she could to tidy up the house for the expected visit. 
 There had been rough-stoning done in the middle of the floor, 
 while the flags under the chairs and table and round the walls 
 retained their dark unwashed appearance. Although the day 
 was hot, there burnt a large fire in the grate, making the whole 
 place feel like an oven ; Margaret did not understand that the 
 lavishness of coals was a sign of hospitable welcome to her on 
 Mary's part, and thought that perhaps the oppressive heat was 
 necessary for Bessy. Bessy herself lay on a squab, or short 
 sofa, placed nnder the window. She was very much more 
 feeble than on the previous day, and tired with raising herself 
 at every step to look out and see if it was Margaret coming. 
 And now that Margaret was there, and had taken a chair by 
 her, Bessy lay back silent, and content to look at Margaret's 
 face, and touch her articles of dress, with a childish admiration 
 of their fineness of texture. 
 
 " I never knew why folk in the Bible cared for soft raiment 
 afore. But it must be nice to go dressed as yo' do. It's 
 different fro' common. Most fine folk tire my eyes out wi' 
 
96 NORTH AM) fcSOUTH. 
 
 their colours ; but some how yours rest me. Where did ye get 
 this frock ? " 
 
 " In London," said Margaret, much amused. 
 
 " Loudon ! Have yo' been in London ? " 
 
 " Yes ! I lived there for some years. But my home was 
 in a forest ; in the country." 
 
 " Tell me about it," said Bessy. " I like to hear speak 
 of the country, and trees, and such like things." She leant 
 back, and shut her eyes, and crossed her hands over her breast, 
 lying at perfect rest, as if to receive all the ideas Margaret 
 could suggest. 
 
 Margaret had never spoken of Helstone since she left it, 
 except just naming the place incidentally. She saw it in 
 dreams more vivid than life, and as she fell away to slumber 
 at nights her memory wandered in all its pleasant places. But 
 her heart was opened to this girl : " Oh, Bessy, I loved the 
 home we have left so dearly ! I wish you could see it. I 
 cannot tell you half its beauty. There are great trees standing 
 all about it, with their branches stretching long and level, and 
 making a deep shade of rest even at noonday. And yet, though 
 every leaf may seem still, there is a continual rushing sound of 
 movement all around — ^not close at hand. Then sometimes 
 the turf is as soft and fine as velvet ; and sometimes quite lush 
 with the perpetual moisture of a little, hidden, tinkling brook 
 near at hand. And then in other parts there are billowy ferns 
 — ^whole stretches of fern ; some in the green shadow ; some 
 with long streaks of golden sunlight lying on them — -just like 
 the sea." 
 
 " I have never seen the sea," murmured Bessy. " But go 
 on." 
 
 " Then here and there, there are wide commons, high up 
 as if above the very tops of the trees — " 
 
 " I am glad of that. I felt smothered like down below. 
 When I have gone for an out, I've always wanted to get high 
 up and see far away, and take a deep breath o' fulness in that 
 air. I get smothered enough in Milton, and I think the sound 
 yo' speak of among the trees, going on for ever and ever, 
 would send me dazed ; it's that made my head ache so in the 
 mill. Now on these commons, I reckon, there is but little 
 noise ? " 
 
 "No," said Margaret; "nothing but here and there a 
 lark high in the air. Sometimes I used to hear a farmer 
 speaking sharp and loud to his servants ; but it was bo far 
 
A SOFT BKEBZE IN A SULTRY PLACE. 97 
 
 away that it only reminded me pleasantly that other people 
 were hard at work in some distant place, while I just sat on the 
 heather and did nothing." 
 
 " I used to think once that if I could have a day of doing 
 nothing, to rest me — a day in some quiet place like that yo' 
 speak on — it would maybe set me up. But now I've had 
 many days o' idleness, and I'm just as weary o' them as I was 
 o' my work. Sometimes I'm so tired out I think I cannot enjoy 
 heaven without a piece of rest first. I'm rather afeard o' 
 going straight there without getting a good sleep in the grave 
 to set me up." 
 
 " Don't be afraid, Bessy," said Margaret, laying her hand 
 on the girl's : " God can give you more perfect rest than even 
 idleness on earth, or the dead sleep of the grave can do." 
 
 Bessy moved uneasily ; then she said : 
 
 " I wish father would not speak as he does. He means 
 well, as I teUed yo' yesterday, and tell yo' again and again. 
 But yo' see, though I don't believe him a bit by day, yet by 
 night — ^when I'm in a fever, half asleep and half awake — it 
 comes back upon me — oh ! so bad ! And I think, if this 
 should be th' end of all, and if all I've been bom for is just to 
 work my heart and my life away, and to sicken i' this dree place, 
 wi' them mUl-noises in my ears for ever, until I could scream 
 out for them to stop, and let me have a little piece o' quiet — 
 and wi' the fluff flUing my lungs, until I thirst to death for one 
 long deep breath o' the clear air yo' speak on — and my 
 mother gone, and I never able to tell her again how I loved 
 her, and o' all my troubles — I think if this life is th' end, and 
 there's no God to wipe away all tears from aU eyes — yo' wench, 
 yo' !" said she, sitting up, and clutching violently, almost 
 fiercely, at Margaret's hand, " I could go mad, and kUl yo', I 
 could." She fell back completely worn out with her passion. 
 Margaret knelt down by her. 
 
 " Bessy — we have a Father in Heaven." 
 
 " I know it ! I know it," moaned she, turning her head 
 uneasily from side to side. " I'm very wicked. I've spoken 
 very wickedly. Oh! don't be frightened by me and never 
 come again. I would not harm a hair of your head. And," 
 opening her eyes, and looking earnestly at Margaret, " I 
 believe, perhaps, more than yo' do o' what's to come. I read 
 the book o' Revelations until I know it off by heart, and I 
 never doubt when I'm waking, and in my senses, of all the 
 glory I'm to come to." 
 
98 NOETH AND SOUTH, 
 
 " Dou't let US talk of what fenoies come into your head 
 ^hen you are feverish. I would rather hear somethiag about 
 what you used to do when you were well." 
 
 " I think I was well when mother died, but I have never 
 been rightly strong sin' somewhere about that time. I began 
 to work in a carding-room soon after, and the fluff got into my 
 lungs and poisoned me." 
 
 " Fluff? " said Margaret, inquiringly. 
 
 " Fluff," repeated Bessy. " Little bits, as fly off fro' the 
 cotton, when they're carding it, and fiU the air tiU it looks all 
 fine white dust. They say it winds round the lungs, and 
 tightens them up. Anyhow, there's many a one as works in a 
 carding-room, that falls into a waste, coughing and spitting blood, 
 because they're just poisoned by the fluff." 
 
 " But can't it be helped ? " asked Margaret. 
 
 "I dunno. Some folk have a great wheel at one end o' 
 their carding-rooms to make a draught, and carry off th' dust ; 
 but that wheel costs a deal of money — ^five or six hundred 
 pound, mayT)e, and brings in no profit ; so it's but a few of th' 
 , masters as will put 'em up ; and I've heard teU o' men who 
 did'nt like working in places where there was a wheel, because 
 they said as how it made 'em hungry, at after they'd been 
 long used to swallowing fluff, to go without it, and that their 
 wage ought to be raised if they were to work in such places. 
 So between masters and men th' wheels fall through. I know 
 I wish there'd been a wheel in our place, though." 
 I " Did not your father know about it ? " asked Margaret. 
 
 " Yes ! And he was sorry. But our factory were a good 
 one on the whole ; and a steady likely set o' people ; and 
 father was afeard of letting me goto a strange place, for though 
 yo' would na think it now, many a one then used to call me a 
 gradely lass enough. And I did na like to be reckoned nesh 
 and soft, and Mary's schooliag were to be kept up, mother 
 said, and father he were always liking to buy books, and go to 
 lectures o' one kind or another — all which took money — so I 
 just worked on till I shall ne'er get the whirr out o' my ears, 
 or the fluff out o' my throat i' this world. That's all." 
 
 " How old are you ? " asked Margaret. 
 
 " Nineteen, come July." 
 
 " And I too am nineteen." She thought, more sorrowfully 
 than Bessy did, of the contrast between them. She conld not 
 speak for a moment or two for the emotion she was trying to 
 keep down. 
 
A SOFT BREEZE IN A SULTfiY PLAOF. 99 
 
 " About Mary," said Bessy. " I wanted to ask yo' to be a 
 friend to her. She's seventeen, but she's th' last on us. And 
 I don't want her to go to th' mill, and yet I dunno what she's 
 fit for." 
 
 " She could not do" — Margaret glanced unconsciously at 
 the unoleaned comers of the room — " She could hardly under- 
 take a servant's place, could she ? We have an old faithful 
 servant, almost a friend, who wants help, but who is very 
 particular ; and it would not be right to plague her with giving 
 , her any assistance that would really be an annoyance and an 
 irritation." 
 
 " No, I see. I reckon yo're right. Our Mary's a good 
 wench ; but who has she had to teach her what to do about a 
 house ? No mother, and me at the mill till I were good for 
 nothing but scolding her for doing badly what I didn't know 
 how to do a bit. But I wish she could ha' lived wi' yo', for all 
 thit." 
 
 " But even though she may not be exactly fitted to come and 
 live with us as a servant — and I don't know about that — I will 
 always try and be a friend to her for your sake, Bessy. And 
 now I must go. I will come again as soon as I can ; but if it 
 should not be to-morrow, or the next day, or even a week or a 
 fortnight hence, don't think I've forgotten you. I may be 
 busy." 
 
 " I'll know yo' won't forget me again. I'll not mistrust 
 yo' no more. But remember, in a week or a fortnight I may 
 be dead and buried ! " 
 
 " I'll come as soon as I can, Bessy," said Margaret, 
 squeezing her hand tight. " But you'll let me know if you are 
 worse," 
 
 " Ay, that will I," said Bessy, returning the pressure. 
 
 From that day forwards Mrs. Hale became more and more 
 of a Bufiering invalid. It was now drawing near to the anni 
 versary of Edith's marriage, and looking back upon the year's 
 accumulated heap of troubles, Margaret wondered how they 
 had been borne. If she could have anticipated them, how she 
 would have shrunk away and hid herself from the coming time ! 
 And yet day by day had, of itself, and by itself, been very 
 endurable — small, keen, bright little spots of positive enjoy- 
 ment haying come sparkling into the very middle of sorrows. 
 A year ago, or when she first went to Helstone, and first 
 became silently conscious of the querulousness in her mother's 
 temper, she would have groaned bitterly over the idea of a long 
 
 7 — S 
 
100 NORTH AKD SOUTH. 
 
 illness to be bome in a strange, desolate, noisy, bnsy place, 
 with diminished comforts on every side of the home life. 
 But with the increase of serious and just ground of complaint, 
 a new kind of patience had sprung up in her mother's mind. 
 She was gentle and quiet in intense bodily suffering, almost in 
 proportion as she had been restless and depressed when there 
 had been no real cause for grief. Mr. Hale was in exactly that 
 stage of apprehension which, in men of his stamp, takes the 
 shape of wilful blindness. He was more irritated than 
 Margaret had ever known him at his daughter's expressed 
 anxiety. 
 
 " Indeed, Margaret, you are growing fanciful ! God knows 
 I should be the first to take the alarm if your mother were really 
 ill ; we always saw when she had her headaches at Helstone, 
 even without her telling us. She looks quite pale and white 
 when she is ill ; and now she has a bright healthy colour in bet 
 cheeks, just as she used to have when I first knew her." 
 
 " But, papa," said Margaret, with hesitation, " do you 
 know, I think that is the flush of pain." 
 
 " Nonsense, Margaret. I tell you, you are too &ncifiil. 
 You are the person not well, I think. Send for the doctor to- 
 morrow for yourself; and then, if it wiU make your mind easier, 
 he can see your mother." 
 
 " Thank you, dear papa. It will make me happier, indeed." 
 And she went up to him to kiss him. But he pushed her 
 away — gently enough, but still as if she had suggested un- 
 pleasant ideas, which he should be glad to get rid of as readily 
 as he could of her presence. He walked uneasily up and down 
 the room. 
 
 " Poor Maria ! " said, he, half soliloquising, " I wish one 
 could do right without sacrificing others. I shall hate this 
 
 town, and myself too, if she . Pray, Margaret, does your 
 
 mother often talk to you of the old places : of Helstone, I 
 mean ? " 
 
 "No, papa," said Margaret, sadly. 
 
 " Then, you see, she can't be fretting after them, eh ? It 
 has always been a comfort to me to think that your mother was 
 so simple and open that I knew every little grievance she had. 
 She never would conceal anything seriously affecting her health 
 from me : would she, eh, Margaret ? I am quite sure she 
 would not. So don't let me hear of these foolish morbid ideas. 
 Come, give me a kiss, and run off to bed." 
 
 But she heard him pacing about (racooning, as she and 
 
THE MBETING. 101 
 
 Edith used to call it) long after her slow and languid un- 
 dressing was finished — ^long after she began to listen as she laj 
 in bed. 
 
 CHAPTEE XIV. 
 
 THE MEETING. 
 
 " I was used 
 To sleep at nights as sweetly as a child, — 
 Now if the wind blew rough, it made me start, 
 And think of my poor boy tossing about 
 Upon the roaring seas. And then I seemed 
 To feel that it was haid to take him from me 
 For such a little fault." 
 
 SotTTHBT. 
 
 It was a comfort to Margaret about this time, to find that her 
 mother drew more tenderly and intimately towards her than 
 she had ever done since the days of her childhood. She took 
 her to her heart as a confidential friend — ^the post Margaret 
 had always longed to fill, and had envied Dixon for being 
 preferred to. Margaret took pains to respond to every call 
 made upon her for sympathy — and they were many — even when 
 they bore relation to trifles, which she would no more have 
 noticed or regarded herself than the elephant would perceive 
 the little pin at his feet, which yet he lifts carefully up at the 
 bidding of his keeper. All unconsciously Margaret drew near 
 to a reward. 
 
 One evening, Mr. Hale being absent, her mother began to 
 talk to her about her brother Frederick, the very subject on 
 which Margaret had longed to ask questions, and ahnost the 
 only one on which her timidity overcame her natural openness. 
 The more she wanted to hear about him, the less likely she 
 was to speak. 
 
 " Oh, Margaret, it was so windy last night I It came 
 howling down the chimney in our room ! I could not sleep. 
 I never can when there is such a terrible wind. I got into a 
 wakeful habit when poor Frederick was at sea ; and now, even 
 if I don't waken all at once, I dream of him in some stormy 
 sea, with great, clear, glass-gr^en walls of waves on either side 
 his ship, but far higher than her very riiasts, curling over her 
 with that cruel, terrible white foam, like some gigantic crested 
 serpent. It is an old dream, but it always comes back on 
 
102 NORTH AND SOXTTH. 
 
 windy nights, till I am thankful to waken, sitting straight and 
 stiff up in bed with my terror. Poor Frederick! He is on 
 land now, so wind can do him no harm. Though I did think 
 it might shake down some of those tall chimneys." 
 
 " Where is Frederick now, mamma ? Our letters are 
 directed to the care of Messrs. Barbour, at Cadiz, I know; 
 but where is he himself? " 
 
 " I can't remember the name of the place, but he is not 
 called Hale ; you must remember that, Margaret. Notice the 
 F. D. in every comer of the letters. He has taken the name 
 of Dickenson. I wanted him to have been called Beresford, 
 to which he had a kind of right, but your father thought 
 he had better not. He might be recognised, you know, if he 
 were called by my name." «■ 
 
 " Mamma," said Margaret, " I was at Aunt Shaw's when 
 it all happened ; and I suppose I was not old enough to be 
 told plainly about it. But I should like to know now, if I 
 may — ^if it does not give you too much pain to speak about it." 
 
 " Pain ! No," replied Mrs. Hale, her cheek flushing. 
 " Yet it is pain to think that perhaps I may never see my 
 darling boy again. Or else he did right, Margaret. They may 
 say what they like, but I have his own letters to show, and 
 I'U believe hun, though he is my son, sooner than any court- 
 martial on earth. Go to my little japan cabinet, dear, and in 
 the second left-hand drawer you will find a packet of letters." 
 
 Margaret went. There were the yellow, sea- stained letters, 
 with the peculiar fragrance which ocean letters have. Mar- 
 garet carried them back to her mother, who untied the sUken 
 string with trembling fingers, and, examining their dates, she 
 gave them to Margaret to read, making her hurried, anxious 
 remarks on their contents, almost before her daughter could 
 have understood what they were. 
 
 " You see, Margaret, how from the very first he disUked 
 Captain Keid. He was second lieutenant in the ship — ^the 
 Orion — in which Frederick sailed the very first time. Poor 
 little fellow, how well he looked in his midshipman's dress, 
 with his dirk in his hand, cutting open all the newspapers with 
 it as if it were a paper-knife ! But this Mr. Beid, as he was 
 then, seemed to take a dislike to Frederick from the very 
 beginning. And then — stay ! these are the letters he wrote on 
 board the EusseU. When he was appointed to her, and found 
 his old enemy Captain Reid in command, he did mean to bear 
 all his tyranny patiently. Look I this is the letter. Just read 
 
THE MEETING. 103 
 
 it, Margaret. Where is it he says — Stop — ' my father may 
 rely upon me, that I will bear with all proper patience every- 
 thmg that one o£Scer and gentleman can take from another. 
 But from my former knowledge of my present captain, I confess 
 I look forward with apprehension to a long course of tyranny 
 on board the EusselL' You see, he promises to bear patiently, 
 and I am sure he did, for he was the sweetest-tempered boy, 
 when he was not vexed, that could possibly be. Is that the 
 letter in which he speaks of Captain Keid's impatience with 
 the men, for not going through the ship's manoeuvres as quickly 
 as the Avenger ? You see, he says that they had many new 
 hands on board the Russell, while the Avenger had been nearly 
 three years on the station, with nothing to do but to keep 
 slavers off, and work her men, till they ran up and down the 
 rigging like rats or monkeys." 
 
 Margaret slowly read the letter, half illegible through th& 
 fading of the ink. It might be — it probably was — a statement 
 of Captain Eeid's imperiousness in trifles, very much exagge- 
 rated by the narrator, who had written it while fresh and warm 
 from the scene of altercation. Some sailors being aloft in the 
 main-topsail rigging, the captain had ordered them to race 
 down, threatening the hindmost with the cat-of-nine-tails. He 
 who was the farthest on the spar, feeling the impossibility of 
 passing his companions, and yet passionately dreading the 
 disgrace of the flogging, threw himself desperately down to 
 catch a rope considerably lower, failed, and fell senseless on 
 deck. He only survived for a few hours afterwards, and the 
 indignation of the ship's crew was at boiling point when young 
 Hale wrote. 
 
 " But we did not receive this letter till long, long after 
 we heard of the mutiny. Poor Fred ! I dare say it was a 
 comfort for him to write it, even though he could not have 
 known how to send it, poor fellow I And then we saw a report 
 in the papers — that's to say, long before Fred's letter reached 
 ns — of an atrocious mutiny having broken out on board the 
 Kussell, and that the mutineers had remained in possession of 
 the ship, which had gone off, it was supposed, to be a pirate ; 
 and that Captain Reid was sent adrift in a boat with some men 
 — officers or something — ^whose names were all given, for they 
 were picked up by a West Indian steamer. Oh, Margaret ! 
 how your father and I turned sick over that list, when there 
 was no name of Frederick Hale. We thought it must be some 
 mistake : for poor Fred was such a fine fellow, only perhapa 
 
104 NORTH AUD SOUTH. 
 
 rather too passionate ; and we hoped that the name of Carr, 
 which was in the list, was a misprint for that of Hale — news- 
 papers are so careless. And towards f ost-time the next day, 
 papa set off to walk to Southampton to get the papers ; and I 
 could not stop at home, so I went to meet him. He was very 
 late — much later than I thought he would have heen ; and I 
 sat down under the hedge to wait for him. He came at last, 
 his arms hanging loose down, his head snnk, and walking 
 heavily along, as if every step was a labour and a trouble. 
 Margaret, I see him now." 
 
 " Don't go on, mamma. I can understand it all," said 
 Margaret, leaning up caressingly against her mother's side, 
 and kissing her hand. 
 
 " No, you can't Margaret. No one can who did not see 
 him then. I could hardly lift myself up to go and meet him — 
 everything seemed so to reel around me all at once. And 
 when I got to him, he did not speak, or seem surprised to see 
 me there, more than three miles from home, beside the Oldham 
 beech-tree ; but he put my arm in his, and kept stroking my 
 hand, as if he wanted to soothe me to be very quiet under some 
 great heavy blow ; and when I trembled so all over that I could 
 not speak, he took me in his arms, and stooped down his head 
 on mine, and began to shake and to cry in a strange muffled, 
 groaning voice, till I, for very fright, stood quite still, and only 
 begged him to tell me what he had heard. And then, with his 
 hand jerking, as if some one else moved it against his will, he 
 gave me a wicked newspaper to read, calling our Frederick a 
 ' traitor of the blackest dye,' ' a base, ungrateful disgrace to 
 his profession.' Oh 1 I cannot tell what bad words they did 
 not use. I took the paper in my hands as soon as I had read 
 it — ^I tore it up to little bits — I tore it — oh I I believe, Mar- 
 garet, I tore it with my teeth. I did not cry. I could not. 
 My cheeks were as hot as fire, and my very eyes burnt in my 
 head. I saw your father looking grave at me. I said it was 
 a lie, and so it was. Months after, this letter came, and you 
 see what provocation Frederick had. It was not for himself, 
 or his own injuries, he rebelled ; but he would speak his mind 
 to Captain Eeid, and so it went on from bad to worse ; and 
 you see, most of the sailors stuck by Frederick." 
 
 " I think, Margaret," she continued, after a pause, in a 
 weak, trembling, exhausted voice, " I am glad of it — ^I am 
 prouder of Frederick standing up against injustice, than if he 
 I tiad been simply a good officer." 
 
 4 i 
 
THE MEETING. 105 
 
 " I em sure I am," said Margaret, in a firm, decided tone. / 
 *' Loyalty and obedience to wisdom and justice are fine ; but 
 it is stiU finer to defy arbitrary power, unjustly and cruelly j 
 used — not on behalf of ourselves, but on behalf of others more j 
 helpless." 
 
 " For all that, I wish I could see Frederick once more — 
 just once. He was my first baby, Margaret." Mrs. Hale 
 spoke wistfully, and almost as if apologising for the yearning, 
 craving wish, as though it were a depreciation of her remaining 
 child. But such an idea never crossed Margaret's mind. She 
 was thinking how her mother's desire could be fulfilled. 
 
 " It is six or seven years ago — ^would they stiU prosecute 
 him, mother. If he came and stood his trial, what would be 
 the punishment ? Surely, he might bring evidence of his great 
 provocation." 
 
 " It would do no good," replied Mrs. Hale. " Some of the 
 sailors who accompanied Frederick were taken, and there was 
 a court-martial held on them on board the Amicia ; I believed 
 all they said in their defence, poor fellows, because it just 
 agreed with Frederick's story — ^but it was of no use, — " and 
 for the first time during the conversation Mrs. Hale began to 
 cry ; yet something possessed Margaret to force the information 
 she foresaw, yet dreaded, from her mother. 
 
 " What happened to them, mamma ? " asked she. 
 
 " They were hung at the yard-arm," said Mrs. Hale, 
 solemnly. " And the worst was that the court, in condemning 
 them to death, said they had suffered themselves to be led 
 astray fi-om their duty by their superior officers." 
 
 They were silent for a long time. 
 
 " And Frederick was in South America for several years, 
 was he not ? " 
 
 " Yes. And now he is in Spain. At Cadiz, or somewhere 
 near it. If he comes to England he will be hung. I shall 
 never see his feee again — ^for if he comes to England he will 
 be hung." 
 
 There was no comfort to be given. Mrs. Hale turned her 
 face to the wall, and lay perfectly still in her mother's despair. 
 Nothing could be said to console her. She took her hand out of 
 Margaret's with a little impatient movement, as if she would 
 fain be left alone with the recollection of her son. When Mr. 
 Hale came in, Margaret went out, oppressed with gloom, and 
 seeing no promise of brightness on any side of the horizon. 
 
( 100 ) 
 
 CHAPTEE XV. 
 
 MASTEKS AND MEN. 
 
 "Thought fights with thought ; out springs a Bpaik of truth 
 From the collision of the sword and shield." 
 
 W. S. Lahdob. 
 
 " Mabgabet," said her father, the next day, " we must return 
 Mrs. Thornton's call. Your mother is not very well, and thinks 
 ahe cannot walk so far ; but you and I will go this afternoon." 
 
 As they went, Mr. Hale began about his wife's health, with 
 a kind of veiled anxiety, which Margaret was glad to see 
 awakened at last. 
 
 " Did you consult the doctor, Margaret ? Did you send 
 for him ?" 
 
 " No, papa, you spoke of his coming to see me. Now I 
 was well. But if I only knew of some good doctor, I would go 
 this afternoon, and ask him to come, for I am sure mamma is 
 seriously indisposed." 
 
 She put the truth thus plainly and strongly because her 
 father had so completely shut his mind against the idea, when 
 she had last named her fears. But now the case was changed. 
 He answered in a despondent tone : 
 
 " Do you think she has any hidden complaint ? Do yon 
 think she is really very ill ? Has Dixon said anything ? Oh, 
 Margaret ! I am haimted by the fear that our coming to 
 MUton has killed her. My poor Maria ! " 
 
 " Oh, papa ! don't imagine such things," said Margaret, 
 shocked. " She is not well, that is all. Many a one is not 
 well for a time ; and with good advice gets better and stronger 
 than ever." 
 
 " But has Dixon said anything about her ? " 
 
 "No I You know Dixon enjoys making a mystery out of 
 trifles ; and she has been a little mysterious about mamma's 
 health, which has alarmed me rather, that is all. Without 
 any reason I dare say. You know, papa, you said the other 
 day I was getting fanciful." 
 
 " I hope and trust you are. But don't think of what I said 
 then. I like you to be fanciful about your mother's health. 
 Don't be afraid of telling me your fancies. I like to hear them, 
 though I dare say, I spoke as if I was annoyed. Bat we will 
 
MASTERS AND MEN. 107 
 
 ask Mrs. Thornton if she can tell us of a good doctor. We 
 won't throw away our money on any hut some one first-rate. 
 Stay, we turn up this street." 
 
 The street did not look as if it could contain any house 
 large enough for Mrs. Thornton's habitation. Her son's 
 presence never gave any impression as to the kind of house he 
 lived in ; but, unconsciously, Margaret had imagined that tall, 
 massive, handsomely dressed Mrs. Thornton must live in a 
 house of the same character as herself. Now Marlborough 
 Street consisted of long rows of small houses, with a blank wall 
 here and there ; at least that was all they could see from the 
 point at which they entered it. 
 
 " He told me he lived in Marlborough Street, I'm sure," 
 said Mr. Hale, with a much perplexed air. 
 
 " Perhaps it is one of the economies he still practises, to 
 live in a very small house. But here are plenty of people about ; 
 let me ask." 
 
 She accordingly inquired of a passer-by, and was informed 
 that Mr. Thornton lived close to the mill, and had the factory 
 lodge-door pointed out to her, at the end of the long dead wall 
 they had noticed. 
 
 The lodge-door was like a common garden-door ; on one 
 side of it were great closed gates for the ingress and egress of 
 lurries and wagons. The lodge-keeper admitted them into a 
 great oblong yard, on one side of which were offices for the 
 transaction of business ; on the opposite, an immense many- 
 windowed mill, whence proceeded the continual clank of 
 machinery and the long groaning roar of the steam-engine, 
 enough to deafen those who lived within the enclosure. Opposite 
 to the wall, along which the street ran, on one of the narrow 
 sides of the oblong, was a handsome stone-coped house, — 
 blackened, to be sure, by the smoke, but ,with paint, windows, 
 and steps kept scrupulously clean. It was evidently a house 
 which had been built some fifty or sixty years. The stone 
 facings — ^the long, narrow windows, and the number of them — 
 the flights of steps up to the front door, ascending from either 
 side, and guarded by railing — all witnessed to its age. Mar- 
 garet only wondered why people who could affiard to live in so 
 good a house, and keep it in such perfect order, did not prefer 
 a much smaller dwelUng in the country, or even some suburb ; 
 not in the continual whirl and din of the factory. Her unac- 
 customed ears could hardly catch her father's voice, as they 
 stood on the steps awaiting the opening of the door. The 
 
108 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 yard, too, with the great doors in the dead wall as a boundary, 
 was but a dismal look-out for the sitting-rooms of the house — 
 as Margaret found when they had mounted the old-fitshioned 
 stairs, and been ushered into the drawing-room, the three 
 windows of which went over the front door and the room on the 
 right-hand side of the entrance. There was no one in the 
 drawing-room. It seemed as though no one had been in it 
 since the day when the furniture was bagged up with as much 
 care as if the house was to be overwhelmed with lava, and 
 discovered a thousand years hence. The walls were pink and 
 gold ; the pattern on the carpet represented bunches of flowers 
 on a light ground, but it was careftilly covered up in the centre 
 by a linen drugget, glazed and colourless. The window-curtains 
 were lace ; each chair and sofa had its own particular veil of 
 netting or knitting. Great alabaster groups occupied every 
 flat surface, safe from dust under their glass shades. In the 
 middle of the room, right under the bagged-up chandelier, was 
 a large circular table, with smartly-bound books arranged at 
 regular intervals round the circumference of its polished surface, 
 like gaily coloured spokes of a wheel. Everything reflected 
 light, nothing absorbed it. The whole room had a painfully 
 spotted, spangled, speckled look about it, which impressed 
 Margaret so unpleasantly that she was hardly conscious of the 
 peculiar cleanliness required to keep everythmg so white and 
 pure in such an atmosphere, or of the trouble that must be 
 willingly expended to secure that effect of icy, snowy dis- 
 comfort. Wherever she looked there was evidence of care and 
 labour, but not care and labour to procure ease, to help on 
 habits 'of tranquil home employment ; solely to ornament and 
 then to preserve ornament from dirt or destruction. 
 
 They had leisure to observe, and to speak to each other 
 m low voices, before Mrs. Thornton appeared. They were 
 talking of what all the world might hear ; but it is a common 
 effect of such a room as this to make people speai low, as if 
 unwilling to awaken the unused echoes. 
 
 At last Mrs. Thornton came in, rustling in handsome 
 black silk, as was her wont ; her muslins and laces rivalling, 
 not excelling, the pure whiteness of the muslins and netting of 
 the room. Margaret explained how it was that her mother 
 could not accompany them to return Mrs. Thornton's call • but 
 m her anxiety not to bring back her father's fears too vividly 
 she gave but a bungling account, and left the impression on 
 Mrs. Thornton's mind that Mrs. Hale's was some temporary or 
 
MASTERS AND MEN. 109 
 
 fanciful fine-ladyish indisposition, which might have been put 
 aside had there been a strong enough motive ; or that if it was 
 too severe to allow her to come out that day, the call might 
 have been deferred. Eemembering, too, the horses to her 
 carriage, hired for her own visit to the Hales, and how Fanny 
 had been ordered to go by Mr. Thornton, in order to pay every 
 respect to them, Mrs. Thornton drew up slightly offended, and 
 gave Margaret no sympathy — indeed, hardly any credit for the 
 statement of her mother's indisposition. 
 
 " How is Mr. Thornton ? " asked Mr. Hale. " I was afraid 
 he was not well, from his hurried note yesterday." 
 
 " My son is rarely ill ; and when he is, he never speaks 
 about it, or makes it an excuse for not doing anything. He told 
 me he could not get leisure to read with you last night, sir. He 
 regretted it, I am sure ; he values the hours spent with you." 
 
 " I am sure they are equally agreeable to me," said Mr. 
 Hale. " It makes me feel young again to see his enjoyment 
 and appreciation of all that is fi.ne in classical literature." 
 
 " I have no doubt that classics are very desirable for 
 people who have leisure. But, I confess, it was against my 
 judgment that my son renewed his study of them. The time 
 and place in wHch he lives, seem to me to require all his 
 energy and attention. ClassioB may do very well for men who 
 loiter away their lives in the country or in colleges ; but Milton 
 men ought to have their thoughts and powers absorbed in the 
 work of to-day. At least, that is my opinion." This last clause 
 she gave out with " the pride that apes humility." 
 
 " But, surely, if the mind is too long directed to one object 
 only, it will get stiff and rigid, and unable to take in many 
 interests," said Margaret. 
 
 " I do not quite understand what you mean by a mind 
 getting stiff and rigid. Nor do I admire those whirligig 
 characters that are full of this thing to-day, to be utterly for- 
 getful of it in their new interest to-tnorrow. Having many 
 interests does not suit the life of a Milton manufacturer. It is 
 or ought to be, enough for him to have one great desire, and 
 to bring all the purposes of his life to bear on the fulfilment of 
 that." 
 
 " And that is — ? " asked Mr. Hale. 
 
 Her sallow cheek flushed, and her eye lightened, as she 
 tmswered : 
 
 " To hold and maintain a high, honourable place among 
 the merchants of his country — the men of his town. Such a 
 
110 NOETH AND SOUTH. 
 
 place my son has earned for himself. Go where you will — ^1 
 don't say in England only, but in Europe — the name of John 
 Thornton of Milton is known and respected amongst all men of 
 business. Of course, it is unknown in the fashionable circles," 
 she continued, scornfully. " Idle gentlemen and ladies are not 
 likely to know much of a Milton manufacturer, unless he gets 
 into parliament, or marries a lord's daughter." 
 
 Both Mr. Hale and Margaret had an uneasy, ludicrous con- 
 sciousness that they had never heard of this great name, until 
 Mr. Bell had written them word that Mr. Thornton would be a 
 good friend to have in Milton. The proud mother's world was 
 not their world of Harley Street gentilities on the one hand, 
 or country clergymen and Hampshire squires on the other. 
 Margaret's face, in spite of all her endeavours to keep it simply 
 listening in its expression, told the sensitive Mrs. Thornton 
 this feeling of hers. 
 
 " You think you never heard of this wonderful son of mine, 
 Miss Hale. You think I'm an old woman whose ideas are 
 bounded by Milton, and whose own crow is the whitest ever 
 seen." 
 
 " No," said Margaret, with some spirit. " It may be true, 
 that I was thinking I had hardly heard Mr. Thornton's name 
 before I came to Milton. But since I have come here, I have 
 heard enough to make me respect and admire him, and to feel 
 how much justice and truth there is in what you have said of 
 bim." 
 
 " Who spoke to you of him ? " asked Mrs. Thornton, a 
 little mollified, yet jealous lest any one else's words should not 
 have done him fuU justice. 
 
 Margaret hesitated before she replied. She did not like 
 this authoritative questioning. Mr. Hale came in, as he 
 thought, to the rescue. 
 
 " It was what Mr. Thornton said himself, that made us 
 know the kind of man he was. Was it not, Margaret ? " 
 
 Mrs. Thornton drew herself up, and said — 
 
 " My son is not the one to tell of his own doings. May I 
 again ask you, Miss Hale, from whose account you formed your 
 favourable opinion of him ? A mother is curious and greedy 
 of commendation of her children, you know." 
 
 Margaret replied, " It was as much from what Mr. Thornton 
 withheld of that which we had been told of his previous life by 
 Mr. Bell, — ^it was more that than what he said, that made us all 
 feel what reason you have to be proud of him." 
 
 J ^ 
 
MASTERS AND ILEI,'. IH 
 
 "Mr. Bell! What can he know of John? He, living a lazy 
 life in a drowsy college. But I'm obliged to you, Miss Hale. 
 Many' a missy young lady would have shrunk from giving an 
 old woman the pleasure of hearing that her son was well 
 spoken of." 
 
 " Why ? " asked Margaret, looking straight at Mrs. 
 Thornton, in bewilderment. 
 
 "Why! because I suppose they might have consciences 
 that told them how surely they were making the old mother 
 into an advocate for them, in case they had any plans on the 
 son's heart." 
 
 She smiled a grim smile, for she had been pleased by 
 Margaret's frankness ; and perhaps she felt that she had been 
 asking questions too much as if she had a right to catechise. 
 Margaret laughed outright at the notion presented to her ; 
 laughed so merrily that it grated on Mrs. Thornton's ear, as if 
 the words that called forth that langh, must have been utterly 
 and entirely ludicrous. 
 
 Margaret stopped her merriment as soon as she saw Mrs. 
 Thornton's annoyed look. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, madam. But I really am very much 
 obliged to you for exonerating me from making any plans on 
 Mr. Thornton's heart." 
 
 "Young ladies have, before now," said Mrs. Thornton, stiffly. 
 
 "I hope Miss Thornton is well," put in Mr. Hale, desirous 
 of changing the current of the conversation. 
 
 " She is as well as she ever is. She is not strong," replied 
 Mrs. Thorton, shortly. 
 
 " And Mr. Thornton ? I suppose I may hope to see him 
 on Thursday ? " 
 
 "I cannot answer for my son's engagements. There is 
 some uncomfortable work going on in the town ; a threatening 
 of a strike. If so, his experience and judgment will make him 
 much consulted by his friends. But I should think he could 
 come on Thursday. At any rate, I am sure he will let you 
 know if he cannot." 
 
 "A strike!" asked Margaret. "What for? What are | 
 they going to strike for ? " 
 
 " For the mastership and ownership of other people's pro- 
 perty," said Mrs. Thornton, with a fierce snort. " That is 
 what they always strike for. If my son's work-people strike, 
 I will only say they are a pack of ungrateful hounds. But I 
 have no doubt they will." 
 
112 NOETH AND SOUTH. 
 
 " They are wanting higher wages, I suppose ? " asked 
 Mr. Hale. 
 
 " That is the face of the thing. But the truth is, they 
 want to be masters, and make the masters into slaves on their 
 own ground. They are always trying at it ; they always have it 
 in their minds ; and every five or six years, there comes a straggle 
 between masters and men. They'll find themselves mistaken 
 this time, I fancy, — a little out of their reckoning. If they 
 turn out, they mayn't find it so easy to go in again. I believe, 
 the masters have a thing or two in their heads which will 
 teach the men not to strike again in a hurry, if they try it this 
 time." 
 
 " Does it not make the town very rough ? " asked 
 Margaret. 
 
 " Of course it does. But surely you are not a coward, are 
 you ? Milton is not the place for cowards. I have known the 
 time when I have had to thread my way through a crowd of 
 white, angry men, all swearing they would have Makinson's 
 blood as soon as he ventured to show his nose out of his factory ; 
 and he, knowing nothiug of it, some one had to go and tell 
 him, or he was a dead man ; and it needed to be a woman, — 
 so I went. And when I had got in, I could not get out. It 
 was as much as my life was worth. So I went up to the roof, 
 where there were stones piled ready to drop on the heads of 
 the crowd, if they tried to force the factory doors. And I would 
 have lifted those heavy stones, and dropped thein with as good 
 an aim as the best man there, but that I fainted with the heat I 
 had gone through. If you live in Milton, you must learn to 
 have a brave heart, Miss Hale." 
 
 " I would do my best," said Margaret rather pale. " I do 
 not know whether I am brave or not till I am tried ; but I am 
 afraid I should be a coward." 
 
 " South country people are often frightened by what our 
 Darkshire men and women only call living and struggling. 
 But when you've been ten years among a people who are always 
 owing their betters a grudge, and only waiting for an oppor- 
 tunity to pay it off, you'll know whether you are a coward or 
 not, take my word for it." 
 
 Mr. Thornton came that evening to Mr. Hale's. He was 
 shown up into the drawing-room, where Mr. Hale was reading 
 aloud to his wife and daughter. 
 
 " I am come partly to bring you a note from my mother, 
 and partly to apologise for not keeping to my time yesterday. 
 
MASTBKS AKD MEN. 113 
 
 The note contains the address you asked for; Dr. Donald- 
 eon." 
 
 " Thank you ! " said Margaret, hastily, holding out her 
 hand to take the note, for she did not wish her mother to hear 
 that they had heen making any inquiry ahont a doctor. She 
 was pleased that Mr. Thornton seemed immediately to under- 
 stand her feeling ; he gave her the note without another word 
 of explanation. 
 
 Mr. Hale began to talk about the strike. Mr. Thornton's 
 face assumed a likeness to his mother's worst expression, which 
 hnmediately repelled the watching Margaret. 
 
 " Yes ; the fools will have a strike. Let them. It suits 
 us well enough. But we gave them a chance. They think 
 trade is flourishing as it was last year. We see the storm 
 on the horizon and draw in our sails. But because we don't I 
 explain our reasons, they won't believe we're acting reasonably, I 
 We must give them line and letter for the way we choose to 
 spend or save our money. Henderson tried a dodge with his 
 men, out at Ashley, and failed. He rather wanted a strike ; 
 it would have suited his book well enough. So when the men 
 came to ask for the five per cent, they are claiming, he told 
 'em he'd think about it, and give them his answer on the pay 
 day; knowing all the while what his answer would be, of 
 course, but thinking he'd strengthen their conceit of their own 
 way. However, they were too deep for him, and heard some- 
 thing about the bad prospects of trade. So in they came on 
 the Friday, and drew back their claim, and now he's obliged 
 to go on working. But we Milton masters have to-day sent in 
 our decision. We won^'t advance a penny. We tell them we 
 may have to lower wages ; but can't afibrd to raise. So here 
 we stand, waiting for their next attack." 
 
 " And what will that be ? " asked Mr. Hale. 
 
 " I conjecture a simultaneous strike. You will see Milton 
 without smoke in a few days, I imagine. Miss Hale." 
 
 " But why," asked she, " could you not explain what goodi 
 reason you had for expecting a bad trade ? I don't know) 
 whether I use the right words, but you will understand what ij 
 mean." 
 
 " Do you give your servants reasons for your expenditure, or 
 your economy in the use of your own money ? We, the owners 
 of capital, have a right to choose what we will do with it." 
 
 " A human right," said Margaret, very low. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, I did not hear what you said." 
 
 8 
 
114 NOETH AMD SOUTH. 
 
 ••* I woaid 1-ather not repeat it," said she ; " it related to a 
 feeling which I do not think you would share." 
 
 " Won't you try me ? " pleaded he ; his thoughts suddenly 
 bent upon learning what she had said. She was displeased 
 with his pertinacity, hut did not choose to affix too much im- 
 portance to her words. 
 
 " I said you had a human right. I meant that there 
 seemed no reason hut religious ones, why you should not do 
 what you like with your own." 
 
 " I know we differ in our religious opinions ; hut don't yon 
 give me credit for having some, though not the same as 
 yours?" 
 
 He was speaking in a subdued voice, as if to her alone. 
 She did not wish to he so exclusively addressed. She replied 
 out in her usual tone : 
 
 " I do not think that I have any occasion to consider yonr 
 special religious opinions in the affair. All I meant to say is, 
 that there is no human law to prevent the employers from 
 utterly wasting or throwing away all their money, if they 
 choose ; but that there are passages in the Bible which would 
 rather imply — to me at least — that they neglected their duty 
 as stewards if they did so. However, I know so httle 
 about strikes, and rate of wages, and capital, and labour, 
 that I had better not talk to a political economist like 
 you." 
 
 " Nay, the more reason," said he eagerly. " I shall only 
 be too glad to explain to you all that may seem anomalous 
 or mysterious to a stranger ; especially at a time like this, 
 when our doings are sure to be canvassed by every scribbler 
 who can hold a pen." 
 
 " Thank you," she answered, coldly. " Of course, I shall 
 apply to my father in the first instance for any information he 
 can give me, if I get puzzled with living here amongst this 
 strange society." 
 } " You think it strange. Why ? " 
 
 J " I don't know — I suppose because, on the very face of it, 
 I see two classes dependent on each other in every possible 
 way, yet each evidently regarding the iuterests of the other as 
 ', opposed to their own ; I never lived in a place before where 
 I there were two sets of people always running each other 
 ,; down." 
 
 "Who have you , heard running the masters down? I 
 don't ask who you have heard abusing the men ; for I see 
 
MASTEES AND MEN. 1]5 
 
 you persist in misunderstanding what I said the other day. 
 But who have you heard ahusing the masters ? " 
 
 Margaret reddened ; then smiled as she said, 
 
 " I am not fond of being catechised. I refuse to answer 
 your question. Besides, it has nothing to do with the fact. 
 You must take my word for it, that I have heard some people, 
 or, it may be, only some one of the workpeople speak as though 
 it were the interest of the employers to keep them from acquiring 
 money — ^that it would make them too independent if they had 
 a sum in the savings' bank." 
 
 "I dare say it was that man Higgins who told you all 
 this," said Mrs. Hale. Mr. Thornton ftid not appear to hear 
 what Margaret evidently did not wish him to know. But he 
 caught it, nevertheless. 
 
 " I heard, moreover, that it was considered to the advantage 
 of the masters to have ignorant workmen — not hedge-lawyers, 
 as Oaptain Lennox used to call those men in his company who 
 questioned and would know the reason for every order." 
 
 This latter part of her sentence she addressed rather to her 
 father than to Mr. Thornton. Who is Captain Lennox ? asked 
 Mr. Thornton of himself, vrith a strange kind of displeasure, 
 that prevented him for the moment from replying to her ! Her 
 father took up the conversation. 
 
 " You never were fond of schools, Margaret, or you would 
 have seen and known before this, how much is being done for 
 education in Milton." 
 
 " No ! " said she, with sudden meekness. " I know I do 
 not care enough about schools. But the knowledge and the 
 ignorance of which I was speaking, did not relate to reading 
 and writing, — the teaching or information one can give to a 
 child. I am sure, that what was meant was ignorance of the 
 wisdom that shall guide men and women. I hardly know what 
 that is. But he — that is my informant — spoke as if the 
 masters would like their hands to be merely tall, large children 
 — living in the present moment — with a blind unreasoning 
 kind of obedience." 
 
 " In short. Miss Hale, it is very evident that your informant 
 found a pretty ready listener to all the slander he chose to 
 ntter against the masters," said Mr. Thornton, in an offended 
 tone. 
 
 Margaret did not reply. She was displeased at the 
 personal character Mr. Thornton affixed to what she had 
 said- 
 
 8—2 
 
116 NOETH AND SOUTH. 
 
 Mr. Hale spoke next : 
 
 " I must confess that, although I have not become so 
 intimately acquainted with any workmen as Margaret has, I 
 am very much struck by the antagonism between the em- 
 ployer and the employed, on the very surface of things. 1 
 even gather this impression from what you yourself have from 
 time to time said." 
 
 Mr. Thornton paused awhile before he spoke. Margaret 
 had just left the room, and he was vexed at the state of feeling 
 between himself and her. However, the little annoyance, by 
 making him cooler and more thoughtful, gave a greater dignity 
 to what he said : ' 
 
 " My theory is, that my interests are identical with those 
 of my workpeople, and vice-versa. Miss Hale, I know, does 
 not like to hear men called ' hands,' so I won't use that word, 
 though it comes most readily to my lips as the technical term, 
 whose origin, whatever it was, dates before my time. On 
 some future day— in some millennium — in Utopia, this unity 
 may be brought into practice — ^Just as I can fancy a repubhc 
 the most perfect form of government." 
 
 " We will read Plato's Kepublic as soon as we have finished 
 Homer." 
 
 " Well, in the Platonic year, it may fall out that we are all 
 — men, women, and children — fit for a republic ; but give me 
 a constitutional monarchy in our present state of morals and 
 intelligence. In our infancy we require a wise despotism- to 
 govern us. Indeed, long past infancy, children and young 
 people are the happiest under the unfailing laws of a discreet, 
 firm authority. I agree with Miss Hale so far as to consider 
 our people in the condition of children, while I deny that we, 
 the masters, have anything to do with the making or keeping 
 them so. I maintain that despotism is the best kind of 
 government for them ; so that in the hours in which I come in 
 contact with them I must necessarily be an autocrat. I will 
 use my best discretion — from no humbug or philanthropic 
 feeling, of which we have had rather too much in the North — 
 to make wise laws and come to just decisions in the conduct of 
 my business — laws and decisions which work for my own good 
 in the first instance — for theirs in the second; but I will 
 neither be forced to give my reasons, nor flinch from what I 
 have once declared to be my resolution. Let them turn out I 
 I shall suffer as well as they : but at the end they will find I 
 have not bated nor altered one jot." 
 
MASTEES AND MEN. 117 
 
 Margaret had re-entered the room and was sitting at her 
 work ; but she did not speak. Mr. Hale answered — 
 
 " I dare say I am talking in great iterance ; but from the 
 little I know, I should say that the masses were abeady passing 
 rapidly into the troublesome stage which intervenes between 
 cluldhood and manhood, in the life of the multitude as well as 
 that of the individual. Now, the error which many parents 
 commit in the treatment of the individual at this time is, in- 
 sisting on the same unreasoning obedience as when all he had 
 to do in the way of duty was, to obey the simple laws of ' Come 
 when you're called,' and ' Do as you're bid ! " But a wise 
 parent humours the desire for independent action, so as to 
 become the friend and adviser when his absolute rule shall 
 cease. If I get wrong in my reasoning, recollect, it is you who 
 adopted the analogy." 
 
 " Very lately," said Margaret, " I heard a stoiy of what 
 happened in Nuremberg only three or four years ago. A rich 
 man there lived alone in one of the immense mansions which 
 were formerly both dwellings and warehouses. It was reported 
 that he had a child, but no one knew of it for certain. For 
 forty years this rumour kept rising and falling — never utterly 
 dying away. After his death it was found to be true. He had 
 a son — an overgrown man, with the unexercised intellect of a 
 child, whom he had kept up in that strange way, in order to 
 save him from temptation and error. But, of course, when 
 this great old child was turned loose into the world, every bad 
 counsellor had power over him. He did not know good from 
 evil. His father had made the blunder of bringing him up in 
 ignorance and taking it for innocence ; and after fourteen 
 months of riotous living, the city authorities had to take charge 
 of him, in order to save him from starvation. He could not 
 even use words effectively enough to be a successful beggar." 
 
 " I used the comparison (suggested by Miss Hale) of the 
 position of the master to that of a parent ; so I ought not to 
 complain of your turning the simile into a weapon against me. 
 But, Mr. Hale, when you were setting up a wise parent as a 
 model for us, you said he humoured his children in their desire 
 for independent action. Now certainly, the time is not come 
 for the hands to have any independent action during business 
 hours ; I hardly know what you would mean by it then. And 
 I say, that the masters would be trenching on the independence 
 of their hands, in a way that I, for one, should not feel justified 
 in doing, if we interfered too much with the life they lead out 
 
118 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 of the mills. Because they labour ten hours a-day for us, I do 
 not see that we have any right to impose leading-strings upon 
 them for the rest of their time. I value my own independence 
 so highly that I can fancy no degradation greater than that of 
 having another man perpetually directing and advising and 
 lecturing me, or even planning too closely in any way about 
 my actions. He might be the wisest of men or the most 
 powerful — I should equally rebel and resent his interference. 
 I imagine this is a stronger feeling in the North of England 
 than in the South." 
 
 " I beg your pardon, but is not that because there has been 
 none of the equality of friendship between the adviser and ad- 
 vised classes ? Because every man has had to stand in an 
 unchristian and isolated position, apart from and jealous of his 
 brother-man : constantly afraid of his rights being trenched 
 upon ? " 
 
 " I only state the fact. I am sorry to say, I have an ap- 
 pointment at eight o'clock, and I must just take facts as I find 
 them to-night, without trying to accoiint for them ; which, 
 indeed, would make no difference in determining how to act as 
 things stand — the facts must be granted." 
 
 " But," said Margaret in a low voice, " it seems to me 
 that it makes all the difference in the world — ." Her father 
 made a sign to her to be silent, and allow Mr. Thornton to 
 finish what he had to say. He was already standing up and 
 preparing to go. 
 
 ' ' You must grant me this one point. Given a strong 
 feeling of independence in every Darkshire man, have I any 
 right to obtrude my views, of the manner in which he shaU 
 act, upon another (hating it as I should do most vehemently 
 myself), merely because he has labour to sell and I capital 
 to buy ? " 
 
 " Not in the least," said Margaret, determined just to say 
 this one thing; " not in the least because of your labour and 
 capital positions, whatever they are, but because you are a 
 man, dealing with a set of men over whom you have, whether 
 you reject the use of it or not, immense power, just because 
 your lives and your welfare are so constantly and intimately 
 intei-woven. God has made us so that we must be mutually 
 dependent. We may ignore our own dependence, or refuse to 
 acknowledge that others depend upon us in more respects than 
 the payment of weekly wages ; but the thing must be, never- 
 theless. Neither you nor any other master can help yourselves. 
 
MASTERS AND MEN. 119 
 
 The most proudly independent man depends on those around 
 him for their insensible influence on his character — his life. 
 And the most isolated of all your Darkshire Egos has depen- 
 dants clinging to him on all sides ; he cannot shake them off, 
 any more than the great rock he resembles can shake off — " 
 
 " Pray don't go into similes, Margaret ; you have led us off 
 once already," said her father, smiling, yet uneasy at the 
 thought that they were detaining Mr. Thornton against his 
 will, which was a mistake ; for he rather liked it, as long as 
 Margaret would talk, although what she said only irritated 
 him. 
 
 " Just tell me, Miss Hale, are you yourself ever influenced 
 — no, that is not a fair way of putting it ; — but if you are ever 
 conscious of being influenced by others, and not by circum- 
 stances, have those others been working directly or indirectly ? 
 Have they been labouriag to exhort, to enjoin, to act rightly 
 for the sake of example, or have they been simple, true men, 
 taking up their duty, and doing it unflinchingly, without a 
 thought of how their actions were to make this man industrious, 
 that man saving ? Why, if I were a workman, I should be 
 twenty times more impressed by the knowledge that my master 
 was honest, punctual, quick, resolute in all his doings (and 
 hands are keener spies even than valets), than by any amount 
 of interference, however kindly meant, with my ways of going 
 on out of work-hours. I do not choose to think too closely on 
 what I am myself ; but, I believe, I rely on the straightforward 
 honesty of my hands, and the open nature of their opposition, 
 in contra-distinction to the way in which the turn-out wiU be 
 managed in some mills, just because they know I scorn to take 
 a single dishonourable advantage, or do an underhand thing 
 myself. It goes farther than a whole course of lectures on 
 ' Honesty is the Best Policy ' — life diluted into words. No, 
 no ! What the master is, that will the men be, without over- 
 much taking thought on his part." 
 
 " That is a great admission," said Margaret, laughing. 
 " When I see men violent and obstinate in pursuit of their 
 rights, I may safely infer that the master is the same ; that he 
 is a little ignorant of that spirit which suffereth long, and is 
 kind, and seeketh not her own." 
 
 " You are just like all strangers who don't understand the 
 working of our system, Miss Hale," said he, hastily. " You 
 suppose that our men are puppets of dough, ready to be 
 moulded into any amiable form we please. You forget we have 
 
120 NOBTH AMD SOUTH. 
 
 only to do with them for less than a third of their lives ; and 
 you seem not to perceive that the duties of a manufacturer are 
 far larger and wider than those merely of an employer of 
 labour : we have a wide commercial character to maintain, 
 which makes us into the great pioneers of civilisation." 
 
 " It strikes me," said Mr. Hale, smiling, " that you might 
 pioneer a little at home. They are a rough, heathenish set of 
 fellows, these Milton men of yours." 
 
 " They are that," replied Mr. Thornton. " Bose-water 
 surgery won't do for them. Cromwell would have made a 
 capital mill-owner. Miss Hale. I wish we had him to put down 
 this strike for us." 
 
 " Cromwell is no hero of mine," said she, coldly. " But I 
 am trying to reconcile your admiration of despotism with your 
 respect for other men's independence of character." 
 
 He reddened at her tone. "I choose to be the unques- 
 tioned and irresponsible master of my hands, during the hours 
 that they labour for me. But those hours past, our relation 
 ceases ; and then comes in the same respect for their inde- 
 pendence that I myself exact." 
 
 He did not speak again for a minute, he was too much 
 vexed. But he shook it off, and bade Mr. and Mrs. Hale good 
 night. Then, drawing near to Margaret, he said in a lower 
 voice — 
 
 " I spoke hastily to you once this evening, and I am a&aid, 
 rather rudely. But you know I am but an uncouth Milton 
 manufacturer ; will you fprgive me ? " 
 
 " Certainly," said she, smiling up in his face, the expression 
 of which was somewhat anxious and oppressed, and hardly 
 cleared away as he met her sweet sunny countenance, out of 
 which all the north-wind effect of their discussion had entirely 
 vanished. But she did not put out her hand to him, and 
 again he felt the omission, and set it down to pride. 
 
( 121 ) 
 
 CHAPTEE XVI. 
 THE SHADOW OF DEATH. 
 
 " I'rust in that veiled hand, which leads 
 None by the path that he would go ; 
 And always be for change prepared, 
 For the world's law is ebb and flow." 
 
 Fbom the Abxdic. 
 
 The next afternoon Dr. Donaldson came to pay his first visii 
 to Mrs. Hale. The mystery that Margaret hoped their late 
 habits of intimacy had broken through was resumed. She was 
 excluded from the room, while Dixon was admitted. . Margaret 
 was not a ready lover, but where she loved she loved passion- 
 ately, and with no small degree of jealousy. 
 
 She went into ' her mother's bed-room, just behind the 
 drawing-room, and paced it up and down, while awaiting the 
 doctor's coming out. Every now and then she stopped to 
 listen ; she fancied she heard a moan. She clenched her hands 
 tight, and held her breath. She was sure she heard a moan. 
 Then all was still for a few minutes more ; and then there was 
 the moving of chairs, the raised voices, all the little disturb- 
 ances of leave-taking. 
 
 When she heard the door open, she went quickly out of the 
 bed-room. 
 
 " My father is from home. Dr. Donaldson ; he has to 
 attend a pupH at this hour. May I trouble you to come into 
 his room down stairs ? " 
 
 She saw, and triumphed over all the obstacles which Dixon 
 threw in her way ; assuming her rightful position as daughter 
 of the house in something of the spirit of the Elder Brother, 
 which quelled the old servant's oflGiciousness very effectually. 
 Margaret's conscious assumption of this unusual dignity of 
 demeanour towards Dixon, gave her an instant's amusement in 
 the midst of her anxiety. She knew, from the surprised 
 expression on Dixon's face, how ridiculously grand she herself 
 must be looking ; and the idea carried her down stairs into the 
 room ; it gave her that length of oblivion from the keen sharp- 
 ness of the recollection of the actual business in hand. Now, 
 that came back, and seemed to take away her breath. It was 
 ft moment or two before she could utter a word. 
 
 But she spoke with an air of command, as she asked — 
 
 " What is the matter with mamma ? You will oblige me 
 
122 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 by telling the simple truth." Then, seeing a slight hesitation 
 on the doctor's part, she added — 
 
 " I am the only child she has — here, I mean. My father 
 is not sufficiently alarmed, I fear ; and, therefore, if there is 
 any serious apprehension, it must be broken to him gently. I 
 can do this. I can nurse my mother. Pray, speak, sir ; to 
 see y«ur face, and not be able to read it, gives me a worse 
 dread than I trust any words of yours will justify." 
 
 " My dear young lady, your mother seems to have a 
 most attentive and efficient servant, who is more like her 
 friend " 
 
 " I am her daughter, sir." 
 
 " But when I tell you she expressly desired that you might 
 not be told " 
 
 " I am not good or patient enough to submit to the prohi- 
 bition. Besides, I am sure, you are too wise — too experienced 
 to have promised to keep the secret." 
 
 "Well," said he, half-smiling, though sadly enough, 
 "' there you are right. I did not promise. In fact, I fear, 
 the secret will be known soon enough without my revealing it." 
 
 He paused. Margaret went very white, and compressed 
 her lips a little more. Otherwise not a feature moved. With 
 the quick insight into character, without which no medical man 
 can rise to the eminence of Dr. Donaldson, he saw that she 
 would exact the full truth ; that she would know if one iota 
 was withheld ; and that the withholding would be torture more 
 acute than the knowledge of it. He spoke two short sentences 
 in a low voice, watching her all the time ; for the pupils of her 
 eyes dilated into a black horror, and the whiteness of her com- 
 plexion became Uvid. He ceased speaking. He waited for 
 that look to go off, — for her gasping breath to come. Then 
 she said : — 
 
 " I thank you most truly, sir, for your confidence. That 
 dread has haunted me for many weeks. It is a true, real 
 agony. My poor, poor mother ! " her lips hegan to quiver, 
 and he let her have the relief of tears, sure of her power of 
 self-control to check them. 
 
 A few tears — ^those were all she shed, hefore she recollected 
 the many questions she longed to ask. 
 
 " Will there be much suffering ?" 
 
 He shook his head. " That we cannot tell. It depends 
 on constitution ; on a thousand things. But the late discoveries 
 of medical science have given us large power of alleviation." 
 
THE SHADOW OF DEATH. 1^3 
 
 ' " My father ! " said Margaret, trembling all over. 
 
 "I do not know Mr. Hale. I mean, it is difficult to give 
 advice. But I should say, bear on, with the knowledge you 
 have forced me to give you so abruptly, till the fact which I 
 could not withhold has become in some degree familiar to you, 
 so that you may, without too great an effort, be able to give 
 what comfort you can to your father. Before then, — ^my visits, 
 which, of course, I shall repeat from time to time, although I 
 fear I can do nothing but alleviate, — a thousand little circum- 
 stances wiU have occurred to awaken his alarm, to deepen it 
 — so that he wiU be all the better prepared. — ^Nay, my dear 
 young lady — nay, my dear — ^I saw Mr. Thornton, and I honour 
 your father for the sacrifice he has made, however mistaken I 
 may believe him to be. — Well, this once, if it will please you, 
 my dear. Only remember, when I come again, I come as a 
 firiend. And you must learn to look upon me as such, because 
 seeing each other — getting to know each other at such times as 
 these, is worth years of morning calls." 
 
 Margaret could not speak for crying ; but she wrung his 
 hand at parting.. 
 
 " That's what I call a fine girl ! " thought Dr. Donaldson, 
 when he was seated in his carriage, and had time to examine 
 his ringed hand, which had slightly suffered from her pressure. 
 " Who would have thought that little hand could have given 
 such a squeeze ? But the bones were well put together, and 
 that gives immense power. What a queen she is ! With her 
 head thrown back at first, to force me into speaking the truth ; 
 and then bent so eagerly forward to listen. Poor thing ! I 
 must see she does not overstrain herself. Though it's astonish- 
 ing how much those thorough-bred creatures can do and suffer. 
 That girl's game to the back-bone. Another, who had gone that 
 deadly colour, could never have come round without either 
 fainting or hysterics. But she wouldn't do either — not she ! 
 And the very force of her will brought her round. Such a girl 
 as that would win my heart, if I were thirty years younger. 
 It's too late now. Ah ; here we are at the Archers'." So out 
 he jumped, with thought, wisdom, experience, sympathy, and 
 ready to attend to the calls made upon them by this family, 
 just as if there were none other in the world. 
 
 Meanwhile, Margaret had returned into her father's study 
 for a moment, to recover strength before going upstairs into her 
 mother's presence. 
 
 " Oh, my God, my God ! but this is terrible. How shall 
 
124 NOETH AND SOUTH. 
 
 I bear it ? Such a deadly disease ! no hope ! Oh, mamma, 
 mamma, I wish I had never gone to aunt Shaw's, and been al] 
 those precious years away from you! Poor mamma! how 
 much she must have borne ! Oh, I pray thee, my God, that 
 her sufferings may not be too acute, too dreadful. How shall 
 I bear to see them ? How can I bear papa's agony ? He must 
 not be told yet ; not all at once. It would kill him. But I 
 won't lose another moment of my own dear, precious 
 mother." 
 
 She ran upstairs. Dixon was not in the room. Mrs. Hale 
 lay back in an easy chair, with a soft white shawl wrapped 
 around her, and a becoming cap put on, in expectation of the 
 doctor's visit. Her face had a little faint colour in it, and the 
 very exhaustion after the examination gave it a peaceful look. 
 Margaret was surprised to see her look so calm. 
 
 " Why, Margaret, how strange you look ! What is the 
 matter ? " And then, as the idea stole into her mind of what 
 was indeed the real state o^ the case, she added, as if a little dis- 
 pleased : " you have not been seeing Dr. Donaldson, and ask- 
 ing him any questions — ^have you child ?" Margaret did not 
 reply — only looked wistfully towards her. Mrs. Hale became 
 more displeased. "He would not surely break his word to 
 me, and" — 
 
 " Oh yes, mamma, he did. I made him. It was I — blame 
 me." She knelt down by her mother's side, and caught her 
 hand — she would not let it go, though Mrs. Hale tried to pull 
 it away. She kept kissing it, and the hot tears she shed 
 bathed it. 
 
 " Margaret, it was very w^ong of you. You knew I did 
 not wish you to know." But, as if tired with the contest, 
 she left her hand in Margaret's clasp, and by-and-by she re- 
 turned the pressure faintly. That encouraged Margaret to 
 
 • Oh, mamma ! let me be your nurse. I will learn any- 
 thing Dixon can teach me. But you know I am your child, 
 and I do think I have a right to do everything for you." 
 
 "You don't know what you are asking," said Mrs. Hale, 
 with a shudder. 
 
 " Yes, I do. I know a great deal more than you are aware 
 of. Let me be your nurse. Let me try, at any rate. No one 
 has ever, shall ever try so hard as I will do. It will be such a 
 comfort, mamma." 
 
 "My poor child! Well, you shall try. Do you knov? 
 
THE SHADOW OF DEATH. 125 
 
 Margaret, Dixon and I thought you would quite shrink from 
 me if you knew — " 
 
 " Dixon thought ! " said Margaret, her lip curling. 
 " Dixon could not give me credit for enough trae love 
 — ^for as much as herself ! She thought, I suppose, that I was 
 one of those poor sickly women who like to lie on rose leaves, 
 and he fanned all day. Don't let Dixon's fancies come any 
 more between you and me, mamma. Don't, please ! " im- 
 plored she. 
 
 " Don't be angry with Dixon," said Mrs. Hale, anxiously. 
 Margaret recovered herself. 
 
 "No! I won't. I will try and be humble, and learn 
 her ways, if you will only let me do all I can for you. Let 
 me be in the first place, mother — ^I am greedy of that. I 
 used to fancy you would forget me while I was away at aunt 
 Shaw's, and cry myself to sleep at nights with that notion 
 in my head." 
 
 " And I used to think, how will Margaret bear our make- 
 shift poverty after the thorough comfort and luxury in Harley 
 Street, tiU I have many a time been more ashamed of your see- 
 ing our contrivances at Helstone than of any stranger finding 
 them out." 
 
 "Oh, mamma! and I did so enjoy them. They were so 
 much more amusing than all the jog-trot Harley Street ways. 
 The wardrobe shelf with handles that served as a snpper-tray 
 on grand occasions ! And the old tea-chests stuffed and 
 covered for ottomans I I think what you call the makeshift 
 contrivances at dear Helstone were a charming part of the life 
 there." 
 
 " I shall never see Helstone again, Margaret," said Mrs. 
 Hale, the tears welling up into her eyes. Margaret could not 
 reply. Mrs. Hale went on. " While I was there, I was for 
 ever waMing to leave it. Every place seemed pleasanter. 
 And now I shall die far away from it. I am rightly 
 punished." 
 
 " You must not talk so," said Margaret impatiently. "He 
 said you might live for years. Oh, mother 1 we will have you 
 back at Helstone yet." 
 
 " No, never ! That I must take as a just penance. But, 
 Margaret — Frederick ! " 
 
 At the mention of that one word, she suddenly cried out 
 loud, as in some sharp agony. It seemed as if the thought 
 of him upset all her composure, destroyed the calm, overcame 
 
126 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 the exhaustion. Wild passionate cry succeeded to cry — 
 " Frederick ! Frederick ! Come to me. I am dying. Little 
 first-born child, come to me once again ! " 
 
 She was in violent hysterics. Margaret went and called 
 Dixon in terror. Dixon came in a huflf, and accused Margaret 
 of having over-excited her mother. Margaret bore all meekly, 
 only trusting that her father might not return. In spite of her 
 alarm, which was even greater than the occasion warranted, 
 she obeyed all Dixon's directions promptly and well vdthont a 
 word of self-justification. By so doing she mollified her 
 accuser. They put her mother to bed, and Margaret sate by 
 her till she fell asleep, and afterwards till Dixon beckoned her 
 out of the room, and, with a sour face, as if doing something 
 against the grain, she bade her drink a cup of coffee which she 
 had prepared for her in the drawing-room, and stood over her 
 in a commanding attitude as she did so. 
 
 " You shouldn't have been so curious. Miss, and then yon 
 wouldn't have needed to fret before your time. It would have 
 come soon enough. And now, I suppose, you'll tell master, 
 and a pretty household I shall have of you ! " 
 
 " No, Dixon," said Margaret, sorrovpfuUy, "I will not tell 
 papa. He could not bear it as I can." And by way of prov- 
 ing how well she bore it, she burst into tears. 
 
 " Ay ! I knew how it would be. Now you'll waken your 
 mamma, just after she's gone to sleep so quietly. Miss 
 Margaret my dear, I've had to keep it down this many a week : 
 and though I don't pretend I can love her as you do, yet I 
 loved her better than any other man, woman, or child — ^no one 
 but Master Frederick ever came near her in my mind. Ever 
 since Lady Beresford's maid first took me in to see her dressed 
 out in white crape, and corn-ears, and scarlet poppies, and I 
 ran a needle down into my finger, and broke it in, and she tore 
 up her worked pocket-handkerchief, after they'd cut it out, and 
 came in to wet the bandages again with lotion when she 
 returned from the ball — where she'd been the prettiest young 
 lady of all — ^I've never loved any one like her. I little thought 
 then that I should live to see her brought so low. I don't 
 mean no reproach to nobody. Many a one calls you pretty 
 and handsome, and what not. Even in this smoky place, 
 enough to blind one's eyes, the owls can see that. But you'll 
 never be like your mother for beauty — ^never ; not if you live 
 to be a hundred." 
 
 " Mamma is very pretty stiU. Poor mamma 1 " 
 
THE SHADOW OF DEATH. 127 
 
 'Now don't ye set off again, or I shall give way at last " 
 (■whimpering). "You'll never stand master's coming home, 
 and questioning, at this rate. Go out and take a walk, and 
 come in something like. Many's the time I've longed to walk 
 it off — ^the thought of what was the matter with her, and how it 
 must aU end." 
 
 " Oh, Dixon 1 " said Margaret, " how often I've been 
 cross with you, not knowing what a terrible secret you had to 
 bear ! " 
 
 " Bless you, child 1 I like to see you showing a bit of a 
 spirit. It's the good old Beresford blood. Why, the last Sir 
 John but two shot his steward down, there where he stood, for 
 just telling him that he'd racked the tenants, and he'd racked 
 the tenants till he could get no more money off them than he 
 could get skin off a flint." 
 
 " Well, Dixon, I won't shoot you, and I'll try not to be 
 cross again." 
 
 ■ " You never have. If I've said it at times, it has always 
 been to myself, just in private, by way of making a little agree- 
 able conversation, for there's no one here fit to talk to. And 
 when you fire up you're the very image of Master Frederick. 
 I could find in my heart to put you in a passion any day just 
 to see his stormy look coming like a great cloud over your face. 
 But now you go out. Miss. I'll watch over Missus ; and as for 
 master, his books are company enough for him, if he should 
 come in." 
 
 " I will go," said Margaret. She hung about Dixon for a 
 minute or so, as if afraid and irresolute ; then suddenly kissing 
 her, she went quickly out of the room. 
 
 " Bless her ! " said Dixon. " She's as sweet as a nut. 
 There are three people I love : its Missus, Master Frederick, 
 and her. Just them three. That's all. The rest be hanged, 
 for I don't know what they're in the world for. Master was 
 bom, I suppose, for to marry missus. If I thought he loved 
 her properly, I might get to love him in time. But he should 
 ha' made a deal more on her, and not been always reading, 
 reading, thinking, thinking. See what it has brought him to. 
 Many a one who never reads nor thinks either, gets to be 
 Bector, and Dean, and what not ; and I dare say master 
 might, if he'd just minded missus, and let the weary reading 
 and thinking alone. — There she goes " (looking out of the 
 window as she heard the front door shut). "Poor young 
 lady ! her clothes look shabby to what they did when she came 
 
128 NORTH AWD SOUTH. 
 
 to Helstone a year ago. Then she hadn't so much as a darned 
 otocking or a cleaned pair of gloves in all her wardrobe. And 
 
 now — 1 " 
 
 CHAPTEE XVn. 
 WHAT IS A STBIKE ? 
 
 There are briars besetting every path. 
 
 Which call for patient care j 
 There is a cross in every lot, 
 
 And an earnest need for prayer.'' 
 
 Anon. 
 
 Mab&aret went out heavily and unwillingly enough. But the 
 length of a street — yes, the air of a Milton Street — cheered 
 her young blood before she reached her first turning. Her step 
 grew lighter, her lip redder. She began to take notice, instead 
 of having her thoughts turned so exclusively inward. She saw 
 unusual loiterers in the streets : men with their hands in their 
 pockets sauntering along ; loud-laughing and loud-spoken girls 
 clustered together, apparently excited to high spirits, and a 
 boisterous independence of temper and behaviour. The more 
 iU-looking of the men — ^the discreditable minority — ^hung about 
 on the steps of the beer-houses and gin-shops, smoking, and 
 commenting pretty freely on every passer-by. Margaret dis- 
 liked the prospect of the long walk through these streets, before 
 she came to the fields which she had planned to reach. 
 Instead, she would go and see Bessy Higgins. It would not 
 be so refreshing as a quiet country walk, but stiU it would 
 perhaps be doing the kinder thing. 
 
 Nicholas Higgins was sitting by the fire smoMng, as she 
 went in. Bessy was rockiag herself on the other side. 
 
 Nicholas took the pipe out of his mouth, and standing up, 
 pushed his chair towards Margaret; he leant against the 
 chimney-piece in a lounging attitude, while she asked Bessy 
 how she was. 
 
 " Hoo's rather down i' th' mouth in regard to spirits, but 
 hoo's better in health. Hoo doesn't like this strike. Hoo's a 
 deal too much set on peace and quietness at any price." 
 
 " This is th' third strike I've seen," said she, sighing, as 
 if that was answer and explanation enough. 
 
 " Well, third time pays for all. See if we don't dang th' 
 
WHAT IS A STRIKE? 129 
 
 masters this time. See if they don't come and beg us to 
 come back at our own price.'' That's all. We've missed it 
 afore time, I grant yo' ; but this time we'n laid our plans 
 desperate deep." 
 
 " Why do you strike ? " asked Margaret. " Striking is 
 leaving- off work till you get your own rate of wages, is it not ? 
 You must not wonder at my ignorance ; where I come from I 
 never heard of a strike." 
 
 "I wish I were there," said Bessie, wearily. "But it's 
 not for me to get sick and tired o' strikes. This is the last 
 I'll see. Before it's ended I shall be in the Great City — ^the 
 Holy Jerusalem." 
 
 " Hoo's so full of th' life to come, hoo cannot think of th* 
 present. Now I, yo see, am bound to do the best I can here. 
 I think a bird i' th' hand is worth two i' th' bush. So them's 
 the different views we take on th' strike question." 
 
 " But," said Margaret, " if the people struck, as you call 
 it, where I come from, as they are mostly all field labourers, 
 the seed would not be sown, the hay got in, the corn reaped." 
 
 " Well ? " said he. He had resumed his pipe, and put his 
 " well " in the form of an interrogation. 
 
 "Why," she went on, " what would become of the farmers." 
 
 He puffed away. " I reckon, they'd have either to give up 
 their farms, or to give fair rate of wage." 
 
 " Suppose they could not, or would not do the last; they 
 could not give up their farms all in a minute, however much 
 they might wish to do so ; but they would have no hay, nor 
 com to sell that year ; and where would the money come from 
 to pay the labourers' wages the next ? " 
 
 Still puffing away. At last he said : 
 
 " I know nought of your ways down South. I have heerd 
 they're a pack of spiritless, down-trodden men ; welly clemmed 
 to death ; too much dazed wi' clemming to know when they're 
 put upon. Now, it's not so here. We known when we're put 
 upon ; and we'en too much blood in us to stand it. We just 
 take our hands 'fro' our looms, and say, ' Yo' may clem us, but 
 yo'U not put upon us, my masters!' And be dauged to 'em, 
 they shan't this time I " 
 
 " I wish I lived down South," said Bessy. 
 
 " There's a deal to bear there," said Margaret. " There 
 are sorrows to bear everywhere. There is very hard bodily 
 labour to be gone through, with very little food to give 
 strength." 
 
 9 
 
130 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 " But it's out of doors," said Bessy. " And away from 
 the endless, endless noise, and sickening heat.'' 
 
 " It's sometimes in heavy rain, and sometimes in bitter 
 cold. A young person can stand it ; but an old man gets 
 racked with rheumatism, and bent and withered before his 
 time ; yet he must just work on the same, or else go to the 
 workhouse." 
 
 " I thought yo were so taken wi' the ways of the South 
 country." 
 
 " So I am," said Margaret, smiling a little, as she found 
 herself thus caught. " I only mean, Bessy, there's good and 
 bad in everything in this world ; and as you felt the bad up 
 here, I thought it was but fair you should know the bad down 
 there." 
 
 "And yo say they never strike down there?" asked 
 Nicholas abruptly. 
 
 "No I " said Margaret; "I think they have too much 
 sense." 
 
 " An' I think," replied he, dashing the ashes out of hia 
 pipe with so much vehemence that it broke, " it's not that 
 they've too much sense, but that they've too little spirit." 
 
 " 0, father ! " said Bessy, " what have ye gained by 
 striking ? Think of that first strike when mother died — ^how 
 we all had to clem — you the worst of all ; and yet many a one 
 went in every week at the same wage, till all were gone in that 
 there was work for ; and some went beggars all their lives at 
 after." 
 
 " Ay,'' said he. " That there strike was badly managed. 
 Folk got into th' management of it, as were either fools or not 
 true men. Yo'U see, it'll be different this time." 
 
 " But all this time you've not told me what you're striking 
 for," said Margaret, again. 
 
 " Why, yo see, there's five or six masters who have set 
 themselves again paying the wages they've been paying these 
 two years past, and flourishing upon, and getting richer upon. 
 And now they come to us, and say we're to take less. And we 
 won't. We'll just clem them to death first ; and see who'll 
 work for 'em then. They'll have killed the goose that laid 'em 
 the golden eggs, I reckon." 
 
 " And 80 you plan dying, in order to be revenged upon 
 them 1 " 
 
 " No," said he, " I dunnot. I just look forward to the 
 chance of dying at my post sooner than yield. That's what 
 
WHAT IS A STRIKE? 13i 
 
 folk call fine and honourable in a soldier, and why not in a poor 
 weaver- chap ? " 
 
 " But," said Margaret, "a soldier dies in the cause of the 
 Nation — in the cause of others." 
 
 He laughed grimly. " My lass," said he, " yo're hut a 
 young wench, but don't yo think I can keep three people — 
 that's Bessy, and Mary, and me — on sixteen shilling a week ? 
 Dun yo think it's for mysel' I'm striking work at this time ? It's i 
 just as much in the cause of others as yon soldier — only 
 m'appen, the cause he dies for is just that of somebody he 
 never clapt eyes on, nor heerd on all his bom days, while I 
 take up John Boucher's cause, as lives next door but one, wi' 
 a sickly wife, and eight childer, none on 'em factory age ; and 
 I don't take up his cause only, though he's a poor good-for- 
 nought, as can only manage two looms at a time, but I take up 
 th' cause o' justice. Why are we to have less wage now, I 
 ask, than two year ago ? " 
 
 "Don't ask me," said Margaret; " I am very ignorant. 
 Ask some of your masters. Surely they will give you a reason 
 for it. It is not merely an arbitrary decision of theirs, come to 
 without reason." 
 
 " Yo're just a foreigner, and nothing more," said he, con- 
 temptuously. " Much yo know about it. Ask th' masters ! 
 They'd tell up to mind our own business, and they'd mind 
 theirs. Our business being, yo' understand, to take the bated 
 wage, and be thankful ; and their business to bate us down to 
 clemming point, to swell their profits. That's what it is." 
 
 " But," said Margaret, determined not to give way, although 
 she saw she was irritating him, "the state of trade may be such 
 as not to enable them to give you the same remuneration." 
 
 " State o' trade 1 That's just a piece o' masters' humbug. 
 It's rate o' wages I was talking of. Th' masters keep th' state 
 o' trade in their own hands ; and just walk it forward like a 
 black bug-a-boo, to frighten naughty children with into being 
 good. I'll tell yo it's their part, — their cue, as some folks call 
 it, — ^to beat us down, to swell their fortunes ; and it's ours to 
 stand up and fight hard, — not for ourselves alone, but for them 
 round about us — ^for justice and fair play. We help to make 
 their profits, and we ought to help spend 'em. It's not that 
 we want their brass so much this time, as we've done many a 
 time afore. We 'n gotten money laid by ; and we're resolved 
 to stand and fall together ; not a man on us will go in for less 
 wage than th' Union says is our due. So I say, ' hooray for 
 
132 NOHTH AUD SOUTH. 
 
 the strike,' and let Thornton, and Slickson, and Hamper, and 
 their set look to it !" 
 
 " Thornton I " said Margaret. " Mr. Thornton of Marl- 
 borough Street ? " 
 
 ' ' Aye ! Thornton o' Marlborough Mill, as we call him." 
 
 " He is one of the masters you are striving with, is he not ? 
 What sort of a master is he ? " 
 
 " Did yo' ever see a bulldog ? Set a bulldog on hind legs, 
 and dress him up in coat and breeches, and yo'n just getten 
 John Thornton." 
 
 " Nay," said Margaret, laughing, " I deny that. Mr. 
 Thornton is plain enough, but he's not like a bulldog, with its 
 short broad nose, and snarling upper lip." 
 
 ♦' No ! not in look, I grant yo'. But let John Thornton 
 get hold on a notion, and he'll stick to it Uke a bulldog ; yo' 
 I might pull him away wi' a pitchfork ere he'd leave go. He's 
 worth fighting wi', is John Thornton. As for Slickson, I take 
 it, some o' these days he'll wheedle his men back wi' fair 
 promises ; that they'll just get cheated out of as soon as they're 
 in his power again. He'll work his fines well out on 'em, I'll 
 warrant. He's as slippery as an eel, he is. He's like a cat, — 
 as sleek, and cunning, and fierce. It'll never be an honest up 
 and down fight wi' him, as it will be wi' Thornton. Thornton's 
 as dour as a door-nail ; an obstinate chap, every inch on 
 him,— th' oud bulldog ! " 
 
 " Poor Bessy ! " said Margaret, turning round to her. 
 " You sigh over it aU. You don't like struggling and fighting 
 as your father does, do you ? " 
 
 "No I " said she, heavily. " I'm sick on it. I could have 
 wished to have had other talk about me in my latter days, than 
 just the clashing and clanging and clattering that has wearied 
 i' my life long, about work and wages, and masters, and hands, 
 and knobsticks." 
 
 " Poor wench ! latter days be farred ! Thou'rt look- 
 ing a sight better already for a little stir and change. 
 Beside, I shall be a deal here to make it more lively for 
 thee." 
 
 " Tobacco-smoke chokes me 1 " said she, querulously. 
 
 " Then I'll never smoke no more i' th' house ! " he replied, 
 tenderly. " But why didst thou not tell me afore, thou foolish 
 wench ? " 
 
 She did not speak for a while, and then so low that only 
 Margaret heard her : 
 
WHAT IS A STRIKE? 133 
 
 " I reckon, he'll want a' the comfort he can get out o' either 
 pipe or drink afore he's done." 
 
 Her father went out of doors, evidently to finish his pipe. 
 
 Bessy said passionately, 
 
 " Now am not I a fool, — am I not, Miss ? — there, I knew 
 I ought for to keep father at home, and away fro' the folk that 
 are always ready for to tempt a man, in time o' strike, to go 
 dnnk, — and there my tongue must needs quarrel with this pipe 
 o' his'n, — and he'll go off, I know he will, — as often as he 
 wants to smoke — and nohody knows where it'll end. I wish 
 I'd letten myself he choked first." 
 
 " But does your father drink ? " said Margaret. 
 
 " No — not to say drink," replied she, still in the same wild 
 excited tone. " But what win ye have ? There are days wi' you 
 as wi' other folk, I suppose, when yo' get up and go through th' 
 hours, just longing for a hit of a change — a bit of a fillip, as it 
 were. I know I ha' gone and bought a four-pounder out o' 
 another baker's shop to common on such days, just because I 
 sickened at the thought of going on for ever wi' the same sight 
 in my eyes, and the same sound in my ears, and the same 
 taste i' my mouth, and the same thought (or no thought, for 
 that matter) in my head, day after day, for ever. I've longed 
 for to be a man to go spreeing, even if it were only a tramp to 
 some new place in search o' work. And father — all men — 
 have it stronger in 'em than me to get tired o' sameness and 
 work for ever. And what is 'em to do ? It's Uttle blame to 
 them if they do go iato th' gin-shop for to make their blood 
 flow quicker, and more lively, and see things they never see 
 at no other time — ^pictures, and looking-glass, and such like. 
 But father never was a drunkard, though maybe, he's got worse 
 for drink, now and then. Only yo' see," and now her voice 
 took a mournful, pleading tone, " at times o' strike there's 
 much to knock a man down, for all they start so hopefully ; 
 and Where's the comfort to come fro' ? He'll get angry and 
 mad — ^they all do — and then they get tired out wi' being angry 
 and mad, and maybe ha' done things in their passion they'd be 
 glad to forget. Bless yo'r sweet pitiful face ! but yo' dunnot. 
 know what a strike is yet." 
 
 " Come, Bessy," said Margaret, " I won't say you're exag- 
 gerating, because I don't know enough about it : but, perhaps, 
 as you're not well, you're only looking on one side, and there 
 is another and a brighter to be looked to." 
 
 •' It's aU well enough for yo' to say so, who have lived in 
 
134 NOETH AKD SOUTH. 
 
 pleasant green places all your' life long, and never known want 
 or care, or wickedness either, for that matter." 
 
 " Take care," said Margaret, her cheek flushing, and her 
 eye lightening, " how you judge, Bessy. I shall go home to 
 my mother, who is so ill — so iU, Bessy, that there's no outlet 
 hut death for her out of the prison of her great suffering ; and 
 yet I must speak cheerfully to my father, who has no notion of 
 her real state, and to whom the knowledge must come gradually. 
 The only person — the only one who could sympathise with me 
 and help me — whose presence could comfort my mother more 
 than any other eartMy thing — is falsely accused — would run 
 the risk of death if he came to see his dying mother. This 1 
 tell you — only you, Bessy. Yon must not mention it. No 
 other person in Milton — hardly any other person in England 
 knows. Have I not care '? Do I not know anxiety, though 
 I go ahout well-dressed, and have food enough ? Oh, Bessy, 
 God is just, and our lots are well portioned out by Him, 
 although none but He knows the bitterness of our souls." 
 
 "I ask your pardon," replied Bessy, humbly. "Some- 
 times, when I've thought o' my life, and the little pleasure I've 
 had in it, I've behoved that, maybe, I was one of those doomed 
 to die by the falling of a star from heaven ; ' And the name of 
 the star is called Wormwood ; and the third part of the waters 
 became wormwood ; and men died of the waters, because they 
 were made bitter.' One can bear pain and sorrow better if one 
 thinks it has been prophesied long before for one : somehow, 
 then it seems as if my pain was needed for the falfilment ; 
 otherways it seems all sent for nothing." 
 
 " Nay, Bessy — ^think ! " said Margaret. " God does not 
 willingly afflict. Don't dwell so much on the prophecies, but 
 read the clearer parts of the Bible." 
 
 " I dare say it would be wiser ; but where would I hear 
 such grand words of promise — hear tell o' anything so far different 
 fro' this dreary world, and this town above a', as in Eevelations ? 
 Many's the time I've repeated the verses in the seventh chapter 
 to myself, just for the sound. It's as good as an organ, and as 
 different from every day, too. No, I cannot give up Eeve- 
 lations. It gives me more comfort than any other book i* 
 the Bible." 
 
 " Let me come and read you some of my favourite chapters." 
 
 " Ay," said she greedily, " come. Father will maybe hear 
 yo'. He's deaved wi' my talking ; he says it's all nought to 
 do with the things o' to-day, and that's his business." 
 
LIKES Aim DISLIKES. < 135 
 
 " Where is your sister." 
 
 " Gone fustian-cutting. I were loth to let her go ; lut 
 somehow we must live ; and th' Union can't afford us much.'' 
 
 " Now I must go. You have done me good, Bessy." 
 
 "I done you good! " 
 
 " Yes. I came here very sad, and rather too apt to think 
 my own cause for grief was the only one in the world. And 
 now I hear how you have had to bear for years, and that makes 
 me stronger." 
 
 " Bless yo' ! I thought a' the good-doing was on thft 
 ade of gentlefolk. I shall get proud if I think I can do 
 good to yo'." 
 
 " You won't do it if you think about it. But you'll only 
 puzzle yourself if you do, that's one comfort." 
 
 " Yo're not like no one I ever seed. I Ounno what to 
 make of yo'." 
 
 " Nor I of myself. Good-bye ! " 
 
 Bessy stilled her rocking to gaze after her. 
 
 " I wonder if there are many folk like her down South. 
 She's like a breath of country air, somehow. She freshens me up 
 above a bit. Who'd a thought that face — as bright and as strong 
 as the angel I dream of — could have known the sorrow she 
 speaks on ? I wonder how she'U sin. All on us must sin. 
 I think a deal on her, for sure. But father does the like, I 
 see. And Mary even. It's not often hoo's stirred up t& 
 notice much." 
 
 CHAPTEE XVIII. 
 
 LIKES AND DISLIKES. 
 
 " My heart revolts within me, and two voices 
 Make themselves audible within my hosom." 
 
 WALl.BNSTEtN. 
 
 On Margaret's return home she found two letters on the table : 
 one was a note for her mother, — the other, which had come by 
 the post, was evidently from her Aunt Shaw — covered witii 
 foreign post-marks — thin, silvery, and rustling. She took up 
 the other, and was examining it, when her father came iu 
 suddenly : 
 
 " So your mother is tired, and gone to bed early ! I'm 
 
136 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 afraid, such a thundery day was not the best in the world for 
 the doctor to see her. What did he say ? Dixon tells me he 
 spoke to you about her." 
 
 Margaret hesitated. Her father's looks became more grave 
 and anxious : 
 
 " He does not think her seriously ill ? " 
 
 " Not at present ; she needs care, he says ; he was \ery 
 kind, and he said he would call again, and see how his medi- 
 cines worked." 
 
 " Only care — ^he did not recommend change of air ? — he 
 did not say this smoky town was doing her any harm, did he, 
 Margaret ? " 
 
 " No ! not a word," she replied, gravely. " He was 
 anxious, I think." 
 
 "Doctors have that anxious manner; its professional," 
 said he. 
 
 Margaret saw, in her father's nervous ways, that the first 
 impression of possible danger was made upon his mind, in spite 
 of all his making light of what she told him. He could not 
 . forget tl^e subject, — could not pass from it to other things ; 
 he kept recurring to it through the evening, with an unwilling- 
 ness to receive even the slightest unfavourable idea, which 
 made Margaret inexpressibly sad. 
 
 " This letter is from Aunt Shaw, papa. She has got to 
 Naples, and finds it too hot, so she has taken apartments at 
 Sorrento. But I don't think she likes Italy." 
 
 " He did not say anything about diet, did he ? " 
 
 " It was to be nourishing, and digestible. Mamma's 
 appetite is pretty good, I think." 
 
 " Yes ! and that makes it all the more strange he should 
 have thought of speaking about diet." 
 
 " I asked him, papa." Another pause. Then Margaret 
 went on : " Aunt Shaw says she has sent me some coral orna- 
 ments, papa ; but," added Margaret, half smiling, " she's 
 afraid the Milton Dissenters won't appreciate them. She has 
 got all her ideas of Dissenters from the Quakers, has not she ? " 
 
 " If ever you hear or notice that your mother wishes for 
 anything, be sure you let me know. I am so afraid she does 
 not tell me always what she would like. Pray, see after that 
 girl Mrs. Thornton named. If we had a good, efficient house- 
 servant, Dixon could be constantly with her, and I'd answer 
 for it we'd soon set her up amongst us, if care will do it. She's 
 been very much tired of late, with the hot weather, and the 
 
LIKES AND DISLIKES. 1S7 
 
 difficulty of getting a servant. A little rest will put her quite 
 to rights — eh, Margaret ? " 
 
 " I hope so," said Margaret, — but so sadly, that her father 
 took notice of it. He pinched her cheek. 
 
 " Come ; if you look so pale as this, I must rouge you up 
 a little. Take care of yourself, child, or you'll be wanting the 
 doctor next." 
 
 But he could not settle to anything that evening. He was 
 continually going backwards and forwards, on laborious tiptoe, 
 to see if his wife was still asleep. Margaret's heart ached at 
 his restlessness — his trying to stifle and strangle the hideous 
 fear that was looming out of the dark places of his heart. 
 
 He came back at last, somewhat comforted. 
 
 " She's awake now, Margaret. She quite smiled as she 
 saw me standing by her. Just her old smile. And she says 
 she feels refreshed, and ready for tea. Where's the note for 
 her ? She want's to see it. I'll read it to her while yon 
 make tea." 
 
 The note proved to be a formal invitation from Mrs. 
 Thornton, to Mr., Mrs., and Miss Hale to dinner, on the 
 twenty-first instant. Margaret was surprised to find an accep- 
 tance contemplated, after all she had learnt of sad probabilities 
 during the day. But so it was. The idea of her husband's 
 and daughter's going to this dinner had quite captivated Mrs. 
 Hale's fancy, even before Margaret had heard the contents of 
 the note. It was an event to diversify the monotony of the 
 invalid's life ; and she clung to the idea of their going, with 
 even fretful pertinacity, when Margaret objected. 
 
 "Nay, Margaret? if she wishes it, I'm sure we'll both go 
 willingly. She never would wish it unless she felt herself 
 really stronger — really better than we thought she was, eh, 
 Margaret ? " said Mr. Hale, anxiously, as she prepared to write 
 the note of acceptance, the next day. 
 
 "Eh I Margaret?" questioned he, with a nervous motion 
 of his hands. It seemed cruel to refuse him the comfort he 
 craved for. And besides, his passionate refusal to admit the 
 existence of fear, almost inspired Margaret herself with hope. 
 
 " I do think she is better since last night," said she. 
 " Her eyes look brighter, and her complexion clearer." 
 
 " God bless you," said her father, earnestly. "But is it 
 true ? Yesterday was so sultry every one felt ill. It was a 
 most unlucky day for Mr. Donaldson to see her on." 
 
 So he went away to his day's duties, now increased by the 
 
188 NORTH A^STD SOUTH. 
 
 preparation of some lectures he had promised to deliver to the 
 working people at a neighbouring Lyceum. He had chosen 
 Ecclesiastical Architecture as his subject, rather more in accor- 
 dance with his own taste and knowledge than as falling in with 
 the character of the place or the desire for particular kinds of 
 information among those to whom he was to lecture. And the 
 institution itself, being in debt, was only too glad to get a 
 gratis course from an educated and accomplished man like 
 Mr. Hale, let the subject be what it might. 
 
 "Well, mother," asked Mr. Thornton that night, "who 
 have accepted your invitations for the twenty-first ? " 
 
 "Fanny, where are the notes? The Slicksons accept, 
 Collingbrooks accept, Stephenses accept, Browns decline. 
 Hales — ^father and daughter come, — ^mother too great an in- 
 valid — Macphersons come, and Mr. HorsfaU, and Mr. Young. 
 I was thinking of asking the Porters, as the Browns can't 
 come." 
 
 " Very good. Do you know, I'm really afraid Mrs. Hale 
 is very far from well, from what Dr. Donaldson says." 
 
 " It's strange of them to accept a dinner-invitation if she's 
 very ill," said Fanny. 
 
 " I didn't say very ill," said her brother, rather sharply. 
 " I only said very far from well. They may not know it 
 either." And then he suddenly remembered that, from what 
 Dr. Donaldson had told him, Margaret, at any rate, must be 
 aware of the exact state of the case. 
 
 "Very probably they are quite aware of what you said 
 yesterday, John — of the great advantage it would be to them 
 — to Mr. Hale, I mean, to be introduced to such people as the 
 Stephenses and the Collingbrooks." 
 
 " I'm sure that motive would not influence them. No ! I 
 think I understand how it is." 
 
 " John ! " said Fanny, laughing in her little, weak, nervous 
 way. " How you profess to understand these Hales, and how 
 you never will allow that we can know anything about them. 
 Are they really so very different to most people one meets 
 with?" 
 
 She did not mean to vex him ; but if she had intended it, 
 she could not have done it more thoroughly. He chafed in 
 silence, however, not deigning to reply to her question. 
 
 " They do not seem to me out of the common way," said 
 Mrs. Thornton. " He appears a worthy kind of man enough ; 
 rather too simple for trade — so it's perhaps as well he should 
 
lilKES AND DISLIKES. 139 
 
 have been a clergyman first, and now a teacher. She's a bit 
 of a fine lady, with her inTalidism ; and as for the girl — she's 
 the only one who puzzles me when I think about her, — which 
 I don't often do. She seems to have a great notion of giving 
 herself airs ; and I can't make out why. I could almost fancy 
 she thinks herself too good for her company at times. And 
 yet they're not rich ; from all I can hear they never have 
 been." 
 
 " And she's not accomplished, mamma. She can't play." 
 
 " Go on, Fanny. What else does she want to bring her 
 up to your standard ? " 
 
 "Nay! John," said his mother, "that speech of Fanny's 
 did no harm. I myself heard Miss Hale say she could not 
 play. If you would let us alone, we could perhaps like her. 
 and see her merits." 
 
 "I'm sure I never could!" murmured Fanny, protected 
 by her mother. Mr. Thornton heard, but did not care to reply. 
 He was walking up and down the dining-room, wishing that his 
 mother would order candles, and allow him to set to work at 
 either reading or writing, and so put a stop to the conversation. 
 But he never thought of interfering in any of the small domestic 
 regulations that Mrs. Thornton observed, in habitual remem- 
 brance of her old economies. 
 
 "Mother," said he, stopping, and bravely speaking out the 
 truth, " I wish you would like Miss Hale." 
 
 " Why," asked she, startled by his earnest, yet tender 
 manner. " You're never thinking of marrying her ? — a girl 
 without a penny." 
 
 " She would never have me," said he, with a short laugh. 
 
 " No, I don't think she would," answered his mother. 
 " She laughed in my face, when I praised her for speaking out 
 something Mr. Bell had said in your favour. I liked the girl 
 for doing it so frankly, for it made me sure she had no thought 
 of you ; and the next minute she vexed me so by seeming to 
 
 think Well, never mind ! Only you're right in saying 
 
 she's too good an opinion of herself to think of you I The 
 saucy jade 1 I should like to know where she'd find a 
 better ! " 
 
 If these words hurt her son, the dusky light prevented him 
 from betraying any emotion. In a minute he came up quite 
 cheerfully to his mother, and putting one hand lightly on her 
 shoulder, said : 
 
 " WeD, as I'm just as much convinced of the truth of what 
 
140 NOETH AND SOUTH. 
 
 you have been saying as you can be ; and as I have no thought 
 or expectation of ever asking her to be my wife, you'll believe 
 me for the future that I'm quite disinterested in speaking about 
 her. I foresee trouble for that girl — perhaps, want of motherly 
 care — and I only wish you to be ready to be a friend to her, in 
 case she needs one. Now, Fanny," said he, " I trust you have 
 delicacy enough to understand, that it is as great an injury to 
 Miss Hale as to me — ^in fact, she would think it a greater — ^to 
 suppose that I have any reason, more than I now give, for 
 begging you and my mother to show her every kindly 
 attention." 
 
 " I cannot forgive her her pride," said his mother ; " I will 
 befriend her, if there is need, for your asking, John. I would 
 befriend Jezebel herself if you asked me. But this girl, 
 who turns up her nose at us all — who turns up her nose at 
 you " 
 
 " Nay, mother; I have never yet put myself, and I mean 
 never to put myself, within reach of her contempt." 
 
 " Contempt, indeed ! " — (One of Mrs. Thornton's expressive 
 snorts.) — " Don't go on speaking of Miss Hale, John, if I've 
 to be kind to her. When I'm with her, I don't know if I like 
 or dislike her most ; but when I think of her, and hear you 
 talk of her, I hate her. I can see she's given herself airs to 
 you as well as if you'd told me out." 
 
 "And if she has," said he — and then he paused for a 
 moment — ^then went on: "Ijn not a lad, to be cowed by a 
 proud look from a woman, or to care for her misunderstanding 
 me -and my position. I can laugh at it ! " 
 
 "To be sure! and at her too, with her fine notions, and 
 haughty tosses ! " 
 
 " I only wonder why you talk so much about her, then," 
 said Fanny. " I'm sure, I'm tired enough of the subject." 
 
 " Well 1 " said her brother, with a shade of bitterness. 
 "Suppose we find some more agreeable subject. What do 
 you say to a strike, by way of something pleasant to talk 
 about?" " 
 
 " Have the hands actually turned out ? " asked Mrs. 
 Thornton, with vivid interest. 
 
 " Hamper's men are actually out. Mine are working out 
 their week, through fear of being prosecuted for breach of con- 
 tract. I'd have had every one of them up and punished for it, 
 .that left his work before his time was out." 
 
 " The law expenses would have been more than the hands 
 
LIKES AND DISLIKES. 141 
 
 themselves were worth — a set of ungrateful naughts ! " said his 
 mother. 
 
 " To be sure. But I'd have shown them how I keep my 
 word, and howl mean them to keep their's. They know me by 
 this time. Slickson's men are off — pretty certain he won't 
 spend money in getting them punished. We're in for a turn- 
 out, mother." 
 
 " I hope there are not many orders in hand ? " 
 
 " Of course there are. They know that well enough. But 
 they don't quite understand all, though they think they do." 
 
 " What do you mean, John ? " 
 
 Candles had been brought, and Fanny had taken up her in- 
 terminable piece of worsted-work, over which she was yawning ; 
 throwing herself back in her chair, from time to time to gaze 
 at vacancy, and think of nothing at her ease. 
 
 " Why," said he, " the Americans are getting their yarns 
 so into the general market, that our only chance is producing 
 them at a lower rate. If we can't, we may shut up shop at 
 once, and hands and masters go alike on tramp. Yet these 
 fools go back to the prices paid three years ago — nay, some 
 of their leaders quote Dickinson's prices now — though they 
 know as well as we do that, what with fines pressed out of their 
 wages, as no honourable man would extort them, and other 
 ways which I for one would scorn to use, the real rate of wage 
 paid at Dickinson's is less than at ours. Upon my word, mother, 
 I wish the old combination laws were in force. It is too bad to 
 find out that fools — ^ignorant, wayward men like these — just by 
 . uniting their weak sUly heads, are to rule over the fortunes of 
 those who bring aU the wisdom that knowledge and experience, 
 and often painful thought and anxiety, can give. The next thing 
 will be — indeed, we're all but come to it now — that we shall have 
 to go and ask — stand hat in hand — and humbly ask the secre- 
 tary of the Spinners' Union to be so kind as to furnish us with 
 labour at their own price. That's what they want — ^they, who 
 haven't the sense to see that, if we don't get a fair share of the 
 profits to compensate us for our wear and tear here in England, 
 we can move off to some other country ; and that, what with 
 home and foreign competition, we are none of us likely to make 
 above a fair share, and may be thankful enough if we can get 
 that, in an average number of years." 
 
 " Can't you get hands from Ireland ? I wouldn't keep 
 these fellows a day. I'd teach them that I was master, and 
 could employ what servants I liked." 
 
142 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 " Yes 1 to be sure, I can ; and I will, too, if they go on 
 long. It will be trouble and expense, and I fear there will he 
 some danger ; but I will do it, rather than give in." 
 
 " If there is to be all this extra expense, I'm sorry we're 
 giving a dinner just now." 
 
 " Soam I, — not because of the expense, but because I shall 
 have much to think about, and many unexpected calls on my 
 time. But we must have had Mr. Horsfall, and he does not 
 stay in Milton long. And as for the others, we owe them 
 dinners, and it's all one trouble." 
 
 He kept on with his restless walk — not speaking any more, 
 but drawing a deep breath from time to time, as if endeavouring 
 to throw off some annoying thought. Fanny asked her mother 
 numerous smaU questions, all having nothing to do with the 
 subject, which a wiser person would have perceived was 
 occupying her attention. Consequently, she received many 
 short answers. She was not sorry when, at ten o'clock, the 
 servants filed in to prayers. These her mother always read, — 
 first reading a chapter. They were now working steadily through 
 the Old Testament. When prayers were ended, and his mother 
 had wished him good-night, with that long steady look of hers 
 which conveyed no expression of the tenderness that was in her 
 heart, but yet had the intensity of a blessing, Mr. Thornton 
 continued his walk. All his business plans had received a cheek, 
 a sudden pull-up, from this approaching turn-out. The fore- 
 thought of many anxious hours was thrown away, utterly wasted 
 by their insane folly, which would injure themselves even more 
 than him, though no one could set any limit to the mischief 
 they were doing. And these were the men who thought them- 
 selves fitted to direct the masters in the disposal of their 
 capital ; Hamper had said, only this very day, that if he were 
 ruined by the strike, he would start life again, comforted by 
 the conviction that those who brought it on were in a worse 
 predicament than he himself, — for he had head as well as 
 hands, wlule they had only hands ; and if they drove away 
 their market, they could not follow it, nor turn to anything 
 else. But this thought was no consolation to Mr. Thornton. 
 It might be that revenge gave him no pleasure ; it might be that 
 he valued the position he had earned with the sweat of his 
 brow, so much that he keenly felt its being endangered by the 
 ignorance or folly of others, — so keenly that he had no thoughts 
 to spare for what would be the consequences of their conduct to 
 themselves. He paced up and down, setting his teeth a little now 
 
ANGEL VISITS. 14S 
 
 and then. At last it struck two. The candles were flickering 
 in their sockets. He lighted his own, muttering to himself : 
 
 " Once for all they shall know whom they have got to deal 
 with. I can give them a fortnight, — no more. If they don't see 
 their madness hefore the end of that time, I must have hands 
 from Ireland. I believe it's Slickson's doing, — confound him and 
 his dodges ! He thought he was overstocked ; so he seemed 
 to yield at first, when the deputation came to him, — and of 
 course, he only confirmed them in their folly, as he meant to 
 do. That's where it spread from." 
 
 CHAPTEE XIX. 
 
 ANGEL VISITS. 
 
 " As angels in some brighter dreams 
 
 Call to the soul when man doth sleep, 
 So some strange thoughts transcend our fronted themes, 
 And into glory peep." 
 
 Henet Vaughas. 
 
 Mes. Hale was curiously amused and interested by the idea of 
 the Thornton dinner party. She kept wondering about the 
 details, with something of the simplicity of a little child, who 
 wants to have all its anticipated pleasure described beforehand. 
 But the monotonous life led by invalids often makes them like 
 children, inasmuch as they have neither of them any sense of 
 proportion in events, and seem each to believe that the walls 
 and curtains whicli shut in their world, and shut out everything 
 else, must of necessity be larger than anything hidden beyond. 
 Besides Mrs. Hale had had her vanities as a girl ; had perhaps 
 unduly felt their mortification when she became a poor clergy- 
 man's wife ; — ^they had been smothered and kept down ; but they 
 were not extinct ; and she liked to think of seeing Margaret 
 dressed for a party, and discussed what she should wear, with an 
 unsettled anxiety that amused Margaret, who had been more 
 accustomed to society in her one year in Harley Street than her 
 mother in five and twenty years .of Helstone." 
 
 " Then you think you shall wear your white silk. Are you 
 sure it will fit ? It's nearly a year since Edith was married ! " 
 
 " Oh yes, mamma! Mrs. Murray made it, and it's sure to 
 
144 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 be right ; it may be a straw's breadth shorter or longer-waisted, 
 according to my having grown fat or thin. But I don't think 
 I've altered in the least." 
 
 " Hadn't you better let Dixon see it ? It may have gone 
 yelloTy with lying by." 
 
 " If you like, mamma. But if the worst comes to the 
 worst, I've a very nice pink gauze which Aunt Shaw gave me, 
 only two or three months before Edith was married. That 
 can't have gone yellow." 
 
 " No ! but it may have faded." 
 
 "Well! then I've a green sUk. I feel more as if it was the 
 embarrassment of riches." 
 
 " I wish I knew what you ought to wear," said Mrs. Hale, 
 nervously. 
 
 Margaret's manner changed instantly. " Shall I go and put 
 them on one after another, mamma, and then you could see 
 which you liked best ? " 
 
 " But — yes ! perhaps that wiU be best." 
 
 So off Margaret went. She was very much inclined to 
 play some pranks when she was dressed up at such an unusual 
 hour ; to make her rich white silk balloon out into a cheese, to 
 retreat backwards from her mother as if she were the queen ; 
 but when she found that these freaks of hers were regarded as 
 interruptions to the serious business, and as such annoyed her 
 mother, she became grave and sedate. What had possessed 
 the world (her world) to fidget so about her dress, she could not 
 understand ; but that very afternoon, on naming her engage- 
 ment to Bessy Higgins (apropos of the servant that ifis. 
 Thornton had promised to inquire about), Bessy quite roused 
 up at the intelligence. 
 
 "Dear ! and are you going to dine at Thornton's at Marl- 
 borough Mills ? " 
 
 " Yes, Bessy. Why are you so surprised ? " 
 
 " Oh, I dunno. But they visit wi a' th' first folk in Milton." 
 
 " And you don't think we're quite the first folk in Milton, 
 eh, Bessy ? " 
 
 Bessy's cheeks flushed a little at her thought being thus 
 easily read. 
 
 " Well," said she, " yo' see, they thinken a deal o' money 
 here ; and I reckon yo've not getten much." 
 
 "No," said Margaret, "that's very true. But we are 
 educated people, and have lived amongst educated people. Is 
 there anything so wonderful, in our being asked out to Hmneir 
 
ANGEL YISITS. 146 
 
 by a man who owns himself inferior to my father by coming to 
 him to be instructed ? I don't mean to blame Mr. Thornton. 
 Few drapers' assistants, as he was once, could have made 
 themselves what he is." 
 
 " But can yo' give dinners back, in yo're small house ? 
 Thornton's house is three times as big." 
 
 " Well, I think we could manage to give Mr. Thornton a 
 dinner back, as you call it. Perhaps not in such a large room, 
 nor with so many people. But I don't think we've thought 
 about it at all in that way." 
 
 " I never thought yo'd be dining with Thorntons,'' repeated 
 Bessy. " Why, the mayor hissel' dines there ; and the members 
 of Parliament and all." 
 
 " I think, I could support the honour of meeting the mayor 
 of Milton." 
 
 " But them ladies dress so grand ! " said Bessy, with an 
 anxious look at Margaret's print gown, which her Milton eyes 
 appraised at sevenpence a yard. 
 
 Margaret's face dimpled up into a merry laugh. " Thank 
 you, Bessy, for thinking so kindly about my looking nice 
 among all the smart people. But I've plenty of grand gowns, 
 — a week ago, I should have said they were far too grand for 
 anjrthing I should ever want again. But as I'm to dine at Mr. 
 Thornton's, and perhaps to meet the mayor, I shall put on my 
 very best gown, you may be sure." 
 
 " What win yo' wear ? "' asked Bessy, somewhat relieved. 
 
 " White silk," said Margaret. " A gown I had for a cousin's 
 wedding, a year ago." 
 
 " That'll do ! " said Bessy, falling back in her chair. " I 
 should be loth to have yo' looked down upon." 
 
 " Oh ! I'll be fine enough, if that will save me from being 
 looked down upon in Milton." 
 
 "I wish I could see you dressed up," said Bessy. "I 
 reckon, yo're not what folk would ca' pretty ; yo've not red 
 and white enough for that. But dun yo' know, I ha' dreamt 
 of yo', long afore ever I seed yo'." 
 
 " Nonsense, Bessy ! " 
 
 " Ay, but I did. Yo'r very face, — ^looking wi' yo'r clear 
 steadfast eyes out o' th' darkness, wi' yo'r hair blown off from 
 yo'r brow, and going out like rays round yo'r forehead, which 
 was just as smooth and straight as it is now, — and yo' always 
 came to give me strength, which I seemed to gather out o' yo'r 
 
 10 
 
146 NOKTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 deep comforting eyes, — and yo' were drest in ehining raiment 
 — -just as yo'r going to be drest. 86, yo' see, it was yo' ! " 
 
 " Nay, Bessy," said Margaret, gently, "it was but a dream." 
 
 " And wby might na I dream a dream in my affliction as 
 well as others ? Did not many a one i' the Bible ? Ay, and 
 see visions too ! Why, even my father thinks a deal o' dreams! 
 I tell yo' again, I saw yo' as plainly, coming swiftly towards 
 me, wi' yo'r hair blown back wi' the very swiftness o' the 
 motion, just like the way it grows, a little standing oflf like ; 
 and the white shining dress on yo've gotten to wear. Let me 
 come and see yo' in it. I want to see yo' and touch yo' as in 
 very deed yo' were in my dream." 
 
 " My dear Bessy, it is quite a fancy of yours." 
 
 " Fancy or no fancy ,^ — ^yo've come, as I knew yo' would, 
 when I saw yo'r movement in my dream, — and when yo're here 
 about me, I reckon I feel easier in my mind, and comforted, 
 just as a fire comforts one on a dree day. Yo' said it were od 
 th' twenty-first ; please God, I'll come and see yo'." 
 
 " Oh Bessy ! you may come and welcome ; but don't talk 
 so — ^it really makes me sorry. It does indeed." 
 
 • " Then I'll keep it to mysel', if I bite my tongue out. Not 
 but what it's true for all that." 
 
 Margaret was silent. At last she said, 
 
 " Let us talk about it sometimes, if you think it true. But 
 not now. Tell me, has your father turned out ? " 
 
 " Ay ! " said Bessy heavily — in a manner very different 
 from that she had spoken in but a minute or two before. "He 
 and many another, — all Hamper's men, — and many a one 
 besides. Th' women are as bad as th' men, in their savage- ' 
 ness, this time. Pood is high, — and they mun have food for 
 their childer, I reckon. Suppose Thorntons sent 'em their 
 dinner out, — th' same money, spent on potatoes and meal, 
 would keep many a crying baby quiet, and hush up its mother's 
 beart for a bit 1 " 
 
 " Don't speak so ! " said Margaret. " You'll make me 
 feel wicked and guilty in going to this dinner." 
 
 " No ! " said Bessy. " Some's pre-eleoted to sumptuous 
 feasts, and purple and fine linen, — ^may be yo're one on 'em. 
 Others toil and moil all their lives long — and the very dogs are 
 Hot pitifdl in our days, as they were in the days of Lazarns. 
 But if yo' ask me to cool yo're tongue wi' th' tip of my finger, 
 ['11 come across the great gulf to yo' just for th' thought o' what 
 yo've been to me here." 
 
AlfGEL VISITS. 147 
 
 " Bessy ; you're very feverish ! I can tell it in the touch 
 of your hand, as well as in what you're saying. It won't be 
 division enough, in that awful day, that some of us have been 
 beggars here, and some of us have been rich, — we shall not be 
 judged by that poor accident, but by our faithful following of 
 Christ." 
 
 Margaret got up, and found some water : and soaking her 
 pocket-handkerchief in it, she laid the cool wetness on Bessy's 
 forehead, and began to chafe the stone-cold feet. Bessy shut 
 her eyes, and allowed herself to be soothed. At last she 
 said, 
 
 " Yo'd ha' been deaved out o' yo'r five wits, as well as me, 
 if yo'd had one body after another coming in to ask for father, 
 and staying tc tell me each one their tale. Some spoke o' 
 deadly hatred, and made my blood run cold wi' the terrible 
 things they said o' th' masters, — ^but more, being women, kept 
 plaining, plaining (wi' the tears running down their cheeks, and. 
 never wiped away, nor heeded), of the price o' meat, and how 
 their childer could na sleep at nights for th' hunger." 
 
 " And do they think the strike will mend this ? " asked 
 Margaret. 
 
 " They say so," replied Bessy. " They do say trade has 
 been good for long, and the masters has made no end o' money ; 
 how much father doesn't know, but, in course, th' Union does ; 
 and, as it is natural, they wanted their share o' th' profits, now 
 that food is getting dear ; and th' Union says they'U not be 
 doing their duty if they don't make the masters give 'em their' 
 share. But masters has getten th' upper hand somehow ; and . 
 I'm feared they'll keep it now and evermore. It's like th' great 
 battle o' Armageddon, the way they keep on, grinning and 
 fighting at each other, till even while they fight, they are picked 
 off into the pit." 
 
 Just then, Nicholas Higgins came in. He caught his 
 daughter's last words. 
 
 " Ay ! and I'll fight on too ; and I'll get it this time. It'll 
 not take long for to make 'em give in, for they've getten a 
 pretty lot of orders, aU under contract ; and they'll soon find 
 out they'd better give us our five per cent, than lose the profit 
 they'll gaia ; let alone the fine for not fulfilling the contract. 
 Aha my masters 1 I know who'U win." 
 
 Margaret fancied from his manner that he must have been 
 drinking, not so much from what he said, as from the excited 
 way in which he spoke ; and she was rather confirmed in this 
 
148 NOETH AND SOUTH. 
 
 idea by the evident anxiety Bessy showed to hasten her depar- 
 ture. Bessy said to her, — 
 
 " The twenty-first — that's Thursday week. I may come 
 and see yo' dressed for Thornton's, I reckon. What time is 
 yo'r dinner ? " 
 
 Before Margaret could answer, Higgins broke out, — 
 
 " Thornton's ! Ar' t' going to dine at Thornton's ? Ask 
 him to give yo' a bumper to the success of his orders. By th' 
 twenty-first, I reckon, he'll be pottered in his brains how to 
 get 'em done in time. TeU him, there's seven hundred '11 
 come marching into Marlborough Mills, the morning after he 
 gives the five per cent., and vrill help him through his contract 
 in no time. You'll have 'em all there. My master. Hamper. 
 He's one o' th' oud-fashioned sort. Ne'er meets a man bont 
 an oath or a curse ; I should think he were going to die if he 
 spoke me civil ; but arter aU, his bark's waur than his bite, and 
 yo' may tell him one o' his turn-outs said so, if yo' like. Eh! 
 but yo'U have a lot of prize mill-owners at Thornton's! I 
 should like to get speech o' them, when they're a bit incUned 
 to sit still after dinner, and could na run for the life on 'em. 
 I'd tell 'em my mind. I'd speak up again th' hard way they're 
 driving on us ! " 
 
 " Good-bye ! " said Margaret, hastily. " Good-bye, Bessy ! 
 I shall look to see you on the twenty-first, if you're well enough." 
 
 The medicines and treatment which Dr. Donaldson had 
 ordered for Mrs. Hale, did her so much good at first that not 
 only she herself, but Margaret, began to hope that he might 
 have been mistaken, and that she could recover permanently. 
 As for Mr. Hale, although he had never had an idea of the 
 serious nature of their apprehensions, he triumphed over their 
 fears with an evident relief, which proved how much his glimpse 
 into the nature of them had aflfected him. Only Dixon croaked 
 for ever into Margaret's ear. However, Margaret defied the 
 raven, and would hope. 
 
 They needed this gleam of brightness in-doors, for out-of- 
 doors, even to their uninstructed eyes, there was a gloomy 
 brooding appearance of discontent. Mr. Hale had his own 
 acquaintances among the working men, and was depressed 
 with their earnestly-told tales of sufiering and long-endurance. 
 They would have scorned to speak of what they had to bear to 
 any one who might, firom his position, have understood it with- 
 out their words. But here was this man, from a distant county, 
 who was perplexed by the workings of the system into the 
 
ANGEL VISITS. 149 
 
 midst of which he was thrown, and each was eager to make 
 him a judge, and to bring witness of his own causes for irrita- 
 tion. Then Mr. Hale brought all his budget of grievances, 
 and laid it before Mr. Thornton, for him, with his experience 
 as a master, to arrange them, and esplaia their origin ; which 
 he always did, on sound economical principles ; showing that, 
 as trade was conducted, there must always be a waxing and 
 waning of commercial prosperity ; and that in the waning a 
 certain number of masters, as well as of men, must go down 
 into ruin, and be no more seen among the ranks of the happy 
 and prosperous. He spoke as if this consequence were so 
 entirely logical, that neither employers nor employed had any 
 right to complain if it became their fate : the employer to turn 
 aside from the race he could no longer run, with a bitter sense 
 of incompetency and failure — wounded in the struggle — 
 trampled down by his fellows in their haste to get rich — 
 slighted where he once was honoured — humbly asking for, 
 instead of bestowing, employment with a lordly hand. Of 
 course, speaking so of the fate that, as a master, might be his 
 own in the fluctuations of commerce, he was not likely to have 
 more sympathy with that of the workmen, who were passed by 
 in the swift merciless improvement or alteration ; who would 
 fain lie down and quietly die out of the world that needed them 
 not, but felt as if they could never rest in their graves for the 
 clinging cries of the beloved and helpless they would leave 
 behind ; who envied the power of the wild bird, that can feed 
 her young with her very heart's blood. Margaret's whole soul 
 rose np against him while he reasoned in this way — as if com- 
 merce were everything and humanity nothing. She could 
 hardly thank him for the individual kindness, which brought 
 him that very evening to offer her — for the delicacy which 
 made him understand that he must offer her privately — every 
 convenience for illness that his own wealth or his mother's 
 foresight had caused them to accumulate in their household, 
 and which, as he learnt from Dr. Donaldson, Mrs. Hale might 
 possibly require. His presence, after the way he had spoken — 
 his bringing before her the doom, which she was vainly trying 
 to persuade herself might yet be averted from her mother; — all 
 conspired to set Margaret's teeth on edge, as she looked at 
 him, and listened to him. What business had he to be the 
 only person, except Dr. Donaldson and Dixon, admitted to the 
 awM secret, which she held shut up in the most dark and 
 sacred recess of her heart — not daring to look at it, unless she 
 
150 NORTH ASD SOUTH. 
 
 mvoked heavenly strength to bear the sight — that, some day 
 soon, she should ciy aloud for her mother, and no ans?rei 
 would come out of the blank, dumb darkness ? Yet he knew 
 ■all. She saw it in his pitying eyes. She heard it in his graye 
 and tremulous voice. How reconcile tose eyes, that voice, 
 with the hard, reasoning, dry, merciless way in which he laid 
 down axioms of trade, and serenely followed them out to their 
 fall consequences ? The discord jarred upon her inexpressibly. 
 The more because of the gathering woe of which she heard 
 from Bessy. To be sure, Nicholas Higgins, the father, spoke 
 differently. He had been appointed a committee-man, and said 
 that he laiew secrets of which the exoteric knew nothing. He 
 said this more expressly and particularly, on the very day before 
 Mrs. Thornton's dinner-party, when Margaret, going in to 
 speak to Bessy, found him arguing the point with Boucher, the 
 neighbour of whom she had frequently heard mention, as by 
 turns exciting Higgins's compassion, as an unskilful workman 
 with . a large family depending upon him for support, and at 
 other times enraging his more energetic and sanguine neighbour 
 by his want of what the latter called spirit. It was very evident 
 that Higgins was in a passion when Margaret entered. Boucher 
 stood, with both hands on the rather high mantelpiece, swaying 
 himself a little on the support which his arms, thus placed, 
 gave him, and looking wildly into the fire, with a kind of 
 despair that irritated Higgins, even while it went to his heart. 
 Bessy was rocking herself violently backwards and forwards, aa 
 was her wont (Margaret knew by this time) when she was 
 agitated. Her sister Mary was tying on her bonnet (in great 
 clumsy bows, as suited her great clumsy fingers), to go to her 
 fustian-cutting, blubbering out loud the while, and evidently 
 longing to be away from a scene that distressed her. 
 
 Margaret came in upon this scene. She stood for a moment 
 at the door — then, her finger on her lips, she stole to a seat on 
 the squab near Bessy. Nicholas saw her come in, and greeted 
 her with a gruff, but not unfriendly nod. Mary hurried out of 
 the house, catching gladly at the open door, and crying aloud 
 when she got away from her father's presence. It was only 
 John Boucher that took no notice whatever who came in and 
 who went out. 
 
 " It's no use, Higgins. Hoo cannot live long a' this'n. 
 Hoo's just sinking away — not for want o' meat hersel' — ^but 
 because hoo cannot stand th' sight o' the httle ones clemming. 
 A.y, clemming ! Five shilling a week may do well enough for 
 
ANGEL VISITS. 161 
 
 ihee, m' but two mouths to fill, and one on 'em a wench who 
 can welly earn her own meat. But it's clemming to us. An' 
 I tell thee plain — if hoo dies, as I'm 'feard hoo will afore we've 
 getten th' five per cent., I'll fling th' money back i' th' master's 
 face, and say. ' Be domned to yo' ; be domned to th' whole 
 cruel world o' yo' ; that could na leave me th' best wife thafc 
 ever bore childer to a man" ' An' look thee, lad, I'll hate thee, 
 and th' whole pack o' th' Union. Ay, an' chase yo' through 
 heaven wi' my hatred, — ^I will, lad ! I will, — ^if yo're leading 
 me astray i' this matter. Thou saidst, Nicholas, on Wednesday 
 sennight — and it's now Tuesday i' th' second week — ^that afore 
 a fortnight we'd ha' the masters coming a-begging to us to take 
 back our work, at our own wage — and time's nearly up, — and 
 there's our lile Jack lying a-bed, too weak to cry, but just 
 every now and then sobbing up his heart for want o' food, — 
 our lile Jack, I tell thee, lad ! Hoo's never looked up sin' he 
 were bom, and hoo loves him as if he were her very hfe, — as 
 he is, — ^for I reckon he'U ha' cost me that precious price, — our 
 lOe Jack, who wakened me each morn wi' putting his sweet 
 little lips to my great rough fou' face, a-seeking a smooth place 
 to kiss, — an' he lies clemming." Here the deep sobs choked 
 the poor man, and Nicholas looked up, with eyes brimful of 
 tears, to Margaret, before he could gain courage to speak. 
 
 " Hon'd up, man. Thy lile Jack shall na' clem. I ha' 
 getten brass, and we'll go buy the chap a sup o' mUk an' a 
 good four-pounder this very minute. What's mine's thine, 
 sure enough, i' thou'st i' want. Only, dunnot lose heart, man! " 
 continued he, as he fumbled in a tea-pot for what money he 
 had. " I lay yo' my heart and soul we'll win for a' this : it's 
 but bearing on one more week, and yo' just see th' way th' 
 masters '11 come round, praying on us to come back to our 
 mills. An' th' Union, — ^that's to say, I — ^will take care yo've 
 enough for th' childer and th' missus. So dunnot turn faint' 
 heart, and go to th' tyrants a-seeking work." 
 
 The man turned round at these words, — ^turned round a 
 face so white, and gaunt, and tear-farrowed, and hopeless, that 
 its very calm forced Margaret to weep. 
 
 " Yo' know well, that a worser tyrant than e'er th' masters ) 
 were says, ' Clem to death, and see 'em a' clem to death, ere j 
 yo' dare go again th' Union.' Yo' know it well, Nicholas, for i 
 a' yo're one on 'em. Yo' may be kind hearts, each separate ; 
 but once banded together, yo've no more pity for a man than a ' 
 wild hunger-maddened wolf." ' 
 
152 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 Nicholas had his hand on the lock of the door — he stopped 
 and turned round on Boucher, close following : 
 
 " So help me God ! man alive — ^if I think not I'm doing 
 best for thee, and for all on us. If I'm going wrong when I 
 think I'm going right, it's their sin, who ha' left me where I 
 am, in my ignorance. I ha' thought till my brains ached, — 
 BeU' me, John, I have. An' I say again, there's no help for 
 us but having faith i' th' Union. They'll win the day, see if 
 they dunnot ! " 
 
 Not one word had Margaret or Bessy spoken. They had 
 hardly uttered the sighing, that the eyes of each called to 
 the other to bring up from the depths of her heart. At last 
 Bessy said, 
 
 " I never thought to hear father call on God again. But 
 yo' heard him say, ' So help me God ! ' " 
 
 " Yes 1 " said Margaret. " Let me bring you what money 
 I can spare, — let me bring you a little food for that poor man's 
 children. Don't let them know it comes from any one but 
 your father. It will be but little." 
 
 Bessy lay. back without taking any notice of what Margaret 
 said. She did not cry — she only quivered up her breath, 
 
 " My heart's drained dry o' tears," she said. " Boucher's 
 been ia these days past, a teUing me of his fears and his 
 troubles. He's but a weak kind of chap, I know, but he's a 
 man for a' that ; and tho' I've been angry, many a time afore 
 now, wi' him an' his wife, as knew no more nor him how to 
 manage, yet yo' see, all folks isn't wise, yet God lets 'em live — 
 ay, an' gives 'em some one to love, and be loved by, just as 
 good as Solomon. An' if sorrow comes to them they love, it 
 hurts 'em as sore as e'er it did Solomon. I can't make it out. 
 I Perhaps it's as well such a one as Boucher has th' Union to 
 see after him. But I'd just like for to see th' men as make 
 th' Union, and put 'em one by one face to face wi' Boucher. 
 I reckon, if they heard him, the'd tell him (if I cotched 'em 
 one by one), he might go back and get what he could for his 
 work, even if it weren't so much as they ordered." 
 
 Margaret sat utterly silent. How was she ever to go away 
 into comfort and forget that man's voice, with the tone of 
 unutterable agony, telling more by far than his words of what 
 he had to suffer ? She took out her purse ; she had not much 
 in it of what she could call her own, but what she had she put 
 into Bessy's hands without speaking. 
 
 " Thank yo'. There's many on 'em gets no more, and is 
 
MEN AND GElITLEMBa. 153 
 
 Qot BO bad off, — ^leastways does not show it as he does. But 
 father won't let 'em want, now he knows. Yo' see, Boucher's 
 been puUed down wi' his childer, — and her being so cranky, 
 and a' they could pawn has gone this last twelvemonth. Yo're 
 not to think we'd ha' letten 'em clem, for all we're a bit pressed 
 oursel' ; if neighbours doesn't see after neighbours, I dunno 
 who will." Bessy seemed almost afraid lest Margaret should 
 think they had not the wiU, and, to a certain degree, the power 
 of helping one whom she evidently regarded as having a claim 
 upon them. "Besides," she went on, "father is sure and 
 positive the masters must give in within these next few days, — 
 that they canna hould on much longer. But I thank yo' all 
 the same, — ^I thank yo' for mysel', as much as for Boucher, for 
 it just makes my heart warm to yo' more and more." 
 
 Bessy seemed much quieter to-day, but fearfully languid 
 and exhausted. As she finished speaking, she looked so faint 
 and weary that Margaret became alarmed. 
 
 " It's nout," said Bessy. " It's not death yet. I had a 
 fearfu' night wi' dreams — or somewhat like dreams, for I were 
 wide awake — and I'm all in a swounding daze to-day, — only 
 yon poor chap made me alive again. No ! it's not death yet, 
 but death is not far off. Ay. Cover me up, and I'U may be 
 sleep, if th' cough will let me. Good night— -good afternoon, 
 m'appeu I should say — but th' light is dim an' misty to-day." 
 
 CHAPTEK XX. 
 
 MEN AND GENTLEMEN. 
 
 " Old and yomig, boy, let 'em all eat, I have it ; 
 Let 'em have ten tire of teeth a-piece, I care not." 
 
 BOLLO, DCXE OP NORMAKDT. 
 
 Maegaeet went home so painfully occupied with what she had 
 heard and seen that she hardly knew how to rouse herself up 
 to the duties which awaited her ; the necessity for keeping up 
 a constant flow of cheerful conversation for her mother, who, 
 now that she was unable to go out, always looked to Margaret's 
 return from the shortest walk as bringing in some news. 
 
 " And can your factory friend come on Thursday to see 
 you dressed ? " 
 
154 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 " She was so ill I never thought of asking her," said Mar- 
 garet, dolefuUy. 
 
 " Dear ! Everybody is ill now, I think," said Mrs. Hale, 
 with a little of the jealousy which one invalid is apt to feel of 
 another. " But it must be very sad to be ill in one of those 
 little back streets." (Her kindly nature prevailing, and the 
 old Helstone habits of thought returning.) " It's bad enough 
 here. What could you do for her, Margaret ? Mr. Thornton 
 has sent me some of his old port wine since yon went out. 
 "Would a bottle of that do her good, think you ? " 
 
 " No, mamma ! I don't believe they are very poor, — at 
 least, they don't speak as if they were; and, at any rate, 
 Bessy's illness is consumption — she won't want wine. Per- 
 haps, I might take her a little preserve, made of our dear 
 Helstone fruit. No ! there's another family to whom I should 
 like to give — Oh mamma, mamma! how am I to dress up in 
 my finery, and go off and away to smart parties, after the 
 sorrow I have seen to-day ? " exclaimed Margaret, bursting 
 the bounds she had preordained for herself before she came in, 
 and telling her mother what she had seen and heard at 
 Higgins's cottage. 
 
 It distressed Mrs. Hale excessively. It made her restlessly 
 irritated till she could do something. She directed Margaret 
 to pack up a basket in the very drawing-room, to be sent there 
 and then to the family ; and was almost angry with her for 
 saying, that it would not signify if it did not go tiU morning, 
 as she knew Higgins had provided for their immediate wants, 
 and she herself had left money with Bessy. Mrs. Hale 
 called her unfeeling for saying this ; and never gave herself 
 breathing-time tiU the basket was sent out of the house. 
 Then she said : 
 
 " After all, we may have been doing wrong. It was only 
 the last time Mr. Thornton was here that he said, those were 
 no true friends who helped to prolong the struggle by assisting 
 the turn-outs. And this Boucher-man was a turn-out, was he 
 not?" 
 
 The question was referred to Mr. Hale by his wife, when 
 he came up-stairs, fresh from giving a lesson to Mr. Thornton, 
 which had ended in conversation, as was their wont. Mar- 
 garet did not care if their gifts had prolonged the strike ; she 
 did not think far enough for that, in her present excited 
 state. 
 
 Mr. Hale listened, and tried to be as cabn as a judge ; he 
 
MEN AND GENTLEMEN. 155 
 
 recalled all that Lad seemed so clear not half-an-hottr before, 
 as it came out of Mr. Thornton's lips ; and then he made an 
 unsatisfactory compromise. His wife and daughter had not 
 only done quite right in this instance, but he did not see 
 for a moment how they could have done otherwise. Never- 
 theless, as a general rule, it was very true what Mr. Thornton 
 said, that as the strike, if prolonged, must end in the masters 
 bringing hands from a distance (if, indeed, the final result were 
 not, as it had often been before, the invention of some machine 
 which would diminish the need of hands at all), why, it was 
 clear enough that the kindest thing was to refuse all help which 
 might bolster them up in their folly. But as to this Boucher, 
 he would go and see him the first thing in the morning, and try 
 and find out what could be done for him. 
 
 Mr. Hale went the next morning, as he proposed. He did 
 aot find Boucher at home, but he had a long talk with his wife ; 
 promised to ask for an Infirmary order for her ; and, seeing the 
 plenty provided by Mrs. Hale, and somewhat lavishly used by 
 the children, who were masters down-stairs in their father's 
 absence, he came back with a more consoling and cheerful 
 account than Margaret had dared to hope for ; indeed, what 
 she had said the night before had prepared her father for so 
 much worse a state of things that, by a re-action of his imagina- 
 tion, he described all as better than it really was. 
 
 " But I wiU go again, and see the man himself," said Mr. 
 Hale. " I hardly know as yet how to compare one of these 
 houses with our Helstone cottages. I see furniture here which 
 our labourers would never have thought of buying, and food 
 <joiiimonly used which they would consider luxuries ; yet for 
 these very families there seems no other resource now that their 
 weekly wages are stopped, but the pawn-shop. One had need 
 to learn a different language, and measure by a different 
 Btandard, up here in Milton." 
 
 Bessy, too, was rather better this day. StiU she was so 
 weak that she seemed to have entirely forgotten her wish to see 
 Margaret dressed — ^if, indeed, that had not been the feverish 
 desire of a half delirious state. 
 
 Margaret could not help comparing this strange dressing of 
 hers, to go where she did not care to be — her heart heavy with 
 various anxieties — ^with the old, merry, girlish toilettes that she 
 and Edith had performed scarcely more than a year ago. Her 
 only pleasure now in decking herself out was in thinking that 
 her mother would take delight in seeing her dressed. She 
 
156 NOETH AND SOUTH. 
 
 blushed when Dixon, throwing the drawing-room door open, 
 made an appeal for admiration. 
 
 " Miss Hale looks well, ma'am, — doesn't she ? _ Mrs. 
 Shaw's coral couldn't have come in better. It just gives the 
 right touch of colour, ma'am. Otherwise, Miss Margaret, you 
 would have been too pale." 
 
 Margaret's black hair was too thick to be plaited ; it needed 
 rather to be twisted round and round, and have its fine silkiness 
 compressed into massive coils, that encircled her head like a 
 crown, and then were gathered into a large spiral knot behind. 
 She kept its weight together by two large coral pins, like small 
 arrows for length. Her white silk sleeves were looped up with 
 strings of the same material, and on her neck, just below the 
 base of her cm-ved and milk-white throat, there lay heavy coral 
 beads. 
 
 " Oh, Margaret ! howl should like to be going with you to 
 one of the old Barrington assemblies, — ^taking you as Lady 
 Beresford used to take me." 
 
 Margaret kissed her mother for this little burst of maternal 
 vanity ; but she could hardly snule at it, she felt so much out 
 of spirits. 
 
 "I would rather stay at home with you, — much rather, 
 mamma." 
 
 " Nonsense, darling ! Be sure you notice the dinner well. 
 I shall like to hear how they manage these things in Milton. 
 Particularly the second course, dear. Look what they have 
 instead of game." 
 
 Mrs. Hale would have been more than interested, — she 
 would have been astonished, if she had seen the sumptuousness 
 of the dinner-table and its appointments. Margaret, with her 
 London cultivated taste, felt the number of deHeacies to be 
 oppressive ; one half of the quantity would have been enough, 
 and the effect lighter and more elegant. But it was one of 
 Mrs. Thornton's rigorous laws of hospitality, that of each 
 separate dainty enough should be provided for aU the guests to 
 partake, if they felt inclined. Careless to abstemiousness in 
 her daily habits, it was part of her pride to set a feast before 
 such of her guests as cared for it. Her son shared this feel- 
 ing. He had never known — though he might have imagined, 
 and had the capability to relish — any kind of society but that 
 which depended on an exchange of superb meals : and even 
 now, though he was denying himself the personal expenditure 
 of an unnecessary sixpence, and had more than once regretted 
 
MEN AND GENTLEMEN. 167 
 
 that the invitations for this dinner had been sent out, still, aa 
 it was to he, he was glad to see the old magnificence of pre- 
 paration. 
 
 Margaret and her father were the first to arrive. Mr. Hale 
 was anxiously punctual to the time specified. There was no 
 one upstairs in the drawing-room but Mrs. Thornton and 
 Fanny. Every cover was taien off, and the apartment blazed 
 forth in yellow silk damask and a brilliantly-flowered carpet. 
 Every comer seemed filled up with ornament, until it became 
 a weariness to the eye, and presented a strange contrast to the 
 bald ugliness of the look-out iato the great mill-yard, where 
 wide folding gates were thrown open for the admission of 
 carriages. The mill loomed high on the left-hand side of the 
 windows, casting a shadow down from its many stories, which 
 darkened the summer evening before its time. 
 
 " My son was engaged up to the last moment on business. 
 He will be here directly, Mr. Hale. May I beg you to take a 
 seat?" 
 
 Mr. Hale was standing at one of the windows as Mrs. 
 Thornton spoke. He turned away, saying, 
 
 "Don't you find such close neighbourhood to the mill 
 rather unpleasant at times ?" 
 
 She drew herself up : 
 
 " Never. I am not become so fine as to desire to forget 
 the source of my son's wealth and power. Besides, there is 
 not such another factory in Milton. One room alone is two 
 hundred and twenty square yards." 
 
 "I meant that the smoke and the noise — the constant 
 going out and coming in of the work-people, might be 
 annoying ! " 
 
 " I agree with you, Mr. Hale 1 " said Fanny. " There is 
 a continual smell of steam, and oily machinery — and the noise 
 is perfectly deafening." 
 
 " I have heard noise that was called music far more deaf- 
 ening. The engine-room is at the street-end of the factory ; 
 we hardly hear it, except in summer weather, when all the 
 windows are open ; and as for the continual murmur of the 
 work-people, it disturbs me no more than the humming of a 
 hive of bees. If I think of it at all, I connect it with my son, 
 and feel how all belongs to him, and that his is the head that 
 directs it. Just now, there are no sounds to come from the 
 mill ; the hands have been ungrateful enough to turn out, as 
 perhaps you have heard. But the very business (of which I 
 
158 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 spoke, when you entered), had reference to the steps he ia 
 going to take to make them learn their place." The expression 
 on her face, always stern, deepened into dark anger, as she said 
 this. Nor did it clear away when Mr. Thornton entered the 
 room ; for she saw, in an instant, the weight of care and 
 anxiety which he could not shake off, although his guests 
 received from him a greeting that appeared both cheerfnl and 
 cordial. He shook hands with Margaret. He knew it was 
 the first time their hands had met, though she was perfectly 
 unconscious of the fact. He inquired after Mrs. Hale, and 
 heard Mr. Hale's sanguine, hopeful account ; and glancing at 
 Margaret, to understand how far she agreed with her father, he 
 saw that no dissenting shadow crossed her face. And as he 
 looked with this intention, he was struck anew with her great 
 beauty. He had never seen her in such dress before ; and yet 
 now it appeared as if such elegance of attire was so befitting 
 her noble figure and lofty serenity of countenance, that she 
 ought to go always thus apparelled. She was talking to Fanny ; 
 about what, he could not hear ; but he saw his sister's restless 
 way of continually arranging some part of her gown, her wan- 
 dering eyes, now glancing here, now there, but without any 
 purpose in her observation ; and he contrasted them uneasily 
 with the large soft eyes that looked forth steadily at one object, 
 as if from out their light beamed some gentle influence of 
 repose : the curving lines of the red lips, just parted in the 
 interest of listening to what her companion said-^the head a 
 little bent forwards, so as to make a long sweeping line from 
 the summit, where the light caught on the glossy raven hair, 
 to the smooth ivory tip of the shoulder ; the round white arms, 
 and taper hands, laid lightly across each other, but perfectly 
 motionless in their pretty attitude. Mr. Thornton sighed as he 
 took in all this with one of his sudden comprehensive glances. 
 And then he turned his back to the young ladies, and threw 
 himself, with an effort, but with all his heart and soul, into a 
 conversation with Mr. Hale. 
 
 More people came — more and more. Fanny left Margaret's 
 side, and helped her mother to receive her guests. Mr. 
 Thornton felt that in this influx no one was speaking to Mar- 
 garet, and was restless under this apparent neglect. But he 
 never went near her himself ; he did not look at her. Only, 
 he knew what she was doing — or not doing — better than he 
 knew the movements of any one else in the room. Margaret 
 was so unconscious of herself, and so much amused by watching 
 
MEN AMD GENTLEMEN. 159 
 
 other people, that she never thought whether she was left 
 unnoticed or not. Somebody took her down to dinner; she did not 
 catch the name ; nor did he seem much inclined to talk to her. 
 There was a very animated conversation going on among the 
 gentlemen ; the ladies, for the most part, were silent, employing 
 themselves in taking notes of the dinner and criticising each 
 other's dresses. Margaret caught the clue to the general con- 
 versation, grew interested and listened attentively. Mr. 
 Horsfall, the stranger, whose visit to the town was the original 
 germ of the party, was asking questions relative to the trade 
 and manufactures of the place ; and the rest of the gentle- 
 men — all Milton men — were giving him answers and expla- 
 nations. Some dispute arose, which was warmly contested ; 
 it was referred to Mr. Thornton, who had hardly spoken before ; 
 but who now gave an opinion, the grounds of which were so 
 clearly stated that even the opponents yielded. Margaret's 
 attention was thus called to her host ; his whole manner, as 
 master of the house, and entertainer of his Mends, was so 
 straightforward, yet simple and modest, as to be thoroughly 
 dignified. Margaret thought she had never seen him to so much 
 advantage. When he had come to their house, there had been 
 always something, either of over-eagemess or of that kind of 
 vexed annoyance which seemed ready to pre-suppose that he 
 was unjustly judged, and yet felt too proud to try and make 
 himself better understood. But now, among his fellows, there 
 was no uncertainty as to his position. He was regarded by them 
 as a man of great force of character ; of power in many ways. 
 There was no need to struggle for their respect. He had it, 
 and he knew it ; and the security of this gave a fine grand 
 quietness to his voice and ways, which Margaret had missed 
 before. 
 
 He was not in the habit of talking to ladies ; and what he 
 did say was a little formal. To Margaret herself he hardly 
 spoke at all. She was surprised to think how much she enjoyed 
 this dinner. She knew enough now to understand many local 
 interests — nay, even some of the technical words employed by 
 the eager mOlowners. She silently took a very decided part in 
 the question they were discussing. At any rate, they talked in 
 desperate earnest, — not in the used-up style that wearied her 
 so in the old London parties. She wondered that, with all 
 this dwelling on the manufactures and trade of the place, no 
 allusion was made to the strike then pending. She did not yet 
 know how coolly such things were taken by the masters, as 
 
160 NOETH AND SOUTH. 
 
 jhaving only one possible end. To be sure, the men were cutting 
 their own throats, as they had done many a time before ; but 
 if they would be fools, and put themselves into the hands of a 
 frasoally set of paid delegates, they must take the consequence. 
 ' One or two thought Thornton looked out of spirits ; and, of 
 course, he must lose by this turn-out. But it was an accident 
 that might happen to themselves any day ; and Thornton was 
 as good to manage a strike as any one ; for he was as iron a 
 chap as any in Milton. The hands had mistaken their man in 
 trying that dodge on him. And they chuckled inwardly at the 
 idea of the workmen's discomfiture and defeat, in their attempt 
 to alter one iota of what Thornton had decreed. 
 
 It was rather dull for Margaret after dinner. She was glad 
 when the gentlemen came, not merely because she caught her 
 father's eye to brighten her sleepiness up ; but because she 
 could listen to something larger and grander than the petty 
 interests which the ladies had been talking about. She Uked 
 the exultation in the sense of power which tiese Milton men 
 had. It might be rather rampant in its display, and savour of 
 boasting ; but still they seemed to defy the old limits of possi- 
 bility, in a kind of fine intoxication, caused by the recollection 
 of what had been achieved, and what yet should be. K in her 
 cooler moments she might not approve of their spirit in all 
 things, still there was much to admire in their forgetfahiess of 
 themselves and the present, in their anticipated triumphs over 
 all inanimate matter at some future time which none of them 
 should live to see. She was rather startled when Mr. Thornton 
 spoke to her, close at her elbow : 
 
 " I could see you were on our side in our discussion at 
 linner, — ^were you not. Miss Hale ? " 
 
 " Certainly. But then I know so little about it. I was 
 surprised, however, to find from what Mr. Horsfall said, that 
 there were others who thought in so diametrically opposite a 
 manner, as the Mr. Morison he spoke about. He cannot be a 
 gentleman — is he ? " 
 
 "I am not quite the person to decide on another's gentle- 
 manliness. Miss Hale. I mean, I don't quite understand your 
 application of the word. But I should say that this Morison 
 is no true man. I don't know who he is ; I merely judge him 
 from Mr. Horsfall's account." 
 
 " I suspect my ' gentleman ' includes your ' true man.' " 
 
 " And a great deal more, you would imply. I dififer from you. 
 A man is to me a higher and a completer being than a gentleman." 
 
MEN AND GENTLEMEN. 161 
 
 " What do you mean ? " asked Margaret. " We must 
 understand the words differently." 
 
 " I take it that ' gentleman ' is a term that only deseribes 
 a person in his relation to others ; but when we speak of him 
 as ' a man,' we consider him not merely with regard to his 
 fellow-men, but in relation to himself, — to life — ^to time — to 
 eternity. A cast-away lonely as Eobinson Crusoe — a prisoner 
 immured in a dungeon for life — nay, even a saint in PatmoB, 
 has his endurance, his strength, his faith, best described by 
 being spoken of as 'a man.' I am rather weary of this word 
 ' gentlemanly,' which seems to me to be often inappropriately 
 used, and often, too, with such exaggerated distortion of mean- 
 ing, while the full simplicity of the noun ' man,' and the 
 adjective ' manly ' are unacknowledged — ^that I am induced to 
 class it with the cant of the day." 
 
 Margaret thought a moment — but before she could speak 
 her slow conviction, he was called away by some of the eager 
 manufacturers, whose speeches she could not hear, though she 
 could guess at their import by the short clear answers Mr. 
 Thornton gave, which came steady and firm as the boom of a 
 distant minute gun. They were evidently talking of the turn- 
 out, and suggesting what course had best be pursued. She 
 heard Mr. Thornton say : 
 
 " That has been done." Then came a hurried murmur, in 
 which two or three joined. 
 
 " All those arrangements have been made." 
 
 Some doubts were implied, some difSculties named by Mr. 
 Slickson, who took hold of Mr. Thornton's arm, the better 
 to impress his words. Mr. Thornton moved slightly away, 
 lifted his eybrows a very little, and then replied : 
 
 " I take the risk. You need not join in it unless you 
 choose." Still some more fears were urged. 
 
 " I'm not afraid of anything so dastardly as incendia- 
 rism. We are open enemies; and I can protect myself 
 from any violence that I apprehend. And I will assuredly 
 protect all others who come to me for work. They knov 
 my determination by this time, as well and as fully as 
 you do." 
 
 Mr. Horsfall took him a little on one side, as Margaret con- 
 jectured, to ask him some other question about the strike ; bu^ 
 in truth, it was to inquire who she herself was — so quiet, s» 
 stately, and so beautiM. 
 
 " A Milton lady ? " asked he, as the name was given. 
 
 11 
 
162 NOETH AND SOUTH. 
 
 " No ! from the south of England — Hampshire, I beliere,'' 
 was the cold, indiflferent answer. 
 
 Mrs. Sliekson was catechising Fanny on the same subject. 
 
 " Who is that fine distinguished-looking girl ? a sister of 
 Mr. Horsfall's ? " 
 
 " Oh dear,, no ! That is Mr. Hale, her father, talking now 
 to Mr. Stephens. He gives lessons ; that is to say, he reads 
 with young men. My brother John goes to him twice a week, 
 and so he begged mamma to ask them here, in hopes of getting 
 him known. I believe we have some of their prospectuses, if 
 you would like to have one." 
 
 " Mr. Thornton ! Does he reaUy find time to read with a 
 tutor, in the midst of all his business, — and this abominable 
 strike in hand as well ? " 
 
 Fanny was not sure, from Mrs. Slickson's manner, whether 
 she ought to be proud or ashamed of her brother's conduct ; 
 and, Hke all people who try and take other people's " ought" 
 for the rule of their feelings, she was inclined to blush for any 
 singularity of action. Her shame was interrupted by the dis- 
 persion of the guests. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXI. 
 
 THE DARE NIGHT. 
 
 " On earth is known to none 
 The smile that is not sister to a tear." 
 
 Elliott. 
 
 Mabgakbt and her father walked home. The night was 
 fine, the streets clean, and with her pretty white silk, like 
 Leezie Lindsay's gown o' green satin, in the ballad, " kilted up 
 to her knee," she was off with her father — ready to dance along 
 with the excitement of the cool, fresh night air. 
 
 " I rather think Thornton is not quite easy in his mind 
 about this, strike. He seemed very anxious to-night." 
 
 " I should wonder if he were not. But he spoke with his 
 usaal coolness to the others, when they suggested different 
 things, just before we came away." 
 
 " So he did after dinner as well. It would take a good 
 deal to stir him from his cool manner of speaking ; bat his face 
 strikes me as anxious." 
 
THE DARK NIGHT. 163 
 
 " I should be, if I were he. He must know of the growing 
 anger and hardly smothered hatred of his workpeople, who all 
 look upon him as what the Bible calls a ' hard man,' — not so 
 much unjust as unfeeling ; clear in judgment, standing upon 
 his ' rights ' as no human being ought to stand, considering 
 what we and all our petty rights are in the sight of the 
 Almighty. I am glad you think he looks anxious. When I 
 remember Boucher's half mad words and ways, I cannot bear 
 to think how coolly Mr. Thornton spoke." 
 
 " In the first place, 1 am not so convinced as you are about 
 that man Boucher's utter distress ; for the moment, he was 
 badly off, I don't doubt. But there is always a mysterious 
 supply of money from these Unions ; and, from what you said, 
 it was evident the man was of a passionate, demonstrative 
 nature, and gave strong expression to all he felt." 
 
 «' Oh, papa ! " 
 
 " Well ! I only want you to do justice to Mr. Thornton, 
 who is, I suspect, of an exactly opposite nature, — a man who 
 is far too proud to show his feelings. Just the character I 
 should have thought beforehand, you would have admired, 
 Margaret." 
 
 " So I do, — so I should ; but I don't feel quite so sure as 
 you do of the existence of those feelings. He is a man of great 
 strength of character, — of unusual intellect, considering the few 
 advantages he has had." 
 
 " Not so few. He has led a practical life from a very early 
 age ; has been called upon to exercise judgment and self- 
 control. All that developes one part of the intellect. To be 
 sure, he needs some of the knowledge of the past, which gives 
 the truest basis for conjecture as to the future ; but he knows 
 this need, — he perceives it, and that is something. You are 
 quite prejudiced against Mr. Thornton, Margaret." 
 
 " He is the first specimen of a manufacturer — of a person 
 engaged in trade — that I had ever the opportunity of studying, 
 papa. He is my first olive : let me make a face while I swallow 
 it. I know he is good of his kind, and by and by I shall like 
 the kind. I rather think I am already beginning to do so. I 
 was very much interested by what the gentlemen were talking 
 about, although I did not understand half of it. I was quite 
 sorry when Miss Thornton came to take me to the other end of the 
 room, saying she was sure I should be uncomfortable at being 
 the only lady among so many gentlemen. I had never thought 
 about it, I was so busy listening ; and the ladies were so dull, 
 
 11—2 
 
164 NOETH AJ!ID SOUTH. 
 
 papa — oh, so dull I Yet I think it was clever too. It reminded 
 me of our old game of having each so many nouns to iiftroduce 
 into a sentence." 
 
 " What do you mean, child ? " asked Mr. Hale. 
 
 " Why, they took nouns that were signs of things which 
 gave evidence of wealth, — housekeepers, under-gardeners, 
 extent of glass, valuahle lace, diamonds, and all such things ; 
 and each one formed her speech so as to bring them all in, in 
 the prettiest accidental manner possible." 
 
 " You will be as proud of your one servant when you get 
 her, if all is true about her that Mrs. Thornton says." 
 
 " To be sure, I shall. I felt like a great hypocrite to-night, 
 sitting there in my white silk gown, with my idle hands before 
 me, when I remembered all the good, thorough, house-work 
 they had done to-day. They took me for a fine lady, I'm 
 sure." 
 
 " Even I was mistaken enough to think you looked like a 
 lady, my dear," said Mr. Hale, quietly smiling. 
 
 But smiles were changed to white and trembling looks 
 when they saw Dixon's face, as she opened the door. 
 
 " Oh, master ! — Oh, Miss Margaret ! Thank God you are 
 come ! Dr. Donaldson is here. The servant next door went 
 for him, for the charwoman is gone home. She's better now ; 
 but, oh sir ! I thought she'd have died an hour ago." 
 
 Mr. Hale caught Margaret's arm to steady himself from 
 falling. He looked at her face, and saw an expression upon it 
 of surprise and extremest sorrow, but not the agony of terror 
 that contracted his own unprepared heart. She knew more 
 than he did, and yet she listened with that hopeless expression 
 of awed apprehension. 
 
 " Oh ! I should not have left her — wicked daughter that 
 I am ! " moaned forth Margaret, as she supported her trem- 
 bling father's hasty steps up-stairs. Dr. Donaldson met them 
 on the landing. 
 
 " She is better now," he whispered. " The opiate has 
 taken effect. The spasms were very bad : no wonder they 
 frightened your maid ; but she'll rally this time." 
 
 " This time ! Let me go to her ! " Half an hour ago 
 Mr. Hale was a middle-aged man ; now his sight was dim, his 
 senses wavering, his walk tottering, as if he were seventy years 
 of age. 
 
 Dr. Donaldson took his arm, and led him into the bedroom. 
 Margaret followed close. There lay her mother, with an un- 
 
THE DAKK NIGHT. 166 
 
 mistakeable look on her face. She might be better nov ; she 
 was sleeping, but Death had signed her for his own, and it was 
 clear that ere long he wonld return to take possession. Mr. 
 Hale looked at her for some time without a word. Then he 
 began to shake all over, and, turning away from Dr. Donaldson's 
 anxious care, he groped to find the door ; he could not see it, 
 although several candles, brought in the sudden a&ight, were 
 burning and flaring there. He staggered into the drawing- 
 room, and felt about for a chair. Dr. Donaldson wheeled one 
 to him, and placed him in it. He felt his pulse. 
 
 " Speak to him, Miss Hale. We must rouse him." 
 
 " Papa ! " said Margaret, with a crying voice that was wild 
 with pain. " Papa ! Speak to me ! " The speculation came 
 again into his eyes, and he made a great e£fort. 
 
 " Margaret, did you know of this ? Oh, it was cruel of 
 you ! " 
 
 " No, sir, it was not cruel ! " replied Dr. Donaldson, with 
 quick decision. " Miss Hale acted under my directions. 
 There may have been a mistake, but it was not cruel. Your 
 wife will be a different creature to-morrow, I trust. She has 
 had spasms, as I anticipated, though I did not tell Miss Hale 
 of my apprehensions. She has taken the opiate I brought 
 with me ; she will have a good long sleep ; and to-morrow 
 that look which has alarmed you so much wiU have passed 
 away." 
 
 " But not the disease ? " 
 
 Dr. Donaldson glanced at Margaret. Her bent head, her 
 face raised with no appeal for a temporary reprieve, showed 
 that quick observer of human nature that she thought it better 
 that the whole truth should be told. 
 
 " Not the disease. We cannot touch the disease, with all 
 our poor vaunted skill. We can only delay its progress — alle- 
 viate the pain it causes. Be a man, sir — a Christian. Have 
 faith in the immortality of the soul, which no pain, no mortal 
 disease, can assail or touch ! " 
 
 But all the reply he got was in the choked words, " Yon 
 have never been married. Dr. Donaldson ; you do not know 
 what it is," and in the deep, manly sobs, which went through 
 the stUlness of the night like heavy pulses of agony. 
 
 Margaret knelt by him, caressing him with tearful caresses. 
 No one, not even Dr. Donaldson, knew how the time went by. 
 Mr. Hale was the first to dare to speak of the necessities of the 
 present moment. 
 
166 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 " What must we do ? " asked he. " Tell ns both. Mar- 
 garet is my staff— my right hand." 
 
 Dr. Donaldson gave his clear, sensible directions. No fear 
 for to-night — nay, even peace for to-morrow, and for many days 
 yet. But no enduring hope of recovery. He advised Mr. Hale 
 to go to bed, and leave only one to watch the slumber, which 
 he hoped would be undisturbed. He promised to come again 
 early in the morning. And, with a warm and kindly shake of 
 the hand, he left them. 
 
 They spoke but few words ; they were too much exhausted 
 by their terror to do more than decide upon the immediate 
 course of action. Mr. Hale was resolved to sit up through the 
 night, and all that Margaret could do was to prevail upon him 
 to rest on the drawing-room sofa. Dixon stoutly and bluntly 
 refused to go to bed ; and, as for Margaret, it was simply im- 
 possible that she should leave her mother, let all the doctors 
 in the world speak of " husbanding resources," and " one 
 watcher only being required." So, Dixon sat, and stared, and 
 winked, and drooped, and picked herself up again vrith a jerk, 
 and finally gave up the battle, and fairly snored. Margaret 
 had taken off her gown and tossed it aside with a sort of im- 
 patient disgust, and put on her dressing-gown. She felt as if 
 she never could sleep again ; as if her whole senses were 
 acutely vital, and all endued with double keenness, for the 
 purposes of watching. Every sight and sound — nay, even 
 every thought, touched some nerve to the very quick. For 
 more than two hours, she heard her father's restless movements 
 in the next room. He came perpetually to the door of her 
 mother's chamber, pausing there to listen, till she, not hearing 
 his close unseen presence, went and opened it to tell biro how 
 all went on, in reply to the questions his baked lips could 
 hardly form. At last he, too, fell asleep, and aU the house was 
 still. Margaret sate behind the curtain thinking. Far away 
 in time, far away in space, seemed all the interests of past 
 days. Not more than thirty-six hours ago, she cared for Bessy 
 Higgins and her father, and her heart was wrung for Boucher ; 
 now, that was aU like a dreaming memory of some former life ; 
 — everything that had passed out of doors seemed dissevered 
 from her mother, and therefore unreal. Even Harley Street 
 appeared more distinct ; there . she remembered, as if it were 
 yesterday, how she had pleased herseK with tracing out her 
 mother's features in her Aunt Shaw's face, — and how letters 
 had come, making her dwell on the thoughts of home with all 
 
THE DAEK NIGHT. 167 
 
 the longing of loTe. Helstone, itself, was in the dim past. 
 The dull gray days of the preceding winter and spring, so un- 
 eventless and monotonous, seemed more associated with what 
 she cared for now above all price. She would fain have canght 
 at the skirts of that departing time, and prayed it to return, 
 and give her back what she had too little valued while it was 
 yet in her possession. What a vain show Life seemed ! How 
 unsubstantial, and flickering, and flitting ! It was as if from 
 some aerial belfry, high up above the stir and jar of the earth, 
 there was a bell continually tolling, " All are shadows ! — all 
 are passing ! — all is past ! " And when the morning dawned, 
 cool and gray, like many a happier morning before — when 
 Margaret looked one by one at the sleepers, it seemed as if the 
 terrible night were unreal as a dream ; it, too, was a shadow. 
 It, too, was past. 
 
 Mrs. Hale herself was not aware when she awoke, how Ul 
 she had been the night before. She was rather surprised at 
 Dr. Donaldson's early visit, and perplexed by the anxious faces 
 of husband and child. She consented to remain in bed that 
 day, saying she certainly was tired ; but, the next, she insisted 
 on getting up ; and Dr. Donaldson gave his consent to her 
 returning into the drawing-room. She was restless and uncom- 
 fortable in every position, and before night she became reij 
 feverish. Mr. Hale was utterly listless, and incapable of 
 deciding on anything. 
 
 " What can we do to spare mamma such another night ? " 
 asked Margaret on the third day. 
 
 "It is to a certain degree, the reaction after the powerful 
 opiates I have been obliged to use. It is more painful for you 
 to see than for her to bear, I believe. But, I think, if we could 
 get a water-bed it might be a good thing. Not but what she 
 will be better to-morrow ; pretty much like herself as she was 
 before this atta.ck. Still, I should like her to have a water-bed. 
 Mrs. Thornton has one, I know. I'll try and call there this 
 afternoon. Stay," said he, his eye catching on Margaret's 
 face, blanched with watching in a sick room, "I'm not sure 
 whether I can go ; I've a long round to take. It would do you 
 no hai-m to have a brisk walk to Marlborough Street, and ask 
 Mrs. Thornton if she can spare it." 
 
 " Certainly," said Margaret. " I could go while mamma 
 is asleep this afternoon. I'm sure Mrs. Thornton would lend 
 it to us." 
 
 Dr. Donaldson's exiDerience told him rightly. Mrs. Hale 
 
168 NORTH Amy south. 
 
 seemed to shake off the consequences of her attack, and looked 
 brighter and better this afternoon than Margaret had ever 
 hoped to see her again. Her daughter left her after dinner, 
 sitting in her easy chair, with her hand lying in her husband's, 
 who looked more worn and suffering than she by far. Still, he 
 could smile now — rather slowly, rather faintly, it is true ; but 
 a day or two before, Margaret never thought to see him smUe 
 
 It was about two miles from their house in Crampton 
 Crescent to Marlborough Street. It was too hot to walk very 
 quickly. An August sun beat straight down into the street at 
 three o'clock in the afternoon. Margaret went along, without 
 noticing anything very different from usual in the first mile 
 and a half of her journey ; she was absorbed in her own thoughts, 
 and had learnt by this time to thread her way through the 
 irregular stream of human beings that flowed through Milton 
 streets. But, by and by, she was struck with an xmusual 
 heaving among the mass of people in the crowded road on 
 which she was entering. They ^d not appear to be moving 
 on, so much as talking, and listening, and buzzing with excite- 
 ment without much stirring from the spot where they might 
 happen to be. Still, as they made way for her, and, wrapt 
 up in the purpose of her errand, and the necessities that 
 suggested it, she was less quick of observation than she might 
 have been, if her mind had been at ease. She had got into 
 Marlborough Street before the full conviction forced itself upon 
 her, that there was a restless, oppressive sense of irritation 
 abroad among the people ; a thunderous atmosphere, morally 
 as well as physically, around her. From every narrow lane 
 opening out on Marlborough Street came up a low distant roar, 
 as of myriads of fierce indignant voices. The inhabitants of 
 each poor squalid dwelling were gathered round the doors and 
 windows, if indeed they were not actually standing in the middle 
 of the narrow ways — all with looks intent towards one point. 
 Marlborough Street itself was the focus of all those human 
 eyes, that betrayed intensest interest of various kinds ; some 
 fierce with anger, some lowering with relentless threats, some 
 dilated with fear, or imploring entreaty; and, as Margaret 
 reached the small side-entrance by the folding doors, in the 
 great dead wall of Marlborough mill-yard, and waited the 
 porter's answer to the bell, she looked round and heard the 
 first long far-off roll of the tempest ; — saw the first slow-surging 
 wave of the dark crowd come, with its threatening crest, tumble 
 
THE DAKK NIGHT. 169 
 
 over, and retreat, at the far end of the street, which a moment 
 ago seemed so full of repressed noise, but which now was 
 ominously still ; aU these circumstances forced themselves on 
 Margaret's notice, but did not sink down into her pre-oceupied 
 heart. She did not know what they meant — ^what was their 
 deep significance ; while she did know, did feel the keen sharp 
 pressure of the knife that was soon to stab her through and 
 through by leaving her motherless. She was trying to realize 
 that, in order that, when it came, she might be ready to 
 comfort her father. 
 
 The porter opened the door cautiously, not nearly wide 
 enough to admit her. 
 
 " It's you, is it, ma'am ? " said he, drawing a long breath, 
 and widening the entrance, but still not opening it fully. 
 Margaret went in. He hastily bolted it behind her. 
 
 " Th' folk are all coming up here, I reckon ?" asked he. 
 
 "I don't know. Something unusual seemed going on; 
 but this street is quite empty, I think." 
 
 She went across the yard and up the steps to the house 
 ■door. There was no near sound, — no steam-engine at work 
 with beat and pant, — no click of machinery, no mingling and 
 clashing of many sharp voices ; but far away, the ominous 
 gathering roar, deep-clamouring. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 A BLOW AND ITS CONSEQUENCES. 
 
 " But work grew scarce, while bread grew dear, 
 And wages lessened, too ; 
 For Irish hordes were bidders here, 
 Our half-paid work to do." 
 
 CoEN Law Rhymes. 
 
 Maegaket was shown into the drawing-room. It had returned 
 into its normal state of bag and covering. The windows were 
 half open because of the heat, and the Venetian blinds covered 
 the glass, — so that a gray grim light, reflected from the pave- 
 ment below, threw all the shadows wrong, and combined with 
 the green-tinged upper light to make even Margaret's own face, 
 as she caught it in the mirrors, look ghastly and wan. She sat 
 and waited ; no one came. Every now and then, the wind 
 
170 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 seemed to bear the distant multitudinous sound nearer ; and 
 yet there was no wind ! It died away into profound stillness 
 between whiles. 
 
 Fanny came in at last. 
 
 " Mamma will come directly, Miss Hale. She desired me 
 to apologise to you as it is. Perhaps you know my brother has 
 imported hands from Ireland, and it has irritated the Milton 
 people excessively — as if he hadn't a right to get labour where 
 he could ; and the stupid wretches here wouldn't work for him ; 
 and now they've frightened these poor Irish starvelings so with 
 their threats, that we daren't let them out. You may see them 
 huddled in that top room in the mill, — and they're to sleep 
 there, to keep them safe from those brutes, who will neither 
 work nor let them work. And mamma is seeing about their 
 food, and John is speaking to them, for some of the women are 
 eryiug to go back. Ah ! here's mamma ! " 
 
 Mrs. Thornton came in with a look of black sternness on 
 her face, which made Margaret feel she had arrived at a bad 
 time to trouble her with her request. However, it was only in 
 compliance with Mi-s. Thornton's expressed desire, that she 
 would ask for whatever they might want in the progress of her 
 mother's illness. Mrs. Thornton's brow contracted, and her 
 mouth grew set, while Margaret spoke with gentle modesty of 
 her mother's restlessness, and Dr. Donaldson's wish that she 
 should have the relief of a water-bed. She ceased. Mrs. 
 Thornton did not reply immediately. Then she started up and 
 exclaimed — 
 
 " They're at the gates ! Call John, Fanny, — call him in 
 from the mill ! They're at the gates ! They'll batter them in ! 
 Call John, I say ! " 
 
 And simultaneously, the gathering tramp — to which she 
 had been listening, instead of heeding Margaret's words — ^was 
 heard just right outside the wall, and an increasing din of 
 angry voices raged behind the wooden barrier, which shook as 
 if the unseen maddened crowd made battering rams of their 
 bodies, and retreated a short space only to come with more 
 united steady impetus against it, till their great beats made the 
 strong gates quiver, like reeds before the wind. 
 
 The women gathered round the windows, fascinated to look 
 on the scene which terrified them. Mrs. Thornton, the women- 
 servants, Margaret, — all were there. Fanny had returned, 
 screaming upstairs as if pursued at every step, and had thrown 
 herself in hysterical sobbing on the sofa. Mrs. Thornton 
 
A BLOW AND ITS CONSEQUENCES. 17] 
 
 natohed for her son, who was still in the mill. He came out, 
 looked up at them — the pale cluster of faces — and smiled good 
 courage to them, before he locked the factory door. Then he 
 called to one of the women to come down and undo his own 
 door, which Fanny had fastened behind her in her mad flight. 
 Mrs. Thornton herself went. And the sound of his well-known 
 and commanding voice, seemed to have been like the taste of 
 blood to the inftiriated multitude outside. Hitherto they had 
 been voiceless, wordless, needing all their breath for their hard- 
 laboured efforts to break down the gates. But now, hearing 
 him speak inside, they set up such a fierce, unearthly groan, 
 that wen Mrs. Thornton was white with fear as she preceded 
 him into the room. He came in a little flushed, but his eyes 
 gleamed, as in answer to the trumpet-call of danger, and with a 
 proud look of defiance on his face, that made him a noble, if 
 not a handsome man. Margaret had always dreaded lest her 
 courage should fail her in any emergency, and she should be 
 proved to be, what she dreaded lest she was — a coward. But 
 now, in this real great time of reasonable fear and nearness of 
 terror, she forgot herself, and felt only an intense sympathy — 
 intense to painfiilness — in the interests of the moment. 
 
 Mr. Thornton came frankly forwards : 
 
 " I'm sorry, Miss Hale, you have visited us at this unfor- 
 tunate moment, when, I fear, you may be involved in whatever 
 risk we have to bear. Mother ! hadn't you better go into the 
 back rooms ? I'm not sure whether they may not have made 
 their way from Pinner's Lane into the stable-yard ; but if not, 
 you will be safer there than here. Go, Jane ! " continued he, 
 addressing the upper-servant. And she went, followed by the 
 others. 
 
 " I stop here ! " said his mother. " Where you are, there 
 I stay." And indeed, retreat into the back rooms was of no 
 avail ; the crowd had surrounded the outbuildings at the rear, 
 and were sending forth their awful threatening roar behind. 
 The servants retreated into the garrets, with many a cry and 
 shriek. Mr. Thornton smiled scornflilly as he heard them. 
 He glanced at Margaret, standing all by herself at the window 
 nearest the factory. Her eyes glittered, her colour was 
 deepened on cheek and lip. As if she felt his look, she turned 
 to him and asked a question that had been for some time in her 
 mind: 
 
 " Where are the poor imported workpeople ? In the 
 factory there ?" 
 
172 NOBTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 " Yes ! I left them cowed up in a small room, at the 
 head of a back flight of stairs ; bidding them run all risks, and 
 escape down there, if they heard any attack made on the mill 
 doors. But it is not them — it is me they want." 
 
 " "When can the soldiers be here ?" asked his mother, in a 
 low hut not unsteady voice. 
 
 He took out his watch with the same steady composure 
 with which he did everything. He made some little calcu- 
 lation : — 
 
 " Supposing Williams got straight off when I told him, 
 and hadn't to dodge about amongst them — it must be twenty 
 minutes yet." 
 
 " Twenty minutes ! " said his mother, for the first time 
 showing her terror in the tones of her voice. 
 
 " Shut down the windows instantly, mother," exclaimed he : 
 " the gates won't bear such another shock. Shut down that 
 window. Miss Hale." 
 
 Margaret shut down her window, and then went to assist 
 Mrs. Thornton's trembling fingers. 
 
 From some cause or other, there was a pause of several 
 minutes in the unseen street. Mrs. Thornton looked with wild 
 anxiety at her son's countenance, as if to gain the interpreta- 
 tion of the sudden stillness from him. His face was set into 
 rigid lines of contemptuous defiance ; neither hope nor fear 
 could be read there. 
 
 Fanny raised herself up : 
 
 " Are they gone ? " asked she, in a whisper. 
 
 " Gone ! " replied he, " Listen ! " 
 
 She did listen ; they all could hear the one great straining 
 breath ; the creak of wood slowly yielding ; the wrench of iron ; 
 the mighty fall of the ponderous gates. Fanny stood up 
 totteiing — ^made a step or two towards her mother, and fell 
 forwards into her arms in a fainting fit. Mrs. Thornton lifted 
 her up with a strength that was as much that of the will as of 
 the body, and carried her away. 
 
 " Thank God ! " said Mr. Thornton, as he watched her 
 out. " Had you not better go upstairs, Miss Hale ? " 
 
 Margaret's lips formed a " No ! " — ^but he could not hear 
 her speak, for the tramp of innumerable steps right under the 
 very wall of the house, and the fierce growl of low deep angry 
 voices that had a ferocious murmur of satisfaction in them, 
 more dreadful than their baffled cries not many minutes before. 
 
 " Never mind ! " said he, thinking to encourage her. " I 
 
A BLOW AUD ITS CONSEQTIElfCES. 173 
 
 am very sorry that you slionld have been entrapped into all 
 this alarm ; but it cannot last long now ; a few minutes more, 
 and the soldiers wUl be here." 
 
 " Oh, God ! " cried Margaret, suddenly ; " there is Boucher. 
 I know his face, though he is livid with rage, — ^he is fighting 
 to get to the front — ^look ! look ! " 
 
 " Who is Boucher ? " asked Mr. Thornton coolly, and 
 coming close to the window to discover the man in whom 
 Margaret took such an interest. As soon as they saw Mr. 
 Thornton, they set up a yell, — ^to call it not human is nothing, 
 — ^it was as the demoniac desire of some terrible wild beast for 
 the food that is withheld from his ravening. Even he drew 
 back for a moment, dismayed at the intensity of hatred he had 
 provoked. 
 
 " Let them yell ! " said he. " In five minutes more — . 
 I only hope my poor Irishmen are not terrified out of their 
 wits by such a fiendlike noise. Keep up your courage for 
 five minutes. Miss Hale." 
 
 " Don't be afraid for me," she said hastily. " But what 
 in five minutes ? Can you do nothing to soothe these poor 
 creatures ? It is aivfal to see them." 
 
 " The soldiers will be here directly, and that will bring 
 them to reason." 
 
 " To reason ! " said Margaret, quickly. " What kind of 
 reason ? " 
 
 " The only reason that does with men that make them- 
 selves into wUd beasts. By heaven! they've turned to the 
 mill- door ! " 
 
 " Mr. Thornton," said Margaret, shaking all over with her 
 passion, " go down this instant, if you are not a coward. Go 
 down and face them like a man. Save these poor strangers, 
 whom you have decoyed here. Speak to your workmen as if 
 they were human beings. Speak to them kindly. Don't let 
 the soldiers come in and cut down poor creatures who are 
 driven mad. I see one there who is. If you have any courage 
 or noble quality in you, go out and speak to them, man to 
 man I " 
 
 He turned and looked at her while she spoke. A dark 
 cloud came over his face while he listened. He set his teeth 
 as he heard her words. 
 
 " I will go. Perhaps I may ask you to accompany mo 
 downstairs, and bar the door behind me ; my mother and sister 
 will need that protection." 
 
174 NOKTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 " Oh 1 ivlr. Thornton ! I do not know — ^I may be wTong — 
 only—" 
 
 But he was gone ; he was downstairs in the hall ; he had 
 unbarred the front door ; all she could do, was to follow him 
 quickly, and fasten it behind him, and clamber up the stairs 
 again with a sick heart and a dizzy head. Again she took her 
 place by the farthest window. He was on the steps below ; ' 
 she saw that by the direction of a thousand angry eyes ; but 
 she could neither see nor hear anything save the savage satis- 
 faction of the rolling angry murmur. She threw the window 
 wide open. Many in the crowd were mere boys ; cruel and 
 thoughtless, — cruel because they were thoughtless ; some were 
 men, gaunt as wolves, and mad for prey. She knew how it 
 was ; they were like Boucher, — ^with starving children at home 
 — ^relying on ultimate success in their efforts to get higher 
 wages, and enraged beyond measure at discovering that Irish- 
 men were to be brought in to rob their little ones of bread. 
 Margaret knew it all ; she read it in Boucher's face, forlornly 
 desperate and livid with rage. If Mr. Thornton would but say 
 something to them — ^let them hear his voice only — it seemed 
 as if it would be better than this wild beating and raging against 
 the stony silence that vouchsafed them no word, even of anger 
 or reproach. But perhaps he was speaking now ; there was a 
 momentary hush of their noise, inarticulate as that of a troop 
 of animals. She tore her bonnet off, and bent forwards to 
 hear. She could only see; for if Mr. Thornton had indeed 
 made the attempt to speak, the momentary instinct to listen 
 to him was past and gone, and the people were raging worse 
 than ever. He stood with his arms folded ; still as a statue ; 
 his face pale with repressed excitement. They were trying to 
 intimidate him — to make him flinch ; each was urging the 
 other on to some immediate act of personal violence. Margaret 
 felt intuitively, that in an instant all would be uproar ; the 
 first touch would cause an explosion, in which, among such 
 hundreds of infuriated men and reckless boys, even Mr. 
 Thornton's life would be unsafe, — that in another instant the 
 stormy passions would have passed their bounds, and swept 
 away all barriers of reason, or apprehension of consequence. 
 Even while she looked, she saw lads in the background stooping 
 to take off their heavy wooden clogs — ^the readiest missile they 
 could find ; she saw it was the spark to the gunpowder, and, 
 with a cry, which no one heard, she rushed out of the room, 
 down stairs, — she had lifted the great iron bar of the door 
 
A BLOW AND ITS CONSEQUENCES. 175 
 
 mth an imperious force — ^had thrown the door open wide — and 
 was there, in face of that angry sea of men, her eyes smiting 
 them with flaming arrows of reproach. The clogs were arrested 
 in the hands that held them — the countenances, so fell not a 
 moment hefore, now looked irresolute, and as if asking what 
 this meant. For she stood between them and their enemy. 
 She could not speak, but held out her arms towards them till 
 she could recover breath. 
 
 " Oh, do not use violence ! He is one man, and you are 
 many ; " but her words died away, for there was no tone in 
 her voice ; it was but a hoarse whisper. Mr. Thornton stood 
 a little on one side ; he had moved away from behind her, as 
 if jealous of anything that should come between him and 
 danger. 
 
 " Go ! " said she, once more (and now her voice was like a 
 cry). " The soldiers are sent for — are coming. Go peaceably. 
 Go away. You shall have relief from your complaints, whatever 
 they are." 
 
 " Shall them Irish blackguards be packed back again ?" 
 asked one from out the crowd, with fierce threatening in his 
 Toice. 
 
 "Never, for your bidding!" exclaimed Mr. Thornton. 
 And instantly the storm broke. The hootings rose and filled 
 the air, — ^but Margaret did not hear them. Her eye was on 
 the group of lads who had armed themselves with their clogs 
 some time before. She saw their gesture — she knew its mean- 
 ing — she read their aim. Another moment, and Mr. Thornton 
 might be smitten down, — ^he whom she had urged and goaded 
 to come to this perilous place. She only thought how she 
 could save him. She threw her arms around him ; she made 
 her body into a shield from the fierce people beyond. Still, 
 with his arms folded, he shook her oflf. 
 
 " Go away," said he, in his deep voice. " This is no 
 place for you." 
 
 "It is," said she. "You did not see what I saw." If 
 she thought her sex would be a protection, — if, with shrinking 
 eyes she had turned away from the terrible anger of these men, 
 in any hope that ere she looked again they would have paused 
 and reflected, and slunk away, and vanished, — she was wrong. 
 Their reckless passion had carried them too far to stop — at 
 least had caaried some of them too far ; for it is always the 
 savage lads, with their love of cruel excitement, who head the 
 riot—reckless to what bloodshed it may lead„ A clog whizzed 
 
176 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 through the air. Margaret's fascinated eyes watched its 
 progress ; it missed its aim, and she turned sick with afiright, 
 but changed not her position, only hid her face on Mr. Thornton's 
 arm. Then she turned and spoke again : 
 
 " For God's sake ! do not damage your cause by this 
 violence. You do not know what you are doing." She strove 
 to make her words distinct. 
 
 A sharp pebble flew by her, grazing forehead and cheek, 
 and drawing a blinding sheet of light before her eyes. She 
 lay like one dead on Mr. Thornton's shoulder. Then he un- 
 folded his arms, and held her encircled in one for an instant : 
 
 "You do well ! " said he. " You come to oust the inno- 
 cent stranger. You fall — ^you hundreds — on one man ; and 
 when a woman comes before you, to ask you for your own sakes 
 to be reasonable creatures, your cowardly wrath falls upon her ! 
 You do well ! " They were silent while he spoke. They were 
 watching, open-eyed and open-mouthed, the thread of daik-red 
 blood which wakened them up from their trance of passion. 
 Those nearest the gate stole out ashamed ; there was a move- 
 ment through all the crowd — a retreating movement. Only 
 one voice cried out : 
 
 " Th' stone were meant for thee ; but thou wert sheltered 
 behind a woman ! " 
 
 Mr. Thornton quivered with rage. The blood-flowing had 
 made Margaret conscious — dimly, vaguely conscious. He 
 placed her gently on the door-step, her head leaning against 
 the frame. 
 
 "Can you rest there?" he asked. But without waiting 
 for her answer, he went slowly down the steps right into the 
 middle of the crowd. " Now kill me, if it is your brutal will. 
 There is no woman to shield me here. You may beat me to 
 death — you will never move me from what I have determined 
 upon — not you ! " He stood amongst them, with his arms 
 folded, in precisely the same attitude as he had been in on 
 the steps. 
 
 But the retrogade movement towards the gate had begun — 
 as unreasoningly, perhaps as blindly, as the simultaneous anger. 
 Or, perhaps, the idea of the approach of the soldiers, and the 
 sight of that pale, upturned face, with closed eyes, still and sad 
 as marble, though the tears weUed out of the long entanglement 
 of eyelashes, and dropped down ; and, heavier, slower plash 
 than even tears, came the drip of blood from her wound. Even 
 the most desperate — Boucher himself — drew back, faltered 
 
A BLOW AND ITS CONSEQUENCES. 177 
 
 away, scowled, and finally went off, muttering cnrses on the 
 master, who stood in his unchanging attitude, looking after 
 their retreat with defiant eyes. The moment that retreat had 
 changed into a flight (as it was sure from its very character to 
 do), he darted up the steps to Margaret. 
 
 She tried to rise without his help. 
 
 "It is. nothing," she said, with a sickly smile. " Th» 
 skin is grazed, and I was stunned at the moment. Oh, 
 I am so thankfd they are gone ! " And she cried without 
 restraint. 
 
 He could not sympathise with her. His anger had not 
 abated ; it was rather rising the more as his sense of immediate 
 danger was passing away. The distant clank of the soldiers 
 was heard : just five minutes too late to make this vanished 
 mob feel the power of authority and order. He hoped they 
 would see the troops, and be quelled by the thought of their 
 narrow escape. While these thoughts crossed his mind, Mar- 
 garet clung to the doorpost to steady herself : but a film came 
 over her eyes — he was only just in time to catch her. " Mother 
 — mother ! " cried he ; " Come down — they are gone, and 
 Miss Hale is hurt ! " He bore her into the dining-room, and 
 laid her on the sofa there ; laid her down softly, and looking 
 on her pure white face, the sense of what she was to him came 
 upon him so keenly that he spoke it out in his pain : 
 
 " Oh, my Margaret — ^my Margaret ! no one can tell what 
 you are to me ! Dead — cold as you lie there, you are the only 
 woman I ever loved ! Oh, Margaret — Margaret ! " 
 
 Inarticulately as he spoke, kneeling by her, and rather 
 moaning than saying the words, he started up, ashamed of 
 himself, as his mother came in. She saw nothing, but her son 
 a little paler, a little sterner than usual. 
 
 " Miss Hale is hurt, mother. A stone has grazed her 
 temple. She has lost a good deal of blood, I'm afraid." 
 
 " She looks very seriously hurt, — I could almost fancy her 
 dead," said Mrs. Thornton, a good deal alarmed. 
 
 " It is only a fainting-fit. She has spoken to me since." 
 But all the blood in his body seemed to rush inwards to his 
 heart as he spoke, and he absolutely trembled. 
 
 " Go and call Jane, — she can find me the things I want ; 
 and do you go to your Irish people, who are crying and shouting 
 as if they were mad with fright." 
 
 He went. He went away as if weights were tied to every 
 limb that bore him from her. He called Jane ; he called his 
 
 12 
 
178 IfOETH AND SOUTH. 
 
 Bister. She should have all womanly care, all gentle tendance. 
 But every pulse beat in him as he remembered how she had 
 come down and placed herself in foremost danger, — conld it 
 be to save him ? At the time, he had pushed her aside, and 
 spoken gruffly ; he had seen nothing but the unnecessary 
 danger she had placed herself in. He went to his Irish people, 
 with every nerve in his body thrilling at the thought of her, 
 and found it difficult to understand enough of what they were 
 saying to soothe and comfort away their fears. There, 
 they declared, they would not stop ; they claimed to be sent 
 back. 
 
 And so he had to think, and talk, and reason. 
 
 Mrs. Thornton bathed Margaret's temples with eau de 
 Cologne. As the spirit touched the wound, which till then 
 neither Mrs. Thornton nor Jane had perceived, Margaret 
 opened her eyes ; but it was evident she did not know where 
 she was, nor who they were. The dark circles deepened, the 
 lips quivered and contracted, and she became insensible once 
 more. 
 
 " She has had a terrible blow," said Mrs. Thornton. "Is 
 there any one who will go for a doctor ? " 
 
 "Not me, ma'am, if you please," said Jane, shrinking 
 back. " Them rabble may be all about ; I don't think the cut 
 is so deep, ma'am, as it looks." 
 
 " I will not run the chance. She was hurt in our house. 
 If you are a coward, Jane, I am not. I will go." 
 
 " Pray, ma'am, let me send one of the police. There's 
 ever so many come up, and soldiers too." 
 
 "And yet you're afraid to go ! I will not have their time 
 taken up with our errands. They'll have enough to do to 
 catch some of the mob. You will not be afraid to stop in this 
 house," she asked contemptuously, " and go on bathing Miss 
 Hale's forehead, shall you ? I shall not be ten minutes away." 
 
 " Couldn't Hannah go, ma'am ? " 
 
 " Why Hannah ? Why any but you ? No, Jane, if yon 
 don't go, I do." 
 
 Mrs. Thornton went first to the room in which she had 
 left Fanny stretched on the bed. She started up as her mother 
 entered. 
 
 " Oh, mamma, how you terrified me ! I thought you were 
 a man that had got into the house." 
 
 "Nonsense! The men are all gone away. There are 
 soldiers all round the place, seeking for their work now it is 
 
A BLOW AND ITS CONSEQUENCES. 179 
 
 too late. Miss Hale is lying on the dining-room sofa badly 
 hurt. I am going for the doctor." 
 
 " Oh ! don't mamma ! they'll mnrder you." She clung to 
 her mother's gown. Mrs. Thornton wrenched it away with no 
 gentle hand. 
 
 " Find me some one else to go ; but that girl must not 
 bleed to death." 
 
 " Bleed ! oh, how horrid ! How has she got hurt ? " 
 
 " I don't know, — I have no time to ask. Go down to her, 
 Fanny, and do try to make yourself of use. Jane is with her ; 
 and I trust it looks worse than it is. Jane has refused to 
 leave the house, cowardly woman ! And I won't put myself in 
 the way of any more refusals from my servants, so I am going 
 myself." 
 
 " Oh, dear, dear !" said Fanny, crying, and preparing to 
 go down rather than be left alone, with the thought of wounds 
 and bloodshed in the very house. 
 
 " Oh, Jane ! " said she, creeping into the dining-room, 
 " what is the matter? How white she looks ! How did she 
 get hurt ? Did they throw stones into the drawing-room ? " 
 
 Margaret did indeed look white and wan, although her 
 senses were beginning to return to her. But the sickly daze 
 of the swoon made her still miserably faint. She was conscious 
 of movement around her, and of refreshment from the eau de 
 Cologne, and a craving for the bathing to go on without inter- 
 mission ; but when they stopped to talk, she could no more 
 have opened her eyes, or spoken to ask for more bathing, than 
 the people who lie in death-like trance can move, or utter 
 sound, to arrest the awfiil preparations for their burial, while 
 they are yet fully aware, not merely of the actions of those 
 around them, but of the idea that is the motive for such 
 actions. 
 
 Jane paused in her bathing, to reply to Miss Thornton's 
 question. 
 
 " She'd have been safe enough, miss, if she'd stayed in the 
 drawing-room, or come up to us ; we were in the front garret, 
 and could see it all, out of harm's way." 
 
 " Where was she then ? " said Fanny, drawing nearer by 
 slow degrees, as she became accustomed to the sight of Mar- 
 garet's pale face. 
 
 " Just before the front door — ^with master I " said Jane, 
 significantly. 
 
 " With John 1 with my brother I How did she get there ? " 
 
 12—2 
 
180 NOETH AND SOUTH. 
 
 " Nay, miss, that's not for me to say," answered Jane, with 
 a slight toss of her head. " Sarah did ": 
 
 " Sarah what ? " said Fanny, with impatient curiosity. 
 
 Jane resumed her hathing, as if what Sarah did or said 
 was not exactly the thing she liked to repeat. 
 
 " Sarah what ?" asked Fanny, sharply. " Don't speak in 
 these half sentences, or I can't understand you." 
 
 " Well, miss, since you will have it — Sarah, you see, was 
 in the hest place for seeing, being at the right-hand window ; 
 and she says, and said at the very time too, that she saw Miss 
 Hale with her arms about master's neck, hugging him before 
 all the people." 
 
 " I don't believe it," said Fanny." " I know she cares for 
 my brother ; any one can see that ; and I dare say, she'd give 
 her eyes if he'd marry her, — ^which he never wiU, I can tell 
 her. But I don't believe she'd be so bold and forward as to 
 put her arms round his neck." 
 
 " Poor young lady ! she's paid for it dearly if she did. 
 It's my belief, that the blow has given her such an ascendancy 
 of blood to the head as she'll never get the better from. She 
 looks Hke a corpse now." 
 
 " Oh, I wish mamma would come !" said Fanny, wringing 
 her hands. " I never was in the room with a dead person 
 before." 
 
 " Stay, miss ! She's not dead : her eye-lids are quivering, 
 and here's wet tears a-coming down her cheeks. Speak to 
 her. Miss Fanny ! " 
 
 " Are you better now ? " asked Fanny, in a quavering voice. 
 
 No answer ; no sign of recognition ; but a faint pink colour 
 returned to her lips, although the rest of her face was ashen 
 pale. 
 
 Mrs. Thornton came hurriedly in, with the nearest surgeon 
 she could find. 
 
 " How is she ? Are you better, my dear ? " as Margaret 
 opened her filmy eyes, and gazed dreamily at her. " Here is 
 Mr. Lowe come to see you." 
 
 Mrs. Thornton spoke loudly and distinctly, as to a deaf 
 person. Margaret tried to rise, and drew her ruffled, luxuriant 
 hair instinctively over the cut. 
 
 " I am better now," said she, in a very low, faint voice. 
 " I was a little sick." 
 
 She let him take her hand and feel her pulse. The bright 
 colour came for a moment into her face, N?hen he asked to 
 
A BLOW AND ITS CONSEQUENCES. 181 
 
 examine the votmd in her forehead ; and she glanced np at 
 Jane, as if shrinking from her inspection more than from the 
 doctor's. 
 
 " It is not much, I think. I am hetter now. I most go 
 home." 
 
 " Not until I have applied some strips of plaster, and you 
 have rested a little." 
 
 She sat down hastily, without another word, and allowed it 
 to be bound up. 
 
 " Now, if you please," said she, " I must go. Mamma 
 will not see it, I think. It is under the hair, is it not ? " 
 
 " Quite ; no one could tell." 
 
 " But you must not go," said Mrs. Thornton, impatiently. 
 " You are not fit to go." 
 
 " I must," said Margaret, decidedly. " Think of mamma. 
 If they should hear Besides, I must go," said she, vehe- 
 mently. " I cannot stay here. May I ask for a cab ? " 
 
 " You are quite flushed and feverish," observed Mr. Lowe. 
 
 " It is only with being here, when I do so want to go. The 
 air — getting away, would do me more good than anything," 
 .pleaded she. 
 
 " I really believe it is as she says," Mr. Lowe replied. " If 
 her mother is so ill as you told me on the way here, it may be 
 very serious if she hears of this riot, and does not see her 
 daughter back at the time she expects. The injury is not 
 deep. I wiU fetch a cab, if your servants are still afraid to 
 go out." 
 
 " Oh, thank you ! " said Margaret. " It will do me more 
 good than anything. It is the air of this room that makes me 
 feel so miserable." 
 
 She leant back on the sofa, and closed her eyes. Fanny 
 beckoned her mother out of the room, and told her something 
 that made her equally anxious with Margaret for the departure 
 of the latter. Not that she fully believed Fanny's statement ; 
 tut she credited enough to make her manner to Margaret 
 appear very much constrained, at wishing her good-bye. 
 
 Mr. Lowe returned in the cab. 
 
 " If you will allow me, I will see you home. Miss Hale. 
 The streets are not very quiet yet." 
 
 Margaret's thoughts were quite alive enough to the present 
 to make her desirous of getting rid of both Mr. Lowe and the 
 oab before she reached Crampton Crescent, for fear of alarming 
 her father and mother. Beyond that one aim she would not 
 
182 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 look. That ugly dream of insolent words spoken about herself^ 
 could never be forgotten — ^but could be put aside till she was 
 stronger — for, oh ! she was very weak ; and her mind sought 
 for some present fact to steady itself upon, and keep it from 
 utterly losing consciousness in another Mdeous, sickly swoon. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXni, 
 
 MISTAKES. 
 
 " Which when his mother saw, she in her mind 
 Was troubled sore, ne wist well what to ween." 
 
 Spbkbeb. 
 
 Maegaeet had not been gone five minutes when Mr. Thornton 
 came in, his face all a-glow. 
 
 " I could not come sooner : the superintendent would 
 
 Where is she ? " He looked round the dining-room, and then 
 almost fiercely at his mother, who was quietly re-arrangiug the 
 disturbed furniture, and did not instantly reply. " Where is 
 Miss Hale ? " asked he again. 
 
 " Gone home," said she, rather shortly. 
 
 " Gone home ! " 
 
 "Yes. She was a great deal better. Indeed, I don't 
 believe it was so very much of a hurt ; only some people faint 
 at the least thing." 
 
 " I am sorry she is gone home," said he, walking uneasily 
 about. " She could not have been fit for it." 
 
 " She said she was ; and Mr. Lowe said she was. I went 
 for him myself." 
 
 " Thank you, mother." He stopped, and partly held out 
 his hand to give her a gratefd skake. But she did not notice 
 the movement. 
 
 " What have you done with your Irish people ? " 
 
 " Sent to the Dragon for a good meal for them, pooi 
 wretches. And then, luckily, I caught Father Grady, and I've 
 asked him in to speak to them, and dissuade them from going 
 off in a body. How did Miss Hale go home ? I'm sure she 
 could not walk." 
 
 " She had a cab. Everything was done properly, even to 
 the paying. Let us talk of something else. She has caused 
 disturbance enough." 
 
MISTAKES. 183 
 
 '• I don't know where I should have been but for her." 
 
 " Are you become so helpless as to have to be defended by 
 a girl ? " asked Mrs. Thornton scornfliUy. 
 
 He reddened. " Not many girls would have taken the 
 blows on herself which were meant for me ; — meant with right 
 down goodwill, too." 
 
 " A girl in love will do a good deal," replied Mrs. Thornton, 
 shortly. 
 
 " Mother ! " He made a step forwards ; stood still; heaved 
 with passion. 
 
 She was a little startled at the evident force he used to 
 keep himself calm. She was not sure of the nature of the 
 emotions she had provoked. It was only their violence that 
 was clear. Was it anger ? His eyes glowed, his figure was 
 dilated, his breath came thick and fast. It was a mixture of 
 joy, of anger, of pride, of glad surprise, of panting doubt ; but 
 she could not read it. Still it made her uneasy, — as the 
 presence of all strong feeling, of which the cause is not fuUy 
 understood or sympathised in, always has this effect She went 
 to the side-board, opened a drawer, and took out a duster, 
 which she kept there for any occasional purpose. She had 
 seen a drop of eau de Cologne on the polished arm of the aofa, 
 and instinctively sought to wipe it off. But she kept her back 
 turned to her son much longer than was necessary ; and when 
 she spoke, her voice seemed unusual and constrained. 
 
 " You have taken some steps about the rioters, I suppose? 
 You don't apprehend any more violence, do you ? Where were 
 the police ? Never at hand when they're wanted ! " 
 
 " On the contrary, I saw three or four of them, when the 
 gates gave way, struggling and beating about in fine fashion ; 
 and more came running up just when the yard was clearing. I 
 might have given some of the fellows in charge then, if I had 
 had my wits about me. But there will be no difficulty, plenty 
 of people can identify them." 
 
 " But won't they come back to night ? " 
 
 " I'm going to see about a sufficient guard for the premises. 
 I have appointed to meet Captain Hanbury in half an hour at 
 the station." 
 
 " You must have some tea first." 
 
 " Tea ! Yes, I suppose I must. It's half-past six, and I 
 may be out for some time. Don't sit up for me, mother." 
 
 " You expect me to go to bed before I have seen you safe, 
 do you ? " 
 
184 NOETH AND SOUTH. 
 
 " Well, perhaps not." He hesitated for a moment. " But 
 if I've time, I shall go round by Crampton, after I've arranged 
 with the police and seen Hamper and Clarkson." Their eyes 
 met ; they looked at each other intently for a minute. Then 
 she asked : 
 
 " Why are you going round by Crampton ? " 
 
 " To ask after Miss Hale." 
 
 " I will send. Williams must take the water-bed she came 
 to ask for. He shall inquire how she is." 
 
 " I must go myself." 
 
 " Not merely to ask how Miss Hale is ? " 
 
 " No, not merely for that. I want to thank her for the 
 way in which she stood between me and the mob." 
 
 " What made you go down at all ? It was putting your 
 head into the lion's mouth ! " 
 
 He glanced sharply at her ; saw that she did not know 
 what had passed between him and Margaret in the drawing- 
 room ; and replied by another question : 
 
 " Shall you be afraid to be left without me, until I can get 
 some of the police ; or had we better send Williams for them 
 now, and they could be here by the time we have done tea ? 
 There's no time to be lost. I must be off in a quarter of an 
 hour." 
 
 Mrs. Thornton left the room. Her servants wondered at 
 her directions, usually so sharply-cut and decided, now confused 
 and uncertain. Mr. Thornton remained in the dining-room, 
 trying to think of the business he had to do at the police-office, 
 . and in reality thinking of Margaret. Everything seemed dim 
 and vague beyond — behind — ^besides the touch of her arms 
 round his neck — ^the soft cUnging which made the dark colour 
 come and go in his cheek as he thought of it. 
 
 The tea would have been very silent, but for Fanny's per- 
 petual description of her own feelings ; how she had been 
 alarmed — and then thought they were gone — and then felt sick 
 and faint and trembling in every limb. 
 
 " There, that's enough," said her brother, rising from the 
 table. " The reality was enough for me." He was going to 
 leave the room, when his mother stopped him with her hand 
 upon his arm. 
 
 " You will come back here before you go to the Hales'," 
 said she, in a low, anxious voice. 
 
 " I know what I know," said Fanny to herself. 
 
 " Why ? Will it be too late to disturb them ? " 
 
MISTAKES. 186 
 
 " John, come back to me for this one evening. It will be 
 late for Mrs. Hale. But that is not it. To-morrow, you 
 
 will Come back to-night, John ! " She had seldom 
 
 pleaded with her son at all — she was too proud for that : but 
 she had never pleaded in vain. 
 
 " I will return straight here after I have done my business. 
 You will he sure to inquire after them? — after her ? " 
 
 Mrs. Thornton was by no means a talkative companion to 
 Fanny, nor yet a good listener while her son was absent. But 
 on his return, her eyes and ears were keen to see and to listen 
 to all the details which he could give, as to the steps he had 
 taken to secure himself, and those whom he chose to employ, 
 from any repetition of the day's outrages. He clearly saw his 
 object. Punishment and suffering, were the natural conse- 
 quences to those who had taken part in the riot. All that was 
 necessary, in order that property should be protected, and that 
 the wiU of the proprietor might cat to his end, clean and sharp 
 as a sword. 
 
 " Mother ! You know what I have got to say to Miss Hale, 
 to-morrow ? " 
 
 The question came upon her suddenly, during a pause in 
 which she, at least, had forgotten Margaret. 
 
 She looked up at him. 
 
 " Yes ! I do. You can hardly do otherwise." 
 
 "Do otherwise ! I don't understand you." 
 
 " I mean that, after allowing her feelings so to overcome 
 her, I consider you bound in honour — " 
 
 " Bound in honour," said he scornfully. " I'm afraid 
 honour has nothing to do with it. ' Her feelings overcome 
 her I ' What feelings do you mean ? " 
 
 "Nay, John, there is no need to be angry. Did she not 
 rush down and cling to you to save you from danger ? " 
 
 " She did ! " said he. " But, mother," continued he, 
 stopping short in his walk right in front of' her. " I dare not 
 hope. I never was faint-hearted before ; but I cannot believe 
 such a creature cares for me." 
 
 " Don't be foolish, John. Such a creature ! Why, she 
 might be a duke's daughter, to hear you speak. And what 
 proof more would you have, I wonder, of her caring for you ? 
 I can believe she has had a struggle with her aristocratic way 
 of viewing things ; but I like her the better for seeing clearly 
 at last. It is a good deal for me to say," said Mrs. Thornton, 
 smiling slowly, while the tears stood in her eyes; "for after 
 
186 NORTH ASD SOUTH. 
 
 to-night, I stand second. It was to have you to myself, all to 
 myself, a few hours longer, that I begged you not to go till 
 to»morrow." 
 
 " Dearest mother! " (Still love is selfish, and in an instant 
 he reverted to his own hopes and fears in a way that drew the cold 
 creeping shadow over Mrs. Thornton's heart.) " But I know 
 she does not care for me. I shall put myself at her feet — I 
 must. If it were but one chance in a thousand — or a million 
 — I should do it." 
 
 "Don't fear!" said his mother, crushing down her own 
 personal mortification at the little notice he had taken of the 
 rare ebullition of her maternal feelings — of the pang of jealousy 
 that betrayed the intensity of her disregarded love. " Don't 
 be afraid," she said, coldly. " As far as love may go she may 
 be worthy of you. It must have taken a good deal to over- 
 come her pride. Don't be afraid, John,'" said she, kissing 
 him, as she wished him good-night. And she went slowly and 
 majestically out of the room. But when she got into her own, 
 she locked the door, and sate down to cry unwonted tears. 
 
 Margaret entered the room (where her father and mother 
 still sat, holding low conversation together), looking veiy pale 
 and white. She came close up to them before she could trust 
 herself to speak. 
 
 " Mrs. Thornton will send the water-bed, mamma." 
 
 " Dear, how tired you look ! Is it very hot, Margaret ? " 
 
 " Very hot, and the streets are rather rough with the 
 strike." 
 
 Margaret's colour came back vivid and bright as ever ; but 
 it faded away instantly. 
 
 "Here has been a message from Bessy Higgins, asking you to 
 go to her," said Mrs. Hale. "But I'm sure you look too tired." 
 
 " Yes ! " said Margaret. " I am tired, I cannot go." 
 
 She was very silent and trembling while she made tea. 
 She was thankful to see her father so much occupied with her 
 mother as not to notice her looks. Even after her mother 
 went to bed, he was not content to be absent fi:om her, but 
 undertook to read her to sleep. Margaret was alone. 
 
 " Now I will think of it — now I will remember it all. I 
 could not before — I dared not." She sat still in her chair, her 
 hands clasped on her knees, her lips compressed, her eyes fixed 
 as one who sees a vision. She drew a deep breath. 
 
 " I, who hate scenes — ^I, who have despised people for 
 
KISTAKES. 167 
 
 Bhowing emotion — ^who have thought them wanting in self- 
 control — I went down and must needs throw myself into 
 the melee, like a romantic fool ! Did I do any good ? They 
 would have gone away without me, I dare say." But this 
 was overleaping the rational conclusion, — as in an instant 
 her well-poised judgment felt. "No, perhaps they would not. 
 I did some good. But what possessed me to defend that man 
 as if he were a helpless child ! Ah ! " said she, clenching her 
 hands together, " it is no wonder those people thought I was 
 in love with him, after disgracing myself in that way. I in love 
 — and with him too ! " Her pale cheeks suddenly became one 
 flame of fire ; and she covered her face with her hands. When 
 she took them away, her palms were wet with scalding tears." 
 
 " Oh how low I am fallen that they should say that of me ! 
 I could not have been so brave for any one else, just because 
 he was so utterly indifferent- to me — if, indeed, I do not 
 positively dislike him. It made me the more anxious that 
 there should be fair play on each side ; and I could see what 
 fair play was. It was not fair," said she vehemently, " that he 
 should stand there — sheltered, awaiting the soldiers, who might 
 catch those poor maddened creatures as in a trap — without an 
 effort on his part, to bring them to reason. And it was worse 
 than unfair for them to set on him as they threatened. I would 
 do it again, let who wiU say what they like of me. If I saved one 
 blow, one cruel, angry action that might otherwise have been 
 committed, I did a woman's work. Let them insult my maiden 
 pride as they will — ^I walk pure before God ! " 
 
 She looked up, and a noble peace seemed to descend and 
 calm her face, tUl it was " stiller than chiselled marble." 
 
 Dixon came in : 
 
 " If you please, Miss Margaret, here's the water-bed from 
 Mrs. Thornton's. It's too late for to-night. I'm afraid, for 
 missus is nearly asleep : but it will do nicely for to-morrow." 
 
 " Very," said Margaret. " You must send our best 
 thanks." 
 
 Dixon left the room for a moment. 
 
 " If you please, Miss Margaret, he says he's to ask par- 
 ticular how you are. I think he must mean missus ; but he 
 says his last words were, to ask how Miss Hale was." 
 
 "Me!" said Margaret, drawing herself up. "I am quita 
 well. TeU him I am perfectly well." But her complexion waa 
 as deadly white as her handkerchief; and her head ached 
 intensely. 
 
188 NOETH AND SOUTH. 
 
 Mr. Hale now came in. He had left his sleeping wife ; and 
 wanted, as Maxgaret saw, to be amused and interested by some- 
 thing that she was to tell him. With sweet patience did she 
 bear her pain, without a word of complaint ; and rummaged up 
 numberless small subjects for conversation — all except the riot, 
 and that she never named once. It turned her sick to think of it. 
 
 " Good night, Margaret. I have every chance of a good 
 night myself, and you are looking very pale with your watching. 
 I shall call Dixon if your mother needs anything. Do you go to 
 bed and sleep like a top ; for I'm sure you need it, poor ebUdl " 
 
 " Good-night, papa ! " 
 
 She let her colour go — ^the false smile fade away — ^the eyes 
 grow dull with heavy pain. She released her strong will from 
 its laborious task. TiU morning she might feel iU and weary. 
 
 She lay down and never stirred. To move hand or foot, or 
 even so much as one finger, would have been an exertion 
 beyond the powers of either vohtion or motion. She was so 
 tired, so stunned, that she thought she never slept at aU ; her 
 feverish thoughts passed and repassed the boundary between 
 sleeping and wakmg, and kept their own miserable identity. 
 She could not be alone, prostrate, powerless as she was, — a 
 cloud of faces looked up at her, giving her no idea of fierce 
 vivid anger, or of personal danger, but a deep sense of shame 
 that she should thus be the object of universal regard — a sense 
 of shame so acute that it seemed as if she would fain have bur- 
 rowed into the earth to hide herself, and yet she could not 
 escape out of that unwinking glare of many eyes. 
 
 CHAI>TEE XXIV. 
 MISTAKES CLEARED UP. 
 
 " Tonr beauty was the first that won the place, 
 And scal'd the walls of my undaunted heart, 
 
 Which, captive now, pines in a caitive case, 
 Unkindly met with rigour for desert : — 
 
 Yet not the less your servant shall abide, 
 
 In spite of rude repulse or silent pride." 
 
 WrLLLAJC FOWLEB. 
 
 The next morning, Margaret dragged herself up, thankful that 
 the night was over, — unrefreshed, yet rested. All had 
 gone well through the house ; her mother had only wakened 
 once. A little breeze was stirring in the hot air, and though 
 
MISTAKES CLEARED UP. 189 
 
 there were no trees to show the playful tossing movement 
 caused by the wind among the leaves, Margaret knew how, 
 somewhere or another, by wayside, in copses, or in thick 
 green woods, there was a pleasant, murmnring dancing sound, 
 — a rushing and falling noise, the very thought of which was 
 an echo of distant gladness in her heart. 
 
 She sat at her work in Mrs. Hale's room. As soon as that 
 forenoon slumber was over, she would help her mother to dress ; 
 after dinner, she would go and see Bessy Higgins. She would 
 banish aU recollection of the Thornton family, — ^no need to think 
 of them till they absolutely stood before her in flesh and blood. 
 But, of course, the effort not to think of them brought them 
 only the more strongly before her ; and from time to time, the 
 hot flush came over her pale face sweeping it into colour, as a 
 sunbeam irom between watery clouds comes swiftly moving over 
 the sea. 
 
 Dixon opened the door very softly, and stole on tiptoe up 
 to Margaret, sitting by the shaded window. 
 
 " Mr. Thornton, Miss Margaret. He is in the drawing- 
 room." 
 
 Margaret dropped her sewing. 
 
 " Did he ask for me ? Isn't papa come in ? " 
 
 " He asked for you, miss ; and master is out." 
 
 " Very well, I wiU come," said Margaret, quietly. But she 
 lingered strangely. 
 
 Mr. Thornton stood by one of the windows, with his back 
 to the door apparently absorbed in watching something in the 
 street. But, in truth, he was afraid of himself. His heart 
 beat thick at the thought of her coming. He could not forget 
 the touch of her arms around his neck, impatiently felt as it 
 had been at the time ; but now the recollection of her clinging 
 defence of him, seemed to thriU him through and through, — to 
 melt away every resolution, all power of self-control, as if it 
 were wax before a fire. He dreaded lest he should go forwards 
 to meet her, with his arms held out in mute entreaty that she 
 would come and nestle there, as she had done, all unheeded, 
 the day before, but never unheeded again. His heart throbbed 
 loud and quick. Strong man as he was, he trembled at the 
 anticipation of what he had to say, and how it might be 
 received. She might droop, and flush, and flutter to his arms, 
 as to her natural home and resting-place. One moment he 
 glowed with impatience at the thought that she might do this, 
 — the next he feared a passionate rejection, the very idea of 
 
190 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 which withered up his future with so deadly a blight that ha 
 refused to think of it. He was startled by the sense of the 
 presence of some one else in the room. He turned round. She 
 had come in so gently, that he had never heard her ; the street 
 noises had been more distinct to his inattentive ear than her 
 slow movements, in her soft muslin gown. 
 
 She stood by the table, not offering to sit down. Her eye- 
 lids were dropped half over her eyes ; her teeth were shut, not 
 compressed ; her lips were just parted over them, allowing the 
 white liae to be seen between their curve. Her slow deep 
 breathings dilated her thin and beautiful nostrils ; it was the 
 only motion visible on her countenance. The fine-grained skin 
 the oval cheek, the rich outline of her mouth, its corners deep 
 set in dimples, — were all wan and pale to-day ; the loss of their 
 usual natural healthy colour being made more evident by the 
 heavy shadow of the dark hair, brought down upon the temples, 
 to hide all sign of the blow she had received. Her headj for 
 all its drooping eyes, was thrown a little back, in the old proud 
 attitude. Her long arms hung motionless by her sides. 
 Altogether she looked like some prisoner, falsely accused of a 
 crime that she loathed and despised, and from which she was 
 too indignant to justify herself. 
 
 Mr. Thornton made a hasty step or two forwards ; recovered 
 himself, and went with quiet firmness to the door (which she 
 had left open), and shut it. Then he came back, and stood 
 opposite to her for a moment, receiving the general impression 
 of her beautiful presence, before he dared to disturb it, perhaps 
 to repel it, by what he had to say. 
 
 " Miss Hale, I was very ungrateful yesterday — " 
 
 " You had nothing to be gratetul for," said she raising her 
 eyes, and looking full and straight at him. " You mean, I sup- 
 pose, that you believe you ought to thank me for what I did." 
 In spite of herself^ — in defiance of her anger — the thick blushes 
 came all over her face, and burnt into her very eyes ; which fell 
 not nevertheless from their grave and steady look. " It was 
 only a natural instinct ; any woman would have done just the 
 same. We all feel the sanctity of our sex as a high privilege 
 when we see danger. I ought rather," said she, hastily, " to 
 apologise to you, for having said thoughtless words which sent 
 you down into the danger." 
 
 "It was not your words ; it was the truth they conveyed, 
 pungently as it was expressed. But you shall not drive me off 
 upon that, and so escape the expression of my deep gratitude, 
 
"Miss Hale, I was very nogratefnl yesterday—" p. 190. 
 
MISTAKES CLEARED UP. 191 
 
 my — " he was on the verge now ; he would not speak in the 
 haste of his hot passion; he would weigh each word. He 
 would; and his will was triumphant. He stopped in mid 
 career. 
 
 " I do not try to escape from anything," said she. "I sim- 
 ply say, that you owe me no gratitude ; and I may add, that 
 any expression of it will he painful to me, hecause I do not feel 
 that I deserve it. Still, if it will relieve you from even a 
 fancied obligation, speak on." 
 
 " I do not want to he relieved from any obligation," said 
 he, goaded by her calm manner. "Fancied, or not fancied — 
 I question not myself to know which — I choose to believe that 
 I owe my very life to you — ay — smile, and think it an exaggera- 
 tion if you will. I believe it, because it adds a value to that 
 life to think — oh, Miss Hale ! " continued he, lowering his voice 
 to such a tender intensity of passion that she shivered and 
 trembled before him, "to think circumstance so wrought, that 
 whenever I exult in existence henceforward, I may say to my- 
 self, ' All this gladness in life, all honest pride in doing my 
 work in the world, all this keen sense of being, I owe to her ! ' 
 And it doubles the gladness, it makes the pride glow, it sharpens 
 the sense of existence till I hardly know if it is pain or pleasure 
 to think that I owe it to one — ^nay, you must, you shall hear " 
 — said he, stepping forwards with stern determination — "to 
 one whom I love, as I do not believe man ever loved woman 
 before." He held her hand tight in his. He panted as he 
 listened for what should come. He threw the hand away with 
 indignation, as he heard her icy tone ; for icy it was, though 
 the words came faltering out, as if she knew not where to find 
 them. 
 
 " Your way of speaking shocks me. It is blasphemous. I 
 cannot help it, if that is my first feeling. It might not be so, 
 I dare say, if I understood the kind of feeling you describe. I 
 do not want to vex you ; and besides, we must speak gently, for 
 mamma is asleep ; but your whole manner ofiends me — " 
 
 " How ! " exclaimed he. " Ofiends you ! I am indeed 
 most unfortunate." 
 
 " Yes ! " said she, with recovered dignity. " I do feel 
 ofi'ended ; and, I think, justly. You seem to fancy that my 
 conduct of yesterday " — again the deep carnation blush, but 
 this time with eyes kindling with indignation rather than shame 
 — " was a personal act between you and me; and that you may 
 eome and thank me for it, instead of perceiving, as a gentleman 
 
19a NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 would — ^yes ! a gentleman," Bhe repeated, in allusion to their 
 former conversation about that word, "that any woman, worthy 
 of the name of woman, would come forward to shield, with her 
 reverenced helplessness, a man in danger from the violence oi 
 numbers." 
 
 " And the gentleman thus rescued is forbidden the relief of 
 thanks ! " he broke in contemptuously. " I am a man. I 
 claim the right of expressing my feelings." 
 
 " And I yielded to the right ; simply saying that you gave 
 me pain by insisting upon it," she replied proudly. _ "But 
 you seem to have imagined, that I was not merely guided by 
 womanly instinct, but " — and here the passionate tears (kept 
 down for long — struggled with vehemently) came up into her 
 eyes and choked her voice — " but that I was prompted by some 
 particular feeling for you— you ! "Why, there was not a man — 
 not a poor desperate man in all that crowd — for whom I had 
 not more sympathy — ^for whom I should not have done what 
 little I could more heartily." 
 
 " You may speak on. Miss Hale. I am aware of all these 
 misplaced sympathies of yours. I now believe that it was only 
 your innate sense of oppression — (yes ; I, though a master, 
 may be oppressed) — that made you act so nobly as you did. I 
 know you despise me ; allow me to say, it is because you do 
 not understand me." 
 
 " I do not care to understand," she replied taking hold of 
 the table to steady herself; for she thought him cruel — as, 
 indeed, he was — and she was weak with her indignation. 
 
 " No, I see you do not. You are unfair and unjust." 
 
 Margaret compressed her lips. She would not speak in 
 answer to such accusations. But, for all that — ^for all his savage 
 words, he could have thrown himself at her feet, and kissed the 
 hem of her garment. She did not ,speak ; she did not move. 
 The tears of wounded pride fell hot and fast. He waited 
 awhile, longing for her to say something, even a taunt, to which 
 he might reply. But she was silent. He took up Ms hat. 
 
 " One word more. You look as if you thought it tainted 
 you to be loved by me. You cannot avoid it. . Nay, I, if I 
 would, cannot cleanse you from it. But I would not if I could. 
 I have never loved any woman before : my life has been too 
 busy, my thoughts too much absorbed with other things. Now 
 I love, and will love. But do not be afraid of too much expres- 
 sion on my part." 
 
 " I am not afraid," she replied, lifting herself straight up. 
 
FEEDEEICK. 193 
 
 " No one yet has ever dared to be impertinent to me, and no one 
 evei; shall. But, Mr. Thornton, you have been veiy kind 
 to my father," said she, changing her whole tone and bearing 
 to a most womanly softness. "Don't let us go on making 
 each other angry. Pray don't !" He took no notice of her 
 words ; he occupied himself in smoothing the nap of his hat 
 with his coat-sleeve, for half a minute or so ; and then, 
 rejecting her offered hand, and making as if he did not see 
 her grave look of regret, he turned abruptly away, and left the 
 room. Margaret caught one glance at his face before he went. 
 
 When he was gone she thought she had seen the gleam of 
 washed tears in his eyes ; and that turned her proud dislike 
 into something different and kinder, if nearly as painful — self- 
 reproach for having caused such mortification to any one. 
 
 " But how could I help it ? " asked she of herself. " I 
 never liked him. I was civU ; but I took no trouble to con- 
 ceal my indifference. Indeed, I never thought about myself or 
 him, so my manners must have shown the truth. All that 
 yesterday, he might mistake. But that is his fault, not mine. I 
 would do it again, if need were, though it does lead me into 
 all this shame and trouble." 
 
 CHAPTEE XXV. 
 FEEDEEIOK. 
 
 " Revenge may have her own ; 
 Ronsed discipline aland proclaimB their cansu, 
 And injured navies urge their broken laws." 
 
 Bykow. 
 
 Maegaket began to wonder whether all offers were as un- 
 expected beforehand, — as distressing at the time of their 
 occurrence, as the two she had had. An involuntary com- 
 parison between Mr. Lennox and Mr. Thornton arose in her 
 mind. She had been sorry, that an expression of any other 
 feeling than friendship had been lured out by circumstancea 
 from Henry Lennox. That regret was the predominant feeling, 
 on the first occasion of her receiving a proposal. She had not 
 felt so stunned — so impressed as she did now, when echoes of 
 Mr. Thornton's voipe yet lingered about the room. In Lennox's 
 
 13 
 
194 NORTH AND SOiraH. 
 
 case, he seemed for a moment to have slid over the boundary 
 between friendship and love ; and the instant afterwards, to regret 
 it nearly as much as she did, although for different reasons. In 
 Mr. Thornton's case, as far as Margaret knew, there was no 
 intervening stage of friendship. Their intercourse had been 
 one continued series of opposition. Their opinions clashed ; 
 and indeed, she had never perceived that he had cared for her 
 opinions, as belonging to her, the individual. As far as they 
 defied his rock-like power of character, his passion-strength, 
 he seemed to throw them off from him with contempt, until she 
 felt the weariness of the exertion of making useless protests ; 
 and now, he had come, in this strange wild passionate way, to 
 make known his love ! For, although at first it had struck her, 
 that his offer was forced and goaded out of him by sharp com- 
 passion for the exposure she had made of herself, — which he, 
 Kke others, might misunderstand — yet, even before he left the 
 room, — and certainly, not five minutes after, the clear con- 
 viction dawned upon her, shined bright upon her, that he did 
 love her ; that he had loved her ; that he would love her. 
 And she shrank and shuddered as under the fascination of some 
 great power, repugnant to her whole previous life. She crept 
 away, and hid from his idea. But it was of no use. To 
 parody a line out of Fairfax's Tasso — 
 
 " His strong idea wandered throngh her thought." 
 
 She disliked him the more for having mastered her inner will. 
 How dared he say that he would love her still, even though she 
 shook him off with contempt ? She wished she had spoken 
 more — stronger. Sharp, decisive speeches came thronging 
 into her mind, now that it was too late to utter them. The deep 
 impression made by the interview, was like that of a horror in 
 a dream ; that will not leave the room although we waken up, 
 and rub our eyes, and force a stiff rigid smile upon our Ups. 
 It is there — ^there, cowering and gibbering, with fixed ghastly 
 eyes, in some corner of the chamber, listening to hear whether 
 we dare to breathe of its presence to any one. And we dare 
 not ; poor cowards that we are ! 
 
 And so she shuddered away from the threat of his enduring 
 love. What did he mean ? Had she not the power to daunt 
 him ? She would see. It was more daring than became a 
 man to threaten her so. Did he ground it upon the miserable 
 yesterday ? If need were, she would do the same to-morrow, — 
 by a crippled beggar, willingly and gladly, — ^but by him, she 
 
FREDERICK. 195 
 
 would do it, just as bravely, in spite of his deductions, and the 
 cold slime of woman's impertinence. She did it because it was 
 right, and simple, and true to save where she could save ; even 
 to try to save. " Fais ce que dois, advienne que pourra." 
 
 Hitherto she had not stirred from where he had left her ; 
 no outward circumstances had roused her oat of the trance of 
 thought in which she had been plunged by his last words, and 
 by the look of his deep intent passionate eyes, as their flames 
 had made her own fall before them. She went to the window, 
 and threw it open, to dispel the oppression which hung around 
 her. Then she went and opened the door, with a sort of im- 
 petuous wish to shake oflf the recollection of the past hour, ia 
 the company of others, or in active exertion. But aU was 
 profoundly hushed in the noonday stUlness of a house, where 
 an invalid catches the unrefreshing sleep that is denied to the 
 night-hours. Margaret would not be alone. What should she 
 do ? " Go and see Bessy Higgins, of course," thought she, 
 as the recollection of the message sent the night before flashed 
 into her mind. And away she went. 
 
 When she got there, she found Bessy lying on the settle, 
 moved close to the fire, though the day was stdtry and oppres- 
 sive. She was laid down quite flat, as if resting languidly 
 after some paroxysm of pain. Margaret felt sure she ought to 
 have the greater freedom of breathing which a more sitting 
 posture would procure ; and, without a word, she raised her 
 up, and so arranged the pillows, that Bessy was more at ease, 
 though very languid. 
 
 " I thought I should na' ha' seen yo' again," said she, at 
 last, looking wistfully in Margaret's face. 
 
 "I'm afi-aid you're much worse. But I could not have 
 corae yesterday, my mother was so ill — ^for many reasons," 
 said Margaret, colouring. 
 
 " Yo'd m'appen think I went beyond my place in sending 
 Mary for yo'. But the wi-aglin' and the loud voices had just 
 torn me to pieces, and I thought when father left, oh! if I 
 could just hear her voice, reading me some words o' peace and 
 promise, I could die away into the silence and rest o' God, just 
 as a baby is hushed up to sleep by its mother's lullaby." 
 
 " Shall I read you a chapter, now ? " 
 
 " Ay, do 1 M'appen I shan't listen to th' sense, at first ; 
 it will seem far away — but when yo' come to words I like — ^to 
 th' comforting texts — it'U seem close in my ear, and going 
 throush me as it were." 
 
 18— s 
 
196 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 Margaret began. Bessy tossed to and fro. If, by an effort, 
 sbe attended for one moment, it seemed as though she wera 
 convulsed into double restlessness the next. At last, she burst 
 out : " Don't go on reading. It's no use. I'm blaspheming, 
 all the time in my mind, wi' thinking angrily on what canna 
 be helped. — ^Yo'd hear of th' riot, m'appen, yesterday at Marl- 
 borough Mills ? Thornton's factory, yo' know." 
 
 " Your father was not there, was he ? " said Margaret 
 colouring deeply. 
 
 " Not he., He'd ha' given his right hand if it had never 
 come to pass. It's that that's fretting me. He's fairly knocked 
 down in his mind by it. It's no use telling him, fools will 
 always break out o' bounds. Yo' never saw a man so down- 
 hearted as he is." 
 
 " But why ? " asked Margaret. " I don't understand." 
 
 " Why, yo' see, he's a committee-man on this special strike. 
 Th' Union appointed him because, though I say it as shouldn't 
 say it, he's reckoned a deep chap, and true to th' back-bone. 
 And he and t'other committee-men laid their plans. They 
 were to hou'd together through thick and thin ; what the major 
 part thought, t'others were to think, whether they would or no. 
 And above all there was to be no going again the law of the 
 land. Folk would go with them if they saw them striving and 
 starving wi' dumb patience ; but if there was once any noise 
 o' fighting and struggling — even wi' knobsticks — aU was up, 
 as they knew by th' experience of many, and many a time 
 before. They would try and get speech o' th' knobsticks, and 
 coax 'em, and reason wi' 'em, and m'appen warn 'em off; but 
 whatever came, the Committee charged all members o' th' 
 Union to lie down and die, if need were, without striking a blow ; 
 and then they reckoned they were sure o' carrying th' pubHc 
 with them. And beside all that, Committee knew they were 
 right in their demand, and they didn't want to have right all 
 mixed up wi' wrong, till folk can't separate it, no more nor I 
 can the physic-powder from th' jelly yo' gave me to mix it in; 
 jelly is much the biggest, but powder tastes it all through. 
 Well, I've told yo' at length about this'n, but I am tired out. 
 Yo' just think for yor'sel, what it mun be for father to have a' his 
 work undone, and by such a fool as Boucher, who must needs 
 go right again the orders of Committee, and ruin th' strike, just 
 as bad as if he meant to be a Judas. Eh ! but father giv'd it 
 him last night ! He went so far as to say, he'd go and tell 
 police where they might find th' ringleader o' th' riot ; he'd give 
 
PEEDERICK. 197 
 
 flim Tip to th' mill-owners to do what they would wi' him. He'd 
 show the world that th' real leaders o' the strike were not sucb 
 as Boucher, but steady thoughtful men ; good hands, and good 
 citizens, who were friendly to law and judgment, and would 
 uphold order ; who only wanted their right wage, and wouldn't 
 work, even though they starved, till they got 'em ; but who 
 would ne'er injure property or life. For," dropping her voice, 
 " they do say, that Boucher threw a stone at Thornton's sister, 
 that welly kUled her." 
 
 " That's not true," said Margaret. " It was not Boucher 
 that threw the stone " — she went first red, then white. 
 
 " Yo'd be there then, were yo' ? " asked Bessy languidly : 
 for indeed, she had spoken with many pauses, as if speech was 
 unusually difficult to her. 
 
 " Yes. Never mind. Go on. Only it was not Boucher 
 that threw the stone. But what did he answer to your 
 father ? " 
 
 " He did na' speak words. He were all in such a tremble 
 wi' spent passion, I could na' bear to look at him. I heard 
 his breath coming quick, and at one time I thought he were 
 sobbing. But when father said he'd give him up to police, he 
 gave a great cry, and struck father on th' face wi' his closed 
 fist, and he off like lightning. Father were stunned wi' the 
 blow at first, for all Boucher were weak wi' passion and wi' 
 clemming. He sat down a bit, and put his hand afore his 
 eyes ; and then made for th' door. I dunno' where I got 
 strength, but I threw mysel' off th' settle and clung to him. 
 ' Father, father ! ' said I. ' Thou'll never go peach on that 
 poor clemmed man. I'U never leave go on thee, till thou 
 sayst thou wunnot.' ' Dunnot be a fool,' says he, ' words 
 come readier than deeds to most men. I never thought o' 
 telling th' police on him ; though by G — , he deserves it, and 
 I should na' ha' minded if some one else had done the dirty 
 work, and got him clapped up. But now he has strucken me, 
 I could do it less nor ever, for it would be getting other men 
 to take up my quarrel. But if ever he gets weU o'er this 
 clemming, and is in good condition, he and I'll have an up 
 and down fight, purring an' a', and I'll see what I can do for 
 him.' , And so father shook me off, — ^for indeed I was low and 
 faint enough, and his face was all clay white, where it weren't 
 bloody, and turned me sick to look at. And I know not if I 
 slept or waked, or were in a dead swoon, till Mary come in ; 
 and I tolled her to fetch yo' to me. And now dunnot talk to 
 
IflS HOETH AND SOUTH. 
 
 me, but just read out th' chapter. I'm easier in my mind for 
 having spit it out ; but I want some thoughts of the world 
 that's far away to take the weary taste of it out of my mouth. 
 Read me not a sermon chapter, but a story chapter ; they've 
 pictures in them, which I see when my eyes are shut. Read 
 about the New Heavens, and the New Earth ; and m'appen I'll 
 forget this." 
 
 Margaret read in her soft low voice. Though Bessy's eyes 
 were shut, she was listening for some time, for the moisture of 
 tears gathered heavy on her eyelashes. At last she slept; 
 with many starts, and muttered pleadings. Margaret covered 
 her up, and left her, for she had an uneasy consciousness that 
 she might be wanted at home, and yet, until now, it seemed 
 cruel to leave the dying girl. 
 
 Mrs. Hale was in the drawing-room on her daughter's 
 return. It was one of her better days, and she was fall of 
 praises of the water-bed. It had been more like the beds at 
 Sir John Beresford's than anything she had slept on since. 
 She did not know how it was, but people seemed to have lost 
 the art of making the same kind of beds as they used to do in 
 her youth. One would think it was easy enough ; there was 
 the same kind of feathers to be had, and yet somehow, till this 
 last night she did not know when she had had a good sound 
 resting sleep. 
 
 Mr. Hale suggested, that something of the merits of the 
 feather-beds of former days might be attributed to the activity 
 of youth, which gave a relish to rest; but this idea was not 
 kindly received by his wife. 
 
 "No, indeed, Mr. Hale, it was those beds at Sir John's. 
 Now, Margaret, you're young enough, and go about in the 
 day ; are the beds comfortable ? I appeal to you. Do they 
 give you a feeling of perfect repose when you lie down upon 
 them ; or rather, don't you toss about, and try in vain to find 
 an easy position, and waken in the morning as tired as when 
 you went to bed ? " 
 
 Margaret laughed. " To tell the truth, mamma, I've 
 never thought about my bed at all, what kind it is. I'm so 
 sleepy at night, that if I only lie down anywhere, I nap off 
 directly. So I don't think I'm a competent witness. But 
 then, you know, I never had the opportunity of trying Sir John 
 Beresford's beds. I never was at Oxenham." 
 
 " Were not you ? Oh, no ! to be sure. It was poor 
 darling Fred I took with me, I remember. I only went ta 
 
FREDERICK. 199 
 
 Oxeuham once after I was married, — to your Aunt Shaw's 
 wedding; and poor little Fred was the baby then. Aad I 
 know Dixon did not like changing from lady's maid to nurse, and 
 I was afraid that if I took her near her old home, and amongst 
 her own people, she might want to leave me. But poor baby 
 was taken ill at Oxenham, with his teething ; and, what with 
 my being a great deal with Anna just before her marriage, and 
 not being very strong myself, Dixon had more of the charge of 
 him than she ever had before ; and it made her so fond of him, 
 and she was so proud when he would turn away from every one 
 and cling to her, that I don't believe she ever thought of 
 leaving me again ; though it was very different from what she'd 
 been accustomed to. Poor Fred ! Everybody loved him. 
 He was bom with the gift of winning hearts. It makes me 
 think very badly of Captain Reid when I know that he disliked 
 my own dear boy. I think it a certain proof he had a bad 
 heart. Ah! Your poor father, Margaret. He has left the 
 room. He can't bear to hear Fred spoken of." 
 
 " I love to hear about him, mamma. Tell me all yon 
 like ; you never can tell me too much. Tell me what he was 
 like as a baby." 
 
 " "Why, Margaret, you must not be hurt, but he was much 
 prettier than you were. I remember, when I first saw you in 
 Dixon's arms, I said, ' Dear, what an ugly little thing ! ' And 
 she said, ' It's not every child that's like Master Fred, bless 
 him ! ' Dear ! how well I remember it. Then I could have 
 had Fred in my arms every minute of the day, and his cot 
 was close by my bed ; and now, now — Margaret — I don't 
 know where my boy is, and sometimes I think I shall never 
 see him again." 
 
 Margaret sat down by her mother's sofa on a little stool, 
 and softly took hold of her hand, caressing it and kissing it, as 
 if to comfort. Mrs. Hale cried without restraint. At last, she 
 sat straight, stiff up on the sofa, and turning round to her 
 daughter, she said with tearful, almost solemn earnestness, 
 " Margaret, if I can get better, — if God lets me have a chance 
 of recovery, it must be through seeing my son Frederick once 
 more. It will waken up all the poor springs of health left in 
 me." 
 
 She paused, and seemed to try and gather strength for 
 something more yet to be said. Her voice was choked as she 
 went on — ^was quavering as with the contemplation of some 
 strange, yet closely-present idea. 
 
200 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 "•And, Margaret, if I am to die — if I am one of thooe 
 appointed to die before many weeks are over — I must see my 
 child first. I cannot think how it must be managed ; but I 
 charge you, Margaret, as you yourself hope for comfort in your 
 last illness, bring him to me that I may bless him. Only for 
 five minutes, Margaret. There could be no danger in five 
 minutes. Oh, Margaret, let me see him before I die ! " 
 
 Margaret did not think of anything that might be utterly 
 unreasonable in this speech : we do not look for reason or logic 
 in the passionate entreaties of those who are sick unto death ; 
 we are stung with the recollection of a thousand slighted 
 opportunities of fulfilling the wishes of those who will soon 
 pass away from among us : and do they ask us for the future 
 happiness of our lives, we lay it at their feet, and will it away 
 from us. But this wish of Mrs. Hale's was so natural, so just, 
 so right to both parties, that Margaret felt as if, on Frederick's 
 account as well as on her mother's, she ought to overlook aU 
 intermediate chances of danger, and pledge herself to do every- 
 thing in her power for its realisation. The large, pleading, 
 dilated eyes were fixed upon her wistfully, steady in their gaze, 
 though the poor white lips quivered like those of a child. 
 Margaret gently rose up and stood opposite to her frail 
 mother ; so that she might gather the secure fulfilment of her 
 wish from the calm steadiness of her daughter's face. 
 
 " Mamma, I will write to-night, and tell Frederick what 
 you say. I am as sure that he will come directly to us, 
 as I am sure of my life. Be easy, mamma, you shall see him 
 as far as anything earthly can be promised." 
 
 " You win write to-night ? Oh, Margaret ! the post 
 goes out at five — ^you will write by it, won't you ? I have so 
 few hours left — I feel, dear, as if I should not recover, though 
 sometimes your father over-persuades me into hoping ; you will 
 write directly, won't you ? Don't lose a single post ; for just 
 by that very post I may miss him." 
 
 " But, mamma, papa is out." 
 
 " Papa is out ! and what then ? Do you mean that he 
 would deny me this last wish, Margaret ? Why, I should not 
 be ill — be dying — if he had not taken me away from Helstone, 
 to this unhealthy, smoky, sunless place." 
 
 " Oh, mamma ! " said Margaret. 
 
 " Yes ; it is so, indeed. He knows it himself; he has said 
 so many a time. He would do anything for me ; you don't 
 mean he would refuse me this last wish — sprayer, if you will. 
 
FKEDEEIOK. 201 
 
 And, indeed, Margaret, the longing to see Frederick stands 
 between me and God. I cannot pray till I have this one thing ; 
 indeed, I cannot. Don't lose time, dear, dear Margaret. 
 Write by this very next post. Then he may be here — ^here in 
 twenty-two days ! For he is sure to come. No cords or chains 
 can keep him. In twenty -two days I shall see my boy." She 
 fell back, and for a short time she took no notice of the fact 
 that Margaret sat motionless, her hand shading her eyes. 
 
 " You are not writing ! " said her mother at last. " Bring 
 me some pens and paper ; I will try and write myself." She 
 sat up, trembling all over with feverish eagerness. Margaret 
 took her hand down and looked at her mother sadly. 
 
 " Only wait till papa comes in. Let us ask him how best 
 to do it." 
 
 " You promised, Margaret, not a quarter of an hour ago ; — 
 you said he should come." 
 
 "And so he shall, mamma; don't cry, my own deal 
 mother. I'll write here, now, — ^you shall see me write, — and it 
 shall go by this very post ; and if papa thinks fit, he can write 
 again when he comes in, — it is only a day's delay. Oh, 
 mamma, don't cry so piti&lly, it cuts me to the heart." 
 
 Mrs. Hale could not stop her tears ; they came hysterically ; 
 and, in truth, she made no effort to control them, but rather 
 called up all the pictures of the happy past, and the probable 
 future — painting the scene when she should lie a corpse, with 
 the son she had longed to see in life weeping over her, and she 
 unconscious of his presence, — ^till she was melted by self-pity 
 into a state of sobbing and exhaustion that made Margaret's 
 heart ache. But at last she was calm, and greedily watched 
 her daughter, as she began her letter; wrote it with swift 
 urgent entreaty; sealed it up hurriedly, for fear her mother 
 should ask to see it : and then to make security most sure, at 
 Mrs. Hale's own bidding, took it herself to the post-office. She 
 was coming home when her father overtook her. 
 
 " And where have you been, my pretty maid ? " asked he. 
 
 " To the post-office, — with a letter ; a letter to Frederick, 
 Oh, papa, perhaps I have done wrong : but mamma was seized 
 with such a passionate yearning to see him — she said it would 
 make her well again, — and then she said that she must see him 
 before she died, — I cannot tell you how urgent she was 1 Did 
 I do wrong ? " 
 
 Mr. Hale did not reply at first. Then he said : 
 
 " You should have waited till I came in, Margaret." 
 
202 NORTH AND BOOTH 
 
 " I tried to persuade her, — " and then she was silent. 
 
 " I don't know," said Mr. Hale, after a pause. " She 
 ought to see him if she wishes it so much ; for I believe it 
 would do her much more good than all the doctor's medicine, — 
 and, perhaps, set her up altogether ; but the danger to him, 
 I'm afraid, is very great." 
 
 " All these years since the mutiny, papa ? " 
 
 " Yes ; it is necessary, of course, for government to take 
 very stringent measures for the repression of offences against 
 authority, more particularly in the navy, where a commanding 
 officer needs to be surrounded in his men's eyes with a vivid 
 consciousness of all the power there is at home to back him, 
 and take up his cause, and avenge any injuries offered to him, 
 if need be. Ah ! it's no matter to them how far their autho- 
 rities have tyrannised, — galled' hasty tempers to madness, — or, 
 if that can be any excuse afterwards, it is never allowed for in 
 the first instance ; they spare no expense, they send out ships, — 
 they scour the seas to lay hold of the offenders, — the lapse of 
 years does not wash out the memory of the offence, — it is a 
 fresh and vivid crime on the Admiralty books till it is blotted 
 out by blood." 
 
 "Oh, papa, what have I done! And yet it seemed so 
 ripht at the time. I'm sure Frederick himself, would run the 
 risk." 
 
 "So he would ; so he should ! Nay, Margaret, I'm glad 
 it is done, though I durst not have done it mysehf. I'm thank- 
 ful it is as it is ; I should have hesitated till, perhaps, it might 
 have been too late to do any good. Dear Margaret, you 
 have done what is right about it ; and the end is beyond our 
 control." 
 
 It was all very well ; but her father's account of the relent- 
 less manner in which mutinies were punished made Margaret 
 shiver and creep. If she had decoyed her brother home to blot 
 out the memory of his error by his blood ! She saw her father's 
 anxiety lay deeper than the source of his latter cheering words. 
 She took his arm and walked home pensively and wearily bj 
 big side. 
 
(; 208 ) 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 MOTHEE AND SON. 
 
 " I have found that holy place of rest 
 Still changeless." 
 
 MbS. HESIAlfS, 
 
 When Mr. Thornton had left the house that morning he was 
 almost blinded by his baffled passion. He was as dizzy as if 
 Margaret, instead of looking, and speaking, and moving like a 
 tender graceful woman, had been a sturdy fish-wife, and given 
 him a sound blow with her fists. He had positive bodily pain, — 
 a violent headache, and a throbbing intermittent pulse. He 
 could not bear the noise, the garish light, the continued 
 rumble and movement of the street. He called himself a fool 
 for suffering so; and yet he could not, at the moment, recollect 
 the cause of his suffering, and whether it was adequate to the 
 consequences it had produced. It would have been a relief to 
 him, if he could have sat down and cried on a door-step by a 
 little child, who was raging and storming, through his passion- 
 ate tears, at some injury he had received. He said to himself, 
 that he hated Margaret, but a wild, sharp sensation of love cleft 
 his dnU, thunderous feeling like lightning, even as he shaped 
 the words expressive of hatred. His greatest comfort was in 
 hugging his torment ; and in feeling, as he had indeed said to 
 her, that though she might despise him, contemn him, treat 
 him with her proud sovereign indifference, he did not change 
 one whit. She could not make him change. He loved her, 
 and would love her ; and defy her, and this miserable bodily 
 pain. 
 
 He stood still for a moment, to make this resolution firm 
 and clear. There was an omnibus passing — going into the 
 country ; the conductor thought he was wishing for a place, 
 and stopped near the pavement. It was too much trouble to 
 apologise and explain ; so he mounted upon it, and was borne 
 away, — ^past long rows of houses — then past detached villas 
 with trim gardens, till they came to real country hedge-rows, 
 and, by-and-by, to a small country town. Then everybody got 
 down ; and so did Mr. Thornton, and because they walked away 
 he did so too. He went into the fields, walking briskly, 
 
204 NOETH AND SOUTH. 
 
 because the sharp motion relieved his mind. He could 
 remember all about it now; the pitiful figure he must have 
 cut ; the absurd way in which he had gone and done the very 
 thing he had so often agreed with himself in thinking would 
 be the most foolish thing in the world ; and had met with 
 exactly the consequences which, in these wise moods, he had 
 always foretold were certain to follow, if he ever did make such 
 a fool of himself. Was he bewitched by those beautiful eyes, 
 that soft, half-open, sighing mouth which lay so close upon his 
 shoalder only yesterday ? He could not even shake off the 
 recollection that she had been there ; that her arms had been 
 round him, once — if never again. He only caught glimpses of 
 her ; he did not understand her altogether. At one time she 
 was so brave, and at another so timid ; now so tender, and 
 then so haughty and regal proud. And then he thought over 
 every time he had ever seen her once again, by way of finally 
 forgetting her. He saw her in every dress, in every mood, and 
 did. not know which became her best. Even this morning, how 
 magnificent she had looked, — ^her eyes flashing out upon him at 
 the idea that, because she had shared his danger yesterday, 
 «he had cared for him the least ! 
 
 If Mr. Thornton was a fool in the morning, as he assured 
 himself at least twenty times he was, he did not grow much 
 wiser in the afternoon. All that he gained in return for his 
 sixpenny omnibus ride, was a more vivid conviction that there 
 never was, never could be, any one like Margaret ; that she 
 did not love him and never would ; but that she — ^no ! nor the 
 whole world — should never hinder him from loving her. And 
 so he returned to the little market-place, and remounted the 
 omnibus to return to Milton. 
 
 It was late in the afternoon when he was set down, near 
 his warehouse. The accustomed places brought back the 
 accustomed habits and trains of thought. He knew how much 
 he had to do — more than his usual work, owing to the commo- 
 tion of the day before. He had to see his brother magistrates ; 
 he had to complete the arrangements, only half made in the 
 morning, for the comfort and safety of his newly imported Msh 
 hands ; he had to secure them from all chance of communica- 
 tion with the discontented workpeople of Milton. Last of all, 
 he had to go home and encounter his mother. 
 
 Mrs. Thornton had sat in the dining-room all day, every 
 moment expecting the news of her son's acceptance by Miss 
 Hale. She had braced herself up many and many a time, at 
 
MOTHER AND SON. 205> 
 
 some sndden noise in the house ; had caught up the half- 
 dropped work, and begun to ply her needle diligently, though 
 through dimmed spectacles, and with an unsteady hand ! and 
 many times had the door opened, and some indifferent person 
 entered on some insignificant errand. Then her rigid face 
 unstiffened from its gray frost-bound expression, and the 
 features dropped into the relaxed look of despondency, sa 
 unusual to their sternness. She wrenched herself away from 
 the contemplation of all the dreary changes that would be 
 brought about to herself by her son's marriage ; she forced her 
 thoughts into the accustomed household grooTes. The newly- 
 married couple-to-be would need fresh household stocks of 
 linen ; and Mrs. Thornton had clothes-basket upon clothes- 
 basket, full of table-cloths and napkins, brought in, and began 
 to reckon up the store. There was some confusion between 
 what was hers, and consequently marked G. H. T. (for George 
 and Hannah Thornton), and what was her son's — bought with 
 his money, marked with his initials. Some of those marked 
 G. H. T. were Dutch damask of the old kind, exquisitely fine ; 
 none were like them now. Mrs. Thornton stood looking at 
 them long, — they had been her pride when she was first 
 married. Then she knit her brows, and pinched and com- 
 pressed her lips tight, and carefully unpicked the G. H. She 
 went so far as to search for the Turkey-red marking-thread to 
 put in the new initials ; but it was all used, — and she had no 
 heart to send for any more just yet. So she looked fixedly at 
 vacancy ; a series of visions passing before her, in all of which 
 her son was the principal, the sole object, — her son, her pridCj 
 her property. Still he did not come. Doubtless he was with 
 Miss Hale. The new love was displacing her already from her 
 place as first in his heart. A terrible pain — a pang of vain 
 jealousy — shot through her : she hardly knew whether it was 
 more physical or mental ; but it forced her to sit down. In a 
 moment, she was up again as straight as ever, — a grim smile 
 upon her face for the first time that day, ready for the door 
 opening, and the rejoicing triumphant one, who should never 
 know the sore regret his mother felt at his marriage. In all 
 this, there was little thought enough of the fature daughter-in- 
 law as an individual. She was to be John's wife. To take 
 Mrs. Thornton's place as mistress of the house, was only one of 
 the rich consequences which decked out the supreme glory : all 
 household plenty and comfort, all purple and fine linen, honour, 
 love, obedience, troops of friends, would all come as naturally 
 
206 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 as jewels on a king's robe, and be as little thoaght of for their 
 separate value. To be chosen by John, would separate a 
 kitchen-wench from the rest of the world. And Miss Hale 
 was not so bad. If she had been a Milton lass, Mrs. Thornton 
 would have positively liked her. She was pungent, and had 
 taste, and spirit, and flavour in her. True, she was sadly 
 prejudiced, and very ignorant ; but that was to be expected 
 from her southern breeding. A strange sort of mortified com- 
 parison of Fanny with her, went on in Mrs. Thornton's mind ; 
 and for once she spoke harshly to her daughter ; abused her 
 roundly; and then, as if by way of penance, she took up 
 Henry's Commentaries, and tried to fix her attention on it, 
 instead of pursuing the employment she took pride and pleasure 
 in, and continuing her inspection of the table-linen. 
 
 His step at last ! She heard him, even while she thought 
 she was finishing a sentence ; while her eye did pass over it, 
 and her memory could mechanically have repeated it word for 
 word, she heard him come in at the hall-door. Her quickened 
 sense could interpret every sound of motion : now he was at 
 the hat-stand — ^now at the very room-door. Why did he pause ? 
 Let her know the worst. 
 
 Yet her head was down over the book ; she did not look 
 up. He came close to the table, and stood still there, waiting 
 till she should have finished the paragraph which apparently 
 absorbed her. By an effort she looked up. " WeU, John ? " 
 
 He knew what that little speech meant. But he had 
 steeled himself. He longed to reply with a jest ; the bitterness 
 of his heart could have uttered one, but his mother deserved 
 better of him. He came round behind her, so that she could 
 not see his looks, and, bending back her gray, stony face, he 
 kissed it, murmuring : 
 
 " No one loves me, — no one cares for me, but you, mother." 
 
 He turned away and stood leaning his head against the 
 mantelpiece, tears forcing themselves into his manly eyes. 
 She stood up, — she tottered. For the first time in her life, 
 the strong woman tottered. She put her hands on his 
 shoulders ; she was a tall woman. She looked into his face : 
 she made him look at her. 
 
 " Mother's love is given by God, John. It holds fast for 
 ever and ever. A girl's love is like a puff of smoke, — ^it 
 changes with every wind. And she would not have you, my 
 own lad, would not she ? " She set her teeth ; she showed them 
 like a dog for the whole length of her mouth. He shook his head. 
 
MOTHER AMD SOK. 207 
 
 " I am not fit for her, mother; I knew I was not." 
 
 She ground out words between her closed teeth. He could 
 obt hear what she said ; but the look in her eyes interpreted it 
 to be a curse, — if not as coarsely worded, as fell in intent as 
 ever was uttered. And yet her heart leapt up light, to know 
 he was her own again. 
 
 " Mother ! " said he, hurriedly, " I cannot hear a word 
 against her. Spare me, — spare me ! I am very weak in my 
 sore heart ; — I love her yet ; I love her more than ever."" 
 
 " And I hate her," said Mrs. Thornton, in a low fierce 
 voice. " I tried not to hate her, when she stood between you 
 and me, because, — ^I said to myself, — she will make him happy ; 
 and I would give my heart's blood to do that. But now, I 
 hate her for your misery's sake. Yes, John, it's no use hiding 
 up your aching heart from me. I am the mother that bore 
 you, and your sorrow is my agony ; and if you don't hate her, 
 I do." 
 
 " Then, mother, you make me love her more. She is 
 unjustly treated by you, and I must make the balance even. 
 But why do we taUi of love or hatred ? She does not care for 
 me, and that is enough,; — too much. Let us never name the 
 subject again. It is the only thing you can do for me in the 
 matter. Let us never name her." 
 
 " With all my heart. I only wish that she, and all 
 belonging to her, were swept back to the place they came 
 from." 
 
 He stood still, gazing into the fire for a minute or two 
 longer. Her dry dim eyes filled with unwonted tears as she 
 looked at him ; but she seemed just as grim and quiet as usual 
 when he next spoke. 
 
 " Warrants are out against three men for conspiracy, 
 mother. The riot yesterday helped to knock up the strike." 
 
 And Margaret's name was no more mentioned between 
 Mrs. Thornton and her son. They feU back into their usual 
 mode of talk, — about facts, not opinions, far less feelings. 
 Their voices and tones were cnlm and cold ; a stranger might 
 have gone away and thought that he had never seen such fi'igid 
 indifference of demeanour between such near relations. 
 
( 208 ) 
 
 OHAPTEK XXVII. 
 
 FKUIT-PIECE. 
 
 " For never any thing can be amiss 
 When simpleness and dnty tender it. 
 
 MmsuMMEB Night's Dkeais. 
 
 Mr. Thornton went straight and clear into all the interests of 
 the following day. There was a slight demand for finished 
 goods ; and as it affected his branch of the trade, he took 
 advantage of it, and drove hard bargains. He was sharp to 
 the hour at the meeting of his brother magistrates, — giving 
 them the best assistance of his strong sense, and his power of 
 seeing consequences at a glance, and so coming to a rapid 
 decision. Older men, men of long standing in the town, men 
 of far greater wealth — ^realised and turned into land, while his 
 was all floating capital, engaged in his trade — looked to him 
 for prompt, ready wisdom. He was the one deputed to see 
 and arrange with the police — to lead in all the requisite steps. 
 And he cared for their unconscious deference no more than for 
 the soft west wind, that scarcely made the smoke from the 
 great tail chimneys swerve in its straight upward course. He 
 was not aware of the silent respect paid to him. If it had 
 been otherwise, he would have felt it as an obstacle in his pro- 
 gress to the object he had in view. As it was, he looked to 
 the speedy accomplishment of that alone. It was his mother's 
 greedy ears that sucked in, from the womenkind of these 
 magistrates and wealthy men, how highly Mr. This or Mr. 
 That thought of Mr. Thornton ; that if he had not been there, 
 things would have gone on very differently, — ^very badly, indeed. 
 He swept off his business right and left that day. It seemed 
 as though Ms deep mortification of yesterday, and the stunned 
 purposeless course of the hours afterwards, had cleared away 
 all the mists from his intellect. He felt his power and revelled 
 in it. He could almost defy his heart. If he had known it, 
 he could have sang the song of the miller who lived by the river 
 Dee:— 
 
 " I care for nobody — 
 Nobody cares for me. 
 
 The evidence against Boucher, and other ring-leaders of 
 the riot, was taken before him : that against the three others, 
 
FBUIT-PIECB. Ji09 
 
 for conspiracy, failed. But he sternly charged the police to be 
 on the watch ; for the swift right arm of the law should be in 
 readiness to strike, as soon as they could prove a fault. And 
 then he left the hot reeking room in the borough court, and 
 went out into the fresher, but still sultry street. It seemed as 
 though he gave way all at once ; he was so languid that he 
 could not control his thoughts ; they would wander to her : 
 they would bring back the scene, — not of his repulse and rejec- 
 tion the day before, but the looks, the actions of the day before 
 that. He went along the crowded streets mechanically, winding 
 in and out among the people, but never seeing them, — almost 
 sick with longing for that one half-hour — ^that one brief space 
 of time when she clung to him, and her heart beat against his 
 — ^to come once again. 
 
 " Why, Mr. Thornton ! you're cutting me very coolly, I 
 must say. And how is Mrs. Thornton ? Brave weather this ! 
 We doctors don't like it, I can tell you ! " 
 
 " I beg your pardon. Dr. Donaldson. I really didn't see 
 you. My mother's quite well, thank you. It is a fine day, and 
 good for the harvest, I hope. If the wheat is well got in, we 
 shall have a brisk trade next year, whatever you doctors have." 
 
 " Ay, ay. /Each man for himself. Your bad weather, and 
 your bad times, are my good ones. When trade is bad, there's 
 more undermining of health, and preparation for death, going 
 on among you Milton men than you're aware of." 
 
 "Not with me. Doctor. I'm made of iron. The news of 
 the worst bad debt I ever had, never made my pulse vary. 
 This strike, which affects me more than any one else in Milton, 
 — more than Hamper, — never comes near my appetite. You 
 must go elsewhere for a patient. Doctor." 
 
 " By the way, you've recommended me a good patient, poor 
 lady ! Not to go on talking in this heartless way, I seriously 
 believe that Mrs. Hale — tlfat lady in Crampton, you know — 
 hasn't many weeks to live. I never had any hope of cure, as I 
 think I told yon ; but I've been seeing her to-day, and I think 
 very badly of her." 
 
 Mr. Thornton was silent. The vaunted steadiness of pulse 
 failed him for an instant. 
 
 " Can I do anything. Doctor ? " he asked, in an altered 
 voice. " You know — you would see, that money is not very 
 plentiful ; are there any comforts or dainties she ought to 
 have ? " 
 
 " No," replied the Doctor, shaking his head. " She craves 
 
 14 
 
aiO NOBTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 for fruit, — she has a constant fever on her ; but jargonelle pears 
 ■will do as well as anything, and there are quantities of them in 
 the market." 
 
 " You will tell me, if there is anything I can do, I'm sure," 
 replied Mr. Thornton. " I rely upon you." 
 
 " Oh ! never fear ! I'll not spare your purse, — I know it's 
 deep enough. I wish you'd give me carte-blanche for all my 
 patients, and all theirwants." 
 
 But Mr. Thornton had no general benevolence, — no uni- 
 versal philanthropy ; few even would have given him credit for 
 strong affections. But he went straight to the first fruit- shop 
 in Milton, and chose out the bunch of purple grapes with the 
 most delicate bloom upon them, — the richest-coloured peaches, 
 — the freshest vine-leaves. They were packed into a basket, 
 and the shopman awaited the answer to his inquiry, " Where 
 shall we send them to, sir ? " 
 
 There was no reply. " To Marlborough Mills, I suppose, 
 sir ? " 
 
 " No ! " Mr. Thornton said. " Give the basket to me, — 
 I'll take it." 
 
 It took up both his hands to carry it ; and he had to pass 
 through the busiest part of the town for feminine shopping. 
 Many a young lady of his acquaintance turned to look after him, 
 and thought it strange to see him occupied just like a porter or 
 an errand-boy. 
 
 He was thinking, " I will not be daunted from doing as I 
 choose by the thought of her. I like to take this fruit to the 
 poor mother, and it is simply right that I should. She shall 
 never scorn me out of doing what I please. A pretty joke, in- 
 deed, if, for fear of a haughty girl, I failed in doing a kindness 
 to a man I liked ! I do it for Mr. Hale ; I do it in defiance 
 of her." 
 
 He went at an unusual pace, and was soon at Crampton. 
 He went upstairs two steps at a time, and entered the drawing- 
 room before Dixon could announce him, — his face flushed, his 
 eyes shining with kindly earnestness. Mrs. Hale lay on the 
 sofa, heated with fever. Mr. Hale was reading aloud. Mar- 
 garet was working on a low stool by her mother's side. Her 
 heart fluttered, if his did not, at this interview. But he took 
 no notice of her, — hardly of Mr. Hale himself; he went up 
 straight with his basket to Mrs. Hale, and said, in that subdued 
 and gentle tone, which is so touching wlien used by a robust 
 man in full health, speaking to a feeble invalid, — 
 
FRUIT-PIECE. 211 
 
 " I met Dr. Donaldson, ma'am, and as he said fruit would 
 be good for you, I have taken the liberty — the great liberty — of 
 bringing you some that seemed to me fine." Mrs. Hale was 
 excessively surprised ; excessively pleased ; quite in a tremble 
 of eagerness. Mr. Hale with fewer words expressed a deeper 
 gratitude. 
 
 " Fetch a plate, Margaret — a basket — anything." Mar- 
 garet stood up by the table, half afraid of moving or making 
 any noise to arouse Mr. Thornton into a consciousness of her 
 being in the room. She thought it would be awkward for both 
 to be brought into conscious collision : and fancied that, from 
 her being on a low seat at first, and now standing behind her 
 father, he had overlooked her in his haste. As if he did not 
 feel the consciousness of her presence all over, though his eyes 
 had never rested on her ! 
 
 " I must go," said he, " I cannot stay. If you will forgive 
 this liberty, — ^my rough ways, — ^too abrupt, I fear — but I wiU 
 be more gentle next time. You will allow me the pleasure of 
 bringing you some fruit again, if I should see any that is 
 tempting. Good afternoon, Mr. Hale. Good-bye, ma'am." 
 
 He was gone. Not one word : not one look to Margaret. 
 She believed that he had not seen her. She went for a plate 
 in silence, and lifted the fruit out tenderly, with the points of 
 her delicate taper fingers. It was goodi*of him to bring it ; and 
 after yesterday too ! 
 
 " Oh ! it is so delicious ! " said Mrs. Hale, in a feeble 
 voice. " How kind of him to think of me! Margaret love, 
 only taste these grapes ! Was it not good of him ? " 
 
 " Yes ! " said Margaret, quietly. 
 
 " Margaret ! " said Mrs. Hale, rather querulously, " you 
 won't like anything Mr. Thornton does. I never saw anybody 
 so prejudiced." 
 
 Ml-. Hale had been peeling a peach for his wife ; and, 
 cutting off a small piece for himself, he said : 
 
 " If I had any prejudices, the ^ of such delicious fruit as 
 this would melt them all away. I have not tasted such fruit — 
 no I not even in Hampshire — since I was a boy ; and, to boys, 
 I fancy, all fruit is good. I remember eating sloes and crabs 
 with a relish. Do you remember the matted-up currant busheS; 
 Margaret, at the comer of the west-wall at the garden at 
 home ? " 
 
 Did she not ? Did she not remember every weather-stain 
 on the old stone wall ; the gray and yellow lichens that marked 
 
 14— S 
 
212 NOETH AKD SOUTH. 
 
 it like a map ; the little crane's-bill that grew in the crevices ? 
 She had been shaken by the events of the last two days ; her 
 whole life just now was a strain upon her fortitude ; and, some- 
 how, these careless words of her father's, touching on the 
 remembrance of the sunny times of old, made her start up, and, 
 dropping her sewing on the ground, she went hastily out of the 
 room into her own little chamber. She had hardly given 
 way to the first choking sob, when she became aware of 
 Diion standing at her drawers, and evidently searching for 
 something. 
 
 " Bless me, miss ! How you startled me ! Missus is not 
 worse, is she ? Is anything the matter ? " 
 
 " No, nothing. Only I'm silly, Dixon, and want a glass 
 ot water. What are you looking for ? I keep my muslins in 
 that drawer." 
 
 Dixon did not speak, but went on rummaging. The scent 
 of lavender came out and perfumed the room. 
 
 At last Dixon found what she wanted ; what it was Margaret 
 could not see. Dixon faced round, and spoke to her : 
 
 " Now I don't like telling you what I wanted, because 
 you've fretting enough to go through, and I know yon'U fret 
 about this. I meant to have kept it from you tiU night, may 
 be, or such times as that." 
 
 " What is the matter ? Pray, tell me, Dixon, at once." 
 
 " That young woman you go to see — Higgins I mean." 
 
 " WeU ? " 
 
 " Well ! she died this morning, and her sister is here — 
 come to beg a strange thing. It seems, the young woman who 
 died had a fancy for being buried in something of yours, and so 
 the sister's come to ask for it, — and I was looking for a night- 
 cap that wasn't too good to give away." 
 
 " Oh ! let me find one," said Margaret, in the midst of her 
 tears. " Poor Bessy ! I never thought I should not see her 
 ftgain." 
 
 " Why, that's another thiag. This girl downstairs wanted 
 me to ask you, if you would like to see her." 
 
 " But she's dead ! " said Margaret, turning a little pale. 
 " I never saw a dead person. No ! I would rather not." 
 
 " I should never have asked you, if you hadn't come in. I 
 told her you wouldn't." 
 
 " I will go down and speak to her," said Margaret, afraid 
 lest Dixon's harshness of manner might wound the poor girl. 
 So, taking the cap in her hand, she went to the kitchen. Mary's 
 
FBUIT-PIECE. 21S 
 
 face was all swollen with crying, and she burst out afresh when 
 she saw Margaret. 
 
 " Oh, ma'am, she loved yo', she loved yo', she did indeed!" 
 And for a long time, Margaret could not get her to say any- 
 thing more than this. At last, her sympathy, and Dixon's 
 scolding, forced out a few facts. Nicholas Higgins had gone 
 out in the morning, leaving Bessy as well as on the day before. 
 But in an hour she was taken worse ; some neighbour ran to 
 the room where Mary was working ; they did not know where 
 to find her father ; Mary had only come in a few minutes before 
 she died. 
 
 " It were a day or two ago she axed to be buried in some- 
 what o' youm. She were never tired o' talking o' yo'. She 
 used to say yo' were the prettiest thing she'd ever clapped eyes 
 on. She loved yo' dearly. Her last words were ' dive her 
 my affectionate respects ; and keep father fro' drink.' Yo'U 
 come and see her, ma'am. She would ha' thought it a great 
 compliment, I know." 
 
 Margaret shrank a little from answering. 
 
 " Yes, perhaps I may. Yes, I will. I'll come before tea. 
 But Where's your father, Mary ? " 
 
 Mary shook her head, and stood up to be going. 
 
 " Miss Hale," said Dixon, in a low voice, " where's the 
 use o' your going to see the poor thing laid out ? I'd never 
 say a word against it, if it could do the girl any good ; and I 
 wouldn't mind a bit going myself, if that would satisfy her. 
 They've just a notion, these common folks, of its being a 
 respect to the departed. Here," said she, turning sharply 
 round, " I'll come and see your sister. Miss Hale is busy, 
 and she can't come, or else she would." 
 
 The girl looked wistfully at Margaret. Dixon's coming 
 might be a compliment, but it was not the same thing to the 
 poor sister, who had had her little pangs of jealousy, during 
 Bessy's lifetime, at the intimacy between her and the young lady. 
 
 " No, Dixon ! " said Margaret with decision. " I will go. 
 Mary, you shall see me this afternoon." And for fear of her 
 own cowardice, she went away, in order to take from herself 
 any chance of changing her determination. 
 
( 21,4 ) 
 
 CHAPTER XXVm. 
 
 COMFORT IN SOEBOW. 
 
 " Through cross to crown 1 — And though thy spirit's life 
 Trials untold assail with giant strength, 
 Good cheer ! good cheer I Soon ends the bitter strife, 
 And thou shalt reign in peace with Christ at length." 
 
 KOSEGAETBN. 
 
 •* Ay sooth, we feel too strong in weal, to need Thee on that road ; 
 But woe being come, the soul is dumb, that crieth not on ' God.' " 
 
 Mes. Beowning. 
 
 That afternoon she walked swiftly to the Higgins's honse. 
 Mary was looking out for her, with a half-distrustful face. 
 Margaret smiled into her eyes to re-assure her. They passed 
 quickly through the house-place, upstairs, and into the quiet 
 presence of the dead. Then Margaret was glad that she had 
 come. The face, often so weary with pain, so restless with 
 troublous thoughts, had now the faint soft smile of eternal rest 
 upon it. The slow tears gathered into Margaret's eyes, but a 
 deep calm entered into her soul. And that was death ! It 
 looked more peaceful than life. All beautiful scriptures came 
 into her mind. " They rest from their labours." " The 
 weary are at rest." " He giveth His beloved sleep." 
 
 Slowly, slowly Margaret turned away from the bed. Mary 
 was humbly sobbing in the back-ground. They went down 
 stairs without a word. 
 
 Resting his hand upon the house-table, Nicholas Higgins 
 stood in the midst of the floor ; his great eyes startled open by 
 the news he had heard, as he came along the court, from many 
 busy tongues. His eyes were dry and fierce ; studying the 
 reaUty of her death ; bringing himself to understand that her 
 place should know her no more. For she had been sickly, 
 dying so long, that he had persuaded himself she would not 
 die ; that she would " pull through." 
 
 Margaret felt as if she had no business to be there, 
 familiarly acquainting herself with the surroundings of death 
 which he, the father, had only just learnt. There had been a 
 pause of an iastant on the steep crooked stair, when she first 
 saw him ; but now she tried to steal past his abstracted gaze, 
 and to leave him in the solemn circle of his household misery. 
 
 Mary sat down on the first chair she came to, and throwing 
 her apron over her head, began to cry. 
 
COMFORT IN SORROW. 215 
 
 The noise appeared to rouse him. He took sudden hold 
 of Margaret's arm, and held her till he could gather words to 
 Bpeak. His throat seemed dry; they came up thick, and 
 ehoked, and hoarse : 
 
 " Were yo' with her ? Did yo' see her die ? " 
 
 " No ! " replied Margaret, standing still with the utmost 
 patience, now she found herself perceived. It was some time 
 before he spoke again, but he kept his hold on her arm. 
 
 " All men must die," said he at last, with 9, strange sort of 
 gravity, which first suggested to Margaret the idea that he had 
 been drinking — ^not enough to intoxicate himself, but enough 
 to make his thoughts bewildered. " But she were younger 
 than me." Still he pondered over the event, not looking at 
 Margaret, though he grasped her tight. Suddenly, he looked 
 up at her with a wild searching inquiry in his glance. " Yo're 
 sure and certain she's dead — ^not in a dwam, a faint ? — she's 
 been so before, often." 
 
 " She is dead," replied Margaret. She felt no fear in 
 speaking to him, though he hurt her arm with his gripe, and 
 wild gleams came across the stupidity of his eyes. 
 
 " She is dead ! " she said. 
 
 He looked at her still with that searching look, which 
 seemed to fade out of his eyes as he gazed. Then he suddenly 
 let go his hold of Margaret, and, throwing his body half across 
 the table, he shook it and every piece of furniture in the 
 room, with his violent sobs. Mary came trembling towards him. 
 
 "Get thee gone! — get thee gone!" he cried, striking 
 wildly and blindly at her. " What do I care for thee ? " 
 Margaret took her hand and held it softly in hers. He tore 
 his hair, he beat his head against the hard wood, then he lay 
 exhausted and stupid. StiU his daughter and Margaret did not 
 move. Mary trembled from head to foot. 
 
 At last — ^it might have been a quarter of an hour, it might 
 have been an hour — ^he lifted himself up. His eyes were 
 BwoUen and bloodshot, and he seemed to have forgotten that 
 any one was by ; he scowled at the watchers when he saw 
 them. He shook himself heavUy, gave them one more sullen 
 look, spoke never a word, but made for the door. 
 
 " Oh, father, father ! " said Mary, throwing herself upon 
 his arm, — " not to night ! Any night but to-night. Oh, help 
 me ! he's going out to drink again ! Father, I'll not leave yo'. 
 Yo' may strike, but I'll not leave yo'. She told me last of all 
 to keep yo' fro' drink I " 
 
216 NOETH AMD SOUTH. 
 
 But Margaret stood in the doorway, silent yet commanding. 
 He looked up at her defyingly. 
 
 "It's my own house. Stand out o' the way, wench, or 
 I'll make yo' ! " He had shaken off Mary with violence; he 
 looked ready to strike Margaret. But she never moved a 
 feature — never took her deep, serious eyes off him. He stared 
 back on her with gloomy fierceness. If she had stirred hand 
 or foot, he would have thrust her aside with even more violence 
 than he had used to his own daughter, whose face was bleeding 
 from her fall against a chair. 
 
 " What are yo' looking at me in that way for ? " asked he 
 at last, daunted and awed by her severe calm. " If yo' think 
 for to keep me from going what gait I choose, because she 
 loved yo' — and in my own house, too, where I never asked yo' 
 to come, yo're mista'en. It's very hard upon a man that he 
 can't go to the only comfort left." 
 
 Margaret felt that he acknowledged her power. What 
 could she do next ? He had seated himself on a chair, close 
 to the door ; half-conquered half-resenting ; intending to go 
 out as soon as she left her position, but unwilling to use the 
 violence he had threatened not five minutes before. Margaret 
 laid her hand on his arm. 
 
 " Come with me," she said. " Come and see her! " 
 
 The voice in which she spoke was very low and solenm ; 
 but there was no fear or doubt expressed in it, either of him or 
 of his compliance. He sullenly rose up. He stood uncertain, 
 with dogged irresolution upon his face. She waited him there ; 
 quietly and patiently waited for his time to move. He had a 
 strange pleasure in making her wait; but at last he moved 
 towards the stairs. 
 
 She and he stood by the corpse. 
 
 "Her last words to Mary were, 'Keep my father fro' 
 drink.' " 
 
 " It canna hurt her now," muttered he. " Nought can 
 hurt her now." Then, raising his voice to a wailing cry, he 
 went on : " We may quarrel and fall out — ^we may make peace 
 and be friends — we may clem to skin and bone — and nought o' 
 all our griefs will ever touch her more. Hoo's had her portion 
 on 'em. What wi' hard work first, and sickness at last, hoo' 
 led the life of a dog. And to die without knowing one good 
 piece o' rejoicing in all her days ! Nay, wench, whatever hoo 
 said, hoo can know nought about it now, and I man ha' a sup 
 o' drink just to steady me again sorrow." 
 
COMFORT IN SORROW. 217 
 
 " No," said Margaret, softening with his softened manner. 
 " You shall not. If her life has heen what you say, at anj 
 rate she did not fear death as some do. Oh, you should Have 
 heard her speak of the life to come — ^the life hidden with God, 
 that she is now gone to." 
 
 He shook his head, glancing sideways up at Margaret as 
 he did so. nis pale haggard face struck her painfully. 
 
 " You are sorely tried. Where have you heen all day — ^not 
 at work ? " 
 
 " Not at work, sure enough," said he, with a short, grim 
 laugh. " Not at what you call work. I were at the Committee, 
 till I were sickened out wi' trying to make fools hear reason. I 
 were fetched to Boucher's wife afore seven this morning. She's 
 bed-fast, but she were raving and raging to know where her 
 dunder-headed brute of a chap was, as if I'd to keep him — as 
 if he were fit to be ruled by me. The d — d fool, who has put 
 his foot in all our plans ! And I've walked my feet sore wi' 
 going about for to see men who wouldn't be seen, now the law 
 is raised again us. And I were sore-hearted, too, which is 
 worse than sore-footed ; and if I did see a friend who ossed to 
 treat me, I never knew hoo lay a-dying here. Bess, lass, 
 thou'd believe me, thou wouldst — wouldstn't thoa ? " turning 
 to the poor dumb form with wild appeal. 
 
 "I am sure," said Margaret, "I am sure you did not 
 know : it was quite sudden. But now, you see, it would be 
 different ; you do know ; you do see her lying there ; you 
 hear what she said with her last breath. You will not go ? " 
 
 No answer. In fact, where was he to look for comfort ? • 
 
 " Come_ home with me," said she at last, with a bold 
 venture, half trembling at her own proposal as she made it. 
 " At least you shall have some comfortable food, which I'm 
 sure you need." 
 
 " Yo'r father's a parson ? " asked he, with a sudden turn in 
 his ideas. 
 
 " He was," said Margaret, shortly. 
 
 " I'll go and take a dish o' tea with him, since yo've asked 
 me. I've many a thing I often wished to say to a parson, and 
 I'm not particular as to whether he's preaching now, or not." 
 
 Margaret was perplexed ; his drinking tea with her father, 
 who would be totally unprepared for his visitor — her mother so 
 ill — seemed utterly out of the question ; and yet, if she drew 
 back now, it would be worse than ever — sure to drive him to 
 the giu-shop. She thought that if she could only get him tn 
 
218 NORTH A5fD SOUTH. 
 
 their own houee, it was so great a step gained that she would 
 trust to the chapter of accidents for the next. 
 
 ' " Good-bye, ou'd wench ! We've parted company at last, 
 we have ! But thou'st been a blessin' to thy father ever sin' 
 thou wert bom. Bless thy white lips, lass, — ^they've a smile 
 on 'em now ! and I'm glad to see it once again, though I'm 
 lone and forlorn for evermore." 
 
 He stooped down and fondly kissed his daughter ; covered 
 up her face, and turned to follow Margaret. She had hastily 
 gone down stairs to tell Mary of the arrangement ; to say it 
 was the only way she could think of to keep him from the gin- 
 palace : to urge Mary to come too, for her heart smote her at 
 the idea of leaving the poor affectionate girl alone. But Mary 
 had friends among the neighbours, she said, who would come in 
 and sit a bit with her ; it was all right ; but father — 
 
 He was there by them or she would have spoken more. 
 He had shaken off his emotion, as if he was ashamed of having 
 ever given way to it ; and had even o'erleaped himself so much 
 that he assumed a sort of bitter mirth, like the crackling of 
 thorns under a pot. 
 
 " I'm going to take my tea wi' her father, I am ! " 
 
 But he slouched his cap low down over his brow as he went 
 out into the street, and looked neither to the right nor to the 
 left, while he tramped along by Margaret's side ; he feared 
 being upset by the words, still more the looks, of sympathising 
 neighbours. So he and Margaret walked in silence. 
 
 As he got near the street in which he knew she lived, he 
 looked down at his clothes, his hands, and shoes. 
 
 " I should m'appen ha' cleaned mysel', first ? " 
 
 It certainly would have been desirable, but Margaret 
 assured him he should be allowed to go into the yard, and 
 have soap and towel provided; she could not let him sKp out 
 of her hands just then. 
 
 While he followed the house-servant along the passage, and 
 through the kitchen, stepping cautiously on every dark mark 
 in the pattern of the oil-cloth, in order to conceal his dirty 
 foot-prints, Margaret ran upstairs. She met Dixon on the 
 landing. 
 
 " How is mamma ? — where is papa ? " 
 
 Missus was tired, and gone into her own room. She had 
 wanted to go to bed, but Dixon had persuaded her to lie down 
 on the sola, and have her tea brought to her there ; it would 
 be better than getting restless by being too long in bed. 
 
fJOMFORT IN SOUEOW. 219 
 
 So far, so good. But where was Mr. Hale ? In the drawing- 
 room. Margaret went in half breathless with the hurried story 
 she had to tell. Of course, she told it incompletely ; and her 
 father was rather " taken aback " by the idea of the drunken 
 weaver awaiting him ia his quiet study, with whom he was 
 expected to drink tea, and on whose behalf Margaret was 
 anxiously pleading. The meek, kind-hearted Mr. Hale would 
 have readily tried to console him in his grief, but, unluckily, 
 the point Margaret dwelt upon most forcibly was the fact of his 
 having been drinking, and her having brought him home with 
 her as a last expedient to keep him from the gin-shop. One 
 little event had come out of another so naturally that Margaret 
 was hardly conscious of what she had done, till she saw the 
 slight look of repugnance on her father's face. 
 
 " Oh, papa ! he really is a man you wiU not dislike — ^if 
 you won't be shocked to begin with." 
 
 " But, Margaret, to bring a drunken man home — and your 
 mother so ill ! " 
 
 Margaret's countenance fell. " I am sorry, papa. He is 
 very quiet — ^he is not tipsy at all. He was only rather strange 
 at first, but that might be the shock of poor Bessy's death." 
 Margaret's eyes filled with tears. Mr. Hale took hold of her 
 sweet pleading face in both his hands, and kissed her forehead. 
 
 "It is all right, dear. I'll go and make him as com- 
 fortable as I can, and do you attend to your mother. Only, if 
 you can come in and make a third in the study, I shall be 
 glad." 
 
 "Oh, yes — thank you." But as Mr. Hale was leaving the 
 room, she ran after him : 
 
 "Papa — you must not wonder at what he says: he's an 
 , I mean he does not believe in much of what we do." 
 
 " Oh dear ! a drunken infidel weaver ! " said Mr. Hale to 
 himself, in dismay. But to Margaret he only said, " If your 
 mother goes to sleep, be sure you come directly." 
 
 Margaret went into her mother's room. Mrs. Hale lifted 
 herself up from a doze. 
 
 " When did you write to Frederick, Margaret ? Yester- 
 day, or the day before ? " 
 
 " Yesterday, mamma." 
 
 " Yesterday, and the letter went ? " 
 
 " Yes. I took it myself." 
 
 " Oh, Margaret, I'm so afraid of his coming ! If he should 
 be recognized 1 If he should be taken! If he should be 
 
220 NOETH AND SOUTH. 
 
 executed, after all these years that he has kept away and lived 
 in safety ! I keep falling asleep and dreaming that he is 
 caught and being tried." 
 
 " Oh, mamma, don't be afraid. There will be some risk 
 no doubt ; but we will lessen it as much as ever we can. And 
 it is so little ! Now, if we were at Helstone, there would be 
 twenty — a hundred times as much. There, everybody would 
 remember him ; and if there was a stranger known to be in 
 the house, they would be sure to guess it was Frederick ; 
 while here, nobody knows or cares for us enough to notice 
 what we do. Dixon will keep the door like a dragon — won't 
 you, Dixon — ^whUe he is here ? " 
 
 " They'll be clever if they come in past me ! " said Dixon, 
 showing her teeth at the bare idea. 
 
 " And he need not go out, except in the dusk, poor 
 fellow ! " 
 
 " Poor fellow ! " echoed Mrs. Hale. " But I almost wish 
 you had not written. Would it be too late to stop him if you 
 wrote again, Margaret ? " 
 
 " I'm afraid it would, mamma," said Margaret, remem- 
 bering the urgency with which she had entreated him to come 
 directly, if he wished to see his mother alive. 
 
 " I always dislike that doing things in such a hurry," said 
 Mrs. Hale. 
 
 Margaret was silent. 
 
 " Come now, ma'am," said Dixon, with a kind of cheerful 
 authority, " you know seeing Master Frederick is just the very 
 thing of all others you're longing for. And I'm glad Miss 
 Margaret wrote off straight, without shilly-shallying. I've had 
 a great mind to do it myself. And we'll keep him snug, depend 
 ^pon it. There's only Martha in the house that would not do 
 a good deal to save him on a pinch ; and I've been thinking 
 she might go and see her mother just at that very time. She's 
 been saying once or twice she should like to go, for her mother 
 has had a stroke since she came here ; only she didn't like to 
 ask. But I'll see about her being safe off, as soon as we know 
 when he comes, God bless him ! So take your tea, ma'am, in 
 comfort, and trust to me." 
 
 Mrs. Hale did trust in Dixon more than in Margaret. 
 Dixon's words quieted her for the time. Margaret poured 
 out the tea in silence, trying to think of somethmg agreeable 
 to say ; but her thoughts made answer something like Daniel 
 O'Kourke, when the man-in-the moon asked him to get off his 
 
COMFORT IN SORROW. 221 
 
 reaping-hook. " The more you ax us, the more we won't stir." 
 The more she tried to think of something — anything besides 
 the danger to which Frederick would be exposed — the more 
 closely her imagination clung to the unfortunate idea presented 
 to her. Her mother prattled with Dixon, and seemed to have 
 utterly forgotten the possibility of Frederick being tried and 
 executed — utterly forgotten that at her wish, if by Margaret's 
 deed, he was summoned into this danger. Her mother was one 
 of those who throw out terrible possibilities, miserable proba- 
 bilities, unfortunate chances of all kinds, as a rocket throws 
 out sparks ; but if the sparks light on some combustible matter, 
 they smoulder first, and burst out into a frightful flame at last. 
 Margaret was glad when, her filial duties gently and carefully 
 performed, she could go down into the study. She wondered 
 how her father and Higgins had got on. 
 
 In the first place, the decorous, kind-hearted, simple, old- 
 fashioned gentleman, had unconsciously called out, by his own 
 refinement and eourteousness of manner, all the latent courtesy 
 in the other. 
 
 Mr. Hale treated all his fellow-creatures alike : it never 
 entered into his head to make any difierence because of their 
 rank. He placed a chair for Nicholas ; stood up till he, at 
 Mr. Hale's request, took a seat ; and called him, invariably, 
 " Mr. Higgins," instead of the curt " Nicholas" or "Higgins," 
 to which the " drunken infidel weaver " had been accustomed. 
 But Nicholas was neither an habitual drunkard nor a thorough 
 infidel. He drank to drown care, as he would have himself 
 expressed it : and he was infidel so far as he had never yet 
 found any form of faith to which he could attach himself, heart 
 and soul. 
 
 Margaret was a little surprised, and very much pleased, 
 when she found her father and Higgins in earnest conver- 
 sation — each speaking with gentle politeness to, the other, 
 however their opinions might clash. Nicholas — clean, tidied 
 (if only at the pump-trough), and quiet spoken — was a new 
 creature to her, who had only seen him in the rough indepen- 
 dence of his own hearthstone. He had " slicked " his hair 
 down with the fresh water ; he had adjusted his neck-handker- 
 chief, and borrowed an odd candle-end to polish his clogs with ; 
 and there he sat, enforcing some opinion on her father, vrith a 
 strong Darkshire accent, it is true, but with a lowered voice, 
 and a good, earnest composure on his face. Her father, too, 
 was interested in what his companion was saying. He looked 
 
222 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 round as she came in, smiled, and quietly gave her his chair, 
 and then sat down afresh as quickly as possible, and with a 
 little bow of apology to his guest for the interruption. Higgins 
 nodded to her as a sign of greeting ; and she softly adjusted 
 her working materials on the table, and prepared to listen. 
 
 " As I was a- saying, sir, I reckon yo'd not ha' much belief 
 in yo' if yo' lived here, — if yo'd been bred here. I ax your 
 pardon if I use wrong words ; but what I mean by belief just 
 now, is a-thinking on sayings and maxims and promises made 
 by folk yo' never saw, about the things and the life yo' never 
 saw, nor no one else. Now, yo' say these are true things, and 
 true sayings, and a true life. I just say, where's the proof? 
 There's many and many a one wiser, and scores better learned 
 than I am around me, — folk who've had time to think on these 
 things, — ^while my time has had to be gi'en up to getting my 
 bread. Well, I sees these people. Their lives is pretty much 
 open to me. They're real folk. They don't believe i' the 
 Bible, — not they. They may say they do, for form's sake ; but 
 Lord, sir, d'ye think their first cry i' th' morning is, ' What 
 shall I do to get hold on eternal life ? ' or ' What shall I do to 
 fill my purse this blessed day ? WTiere shall I go ? What 
 bargains shall I strike ? ' The purse and the gold and the notes 
 is real things ; things as can be felt and touched ; them's 
 realities ; and eternal life is all a talk, very fit for— I ax your 
 pardon, sir ; yo'r a parson out o'work, I believe. Well ! I'll 
 never speak disrespectful of a man in the same fix as I'm in 
 mysel'. But I'll just ax yo' another question, sir, and I dunnot 
 want yo' to answer it, only to put in yo'r pipe, and smoke it, 
 afore yo' go for to set down us, who only behove in what we see, 
 as fools and noddies. If salvation, and life to come, and what 
 not, was true — not in men's words, but in men's hearts' core — 
 dun yo' not think they'd din us wi' it as they do wi' political 
 'conomy ? _ They're mighty anxious to come round us wi' that 
 piece o' wisdom ; but t'other would be a greater convarsion, if 
 it were true." 
 
 " But the masters have nothing to do with your religion. 
 All that they are connected with you in is trade, — so they 
 think, — and all that it concerns them, therefore, to rectify your 
 opijiions in is the science of trade." 
 
 " I'm glad, sir," said Higgins, with a curious wink of his 
 eye, " that yo' put in, ' so they think.' I'd ha' thought yo' a 
 hyprocrite, I'm afeard, if yo' hadn't, for all yo'r a parson, or 
 rayther because yo'r a parson. Yo' see, if yo'd spoken o' 
 
COMFORT IN SORROW. 223 
 
 religion as a thing that, if it was true, it didn't concern all men 
 to press on all men's attention, ahove everything else in this 
 'varsal earth, I should ha' thought yo' a knave for to be a 
 parson ; and I'd rather think yo' a fool than a knave. No 
 offence, I hope, sir." 
 
 " None at all. You consider me mistaken, and I consider 
 you far more fatally mistaken. I don't expect to convince you 
 in a day, — not in one conversation ; but let us know each other, 
 and speak freely to each other about these things, and the truth 
 will prevail. I should not believe in God if I did not believe 
 that. Mr. Higgins, I trust, whatever else you have given up, 
 you believe " — (Mr. Hale's voice dropped low in reverence) — 
 " you believe in Him." 
 
 Nicholas Higgins suddenly stood straight, stiff up. Mar- 
 garet started to her feet,-^for she thought, by the working of 
 his face, he was going into convulsions. Mr. Hale looked at 
 her dismayed. At last Higgins found words : 
 
 " Man ! I could fell yo' to the ground for tempting me. 
 Whatten business have yo' to try me wi' your doubts ? Think 
 o' her lying theere, after the life hoo's led ; and think then 
 how yo'd deny me the one sole comfort left — that there is a 
 God, and that He set her her life. I dunnot believe she'll ever 
 live again," said he, sitting down, and drearily going on, as if 
 to the imsympathising fire. "I dunnot believe in any other 
 life than this, in which she dreed such trouble, and had such 
 never-ending care ; and I cannot bear to think it were all a set 
 o' chances, that might ha' been altered wi' a breath o' wind. 
 There's many a time when I've thought I didna believe in God, 
 but I've never put it fair out before me in words, as many men 
 do. I may ha' laughed at those who did, to bra^e it out like — 
 but I have looked round at after, to see if He heard me, if so 
 be there was a He ; but to-day, when I'm left desolate, I 
 wunnot listen to yo' wi' yo'r questions, and yo'r doubts. 
 There's but one thing steady and quiet i' all this reeling world, 
 and, reason or no reason, I'll cling to that. It's a' very well 
 for happy folk " 
 
 Margaret touched his arm very softly. She had not spoken 
 before, nor had he heard her rise. 
 
 " Nicholas, we do not want to reason ; you misunderstand 
 my father. We do not reason — we believe ; and so do you. 
 It is the one sole comfort in such times." 
 
 He turned round and caught her hand. " Ay ! it is, it 
 is " — (brushing away the tears with the back of his hand). — 
 
•224 KOETH AHD SOUTH. 
 
 '• But yo' know, she's lying dead at home ; and I'm welly dazed 
 wi' sorrow, and at times I hardly know what I'm saying. It's 
 as if speeches folk ha' made — clever and smart things as I've 
 thought at the time — come up now my heart's welly brossen. 
 Th' strike's failed as well ; dun yo' know that, miss ? I were 
 coming whoam to ask her, like a beggar as I am, for a bit o' 
 eomfort i' that trouble ; and I were knocked down by one who 
 fcelled me she were dead — -just dead. That were all ; but that 
 were enough for me." 
 
 Mr. Hale blew his nose, and got up to snuff the candles in 
 order to conceal his emotion. " He's not an infidel, Margaret ; 
 how could you say so ? " muttered he reproachfally. " I've 
 a good mind to read him the fourteenth chapter of Job." 
 
 " Not yet, papa, I think. Perhaps not at all. Let us ask 
 him about the strike, and give him all the sympathy he needs, 
 and hoped to have from poor Bessy." 
 
 So they questioned and listened. The workmen's calcu- 
 lations were based (like too many of the masters') on false 
 premises. They reckoned on their fellow-men as if they 
 possessed the calculable powers of machines, no more, no less ; 
 no allowance for human passions getting the better of reason, 
 as in the case of Boucher and the rioters ; and believing that 
 the representations of their injuries would have the same effect 
 on strangers far away, as the injuries (fancied or real) had upon 
 themselves. They were consequently surprised and indignant 
 at the poor Irish, who had allowed themselves to be imported 
 and brought over to take their places. This indignation was 
 tempered, in some degree, by contempt for " them Irishers," 
 and by pleasure at the idea of the bungling way in which they 
 would set to work, and perplex their new masters with their 
 ignorance and stupidity, strange exaggerated stories of which 
 were already spreading through the town. But the most cruel 
 cut of all was that of the Milton workmen, who had defied and 
 disobeyed the commands of the Union to keep the peace, 
 whatever came ; who had originated discord in the camp, 
 and spread the panic of the law being arrayed against 
 them. 
 
 " And so the strike is at an end," said Margaret. 
 
 " Ay, miss. It's save as save can. Th' lactory doors will 
 need open wide to-morrow to let in all who'll be axing for work; 
 if it's only just to show they'd nought to do wi' a measure, 
 which if we'd been made o' th' right stufi would ha' brought 
 wages up to a point they'n not been at this ten year." 
 
COMFORT IN SORROW* 2:15 
 
 " You'll get work, shan't you ? " asked Margaret. " You're 
 a famous workman, are not you ? " 
 
 " Hamper '11 let me work at his mill, when he cuts off his 
 right hand — not before, and not after," said Nicholas, quietly. 
 Margaret was silenced and sad. 
 
 "About the wages," said Mr. Hale. "You'll not be 
 offended, but I think you make some sad mistakes. I should 
 like to read you some remarks in a book I have." He got up 
 and went to his book-shelves. 
 
 " Yo' needn't trouble yoursel', sir," said Nicholas. " Their 
 book- stuff goes in at one ear and out at t'other. I can make 
 nought on't. Afore Hamper and me had this spUt, th' over- 
 looker teUed him I were stirring up th' men to ask for higher 
 wages ; and Hamper met me one day in th' yard. He'd a thin 
 book i' his hand, and says he, ' Higgins, I'm told you're one 
 of those damned fools that think you can get higher wages for 
 asking for 'em ; ay, and keep 'em up too, when you've forced 
 'em up. Now, I'll give yo' a chance and try if yo've any sense 
 in yo'. Here's a book written by a friend o' mine, and if yo'U 
 read it yo'Ll see how wages find their own level, without either 
 masters or men having aught to do with them ; except the 
 men cut their own throats wi' striking, like the confounded 
 noodles they are.' Well, now, sir, I put it to yo', being a 
 parson, and having been in th' preaching Une, and having had 
 to try and bring folk o'er to what yo' thought was a right way 
 o'thinking — did yo' begin by calUng 'em fools and such like, or 
 didn't yo' rayther give 'em such kind words at first, to make 
 'em ready for to listen and be convinced, if they could ; and in 
 yo'r preaching, did yo' stop every now and then, and say, half 
 to them and half to yo'rsel', ' But yo'r such a pack o' fools, 
 that I've a strong notion it's no use my trying to put sense 
 into yo' ? ' I were not i' th' best state, I'll own, for taking in 
 what Hamper's fi:iend had to say — I were so vexed at the way 
 it were put to me ; — but I thought, ' Come, I'll see what these 
 chaps has got to say, and try if it's them or me as is th' noodle.' 
 So I took th' book and tugged at it ; but, Lord bless yo', it 
 went on about capital and labour, and labour and capital, till 
 it fair sent me off to sleep. I ne'er could , rightly fix i' my 
 mind which was which ; and it spoke on 'em as if they was 
 vartues or vices ; and what I wanted for to know were the 
 rights o' men, whether they were rich or poor — so be they 
 only were men." 
 
 " But for all that," said Mr. Hale, " and granting to the 
 
 16 
 
226 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 fnll the offensiveness, the folly, the unchristianness of Mr. 
 Hamper's way of speaking to you in recommending his friend's 
 book, yet if it told you what he said it did, that wages find 
 their own level, and that the most successful strike can only 
 force them up for a moment, to sink in far greater proportion 
 afterwards, in consequence of that very strike, the hook would 
 have told you the truth." 
 
 " Well, sir," said Higgins, rather doggedly ; "it might, or 
 it might not. There's two opinions go to settling that point. 
 But suppose it was truth douhle strong, it were no truth to me 
 if I couldna take it in. I daresay there's truth in yon Latin 
 book on your shelves ; but it's gibberish and not truth to me, 
 unless I know the meaning o' the words. If yo', sir, or any 
 other knowledgable, patient man come to me, and says he'U 
 lam me what the words mean, and not blow me up if I'm a bit 
 stupid, or forget how one thing hangs on another — why, in 
 time I may get to see the truth of it ; or I may not. I'll not 
 be bound to say I shall end in thinking the same as any man. 
 And I'm not one who think truth can be shaped out in words, 
 all neat and clean, as th' men at th' foundry cut out sheet-iron. 
 Same bones won't go down wi' every one. It'll stick here i' 
 this man's throat, and there i' t'others. Let alone that, when 
 down, it may be too strong for this one, too weak for that. 
 Folk who sets up to doctor th' world wi' their truth, mun suit 
 different for different minds ; and be a bit tenderjn th' way of 
 giving it too, or the poor sick fools may spit it out i' their 
 faces. Now Hamper first gi'es me a box on my ear, and then 
 he throws his big bolus at me, and says he reckons it'U do me 
 no good, I'm such a fool, but there it is." 
 
 " I wish some of the kindest and wisest of the masters 
 would meet some of you men, and have a good talk on these 
 things ; it would, surely, be the best way of getting over your 
 difficulties, which, I do believe, arise from your ignorance — 
 excuse me, Mr. Higgins — on subjects which it is tor the 
 mutual interests of both masters and men should be well 
 understood by both. I wonder " — (half to his daughter), " il 
 Mr. Thornton might not be induced to do such a thing ? " 
 
 " Eemember, papa," said she in a very low voice, "what 
 he said one day, — about governments, you know." She was 
 unwilling to make any clearer allusion to the conversation 
 they had held on the mode of governing work-people — ^by 
 giving men intelligence enough to rule themselves, or by a 
 wise despotism on the part of the master — ^for she saw that 
 
COMFORT IN SORROW. 227 
 
 Higgins had caught Mr. Thornton's name, if not the whole of 
 the speech : indeed, he began to speak of him." 
 
 '• Thornton ! He's the chap as wrote off at once for these 
 Irishers; and led to th' riot that ruined th' strike. Even 
 Hamper wi' all his bullying, would ha' waited a while — ^but it's 
 a word and a blow wi' Thornton. And, now, when th' Union 
 would ha' thanked him for following up th' chase after 
 Boucher, and them chaps as went right again our commands, 
 it's Thornton who steps forrard and coolly says that, as th' 
 strike's at an end, he, as party injured, doesn't want to press 
 the charge again the rioters. I thought he'd had more pluck. 
 I thought he'd ha' carried his point, and had his revenge in an 
 open way ; but says he (one in court tolled me his very words) 
 ' they are well known ; they will find the natural punishment 
 of their conduct, in the difficulty they will meet wi' in getting 
 employment. That will be severe enough.' I only wish 
 they'd cotched Boucher, and had him up before Hamper. I 
 see th' oud tiger setting on him ! would he ha' let him off ? 
 Not he ! " 
 
 "Mr. Thornton was right," said Margaret. "You are 
 angry against Boucher, Nicholas ; or else you would be the 
 first to see, that where the natural punishment would be severe 
 «nongh for the offence, any farther punishment would be some- 
 thing like revenge." 
 
 " My daughter is no great friend of Mr. Thornton's," said 
 Mr. Haie, smiling at Margaret ; whUe she, as red as any 
 carnation, began to work with double diligence, " but I believe 
 what she says is the truth. I like him for it." 
 
 " Well, sir, this strike has been a weary piece o' business 
 to me ; and yo'll not wonder if I'm a bit put out wi' seeing it 
 fail, just for a few men who would na suffer in silence, and 
 hou'd out, brave and firm." 
 
 "You forget!" said Margaret. "I don't know much of 
 Boucher ; but the only time I saw him it was not his own 
 sufferings he spoke of, but those of his sick wife — his little 
 children." 
 
 " True I but he were not made of iron himsel'. He'd ha' 
 cried out for his own sorrows, next. He were not one to bear.' 
 
 " How came he into the Union ? " asked Margaret inno- 
 cently. " You don't seem to have much respect for him; nor 
 gained mnch good firom having him in." 
 
 Higgins's brow clouded. He was silent for a minute or 
 two. Then he said, shortly enough : 
 
 16—2 
 
228 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 " It's not for me to speak o' th' Union. What they does 
 they does. Them that is of a trade mun hang together ; and 
 if they're not willing to take their chance along wi' th' rest, 
 th' Union has ways and means." 
 
 Mr. Hale saw that Higgins was vexed at the turn the con- 
 versation had taken, and was silent. Not so Margaret, though 
 she saw Higgins's feeling as clearly as he did. By instinct she 
 felt that if he could but be brought to express himself in plain 
 words, something clear would be gained on which to argue for 
 the right and the just. 
 
 " And what are the Union's ways and means ? " 
 
 He looked up at her, as if on the point of dogged resistance 
 to her wish for information. But her calm face, fixed on his, 
 patient and trustful, compelled him to answer. 
 
 " Well ! If a man doesn't belong to th' Union, them as 
 works next looms has orders not to speak to him — ^if he's sorry 
 or ill it's a' the same ; he's out o' bounds ; he's none o' us ; 
 he comes among us, he works among us, hut he's none o' us. 
 I' some places them's fined who speaks to him. Yo' try that, 
 miss ; try living a year or two among them as looks away if 
 yo' look at 'em ; try working within two yards o' crowds o' 
 men, who, yo' know, have a grinding grudge at yo' in their 
 hearts — to whom if yo' say yo'r glad, not an eye brightens, 
 nor a lip moves, — ^to whom if your heart's heavy, yo' can never 
 say nought, because they'll ne'er take notice on your sighs or 
 sad looks (and a man 's no man who'U groan out loud 'bout 
 folk asking him what's the matter ?) — just yo' try that, miss — 
 ten hours for three hundred days, and yo'll know a bit what th' 
 Union is." 
 
 "Why!" said Margaret, "what tyranny this is ! Nay, 
 Higgins, I don't care one straw for your anger. I know you 
 can't be angry with me if you would, and I must tell you the 
 truth : that I never read, in all the history I have read, of a 
 more slow, Ungering torture than this. And you belong to the 
 Union ! And you talk of the tyranny of the masters ! " 
 
 " Nay," said Higgins, " yo' may say what yo' like ! The 
 dead stand between yo' and every angry word o' mine. D' ye 
 think I forget who's lying the>-e, and how hoc loved yo' ? And 
 it's th' masters as has made us sin, if th' Union is a sin. Not 
 this generation maybe, but their fathers. Their fathers ground 
 our fathers to the very dust ; ground us to powder ! Parson ! 
 I reckon, I've heerd my mother read out a text, ' The fathers 
 have eaten sour grapes and th' children's teeth are set on edge.' 
 
A KAT OF SUNSHIHfi. 229 
 
 It's SO wi' them. In those days of sore oppression th' Unions 
 began ; it were a necessity. It's a necessity now, according 
 to me. It's a withstanding of injustice, past, present, or to 
 come. It may be like war ; along wi' it come crimes ; but I 
 think it were a greater crime to let it alone. Our only chance 
 is binding men together in one common interest ; and if some 
 are cowards and some are fools, they mun come along and join 
 the great march, whose only strength is in numbers." 
 
 "Oh!" said Mr. Hale, sighing, "your Union in itself 
 would be beautiful, glorious, — it would be Christianity itself — 
 if it were but for an end which affected the good of all, instead 
 of that of merely one class as opposed to another." 
 
 " I reckon it's time for me to be going, sir," said Higgins, 
 as the clock struck ten. 
 
 "Home?" said Margaret very softly. He understood 
 her, and took her offered hand. " Home, miss. Yo' may 
 trust me, tho' I am one o' th' Union." 
 
 " I do trust you most thoroughly, Nicholas." 
 
 " Stay ! " said Mr. Hale, hurrying to the bookshelves. 
 " Mr. Higgins ! I'm sure you'll join ns in family prayer ? " 
 
 Higgins looked at Margaret, doubtfully. Her grave sweet 
 eyes met his ; there was no compulsion, only deep interest in 
 them. He did not speak, but he kept his place. 
 
 Margaret the Churchwoman, her father the Dissenter, 
 Higgins the Infidel, knelt down together. It did them no 
 harm. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 A RA.X OP SUNSHINE. 
 
 ♦* Some wishes crossed my mind and dimly cheered it, 
 And one or two poor melancholy pleasures, 
 Each in the pale unwarming light of hope, 
 Silvering its flimsy wing, flew silent by — 
 Moths in the moonbeam ! " 
 
 COLEBIDOS. 
 
 The next morning brought Margaret a letter from Edith. It 
 was affectionate and inconsequent like the writer. But the 
 affection was charming to Margaret's own affectionate nature ; 
 and she had grown up with the inconsequence, so she did not 
 perceive it. It was as follows : — 
 
aaO NORTH AHD SOUTH. 
 
 " Oh, Margaret, it is worth a journey from England to see 
 my boy ! He is a superb little fellow, especially in his caps, 
 and most especially in the one you sent him, you good, dainty- 
 fingered, persevering little lady ! Having made all the mothers 
 here envious, I want to show him to somebody new, and hear 
 a fresh set of admiring expressions ; perhaps, that's all the 
 reason ; perhaps it is not, — ^nay, possibly, there is just a little 
 cousinly love mixed with it ; but I do want you so much to 
 come here, Margaret! I'm sure it would be the very best 
 thing for Aunt Hale's health ; everybody here is young and 
 well, and our skies are always blue, and our sun always shines, 
 and the band plays deliciously from morning till night ; and, 
 to come back to the burden of my ditty, my baby always smiles. 
 I am constantly wanting you to draw Mm for me, Margaret. 
 It does not signify what he is doing ; that very thing is pret- 
 tiest, gracefulest, best. I think I love him a great deal better 
 than my husband, who is getting stout, and grumpy, — ^what he 
 calls ' busy.' No ! he is not. He has just come in with news 
 of such a charming pic-nic, given by the officers of the Hazard, 
 at anchor in the bay below. Because he has brought in such 
 a pleasant piece of news, I retract all I said just now. Did 
 not somebody bum his hand for having said or done something 
 he was sorry for ? Well, I can't bum mine, because it would 
 hurt me, and the scar would be ugly ; but I'll retract aU I said 
 as fast as I can. Cosmo is quite as great a darling as baby, 
 and not a bit stout, and as ungrampy as ever husband was ;. 
 only, sometimes he is very, very buSy. I may say that without 
 love — wifely duty — where was I ? — ^I had something very parti- 
 cular to say, I know, once. Oh, it is this — ^Dearest Margaret! — 
 you must come and see me ; it would do Aunt Hale good, as I 
 said before. Get the doctor to order it for her. Tell him that 
 it's the smoke of Milton that does her harm. I have no doubt 
 it is that, really. Three months (you must not come for less) 
 of this delicious climate — aU sunshine, and grapes as common 
 as blackberries, would quite cure her. I don't ask my uncle" — 
 (Here the letter became more constrained, and better written ; 
 Mr. Hale was in the comer, like a naughty child, for having, 
 given up his living.) — " because, I dare say, he disapproves of 
 war, and soldiers, and bands of music ; at least, I know that 
 many Dissenters are members of the Peace Society, and I am 
 afraid he would not like to come ; but, if he would, dear, pray 
 say that Cosmo and I will do our best to make him happy ; 
 and I'll hide up Cosmo's red coat and sword, and make tiift 
 
A RAT OP SUNSHnSTE. 231 
 
 band play aU sorts of grave, solemn things ; or, if they do play 
 pomps and vanities, it shall be in double slow time. Dear 
 Margaret, if he would lite to accompany you and Aunt Hale, 
 we will try and make it pleasant, though I'm rather afraid ol 
 any one who has done something for conscience' sake. You 
 never did, I hope. Tell Aunt Hale not to bring many warm 
 clothes, though I'm afraid it will be late in the year before you 
 can come. But you have no idea of the heat here ! I tried 
 to wear my great beauty Indian shawl at a pic-nic. I kept 
 myself up with proverbs as long as I could ; ' Pride must 
 abide,' — and such wholesome pieces of pith ; but it was of no 
 use. I was like mamma's little dog Tiny with an elephant's 
 trappings on ; smothered, hidden, killed with my finery ; so I 
 made it into a capital carpet for us aU to sit down upon. Here's 
 this boy of mine, Margaret, — if you don't pack up your things 
 as soon as you get this letter, and come straight off to see him, 
 I shall think you're descended fi:om King Herod ! " 
 
 Margaret did long for a day of Edith's life — her freedom 
 from care, her cheerful home, her sunny skies. If a wish could 
 have transported her, she would have gone off; just for one 
 day. She yearned for the strength which such a change would 
 give, — even for a few hours to be in the midst of that bright 
 life, and to feel young again. Not yet twenty ! and she had 
 had to bear up against such hard pressure that she felt quite 
 old. That was her first feeling after reading Edith's letter. 
 Then she read it again, and, forgetting herself, was amused at 
 its likeness to Edith's self, and was laughiug merrily over it 
 when Mrs. Hale came into the drawing-room, leaning on Dixon's 
 arm. Margaret flew to adjust the pillows. Her mother seemed 
 more than usually feeble. 
 
 "What were you laughing at, Margaret?" asked she, as 
 soon as she had recovered from the exertion of settling herself 
 on the sofa. 
 
 " A letter I have had this morning from Edith. Shall I 
 read it you, mamma ? " 
 
 She read it aloud, and for a time it seemed to interest her 
 mother, who kept wondering what name Edith had given to 
 her boy, and suggesting all probable names, and all possible 
 reasons why each and all of these names should be given. 
 Into the very midst of these wonders Mr. Thornton came, 
 bringing another offering of fruit for Mrs. Hale. He could 
 not—say rather, he would not — deny himself the chance of the 
 pleasure of seeing Margaret. He had no end in this but the 
 
232 NOETH AND SOUTH. 
 
 present gratification. It was the sturdy wilfulness of a man 
 usually most reasonable and self-oontroUed. He entered the 
 room, taking in at a glance the fact of Margaret's presence ; 
 but after the first cold distant bow, he never seemed to let his 
 eyes fall on her again. He only stayed to present his peaches — 
 to speak some gentle kindly words — and then his cold offended 
 eyes met Margaret's with a grave farewell, as he left the room. 
 She sat down silent and pale. 
 
 " Do you know, Margaret, I really begin quite to like 
 Mr. Thornton." 
 
 No answer at first. Then Margaret forced out an icy " Do 
 you ? " 
 
 " Yes ! I think he is really getting quite polished in his 
 manners." 
 
 Margaret's voice was more in order now. She replied, 
 
 " He is very kind and attentive, — ^there is no doubt of that." 
 
 " I -wonder Mrs. Thornton never calls. She must know I 
 am ill, because of the water-bed." 
 
 " I dare say, she hears how you are from her son." 
 
 " Still, I should like to see her. You have so few friends 
 here, Margaret." 
 
 Margaret felt what was in her mother's thoughts, — a tender 
 craving to bespeak the kindness of some woman towards the 
 daughter that might be so soon left motherless. But she could 
 not speak. 
 
 " Do you think,'' said Mrs. Hale, after a pause, " that you 
 could go and ask Mrs. Thornton to come and see me ? Only 
 once, — ^I don't want to be troublesome." 
 
 " I will do anything, if you wish it, mamma, — ^but if— but 
 when Frederick comes " 
 
 " Ah, to be sure ! we must keep our doors shut, — ^we must 
 let no one in. I hardly know whether I dare wish him to come 
 or not. Sometimes I think I would rather not. Sometimes I 
 have such frightful dreams about him." 
 
 " Oh, mamma !• we'll take good care. I vrill put my arm 
 in the bolt sooner than he should come to the slightest harm. 
 Trust the care of him to me, mamma. I will watch over him 
 like a lioness over her young." 
 
 " When can we hear from him? " 
 
 " Not for a week yet, certainly, — perhaps more." 
 
 " We must send Mai-tha away in good time. It would 
 never do to have her here when he comes, and then send her 
 off in a hurry." 
 
A EAT OF SUNSHINE. 238 
 
 " Dixon is sure to remind us of that. I was thinking that, 
 if we wanted any help in the house while he is here, we could 
 perhaps get Mary Higgins. She is very slack of work, and is 
 a good girl, and would take pains to do her best, I am sure, 
 and would sleep at home, and need never come upstairs, so as 
 to know who is in the house." 
 
 " As you please. As Dixon pleases. But, Margaret, don't 
 get to use these horrid Milton words. ' Slack of work : ' it is 
 a provinciahsm. What will your aunt Shaw say, if she hears 
 you use it on her return ? " 
 
 "Oh, mamma! don't try and make a bugbear of aunt 
 Shaw," said Margaret, laughing. " Edith picked up all sorts 
 of military slang from Captain Lennox, and aunt Shaw never 
 took any notice of it." 
 
 " But yours is factory slang." 
 
 " And if I live in a factory town, I must speak factory lan- 
 guage when I want it. Why, mamma, I could astonish you 
 with a great many words you never heard in your life. I don't 
 believe you know what a knobstick is." 
 
 " Not I, child. I only know it has a very vulgar sound ; 
 and I don't want to hear you using it." 
 
 " Very well, dearest mother, I won't. Only I shall have to 
 use a whole explanatory sentence instead." 
 
 " I don't like this Milton," said Mrs. Hale. " Edith is 
 right enough in saying it's the smoke that has made me so ill." 
 
 Margaret started up as her mother said this. Her father 
 had just entered the room, and she was most anxious that the 
 &int impression she had seen on his mind that the Milton air 
 had injured her mother's health, should not be deepened, — 
 should not receive any confirmation. She could not tell whether 
 he had heard what Mrs. Hale had said or not ; but she began 
 speaking hurriedly of other things, unaware that Mr. Thornton 
 was following him. 
 
 " Mamma is accusing me of having picked up a great deal 
 of vulgarity since we came to Milton." 
 
 The " vulgarity" Margaret spoke of, referred purely to the 
 use of local words, and the expression arose out of the conver- 
 sation they had just been holding. But Mr. Thornton's brow 
 darkened ; and Margaret suddenly felt how her speech might 
 be misunderstood by him ; so, in the natural sweet desire to 
 avoid giving unnecessary pain, she forced herself to go forwards 
 with a little greeting, and continue what she was saying, 
 addressing herself to him expressly. 
 
234 NOETH AKD SOUTH. 
 
 " Now, Mr. Thornton, though ' knobstick ' has not a very 
 pretty sound, is it not expressive ? Could I do without it, in 
 speaking of the thing it represents ? If using local words is 
 vulgar, I was very vulgar in the Forest, — was I not, mamma ?' 
 
 It was anusual with Margaret to obtrude her own subject 
 of conversation on others ; but, in this case, she was so 
 anxious to prevent Mr. Thornton from feeling annoyance at the 
 words he had accidentally overheard, that it was not until she 
 had done speaking that she coloured all over with conscious- 
 ness, more especially as Mr. Thornton seemed hardly to under- 
 stand the exact gist or bearing of what she was saying, but 
 passed her by, with a cold reserve of ceremonious movement, 
 to speak to Mrs. Hale. 
 
 The sight of him reminded her of the wish to see his 
 mother, and commend Margaret to her care. Margaret, sitting 
 in burning silence, vexed and ashamed of her difficulty in 
 keeping her right place, and her cahn unconsciousness of heart, 
 when Mr. Thornton was by, heard her mother's slow entreaty 
 that Mrs. Thornton would come and see her ; see her soon ; 
 to-morrow, if it were possible. Mr. Thornton promised that 
 she should — conversed a little, and then took his leave ; and 
 Margaret's movements and voice seemed at once released from 
 some invisible chains. He never looked at her ; and yet, the 
 careful avoidance of his eyes betokened that in some way he 
 knew exactly where, if they fell by chance, they would rest on 
 her. If she spoke, he gave no sign of attention, and yet his 
 next speech to any one else was modified by what she had said; 
 sometimes there was an express answer to what she had re- 
 marked, but given to another person as though unsuggested by 
 her. It was not the bad manners of ignorance : it was the 
 wilfal bad manners arising from deep offence. It was wilfal at 
 the time ; repented of afterwards. But no deep plan, no careful 
 cunning could have stood him in such good stead. Margaret 
 thought about him more than she had ever done before ; not 
 with any tinge of what is called love, but vrith regret that she 
 had wounded him so deeply, — and with a gentle, patient striving 
 to return to their former position of antagonistic friendship ; 
 for a friend's position was what she found that he had held in 
 her regard, as well as in that of the rest of the family. There 
 was a pretty humility in her behaviour to him, as if mutely 
 apologising for the over-strong words which were the reaction 
 from the deeds of the day of the riot. 
 
 But he resented those words bitterly. They rung in his 
 
HOME AT LABT. 285 
 
 ears ; and he was proud of the sense of justice which ma4e hiia 
 go in every kindness he could offer to her parents. He exulted 
 in the power he showed in compelling himself to face her, 
 whenever he could think of any action which might give her 
 father or mother pleasure. He thought that he disliked seeing 
 one who had mortified him so keenly ; but he was mistaken. 
 It was a stinging pleasure to he in the room with her, and feel 
 her presence. But he was no great analyser of his own motives 
 and was mistaken, as I have said. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXX. 
 
 HOME AT LAST. 
 
 " The saddest biids a season find to sing." 
 
 SoUTffn'ELL. 
 
 " Never to fold the robe o'er secret pain, 
 Never, weighed down by memory's clouds again, 
 To how thy head 1 Thou art gone home ! " 
 
 Mbs. Hehans. 
 
 Mks. Thoenton came to see Mrs. Hale the next morning. 
 She was much worse. One of those sudden changes — those 
 great visible strides towards death, had been taken in the night, 
 and her own family were startled by the gray sunken look her 
 features had assumed in that one twelve hours of suffering. 
 Mrs. Thornton — who had not seen her for weeks — was softened 
 aU at once. She had come because her son asked.it from her 
 as a personal favour, but with all the proud bitter feelings of 
 her nature in arms against that family of which Margaret 
 formed one. She doubted the reality of Mrs. Hale's illness ; 
 she doubted any want beyond a momentary fancy on that lady's 
 part, which should take her out of her previously settled course 
 of employment for the day. She told her son that she wished 
 they had never come near the place ; that he had never got 
 acquainted with them ; that there had been no such useless 
 languages as Latin and Greek ever invented. He bore all this 
 pretty silently ; but when she had ended her invective against 
 the dead languages, he quietly returned to the short, curt, 
 decided expression of his wish that she should go and see 
 Mrs. Hale at the time appointed, as most likely to be conve- 
 nient to the invalid. Mrs. Thornton submitted with as bad a 
 
236 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 grace as she could to her son's desire, all the time liking him 
 file better for having it ; and exaggerating in her own mind 
 the same notion that he had of extraordinary goodness on his 
 part in so perseveringly keeping up with the Hales. 
 
 His goodness verging on weakness (as all the softer virtues 
 did in her mind), and her own contempt for Mr. and Mrs. Hale, 
 and positive dislike to Margaret, were the ideas which ocoapied 
 Mrs. Thornton, till she was struck into nothingness before the 
 dark shadow of the wings of the angel of death. There lay 
 Mrs. Hale — a mother like herself — a much younger woman 
 than she was, — on the bed from which there was no sign of 
 hope that she might ever rise again. No more variety of 
 light and shade for her in that darkened room ; no power of 
 action, scarcely change of movement ; faint alternations of 
 whispered sound and studious silence ; and yet that monotonous 
 life seemed almost too much ! When Mrs. Thornton, strong 
 and prosperous with life, came in, Mrs. Hale lay still, although 
 from the look on her face she was evidently conscious of who 
 it was. But she did not even open her eyes for a minute or 
 two. The heavy moisture of tears stood on the eyelashes 
 before she looked up ; then, with her hand groping feebly over 
 the bed-clothes, for the touch of Mrs. Thornton's large firm 
 fingers, she said, scarcely above her breath. — Mrs. Thornton 
 had to stoop from her erectness to listen, — 
 
 " Margaret— you have a daughter — my sister is in Italy. 
 My child will be without a mother ; — in a strange place, — ^if I 
 die will you " 
 
 And her filmy wandering eyes fixed themselves with an 
 intensity of wistfulness on Mrs. Thornton's face. For a minute 
 there was no change in its rigidness ; it was stern and unmoved ; 
 — ^nay, but that the eyes of the sick woman were growing dim 
 with the slow-gathering tears, she might have seen a dark 
 cloud cross the cold features. And it was no thought of her 
 son, or of her living daughter Fanny, that stirred her heart at 
 last ; but a sudden remembrance, suggested by something in 
 the arrangement of the room, — of a little daughter — dead in 
 infancy — long years ago — ^that, like a sudden sunbeam, melted 
 the icy crust, behind which there was a real tender woman. 
 
 "You wish me to be a friend to Miss Hale," said Mrs. 
 Thornton, in her measured voice, that would not soften with 
 her heart, but came out distinct and clear. 
 
 Mrs. Hale, her eyes still fixed on Mrs. Thornton's face, 
 pressed the hand that lay below hers on the coverlet. She 
 
HOME AT LAST. 237 
 
 could not speak. Mrs. Thornton sighed, " I will be a true 
 friend, if circumstances require it. Not a tender friend. That 
 I cannot be," — (" to her," she was on the point of adding, but 
 she relented at the sight of that poor, anxious face.) — " It is 
 not my nature to show affection even where I feel it, nor do I 
 volunteer advice in general. Still, at your request, — ^if it will 
 be any comfort to you, I will promise you." Then came a 
 pause. Mrs. Thornton was too conscientious to promise what 
 she did not mean to perform ; and to perform anything in the 
 way of kindness on behalf of Margaret, more disliked at this 
 moment than ever, was difficult ; almost impossible. 
 
 "I promise," said she, with grave severity; which, after 
 aU, inspired the dying woman with faith as in something more 
 stable than life itself, — ^flickering, flitting, wavering life I " I 
 promise that in any difficulty in which Miss Hale " 
 
 " Call her Margaret ! " gasped Mrs. Hale. 
 
 " In which she comes to me for help, I wUl help her with 
 every. power I have, as if she were my own daughter. I also 
 promise that if ever I see her doing what I think is wrong " 
 
 "But Margaret never does wrong — ^not wilfully wrong," 
 pleaded Mrs. Hale. Mrs. Thornton went on as before ; as if 
 she had not heard : 
 
 " If ever I see her doing what 1 believe to be wrong — such 
 wrong not touching me or mine, in which case I might be 
 supposed to have an interested motive — I will tell her of it, 
 faithfully and plainly, as I should wish my own daughter to 
 be told." 
 
 There was a long pause. Mrs. Hale felt that this promise 
 did not include all ; and yet it was much. It had reservations 
 in it which she did not understand ; but then she was weak, 
 dizzy, and tired. Mrs. Thornton was reviewing all the pro. 
 bable cases in which she had pledged herself to act. She had 
 a fierce pleasure in the idea of telling Margaret unwelcome 
 truths, in the shape of performance of duty. Mrs. Hale began 
 to speak : 
 
 " I thank you. I pray God to bless you. I shall never 
 ''see you again in this world. But my last words are, I thank 
 you for your promise of kindness to my child." 
 
 "Not kindness!" testified Mis. Thornton, ungraciously 
 truthful to the last. But having eased her conscience by 
 saying these words, she was not sorry that they were not 
 heard. She pressed Mrs. Hale's soft languid hand ; and rose 
 np and went her way out of the house without seeing a creature. 
 
238 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 During the time that Mrs. Thornton was having this inter- 
 view with Mrs. Hale, Margaret and Dixon were laying their 
 heads together and consulting how they should keep Frederick's 
 coming a profound secret to all out of the house. A letter 
 from him might now be expected any day ; and he would 
 assuredly follow quickly on its heels. Martha must be sent 
 away on her holiday ; Dixon must keep stern guard on the 
 front door, only admitting the few visitors that ever came to 
 the house into Mr. Hale's room down stairs — Mrs. Hale's 
 extreme iUness giving her a good excuse for this. If Mary 
 Higgins was required as a help to Dixon in the kitchen, she 
 was to hear and see as little of Frederick as possible ; and he 
 was, if necessary, to be spoken of to her under the name of 
 Mr. Dickinson. But her sluggish and incurious nature was 
 the greatest safeguard of all. 
 
 They resolved that Martha should leave them that very 
 afternoon for this visit to her mother. Margaret wished that 
 she had been sent away on the previous day, as she fancied 
 it might he thought strange to give a servant a holiday when 
 her mistress's state required so much attendance. 
 
 Poor Margaret ! All that afternoon she had to act the part 
 of a Eoman daughter, and give strength out of her own scanty 
 stock to her father. Mr. Hale would hope, would not despair, 
 between the attacks of his wife's malady ; he buoyed himself 
 up in every respite from her pain, and believed that it was the 
 beginning of ultimate recovery. And so, when the paroxysms 
 came on, each more severe than the last, they were fresh 
 agonies, and greater disappoiutments to him. This afternoon, 
 he sat in the drawing-room, unable to bear the solitude of his 
 study, or to employ himself in any way. He buried his head 
 in his arms, which lay folded on the table. Margaret's heart 
 ached to see him ; yet, as he did not speak, she did not like 
 to volunteer any attempt at comfort. Martha was gone. Dixon 
 sat with Mrs. Hale while she slept. The house was very still 
 and quiet, and darkness came on, without any movement to 
 procure candles. Margaret sat at the window, looking out at 
 the lamps and the street, but seeing nothiog, — only ahve to 
 her father's heavy sighs. She did not like to go dovm for 
 lights, lest the tacit restraint of her presence being withdrawn, 
 he might give way to more violent emotion, without her being 
 at hand to comfort him. Yet she was just thinking that she 
 ought to go and see after the well-doing of the kitchen fire, 
 which there was nobody but herself to attend to, when she 
 
HOME AT LAST. 239 
 
 heard the muffled door-bell ring with so Yiolent &, pull, that the 
 wires jingled all through the house, though the positive sound 
 was not great. She started up, passed her father, who had 
 never moved at the veiled, dull sound, — ^returned, and kissed 
 him tenderly. And still he never moved, nor took any notice 
 of her fond embrace. Then she went down softly, through the 
 dark, to the door. Dixon would have put the chain on before 
 she opened it, but Margaret had not a thought of fear in her 
 pre-oceupied mind. A man's tall figure stood between her 
 and the luminous street. He was looking away ; but at the 
 sound of the latch he turned quickly round. 
 
 " Is this Mr. Hale's ? " said he, in a clear, full, delicate 
 voice. 
 
 Margaret trembled all over ; at first she did not answer. 
 In a moment she sighed out, 
 
 " Frederick ! " and stretched out both her hands to catch 
 his, and draw him in. 
 
 " Oh, Margaret ! " said he, holding her off by her shoulders, 
 after they had kissed each other, as if even in that darkness 
 he could see her face, and read in its expression a quicker 
 answer to his question than words could give, — 
 
 " My mother ! is she alive ! " 
 
 "Yes, she is alive, dear, dear brother! She — as ill as 
 she can be she is ; but alive ! She is alive ! " 
 
 " Thank God ! " said he. 
 
 " Papa is utterly prostrate with this great grief." 
 
 " You expect me, don't you ? " 
 
 " No, we have had no letter." 
 
 " Then I have come before it. But my mother knows I 
 am coming. 
 
 " Oh ! we all knew you would come. Bnt wait a little ! 
 Step in here. Give me your hand. What is this ? Oh ! your 
 carpet-bag. Dixon has shut the shutters ; but this is papa's 
 study, and I can take you to a chair to rest yourself for a few 
 minutes ; while I go and tell him." 
 
 She groped her way to the taper and the lucifer matches. 
 She suddenly felt shy, when the little feeble light made them 
 visible. All she could see was, that her brother's face was 
 unusually dark in complexion, and she caught the stealthy look 
 of a pair of remarkably long-cut blue eyes, that suddenly 
 twinkled up with a droll consciousness of their mutual purpose 
 of inspecting each other. But though the brother and sister 
 had an instant of sympathy in their reciprocal glances, they 
 
240 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 did not exchange a word ; only, Margaret felt sure that she 
 should like her brother as a companion as much as she abeady 
 loved him as a near relation. Her heart was wonderfully 
 lighter as she went up stairs ; the sorrow was no less in reality, 
 but it became less oppressive from having some one in precisely 
 the same relation to it as that in which she stood. Not her 
 father's desponding attitude had power to damp her now. He 
 lay across the table, helpless as ever; but she had the spell 
 by which to rouse him. She used it perhaps too violently in 
 her own great relief. 
 
 " Papa," said she, throwing her arms fondly round hia 
 neck; puUing his weary head up in fact with her gentle 
 violence, till it rested in her arms, and she could look into his 
 eyes, and let them gain strength and assurance from hers. 
 
 " Papa ! guess who is here ! " 
 
 He looked at her; she saw the idea of the truth glimmer 
 into their fihny sadness, and be dismissed thence as a wild 
 imagination. 
 
 He threw himself forward, and hid his face once more in 
 his stretched-out arms, resting upon the table as heretofore. 
 She heard him whisper ; she bent tenderly down to listen. " I 
 don't know. Don't tell me it is Frederick — not Frederick. 
 I cannot bear it, — I am too weak. And his mother is dying! " 
 
 He began to cry and wail like a child. It was so different 
 to all which Margaret had hoped and expected, that she turned 
 sick with disappointment, and was silent for an instant. Then 
 she spoke again — very differently — not so exultingly, far more 
 tenderly and carefully. 
 
 " Papa, it is Frederick ! Think of mamma, how glad she 
 will be ! And oh, for her sake, how glad we ought to be ! 
 For his sake, too, — our poor, poor boy ! " 
 
 Her father did not change his attitude, but he seemed to 
 be trying to understand the fact. 
 
 " Where is he ? " asked he at last, his face still hidden in 
 his prostrate arms. 
 
 "In your study, quite alone. I lighted the taper, and ran 
 up to tell you. He is quite alone, and will be wondering 
 why—" 
 
 "I will go to him," broke in her father; and he lifted 
 himself up and leant on her arm as on that of a guide. 
 
 Margaret led him to the study door, but her spirits were 
 BO agitated that she felt she could not bear to see the meeting. 
 She turned away, and ran up stairs, and cried most heartily. 
 
HOME AT LAST. 241 
 
 It was the first time she had dared to allow herself this relief 
 for days. The strain had heen terrible, as she now felt. But 
 Frederick was come ! He, the one precious brother, was there, 
 safe, amongst them again ! She could hardly believe it. She 
 stopped her crying, and opened her bedroom door. She heard 
 no sound of voices, and almost feared she might have dreamt. 
 She went down stairs, and listened at the study door. She 
 heard the buzz of voices ; and that was enough. She went 
 into the kitchen, and stirred up the fire, and lighted the house, 
 and prepared for the wanderer's refreshment. How fortunate 
 it was that her mother slept ! She knew that she did, from 
 the candle-lighter thrust through the keyhole of her bedroom 
 door. The traveller could be refreshed and bright, and the 
 first excitement of the meeting with his father all be over, 
 before her mother became aware of anything unusual. 
 
 When all was ready, Margaret opened the study door, and 
 went in like a serving-maiden, with a heavy tray held in her 
 extended arms. She was proud of serving Frederick. But 
 he, when he saw her, sprang up in a minute, and relieved her 
 of her burden. It was a type, a sign, of all the coming relief 
 which his presence would bring. The brother and sister 
 arranged the table together, saying little, but their hands 
 touching, and their eyes speaking the natural language of 
 expression, so intelligible to those of the same blood. The 
 fire had gone out ; and Margaret applied herself to light it, 
 for the evenings had begun to be chilly; and yet it was 
 desirable to make all noises as distant as possible from 
 Mrs. Hale's room. 
 
 "Dixon says it is a gift to light a fire ; not an art to be 
 acquired." 
 
 " Poeta nascitur, non fit," murmured Mr. Hale ; and 
 Margaret was glad to hear a quotation once more, however 
 languidly given. 
 
 " Dear old Dixon ! How we shall kiss each other ! " said 
 Frederick, " She used to kiss me, and then look in my face 
 to be sure I was the right person, and then set to again 1 But, 
 Margaret, what a bungler you are ! I never saw such a little 
 awkward, good-for-nothing pair of hands. Eun away, and 
 wash them, ready to cut bread-and-butter for me, and leave 
 the fire. I'll manage it. Lighting fires is one of my natural 
 accomplishments." 
 
 So Margaret went away ; and returned ; and passed in and 
 out of the room, in a slad restlessness that could not be 
 
 16 
 
242 MOKTH AJSTD SOUTH. 
 
 satisfied with sitting still. The more wants Frederick had, 
 ' the better she was pleased ; and he understood all this by 
 instinct. It was a joy snatched in the house of mourning, and 
 the zest of it was all the more pungent, because they knew in 
 the depths of their hearts what irremediable sorrow awaited 
 them. 
 
 In the middle, they heard Dixon's foot on the stairs. 
 Mr. Hale started from his languid posture in his great arm- 
 chair, from which he had been watching his children in a 
 dreamv way, as if they were acting some drama of happiness, 
 which it was pretty to look at, but which was distinct from 
 reality, and in which he had no part. He stood up, and faced 
 the door, showing such a strange, sudden anxiety to conceal 
 Frederick from the sight of any person entering, even though 
 it were the faithful Dixon, that a shiver came over Margaret's 
 heart : it reminded her of the new fear in their lives. She 
 caught at Frederick's arm, and clutched it tight, while a stem 
 thought compressed her brow, and caused her to set her teeth. 
 And yet they knew it was only Dixon's measured tread. They 
 heard her walk the length of the passage, — ^into the kitchen. 
 Margaret rose up. 
 
 " I will go to her, and tell her. And I shall hear how 
 mamma is." Mrs. Hale was awake. She rambled at first; 
 but after they had given her some tea she was refreshed, 
 though not disposed to talk. It was better that the night 
 should pass over before she was told of her son's arrival. 
 Dr. Donaldson's appointed visit would bring nervous excite- 
 ment enough for the evening ; and he might tell them how to 
 prepare her for seeing Frederick. He was there, in the house ; 
 could be summoned at any moment. 
 
 Margaret could not sit still. It was a relief to her to aid 
 Dixon in all her preparations for " Master Frederick." It 
 seemed as though she never could be tired again. Each 
 glimpse into the room where he sate by his father, conversing 
 with him, about, she knew not what, nor cared to know, — ^was 
 increase of strength to her. Her own time for talking and 
 hearing would come at last, and she was too certain of this to 
 feel in a hurry to grasp it now. She took in his appearance 
 and liked it. He had delicate features, redeemed from effemi- 
 nacy by the swarthiness of his' complexion, and his quick 
 intensity of expression. His eyes were generally merry-looking, 
 but at times they and his mouth so suddenly changed, and 
 gave her such an idea of latent passion, that it almost made 
 
HOME AT LAST. 243 
 
 her afraid. But this look was only for an instant ; and had 
 in it no doggedness, no vindictiveness ; it was rather the 
 instantaneous ferocity of expression that comes over the 
 countenances of all natives of wild or southern countries — a 
 ferocity which enhances the charm of the childlike softness 
 into which such a look may melt away. Margaret might fear 
 the -violence of the impulsive nature thus occasionally betrayed, 
 but there was nothing in it to make her distrust, or recoil in 
 the least, from the new-found brother. On the contrary, all 
 their intercourse was peculiarly charming to her from the very 
 first. She knew then how much responsibility she had had to 
 bear, from the exquisite sensation of relief which she felt in 
 Frederick's presence. He understood his father and mother — 
 their characters and their weaknesses, and went along with a 
 careless freedom, which was yet most delicately carefiil not to 
 hurt or wound any of their feelings. He seemed to know 
 instinctively when a little of the natural brUlianoy of his manner 
 and conversation would not jar on the deep depression of his 
 father, or might relieve his mother's pain. Whenever it would 
 have been out of tune, and out of time, his patient devotion 
 and watchfiilneBS came into play, and made him an admirable 
 nurse. Then Margaret was almost touched into tears by the 
 allusions which he often made to their childish days in the 
 New Forest ; he had never forgotten her — or Helstone either 
 — aU the time he had been roaming among distant countries 
 and foreign people. She might talk to him of the old spot, 
 and never feared tiring him. She had been afraid of him 
 before he came, even while she had longed for his coming ; 
 seven or eight years had, she felt, produced such great changes 
 in herself that, forgetting how much of the original Margaret 
 was left, she had reasoned that if her tastes and feelings had 
 so materially altered, even in her stay-at-home life, his wild 
 career, with which she was but imperfectly acquainted, must 
 have almost substituted another Frederick for the tall stripling 
 in his middy's uniform, whom she remembered looking up to 
 with such admiring awe. But in their absence they had grown 
 nearer to each other in age, as well as in many other things. 
 And so it was that the weight, this sorrowful time, was lightened 
 to Margaret. Other light than that of Frederick's presence 
 she had none. For a few hours, the mother rallied on seeing 
 her son. She sate with his hand in hers ; she would not part 
 with it even while she slept ; and Margaret had to feed him 
 like a baby, rather than that he should disturb her mother by 
 
 16—2 
 
244 NOETH AND BOXJTH. 
 
 removing a finger. Mrs. Hale wakened while they were thns 
 engaged ; she slowly moved her head round on the pillow, and 
 smiled at her children, as she understood what they were 
 doing, and why it was done. 
 
 "I am very selfish," said she; "but it will not be for 
 long." Frederick bent down and kissed the feeble hand that 
 imprisoned his. 
 
 This state of tranquillity could not endure for many days, 
 nor perhaps for many hours ; so Dr. Donaldson assured 
 Margaret. After the kind doctor had gone away, she stole 
 down to Frederick, who, during the visit, had been adjured to 
 remain quietly concealed in the back parlour, usually Dixon's 
 bedroom, but now given up to him. 
 
 Margaret told him what Dr. Donaldson said. 
 
 " I don't believe it," he exclaimed. " She is very ill ; she 
 may be dangerously ill, and in immediate danger, too ; but I 
 can't imagine that she could be as she is, if she were on the 
 point of death. Margaret ! she should have some other 
 advice — some London doctor. Have you never thought of 
 that?" 
 
 "Yes," said Margaret, "more than once. But I don't 
 believe it would do any good. And, you know, we have not 
 the money to bring any great London surgeon down, and I am 
 sure Dr. Donaldson is only second in skill to the very best, — 
 if, indeed, he is to them." 
 
 Frederick began to walk up and down the room impatiently. 
 
 "I have credit in Cadiz," said he, " but none here, owing 
 to this wretched change of name. Why did my father leave 
 Helstone ? That was the blunder." 
 
 " It was no blunder," said Margaret gloomily. " And 
 above all possible chances, avoid letting papa hear anything 
 like what you have just been saying. I can see that he is 
 tormenting himself already with the idea that mamma would 
 never have been ill if we had stayed at Helstone, andyoa don't 
 know papa's agonizing power of self-reproach I " 
 
 Frederick walked away as if he were on the quarter-deck. 
 At last he stopped right opposite to Margaret, and looked at 
 her drooping and desponding attitude for an instant. 
 
 " My little Margaret ! " said he, caressing her. " Let us 
 hope as long as we can. Poor little woman ! what 1 is this 
 face all wet with tears ? I will hope. I will, in spite of a 
 thousand doctors. Bear up, Margaret, and be brave enough 
 to hope ! " 
 
HOME AT LAST, 245 
 
 Margaret choked in trying to speak, and when she did it 
 was very low. 
 
 " I must try to be meek enough to trust. Oh, Frederick ! 
 mamma was getting to love me so ! And I was getting to 
 understand her. And now comes death to snap us asunder ! " 
 
 " Come, come, come ! Let us go up-stairs, and do some- 
 thing, rather than waste time that may be so precious. 
 Thinking has, many a time, made me sad, darling ; but doing 
 never did in all my life. My theory is a sort of parody on 
 the maxim of ' Get money, my son, honestly if you can ; but 
 get money.' My precept is, ' Do something my sister, do 
 good if you can ; but, at any rate, do something.' " 
 
 " Not excluding mischief," said Margaret, smiling faintly 
 through her tears. 
 
 " By no means. What I do exclude is the remorse after- 
 wards. Blot your misdeeds out (if you are particularly con- 
 scientious), by a good deed, as soon as you can ; just as we 
 did a correct sum at school on the slate, where an incorrect one 
 was only half rubbed out. It was better than wetting our 
 sponge with our tears ; both less loss of time where tears had 
 to be waited for, and a better effect at last." 
 
 If Margaret thought Frederick's theory rather a rough one 
 at first, she saw how he worked it out into continual pro- 
 duction of kiodness in fact. After a bad night with his 
 mother (for he insisted on taking his turn as a sitter-up) he was 
 busy next morning before breakfast, contriving a leg-rest for 
 Dixon, who was beginning to feel the fatigues of watching. 
 At breakfast-time, he interested Mr. Hale with vivid, graphic, 
 rattling accounts of the wild life he had led in Mexico, South 
 America, and elsewhere. Margaret would have given up the 
 effort in despair to rouse Mr. Hale out of his dejection ; it 
 would even have affected herself and rendered her incapable 
 of talking at all. But Fred, true to his theory, did something 
 perpetually ; and talking was the only thing to be done, besides 
 eatmg, at breakfast. 
 
 Before the night of that day, Dr. Donaldson's opinion was 
 proved to be too well founded. Convulsions came on ; and 
 when they ceased, Mrs. Hale was unconscious. Her husband 
 might lie by her shaking the bed with his .sobs ; her son's 
 strong arms might lift her tenderly up into a comfortable 
 position ; her daughter's hands might bathe her face ; but she 
 knew them not. She would never recognise them again, till 
 they met in Heaven. 
 
246 NOBTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 Before the morning came all was over. 
 
 Then Margaret rose from her trembling and despondency, 
 and became as a strong angel of comfort to her father and 
 brother. For Frederick had broken down now, and all his 
 theories were of no use to him. He cried so violently when 
 shut up alone in his little room at night, that Margaret and 
 Dixon came down in affright to warn him to be quiet : for the 
 house partitions were but thin, and the next door neighbours 
 might easily hear his youthful passionate sobs, so different 
 from the slower trembling agony of after-life, when we become 
 inured to grief, and dare not be rebellious against the inexo- 
 rable doom, knowing who it is that decrees. 
 
 Margaret sate with her father in the room with the dead. 
 If he had cried, she would have been thankful. But he sate 
 by the bed quite quietly ; only, from time to time, he uncovered 
 the face, and stroked it gently, making a kind of soft inarticu- 
 late noise, like that of some mother-animal caressing her young. 
 He took no notice of Margaret's presence. Once or twice she 
 came up to kiss him ; and he submitted to it, giving her a 
 little push away when she had done, as if her affection disturbed 
 him from his absorption in the dead. He started when he 
 heard Frederick's cries, and shook his head: — "Poor boy! 
 poor boy I " he said, and took no more notice. Margaret's 
 heart ached within her. She could not think of her own loss 
 in thinking of her father's case. The night was wearing away, 
 and the day was at hand, when, without a word of preparation, 
 Margaret's voice broke upon the stillness of the room, with a 
 clearness of sound that startled even herself: " Let not your 
 heart be troubled," it said ; and she went steadily on through, 
 all that chapter of unspeakable consolation. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXXI. 
 " SHOULD AULD ACQUAINTANCE BE FORGOT." 
 
 " Show not that manner, and these features all, 
 The serpent's cunning, and the sinner s fall ? 
 
 Cbabbe. 
 
 Thb chill, shivery October morning came ; not the October 
 morning of the country, with soft, silvery mists, clearing off 
 before the sunbeams that bring out all the gorgeous beauty of 
 
" SHOULD AULD ACQUAINTANCE BE FORSOT." 247 
 
 colouring, but- the October morning of Milton, whose silvery 
 mists were heavy fogs, and where the sun could only show long 
 dusky streets when he did break through and shine. Margaret 
 went languidly about, assisting Dixon in her task of arranging 
 the house. Her eyes were continually blinded by tears, but 
 she had no time to give way to regular crying. The father and 
 brother depended upon her ; while they were giving way to 
 grief, she must be working, planning, considering. Even the 
 necessary arrangements for the funeral seemed to devolve 
 upon her. 
 
 When the fire was bright and crackling — ^when everything 
 was ready for breakfast, and the tea-kettle was singing away, 
 Margaret gave a last look round the room before going to 
 summon Mr. Hale and Frederick. She wanted everything to 
 look as cheerfal as possible ; and yet, when it did so, the con- 
 trast between it and her own thoughts forced her into sudden 
 weeping. She was kneeling by the sofa, hiding her face in the 
 cushions that no one might hear her cry, when she was touched 
 on the shoulder by Dixon. 
 
 " Come, Miss Hale — come, my dear ! You must not give 
 way, or where shall we all be ? There is not another person in 
 the house fit to give a direction of any kind, and there is so 
 much to be done. There's who's to manage the funeral ; and 
 who's . to come to it ; and where it's to be ; and all to be 
 settled : and Master Frederick's like one crazed with crying, 
 and master never was a good one for settling ; and, poor gentle- 
 man, he goes about now as if he was lost. It's bad enough, 
 my dear, I know ; but death comes to us all ; and you're well 
 off never to have lost any Mend till now." 
 
 Perhaps so. But this seemed a loss by itself ; not to bear 
 comparison with any other event in the world. Margaret did 
 not take any comfort from what Dixon said, but the unusual 
 tenderness of the prim old servant's manner touched her to the 
 heart ; and, more from a desire to show her gratitude for 
 this than for any other reason, she roused herself up, and 
 smiled in answer to Dixon's anxious look at her ; and went to 
 tell her father and brother that breakfast was ready. 
 
 Mr. Hale came — as if in a dream, or rather with the 
 unconscious motion of a sleep-walker, whose eyes and mind 
 perceive other things than what are present. Frederick came 
 briskly in, with a forced cheerfulness, grasped her hand, looked 
 into her eyes and burst into tears. She had to try and think 
 of little nothings to say all breakfast-time, in order to prevent 
 
248 WORTH ABD SOUTH. 
 
 the recurrence of her companions' thoughts too strongly to the 
 last meal they had taken together, when there had been a con- 
 tinual strained listening for some sound or signal from the sick- 
 room. 
 
 After breakfast, she resolved to speak to her father about 
 the funeral. He shook his head, and assented to all she 
 proposed, though many of her propositions absolutely con- 
 tradicted one another. Margaret gained no real decision from 
 him ; and was leaving the room languidly, to hare a consul- 
 tation with Dixon, when Mr. Hale motioned her back to his 
 side. 
 
 " Ask Mr. Bell," said he in a hollow voice. 
 
 " Mr. Bell ! " said she, a little surprised. " Mr. Bell of 
 Oxford ? " 
 
 " Mr. Bell," he repeated. " Yes. He was my groom's- 
 man." 
 
 Margaret understood the association. 
 
 "I will write to-day," said she. He sank again into 
 listlessness. All morning she toiled on, longing for rest, but 
 in a continual whirl of melancholy business. 
 
 Towards evening, Dixon said to her : 
 
 " I've done it, miss. I was really afraid for master, that 
 he'd have a stroke with grief. He's been all this day with 
 poor missus ; and when I've listened at the door, I've heard 
 him talking to her, and talking to her, as if she was alive. 
 When I went in he would be quite quiet, but all in a maze 
 like. So I thought to myself, he ought to be roused ; and if 
 it gives him a shock at first, it will, maybe, be the better 
 afterwards. So I've been and told him, that I don't think it's 
 safe for Master Frederick to be here. And I don't. It was 
 only on Tuesday, when I was out, that I met a Southampton 
 man — ^the first I've seen since I came to Milton ; they don't 
 make their way much up here, I think. Well, it was young 
 Leonards, old Leonards the draper's son, as great a scamp as 
 ever lived— who plagued his father almost to death, and then 
 ran off to sea. I never could abide him. He was in the 
 Orion at the same time as Master Frederick, I know ; though 
 I don't recollect if he was there at the mutiny." 
 
 " Did he know you ? " said Margaret, eagerly. 
 
 " Why, that's the worst of it. I don't believe he would 
 have known me but for my being such a fool as to call out his 
 name. He were a Southampton man, in a strange place, or 
 else I should never have been so ready to call cousins with 
 
"SHOULD AULD ACQUAINTANCE BE FORGOT?" 249 
 
 him, a nasty, good-for-nothing fellow. Says lie, 'Miss Dixon t 
 who would ha' thought of seeing you here ? But perhaps I 
 mistake, and you're Miss Dixon no longer ? ' So I told him 
 he might still address me as an unmarried lady, though if I 
 hadn't been so particular, I'd had good chances of matrimony. 
 He was polite enough : ' He couldn't look at me and doubt 
 me.' But I were not to be caught with such chaff from such 
 a fellow as him, and so I told him ; and, by way of being even, 
 I asked him after his father (who I knew had turned him out 
 of doors), as if they was the best Mends as ever was. So 
 then, to spite me — for you see we were getting savage, for all 
 we were so civil to each other — he began to inquire after 
 Master Frederick, and said, what a scrape he'd got into (as if 
 Master Frederick's scrapes would ever wash George Leonards 
 white, or make 'em look otherwise than nasty, dirty black), 
 and how he'd be hung for mutiny if ever he were caught, and 
 how a hundred pound reward had been offered for catching 
 him, and what a disgrace he had been to his family — all to 
 spite me, you see, my dear, because before now I've helped 
 old Mr. Leonards to give George a good rating, down in 
 Southampton. So I said, there were other families as I knew, 
 who had far more cause to blush for their sons, and to be 
 thankM if they could think they were earning an honest living 
 far away from home. To which he made answer, like the 
 impudent chap he is, that he were in a confidential situation, 
 and if I knew of any young man who had been so imfortunate 
 as to lead vicious courses, and wanted to turn steady, he'd 
 have no objection to lend him his patronage. He, indeed ! 
 Why, he'd corrupt a saint. I've not felt so bad myseK for 
 years as when I were standing talking to him the other day. 
 I could have cried to think I couldn't spite him better, for he 
 kept smiling in my face, as if he took aU my compliments for 
 eikmest ; and I couldn't see that he minded what I said in the 
 least, while I was mad with all his speeches." 
 
 " But you did not tell him anything about us — about 
 Frederick?" 
 
 " Not I," said Dixon. "He had never the grace to ask 
 where I was staying ; and I shouldn't have told him if he had 
 asked. Nor did I ask him what his precious situation was. 
 He was waiting for a bus, and just then it drove up, and he 
 hailed it. But, to plague me to the last, he turned back before 
 he got in, and said, ' If you can help me to trap Lieutenant 
 Hale, Miss Dixon, we'll go partners in the reward. I know 
 
250 NOE,TH AST) SOUTH. 
 
 you'd like to be my partner, now wouldn't you ? Don't be 
 shy, but say yes.' And he jumped on the bus, and I saw his 
 ugly face leering at me with a wicked smile to think how he'd 
 had the last word of plaguing." 
 
 Margaret was made very uncomfortable by this account of 
 Dixon's. 
 
 " Have you told Frederick ? " asked she. 
 
 " No," said Dixon. " I were uneasy in my mind at knowing 
 that bad Leonards was in town ; but there was so much else 
 to think about that I did not dwell on it at all. But when I 
 saw master sitting so stiff, and with his eyes so glazed and 
 sad, I thought it might rouse him to have to think of Master 
 Frederick's safety a bit. So I told him all, though I blushed 
 to say how a young man had been speaking to me. And it 
 has done master good. And if we're to keep Master Frederick 
 in hiding, he would have to go, poor fellow, before Mr. Bell 
 came." 
 
 " Oh, I'm not afraid of Mr. Bell ; but I am afraid of this 
 Leonards. I musttell Frederick. What did Leonards look like ?" 
 
 " A bad-looking fellow, I can assure you, miss. Whiskers 
 such as I should be ashamed to wear — they are so red. And 
 for all he said he'd got a confidential situation, he was dressed 
 in fustian just like a working-man." 
 
 It was evident that Frederick must go. Go, too, when he 
 had so completely vaulted into his place in the famUy, and 
 promised to be such a stay and staff to his father and sister. 
 Go, when his cares for the living mother, and sorrow for the 
 dead, seemed to make him one of those peculiar people who 
 are bound to us by a fellow-love for them that are taken away. 
 Just as Margaret was thinking all this, sitting over the 
 drawing-room fire — her father restless and uneasy under the 
 pressure of this newly-aroused fear, of which he had not as 
 yet spoken — Frederick came in, his brightness dimmed, but 
 the extreme violence of his grief passed away. He came up 
 to Margaret, and kissed her forehead. 
 
 " How wan you look, Margaret ! " said he in a low voice. 
 " You have been thinking of everybody, and no one has 
 thought of you. Lie on this sofa — there is nothing for you 
 to do." 
 
 " That is the worst," said Margaret, in a sad whisper. 
 But she went and lay down, and her brother covered her feet 
 with a shawl, and then sate on the ground by her side ; and 
 the two began to talk in a subdued tone. 
 
" SHOULD AULD ACQUAINTANCE BE FOEGOT ? " 251 
 
 Margaret told him all that Dixon had related of her inter- 
 view ■wiQi young Leonards. Frederick's lips closed with a 
 long whew of dismay. 
 
 " I should just like to have it out with that young fellow. 
 A worse sailor was never on board ship — ^nor a much worse 
 man either. I declare, Margaret — you biow the circumstances 
 of the whole affair ? " 
 
 " Yes, mamma told me." 
 
 "Well, when all the saUors who were good for anything 
 were indignant with our captain, this fellow, to curry favour — 
 pah ! And to think of his being here ! Oh, if he'd a notion 
 I was within twenty miles of him, he'd ferret me out to pay ofl 
 old grudges. I'd rather anybody had the hundred pounds 
 they think I am worth than that rascal. What a pity poor 
 old Dixon could not be persuaded to give me up, and make a 
 provision for her old age ! " 
 
 " Oh, Frederick, hush ! Don't talk so." 
 
 Mr. Hale came towards them, eager and trembling. He 
 had overheard what they were saying. He took Frederick's 
 hand in both of his : 
 
 "My boy, you must go. It is very bad — ^but I see you 
 must. You have done all you could — ^you have been a comfort 
 to her." 
 
 " Oh, papa, must he go ? " said Margaret, pleading against 
 her own conviction of necessity. 
 
 " I declare, I've a good mind to face it out, and stand my 
 trial. If I could only pick up my evidence ! I cannot endure 
 the thought of being in the power of such a blackguard as 
 Leonards. I could almost have enjoyed — in other circum- 
 stances — this stolen visit : it has had all the charm which the 
 Frenchwoman attributed to forbidden pleasures." 
 
 " One of the earliest things I can remember," said Margaret, 
 " was your being in some great disgrace, Fred, for stealing 
 apples. We had plenty of our own — ^trees loaded with them ; 
 but some one had told you that stolen fruit tasted sweetest, 
 which you took au pied de la lettre, and off you went a-robbing. 
 You have not changed your feelings much since then." 
 
 " Yes — ^you must go," repeated Mr. Hale, answering 
 Margaret's question, which she had asked some time ago. 
 His thoughts were fixed on one subject, and it was an effort 
 to him to follow the zigzag remarks of his children — an effort 
 vrhich he did not make. 
 
 Margaret and Frederick looked at each other.^ That (j^uick 
 
252 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 momentary sympathy would be theirs no longer if he went 
 away. So much was understood through eyes that could not 
 be put into words. Both coursed the same thought till it was 
 lost in sadness. Frederick shook it off first : 
 
 " Do you know, Margaret, I was very nearly giving both 
 Dixon and myself a good fright this afternoon. I was in my 
 bedroom ; I had heard a ring at the front door, but I thought 
 the ringer must have done his business and gone away long 
 ago ; so I was on the point of making my appearance in the 
 passage, when, as I opened my room door, I saw Dixon 
 coming downstairs ; and she frowned and kicked me into 
 hiding again. I kept the door open, and heard a message 
 given to some man that was in my father's study, and that 
 then went away. Who could it have been ? Some of the 
 shopmen ? " 
 
 " Very likely," said Margaret, indifferently. " There 
 was a little quiet man who came up for orders about two o'clock." 
 
 " But this was not a little man — a great powerful fellow ; 
 and it was past four when he was here." 
 
 " It was Mr. Thornton," said Mr. Hale. They were glad 
 to have drawn him into the conversation. 
 
 " Mr. Thornton ! " said Margaret, a little surprised. " I 
 thought " 
 
 " Well, httle one, what did you think ? " asked Frederick, 
 as she did not finish her sentence. 
 
 " Oh, only," said she, reddening and looking straight at 
 him, " I fancied you meant some one of a different class, not a 
 gentleman ; somebody come on an errand." 
 
 " He looked like some one of that kind," said Frederick, 
 carelessly. " I took him for a shopman, and he turns out a 
 manufacturer." 
 
 Margaret was silent. She remefnbered how at first, before 
 she knew his character, she had spoken and thought of him 
 just as Frederick was doing. It was but a natural impression 
 that was made upon him, and yet she was a little annoyed by 
 it. She was unwilling to speak ; she wanted to make Frede- 
 rick understand what kind of person Mr. Thornton was — but 
 she was tongue-tied. 
 
 Mr. Hale went on. " He came to offer any assistance in 
 his power, I believe. But I could not see him. I told Dixon 
 to ask him if he would like to see you — I think I asked her to 
 find you, and you would go to him. I don't know what I 
 said," 
 
" SHOULD OLD ACQUAINTANCE BE FORGOT." 258 
 
 " He has been a very agreeable acquaintance, has he not ?" 
 asked Frederick, throwing the question like a ball for any one 
 to catch who chose. 
 
 " A very kind friend," said Margaret, when her father did 
 not answer. 
 
 Frederick was silent for a time. At last he spoke : 
 
 " Margaret, it is painful to think I can never thank those 
 who have shown you kindness. Your acqaaintauces and mine 
 must be separate. Unless, indeed, I run the chances of a 
 court-martial, or unless you and my father would come to 
 Spain." He threw out this last suggestion as a kind of feeler ; 
 and then suddenly made the plunge. " You don't know how 
 I wish you would. I have a good position — the chance of a 
 better," continued he, reddening like a girl. " That Dolores 
 Barbour that I was telling you of, Margaret — I only wish you 
 knew her ; I am sure you would like — ^no, love is the right 
 word, like is so poor — ^you would love her, father, if you knew 
 her. She is not eighteen ; but if she is in the same mind 
 another year, she is to be my wife. Mr. Barbour won't let us 
 call it an engagement. But if you would come you would find 
 friends everywhere, besides Dolores. Think of it, father. 
 Margaret, be on my side." 
 
 "No — no more removals for me," said Mr. Hale. " One 
 removal has cost me my wife. No more removals in this life. 
 She will be here ; and here will I stay out my appointed 
 time." 
 
 " Oh, Frederick," said Margaret, " teU us more about 
 her. I never thought of this ; but I am so glad. You will 
 have some one to love and care for you out there. Tell us all 
 about it." 
 
 " In the first place, she is a Eoman Catholic. That's the 
 mlj objection I anticipated. But my father's change of opinion 
 — nay, Margaret, don't sigh." 
 
 Margaret had reason to sigh a little more before the con- 
 versation ended. Frederick himself was Eoman Catholic in 
 fact, though not in profession as yet. This was, then, the 
 reason why his sympathy in her extreme distress at her father's 
 leaving the church had been so faintly expressed in hip letters. 
 She had thought it was the carelessness of a sailor ; but the 
 truth was, that even then he was himself inclined to give up 
 the form of religion into which he had been baptized, only that 
 his opinions were tending in exactly the opposite direction to 
 those of his father. How much love had to do with this change 
 
264 NOETH AND SOUTH. 
 
 not even Frederick himself could have told. Margaret gave 
 up talking about this branch of the subject at last; and, 
 returning to the fact of the engagement, she began to consider 
 it in some fresh light. 
 
 "But for her sake, Fred, you surely will try and clear 
 yourself of the exaggerated charges brought against you, even 
 if the charge of mutiny itself be true. If there were to be a 
 court-martial, and you could find your witnesses, you might, 
 at any rate, show how your disobedience to authority was 
 because that authority was unworthily exercised." 
 
 Ml-. Hale roused himself up to listen to his son's answer. 
 
 " In the first place, Margaret, who is to hunt up my wit- 
 nesses ? All of them are sailors, drafted oflf to other ships, 
 except those whose evidence would go for very little, as they 
 took part, or sympathized in the affair. In the next place, 
 allow me to tell you, you don't know what a court-martial is, 
 and consider it as an assembly where justice is administered, 
 instead of what it really is — a court where authority weighs 
 nine-tenths in the balance, and evidence forms only the other 
 tenth. In such cases, evidence itself can hardly escape being 
 influenced by the prestige of authority." 
 
 " But is it not worth trying, to see how much evidence 
 might be discovered and arrayed on your behalf? At present, 
 eU those who knew you formerly, believe you guilty without 
 any shadow of excuse. You have never tried to justify your- 
 self, and we have never known where to seek for proofs of your 
 justification. Now, for Miss Barbour's sake, make your con- 
 duct as clear as you can in the eye of the world. She may not 
 care for it ; she has, I am sure, that trust in you that we all 
 have ; but you ought not to let her ally herself to one under 
 such a serious charge, without showing the world exactly how 
 it is you stand. You disobeyed authority — ^that was bad ; but 
 to have stood by, without word or act, while the authority was 
 brutally used, would have been infinitely worse. People know 
 what you did ; but not the motives that elevate it out of a 
 crime into an heroic protection of the weak. For Dolores' 
 sake, they ought to know." 
 
 " But how must I make them know ? I am not enfficientlj 
 sure of the purity and justice of those who would be my judges, 
 to give myself up to a court-martial, even if I could bring a 
 whole array of truth-speaking witnesses. I can't send a bell- 
 man about, to cry aloud and proclaim in the streets what 
 yon are pleased to call my heroism. No one would read a 
 
" SHOULD OLD ACQUAINTANCE BE FORGOT." 265 
 
 pamphlet of self-justification so long after the deed, even if I 
 put one out." 
 
 " Will you consult a lawyer as to your chances of excul- 
 pation ? " asked Margaret, looking up, and turning very red. 
 
 " I must first catch my lawyer, and have a look at him, and 
 see how I like him, before I make him into my confidant. Many 
 a briefless barrister might twist his conscience into thinking, 
 that he could earn a hundred pounds very easily by doing a 
 good action — in giving me, a criminal, up to justice." 
 
 " Nonsense, Frederick ! — ^because I know a lawyer on whose 
 
 " honour I can rely ; of whose cleverness in his profession people 
 
 speak very highly ; and who would, I think, take a good deal 
 
 of trouble for any of — of Aunt Shaw's relations. Mr. Henry 
 
 Lennox, papa." 
 
 " I think it is a good idea," said Mr. Hale. " But don't 
 propose anything which will detain Frederick in England. 
 Don't, for your mother's sake." 
 
 "You could go to London to-morrow evening by a night- 
 train," continued Margaret, warming up into her plan. "He 
 must go to-morrow, I'm afraid, papa," said she, tenderly ; we 
 fixed that, because of Mr. Bell, and Dixon's disagreeable 
 acquaintance." 
 
 "Yes ; I must go to-morrow," said Frederick, decidedly. 
 
 Mr. Hale groaned. " I can't bear to part with you, and 
 yet I am miserable with anxiety as long as you stop here." 
 
 " Well then," said Margaret, " listen to my plan. He 
 gets to London on Friday morning. I will — ^yon might — ^no ! 
 it would be better for me to give him a note to Mr. Lennox. 
 You will find him at his chambers in the Temple." 
 
 " I will write down a hst of all the names I can remember 
 on board the Orion. I could leave it with him to ferret them 
 out. He is Edith's husband's brother, isn't he ? I remember 
 your naming him in your letters. I have money in Barbour's 
 hands. I can pay a pretty long bill, if there is any chance of 
 success. Money, dear father, that I had meant for a different 
 purpose ; so I shall only consider it as borrowed firom you and 
 Margaret." 
 
 " Don't do that," said Margaret. " You won't risk it if 
 you do. And it will be a risk ; only it is worth trying. You 
 can sail from London as well as fi:om Liverpool ? " 
 
 " To be sure, little goose. Wherever I feel water heaving 
 under a plank, there I feel at home. I'll pick up some craft 
 or other to take me off, never fear. I won't stay twenty-four 
 
256 NOETH AND SOUTH. 
 
 hours in London, away from yon on the one hand, and from 
 somebody else on the other." 
 
 It was rather a comfort to Margaret that Frederick took it 
 into his head to look over her shoulder as she wrote to Mr. 
 Lennox. If she had not been thus compelled to write steadily 
 and concisely on, she might have hesitated over many a word, 
 and been puzzled to choose between many an expression, in the 
 awkwardness of being the first to resume the intercourse of 
 which the concluding event had been so unpleasant to both 
 sides. However, the note was taken from her before she had 
 even had time to look it over, and treasured up in a pocket- 
 book, out of which fell a long lock of black hair, the sight of 
 which caused Frederick's eyes to glow with pleasure. 
 
 " Now you would like to see that, wouldn't yon ? " said he. 
 " No ! you must wait till yon see her herseljf. She is too 
 perfect to be known by fragments. No mean brick shall be a 
 specimen of the building of my palace." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXn. 
 
 MISCHANCES. 
 
 " What I remain to be 
 Denounced — dragged, it may be, in chains." 
 
 Webneb. 
 
 All the next day they sate together — they three. Mr. Hale 
 hardly ever spoke but when his children asked him questions, 
 and forced him, as it were, into the present. Frederick's 
 grief was no more to be seen or heard ; the first paroxysm had 
 passed over, and now he was ashamed of having been so bat- 
 tered down by emotion ; and though his sorrow for the loss of 
 his mother was a deep real feeling, and would last out his life, 
 it was never to be spoken of again. Margaret, not so passionate 
 at first, was more suffering now. At times she cried a good 
 deal ; and her manner, even when speaking on indifferent 
 things, had a mournful tenderness about it, which was deepened 
 whenever her looks fell on Frederick, and she thought of his 
 rapidly approaching departure. She was glad he was going, 
 on her father's account, however much she might grieve over it 
 on her own. The anxious terror in which Mr. Hale lived lest 
 his son should be detected and captured, far outweighed the 
 
MISGHAKCEB. 257 
 
 pleasure he derived from his presence. The nervousness had 
 increased since Mrs. Hale's death, probably because he dwelt 
 upon it more exclusively. He started at every unusual sound , 
 and was never comfortable unless Frederick sate out of the im- 
 mediate view of any one entering the room. Towards evening 
 he said : 
 
 " You will go with Frederick to the station, Margaret ? 1 
 shall want to know he is safely off. You wiU bring me word 
 that he is clear of MUton, at any rate ? " 
 
 " Certainly," said Margaret. " I shall like it, if you won't 
 be lonely without me, papa." 
 
 " No, no ! I should always be fancying some one had 
 known him, and that he had been stopped, unless you could 
 tell me you had seen him off. And go to the Qutwood station. 
 It is quite as near, and not so many people about. Take a cab 
 there. There is less risk of his being seen. What time is your 
 train, Fred ? " 
 
 " Ten minutes past six ; very nearly dark. So what will 
 you do, Margaret ? " 
 
 " Oh, I can manage. I am getting very brave and very 
 hard. It is a well-lighted road all the way home, if it should 
 be dark. But I was out last week much later." 
 
 Margaret was thankful when the parting was over — ^the 
 parting from the dead mother and the living father. She 
 hurried Frederick into the cab, in order to shorten a scene 
 which she saw was so bitterly painful to her father, who would 
 accompany his son as he took his last look at his mother. 
 Partly in consequence of this, and partly owing to one of the 
 very common mistakes in the " Kail way Guide " as to the 
 times when trains arrive at the smaller stations, they found, on 
 reaching Outwood, that they had nearly twenty minutes to 
 spare. The booking-office was not open, so they could not 
 even take the ticket. They accordingly went down the flight 
 of steps that led to the level of the ground below the railway. 
 There was a broad cinder-path diagonally crossing- a field whidh 
 lay along-side of the carriage-road, and they went there to walk 
 backwards and forwards for the few minutes they had to spare. 
 
 Margaret's hand lay in Frederick's arm. He took hold of 
 it affectionately. 
 
 " Margaret ! I am going to consult Mr. Lennox as to the 
 chance of exculpating myself so that I may return to England 
 whenever I choose, more for your sake than for the sake of any 
 one else. I can't bear to think of your lonely position if any- 
 
 17 
 
258 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 thing Bhould happen to my father. He looks sadly changed — 
 terribly shaken. I wish you could get him to think of the 
 Cadiz plan, for many reasons. What could you do if he were 
 taken away? You have no friend near. We are curiously 
 bare of relations." 
 
 Margaret could hardly keep from crying at the tendei 
 anxiety with which Frederick was bringing before her an event 
 which she herself felt was not very improbable, so severely had 
 the cares of the last few months told upon Mr. Hale. But she 
 tried to rally as she said : 
 
 " There have been such strange unexpected changes in my 
 life during these last two years, that I feel more than ever that 
 it is not worth while to calculate too closely what I should do 
 if any future event took place. I try to think only upon the 
 present." She paused; they were standing still for a moment, 
 close on the field side of the stile leading into the road ; the 
 setting sun fell on their faces. Frederick held her hand in his, 
 and looked with wistful anxiety into her face, reading there 
 more care and trouble than she would betray by words. She 
 went on : 
 
 " We shall write often to one another, and I will promise 
 — for I see it vrill set your mind at ease — ^to tell you every 
 worry I have. Papa is " — she started a little, a hardly visible 
 start — ^but Frederick felt the sudden motion of the hand he 
 held, and turned his full face to the road, along which a horse- 
 man was slowly riding, just passing the very stUe where they 
 stood. Margaret bowed ; her bow was stiffly returned. 
 
 " Who is that ? " said Frederick, almost before he was out 
 of hearing. 
 
 Margaret was a little drooping, a little flushed, as she 
 replied : " Mr. Thornton ; you saw him before, you know." 
 
 " Only his back. He is an unprepossessing-looking fellow. 
 What a scowl he has ! " 
 
 " Something has happened to vex him," said Margaret, 
 apologetically. "You would not have thought him unpre- 
 possessing if you had seen him with mamma." 
 
 " I fancy it must be time to go and take my ticket. If I 
 had known how dark it would be, we wouldn't have sent back 
 the cab, Margaret." 
 
 " Oh, don't fidget about that. I can take a cab here, if I 
 like ; or go back by the rail-road, when I should have shops 
 and people and lamps all the way from the Milton station- 
 house. Don't think of me ; take care of yourself. I am sick 
 
MISCHANCES. 259 
 
 with the thonght that Leonards may be in the same train with 
 yon. Look well into the carriage before you get in." 
 
 They went back to the station. Margaret insisted upon 
 going into the full light of the flaring gas inside to take the 
 ticket. Some idle-looking young men were lounging about 
 with the station-master. Margaret thought she had seen the 
 face of one of them before, and returned him a proud look of 
 ofiended dignity for his somewhat impertinent stare of undis- 
 guised admiration. She went hastily to her brother, who was 
 standing outside, and took hold of his arm. " Have you got 
 your bag ? Let us walk about here on the platform," said she, 
 a little flurried at the idea of so soon being left alone, and her 
 bravery oozing out rather faster than she liked to acknowledge 
 even to herself. She heard a step following them along the 
 flags ; it stopped when they stopped, looking out along the line 
 and hearing the whizz of the coming train. They did not 
 speak ; their hearts were too full. Another moment, and the 
 train would be here ; a minute more, and he would be gone. 
 Margaret almost repented the urgency with which she had en- 
 treated him to go to London ; it was throwing more chances of 
 detection in his way. If he had sailed for Spain by Liverpool, 
 he might have been off in two or three hours. 
 
 Frederick turned round, right facing the lamp, where the 
 gas darted up in vivid anticipation of the train. A man in the 
 dress of a railway porter started forward ; a bad-looking man, 
 who seemed to have drunk himself into a state of brutality, 
 although his senses were in perfect order. 
 
 " By your leave, miss ! " said he, pushing Margaret rudely 
 on one side, and seizing Frederick by the collar. 
 
 " Your name is Hale, I believe ? " 
 
 Li an instant, how, Margaret did not see, for everything 
 danced before her eyes — ^but by some sleight of wrestling, 
 Frederick had tripped him up, and he fell from the height of 
 three or four feet, which the platform was elevated above the 
 space of soft ground, by the side of the railroad. There 
 he lay. 
 
 " Eun, run ! " gasped Margaret. " The train is here. It 
 was Leonards, was it ? oh, run ! I will carry your bag." And 
 she took him by the arm to push him along with all her feeble 
 force. A door was opened in a carriage — ^he jumped in ; and 
 as he leant out to say, " God bless you, Margaret 1 " the train 
 rushed past her ; and she was left standing alone. She was so 
 terribly sick and faint that she was thankful to be able to turn 
 
 17—2 
 
260 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 into the ladies' waiting-room, and sit down for an instant. At 
 first she could do nothing but gasp for breath. It was such » 
 huiTy ; such a sickening alarm ; such a near chance. If the 
 train had not been there at the moment, the man would have 
 jumped up again and called for assistance to arrest him. She 
 wondered if the man had got up : she tried to remember if she 
 had seen him move ; she wondered if he coald have been 
 seriously hurt. She ventured out ; the platform was all alight, 
 but still quite deserted ; she went to the end, and looked over, 
 somewhat fearfully. No one was there ; and then she was glad 
 she had made herself go, and inspect, for otherwise terrible 
 thoughts would have haunted her dreams. And even as it was, 
 she was so trembling and af&ighted that she felt she could not 
 walk home along the road, which did indeed seem lonely and 
 dark, as she gazed down upon it from the blaze of the station. 
 She would wait till the down train passed and take her seat in 
 it. But what if Leonards recognized her as Frederick's com- 
 panion ! She peered about, before venturing into the booking- 
 office to take her ticket. There were only some railway officials 
 standing about ; and talking loud to one another. 
 
 " So Leonards has been drinking again ! " said one, seem- 
 ingly in authority. " He'll need all his boasted influence to 
 keep his place this time." 
 
 " Where is he ? " asked another, while Margaret, her back 
 towards them, was counting her change with trembling fingers, 
 not daring to turn round until she heard the answer to this 
 question. 
 
 " I don't know. He came in not five minutes ago, with 
 some long story or other about a fall he'd had, swearing 
 awfully : and wanted to borrow sorae money from me to go to 
 London by the next up-train. He made all sorts of tipsy 
 promises, but I'd something else to do than Usten to him ; I 
 told him to go about his business ; and he went off at the front 
 door." 
 
 " He's at the nearest vaults, I'll be bound," said the first 
 speaker. " Your money would have gone there too, if you'd 
 been such a fool as to lend it." 
 
 "Catch me! I knew better what his London meant. 
 Why, he has never paid me off that five shillings " — and so 
 they went on. 
 
 And now all Margaret's anxiety was for the train to come. 
 She hid herself once more in the ladies' waiting-room, and 
 fancied every noise, was Leonards' step — eveiy loud and 
 
I- 
 
PEACE. 261 
 
 boisterous voice was his. But no one came near her until the 
 train drew up ; when she was civily helped into a carriage by a 
 porter, into whose face she durst not look till they wore in 
 motion, and then she saw that it was not Leonards'. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXXin. 
 
 PEACE. 
 
 " Sleep on, my love, in thy cold bed, 
 Never to be disquieted I 
 My last Good Night — ^thou wilt not wake 
 Till I thy fate shall overtake." 
 
 De. Kino. 
 
 Home seemed unnaturally quiet after all this terror and noisy 
 commotion. Her father had seen all due preparation made for 
 her refreshment on her return ; and then sate down again in 
 his accustomed chair, to fall into one of his sad waking dreams. 
 Dixon had got Mary Higgins to scold and direct in the kitchen ; 
 and her scolding was not the less energetic because it was 
 delivered in an angry whisper ; for, speaking above her breath 
 she would have thought irreverent, as long as there was any 
 one dead lying in the house. Margaret had resolved not to 
 mention the crowning and closing afiUght to her father. There 
 was no use in speaking about it ; it had ended well ; the only 
 thing to be feared was lest Leonards should in some way borrow 
 money enough to effect his purpose of following Frederick to 
 London, and hunting him out there. But there were immense 
 chances against the success of any such plan ; and Margaret 
 determined not to torment herself by thinking of what she 
 co'old do nothing to prevent. Frederick would be as much on 
 his guard as she could put him ; and in a day or two at most 
 he would be safely out of England. 
 
 " I suppose we shall hear from Mr. Bell to-morrow," said 
 Margaret. 
 , " Yes," replied her father. " I suppose so." 
 
 "If he can come, he will be here to-morrow evening, I 
 should think." 
 
 " If he cannot come, I shall ask Mr. Thornton to go with 
 me to the funeral. I cannot go alone. I should break down 
 utterly." 
 
262 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 " Don't ask Mr. Thornton, papa. Let me go with yon," 
 said Margaret, impetuously. 
 
 " You ! My dear, women do not generally go." 
 
 "No; because they can't control themselves. Women of 
 our class don't go, because they have no power over their 
 emotions, and yet are ashamed of showing them. Poor women 
 go, and don't care if they are seen overwhelmed with grief. 
 But I promise you, papa, that if you will let me go, I will be 
 no trouble. Don't have a stranger, and leave me out. Dear 
 papa ! if Mr. Bell cannot come, I shall go. I won't urge my 
 wish against your wUl, if he does." 
 
 Mr. Bell could not come. He had the gont. It was a 
 most affectionate letter, and expressed great and true regret 
 for his inability to attend. He hoped to come and pay them a 
 visit soon, if they would have him ; his Milton property re- 
 quired some looking after, and his agent had written to him to 
 say that his presence was absolutely necessary ; or else he had 
 avoided coming near Milton as long as he could, and now the 
 only thing that would reconcile him to this necessary visit was 
 the idea that he should see, and might possibly be able to 
 comfort, his old friend. 
 
 Margaret had all the difficulty in the world to persuade her 
 father not to invite Mr. Thornton. She had an indescribable 
 repugnance to this step being taken. The night before the 
 funeral, came a stately note from Mrs. Thornton to Miss Hale, 
 saying that, at her son's desire, their carriage should attend 
 the funeral, if it would not be disagreeable to the family. 
 Margaret tossed the note to her father. 
 
 " Oh, don't let us have these forms," said she. " Let us 
 go alone — you and me, papa. They don't care for us, or else 
 he would have offered to go himself, and not have proposed 
 this sending an empty carriage." 
 
 " I thought you were so extremely averse to his going, 
 Margaret," said Mr. Hale in some surprise. 
 
 " And so I am. I don't want him to come at all ; and I 
 should especially dislike the idea of our asking him. But this 
 seems such a mockery of mourning that I did not expect it 
 from him." She startled her father by bursting into tears. 
 She had been so subdued in her grief, so thoughtful for others, 
 so gentle and patient in all things, that he conld not understand 
 her impatient ways to-night ; she seemed agitated and restless ; 
 and at all the tenderness which her father in his turn now 
 lavished upon her, she only cried the more. 
 
PEACE. 263 
 
 She passed so bad a night that she was ill prepared for the 
 additional anxiety caused by a letter received from Frederick. 
 Mr. Lennox was out of town ; his clerk said that he would 
 return by the following Tuesday at the latest ; that he might 
 possibly be at home on Monday. Consequently, after some 
 consideration, Frederick had determined upon remaining in 
 London a day or two longer. He had thought of coming down 
 to Milton again ; the temptation had been very strong ; but 
 the idea of Mr. Bell domesticated in his father's house, and the 
 alarm he had received at the last moment at the railway 
 station, had made him resolve to stay in London. Margaret 
 might be assured he would take every precaution against being 
 tracked by Leonards. Margaret was thankful that she received 
 this letter while her father was absent in her mother's room. 
 If he had been present, he would have expected her to read it 
 aloud to him, and it would have raised in him a state of 
 nervous alarm which she would have found it impossible to 
 soothe away. There was not merely the fact, which disturbed 
 her excessively, of Frederick's detention in London, but there 
 were allusions to the recognition at the last moment at Milton, 
 and the possibility of a pursuit, which made her blood run 
 cold ; and how then would it have affected her father ? Many 
 a time did Margaret repent of having suggested and urged on 
 the plan of consulting Mr. Lennox. At the moment, it had 
 seemed as if it would occasion so little delay — add so little to 
 the apparently small chances of detection ; and yet everything 
 that had since occurred had tended to make it so undesirable. 
 Margaret battled hard against this regret of hers for what 
 could not now be helped ; this self-reproach for having said 
 what had at the time appeared to be wise, but which after 
 events were proving to have been so foolish. But her father 
 was in too depressed a state of mind and body to struggle 
 healthily ; he would succumb to all these causes for morbid 
 regret over what could not be recalled. Margaret summoned 
 up all her forces to her aid. Her father seemed to have for- 
 gotten that they had any reason to expect a letter from 
 Frederick that morning. He was absorbed in one idea — ^that 
 the last visible token of the presence of his wife was to be 
 carried away from him, and hidden from his sight. He 
 trembled pitifully as the undertaker's man was arranging his 
 crape draperies around him. He looked wistfully at Margaret ; 
 and, when released, he tottered towards her murmuring, 
 " Pray for me, Margaret. I have no strength left in me. I 
 
264 NORTH AHD SOUTH. 
 
 oanuot pray. I give her up because I must. I try to bear it : 
 mdeed I do. I know it is God's will. But I cannot see why 
 she died. Pray for me, Margaret, that I may have faith to 
 pray. It is a great strait, my child." 
 
 Margaret sat by him in the coach, almost supporting him 
 in her arms ; and repeating all the noble verses of holy com- 
 fort, or texts expressive of faithful resignation, that she could 
 remember. Her voice never faltered ; and she herself gained 
 strength by doing this. Her father's lips moved after her, 
 repeating the well-known texts as her words suggested them ; 
 it was terrible to see the patient struggling effort to obtain the 
 resignation which he had not strength to take into his heart ae 
 a part of himself. 
 
 Margaret's fortitude nearly gave way as Dixon, with a 
 slight motion of her hand, directed her notice to Nicholas 
 Higgins and his daughter, standing a little aloof, but deeply 
 attentive to- the ceremonial. Nicholas wore his usual fustian 
 clothes, but had a bit of black stuff sown round his hat — a 
 mark of mourning which he had never shown to his daughter 
 Bessy's memory. But Mr. Hale saw nothing. He went on 
 repeating to himself, mechanically as it were, all the funeral 
 service as it was read by the officiating clergyman ; he sighed 
 twice or thrice when all was ended; and then, putting his 
 hand on Margaret's aim, he mutely entreated to be led away, 
 as if he were blind, and she his faithful guide. 
 
 Dixon sobbed aloud ; she covered her face with her hand- 
 kerchiefi and was so absorbed in her own grief that she did 
 not perceive that the crowd, attracted on such occasions, was 
 dispersing, till she was spoken to by some one close at hand. 
 It was Mr. Thornton. He had been present all the time, 
 standing, with bent head, behind a group of people, so that, in 
 fact, no one had recognised him. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, — but, can you tell me how Mr.. Hale 
 is ? And Miss Hale, too ? I should like to know how they 
 both are." 
 
 " Of course, sir. They are much as is to be expected. 
 Master is terribly broke down. Miss Hale bears up better 
 than likely." 
 
 Mr. Thornton would rather have heard that she was 
 suffering the natural sorrow. In the first place, there was 
 selfishness enough in him to have taken pleasure in the idea 
 that his great love might come in to comfort and console her ; 
 much the same kind of strange passionate pleasure which 
 
PEACE. 265 
 
 uomes Btiugiug througli a mother's heart, when her drooping 
 infant nestles close to her, and is dependent upon her for 
 everything. , But this delicious vision of what might have been 
 — ^in which, in spite of all Margaret's repulse, he would have 
 indulged only a few days ago — was miserably disturbed by the 
 recollection of what he had seen near the Outwood station. 
 " Miserably disturbed ! " that is not strong enough. He was 
 haunted by the remembrance of the handsome young man, with 
 whom she stood in an attitude of such familiar confidence ; and 
 the remembrance shot through him like an agony, till it made 
 him clench his hands tight in order to subdue the pain. At 
 that late hour, so far from home 1 It took a great moral effort 
 to galvanise his trust — erewhile so perfect — ^in Margaret's pure 
 and exquisite maidenliness into life ; as soon as the effort 
 ceased, his trust dropped down dead and powerless : and all 
 sorts of wild fancies chased each other like dreams, through his 
 mind. Here was a little bit of miserable, gnawing confirma- 
 tion. " She bore up better than likely " under this grief. 
 She had then some hope to look to, so bright that even in her 
 affectionate nature it could come in to lighten the dark hours 
 of a daughter newly made motherless. Yes ! he knew how 
 she would love. He had not loved her without gaining that 
 instinctive knowledge of what capabilities were in her. Her 
 soul would walk in glorious sunlight if any man was worthy, 
 by his power of loving, to win back her love. Even in her 
 mourning she would rest with a peaceful faith upon his sym- 
 pathy. His sympathy! Whose? That other man's. And 
 that it was another was enough to make Mr. Thornton's pale 
 grave face grow doubly wan and stern at Dixon's answer. 
 
 " I suppose I may call," said he coldly. " On Mr. Hale, 
 I mean. He will perhaps admit me after to-morrow or so." 
 
 He spoke as if the answer were a matter of indifference to 
 him. But it was not so. For all his pain, he longed to see 
 the author of it. Although he hated Margaret at times, when 
 he thought of that gentle, familiar attitude and all the attendant 
 circumstances, he had a restless desire to renew her picture in 
 his mind — a longing for the very atmosphere she breathed. 
 He was in the Charybdis of passion, and must perforce circle 
 and circle ever nearer round the fatal centre. 
 
 " I dare say, sir, master will see you. He was very sorry 
 to have to deny you, the other day; but circumstances was not 
 agreeable just then." 
 
 For some reason or other, Dixon never named this inter- 
 
266 NOETH AND SOUTH. 
 
 new tiiat she had had with Mr. Thornton to Margaret. It 
 might have been mere chance, but so it was that Margaret 
 never heard that he had attended her poor mother's funeral. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 FALSE AND TRUE. 
 
 " Truth will fail thee never, never ! 
 
 Though thy bark be tempest-driven, 
 • Though each plank be rent and riven. 
 
 Truth will bear thee on for ever ! " 
 
 Anon. 
 
 The "bearing up better than likely" was a terrible strain 
 upon Margaret. Sometimes she thought she must give way, 
 and cry out with pain, as the sudden sharp thought came 
 across her, even during her apparently cheerfiil conversations 
 with her father, that she had no longer a mother. About 
 Frederick, too, there was great uneasiness. The Sunday post 
 intervened, and interfered with their London letters ; and on 
 Tuesday Margaret was surprised and disheartened to find that 
 there was still no letter. She was quite in the dark as to his 
 plans, and her father was miserable at all this uncertainty. It 
 broke in upon his lately acquired habit of sitting still in one 
 easy chair for half a day together. He kept pacing up and 
 down the room ; then out of it ; and she heard him upon the 
 landing opening and shutting the bed-room doors, without any 
 apparent object. She tried to tranquilUse him by reading 
 aloud ; but it was evident he could not listen for long together. 
 How thankful she was then, that she had kept to herself the 
 additional cause for anxiety produced by their encounter with 
 Leonards. She was thankful to hear Mr. Thornton announced. 
 His visit would force her father's thoughts into another channel. 
 He came up straight to her father, whose hands he took 
 and wrung without a word — holding them in his for a minute 
 or two, during which time his face, his eyes, his look, told of 
 more sympathy than could be put into words. Then he turned 
 to Margaret. Not "better than likely" did she look. Her 
 stately beauty was dimmed with much watching and vrith many 
 tears. The expression on her countenance was of gentle patient 
 sadness — nay of positive present sufiering. He had not meant 
 to greet her otherwise than with his late studied coldness of 
 
FALSE AND TfiUE. 267 
 
 demeanour ; but he could not help going up to her, as ehe 
 Btood a little aside, rendered timid by the uncertainty of his 
 manner of latfe', and saying the few necessary common-place 
 words in so tender a voice, that her eyes filled with tears, and 
 ehe turned away to hide her emotion. She took her work and 
 sate down very quiet and silent. Mr. Thornton's heart beat 
 quick and strong, and for the time he utterly forgot the Out- 
 wood lane. He tried to talk to Mr. Hale : and — his presence 
 always a certain kind of pleasure to Mr. Hale, as his power 
 and decision made him, and his opinions, a safe, sure port — 
 was unusually agreeable to her father, as Margaret saw. 
 
 Presently Dixon came to the door and said, " Miss Hale, 
 you are wanted." 
 
 Dixon's manner was so flurried that Margaret turned sick 
 at heart. Something had happened to Fred. She had no doubt 
 of that. It was weU that her father and Mr. Thornton were so 
 much occupied by their conversation. 
 
 " What is it, Dixon? " asked Margaret, the moment she 
 had shut the drawing-room door. 
 
 " Come this way, miss," said Dixon, opening the door of 
 what had been Mrs. Hale's bed-chamber, now Margaret's, for 
 her father refused to sleep there again after his wife's death. 
 " It's nothing, miss," said Dixon, choking a little. " Only a 
 police-inspector. He wants to see you, miss. But I dare say, 
 it's about nothing at all." 
 
 "Did he name — " asked Margaret, almost inaudibly. 
 
 " No, miss ; he named nothing. He only asked if yon 
 lived here,- and if he could speak to you. Martha went to the 
 door, and let him in ;- she has shown him into master's study. 
 I went to him myself, to try if that would do ; but no — it's 
 you, miss, he wants." 
 
 Margaret did not speak again till her hand was on the lock 
 of the study door. Here she turned round and said, " Take 
 care papa does not come down. Mr. Thornton is with him 
 now." 
 
 The inspector was almost daunted by the haughtiness of 
 her manner as she entered. There was something of indigna- 
 tion expressed in her countenance, bat so kept down and 
 controlled, that it gave her a superb air of disdain. There was 
 no surprise, no curiosity. She stood awaiting the opening of 
 bis business there. Not a question did she ask. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, ma'am, but my duty obliges me to 
 ask yon a few plain questions. A man has died at the 
 
268 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 Infirmary, in consequence of a fall, received at Outwood 
 station, between the hours of five and six on Thursday even- 
 ing, the twenty-sixth instant. At the time, this fall did not 
 seem of much consequence; but it was rendered fatal, the 
 doctors say, by the presence of some internal complaint, and 
 the man's own habit of drinking." 
 
 The large dark eyes, gazing straight into the inspector's 
 face, dilated a little. Otherwise there was no motion percep- 
 tible to his experienced observation. Her lips swelled out into 
 a richer curve than ordinary, owing to the enforced tension of 
 the muscles, but he did not know what was their usual appear- 
 aace, so as to recognise the unwonted sullen defiance of the 
 firm sweeping lines. She never blenched or trembled. She 
 fixed him with" her eye. Now — as he paused before going on, 
 she said, almost as if she would encourage him in telling his 
 tale—" Well— go on ! " 
 
 "It is supposed that an inquest will have to be held ; 
 there is some slight evidence to prove that the blow, or push, 
 or scuffle that caused the fall, was provoked by this poor fel- 
 low's half-tipsy impertinence to a young lady, walking with the 
 man who pushed the deceased over the edge of the platform. 
 This much was observed by some one on the platform, who, 
 however, thought no more about the matter, as the blow seemed 
 of slight consequence. There is also some reason to identify 
 the lady with yourself; in which case — " 
 
 " I was not there," said Margaret, still keeping her expres- 
 sionless eyes fixed on his face, with the unconscious look of a 
 sleep-walker. 
 
 The inspector bowed but did not speak. The lady standing 
 before him showed no emotion, no fluttering fear, no anxiety, 
 no desire to end the interview. The iirformation he had 
 received was very vague ; one of the porters, rushing out to be 
 in readiness for the train, had seen a scuffle, at the other end 
 of the platform, between Leonards and a gentleman accom- 
 panied by a lady, but heard no noise ; and before the train had 
 got to its full speed after starting, he had been almost knocked 
 down by the headlong run of the enraged half-intoxicated 
 Leonards, swearing and cursing awfully. He had not thought 
 any more about it, till his evidence was routed oat by the 
 inspector, who, on making some farther inquiry at the railroad 
 station, had heard from the station-master that a young lady 
 and gentleman had been there about that hour — ^the lady 
 temarkably handsome — and said, by some grocer's assistant 
 
FALSE AND TRUE. 269 
 
 present at the time, to be a Miss Hale, living at Cramptou, 
 whose family dealt at his shop. There was no certainty that 
 the one lady and gentleman were identical with the other pair, 
 but there was great probability. Leonards himself had gone, 
 half-mad with rage and pain, to the nearest gin-palace for 
 comfort ; and his tipsy words had not been attended to by the 
 busy waiters there ; they, however, remembered his starting up 
 and cursing himself for not having sooner thought of the electric 
 telegraph, for some purpose unfiiown ; and they believed that 
 he left with the idea of going there. On his way, overcome by 
 pain or drink, he had lain down in the road, where the police 
 had found him and taken him to the Infirmary : there he had 
 never recovered sufficient consciousness to give any distinct 
 account of his fall, although once or twice he had had glim- 
 merings of sense sufficient to make the authorities send for the 
 nearest magistrate, in hopes that he might be able to take 
 down the dying man's deposition of the cause of his death. 
 But when the magistrate had come, he was rambling about 
 being at sea, and mixing up names of captains and lieutenants 
 in an indistinct manner with those of his fellow porters at the 
 railway; and his last words were a curse on the "Cornish 
 trick " which had, he said, made him a hundred pounds poorer 
 than he ought to have been. The inspector ran all this over 
 in his mind — the vagueness of the evidence to prove that Mar- 
 garet had been at the station — the unflinching, calm denial 
 which she gave to such a supposition. She stood awaiting his 
 next word with a composure that appeared supreme. 
 
 " Then, madam, I have your denial that you were the lady 
 accompanying the gentleman who struck the blow, or gave the 
 push, which caused the death of this poor man ? " 
 
 A quick, sharp pain went through Margaret's brain. "Oh 
 God ! that I knew Frederick were safe ! " A deep observer of 
 human countenances might have seen the momentary agony 
 shoot out of her great gloomy eyes, like the torture of some 
 creature brought to bay. Biit the inspector though a very 
 keen, was not a very deep observer. He was a little struck, 
 notwithstanding, by the form of the answer, which sounded like 
 a mechanical repetition of her first reply — ^not changed and 
 modified in shape so as to meet his last question. 
 
 " I was not there," said she, slowly and heavily. And all 
 this time she never closed her eyes, or ceased from that glassy, 
 dream-like stare. His quick suspicions were aroused by this 
 dull echo of her former denial. It was as if she had forced 
 
270 NOKTH AHD SOTJTH. 
 
 herself to one untrnth, and had been stunned out of all powei 
 of varying it. 
 
 He put up his book of notes in a very deliberate manner. 
 Then he looked up ; she had not moved any more than if she 
 had been some great Egyptian statue. 
 
 " I hope you will not think me impertinent when I say, that 
 I may have to call on you again. I may have to summon you 
 to appear on the inquest, and prove an alibi, if my witnesses " 
 (it was but one who had recognised her) " persist in deposing 
 to your presence at the unfortunate event.'' He looked at her 
 sharply. She was still perfectly quiet — no change of colour, or 
 darker shadow of guilt, on her proud face. He thought to 
 have seen her wince : he did not know Margaret Hale. He 
 was a little abashed by her regal composure. It must have 
 been a mistake of identity. He went on : 
 
 " It is very unlikely, ma'am, that I shall have to do any- 
 thing of the kind. I hope you will excuse me for doing what 
 is only my duty, although it may appear impertinent." 
 
 Margaret bowed her head as he went towards the door. 
 Her lips were stiff and dry. She could not speak even the 
 common words of farewell. But suddenly she walked forwards, 
 and opened the study door, and preceded him to the door of 
 the house, which she threw wide open for his exit. She kept 
 her eyes upon him in the same duU, fixed manner, until he was 
 fairly out of the house. She shut the door, and went half-way 
 into the study ; then turned back, as if moved by some pas- 
 sionate impulse, and locked the door inside. 
 
 Then she went into the study, paused — tottered forward — 
 paused again — swayed for an instant where she stood, and fell 
 prone on the floor in a dead swoon. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 EXPIATION. 
 
 " There's nought so finely spun 
 But it Cometh to the sun." 
 
 Mr. Thoenton sate on and on. He felt that his company gave 
 pleasure to Mr. Hale ; and was touched by the half-spoken 
 wishful entreaty that he would remain a little longer— the 
 plaintive " Don't go yet," which his poor friend put forth from 
 time to time. He wondered Margaret did not return ; but it 
 
EXPIATION. 271 
 
 was witli no view of seeing her that he lingered. For the 
 hour — and ia the presence of one who was so thoroughly feeling 
 the nothingness of earth — he was reasonable and self-con- 
 trolled. He was deeply interested in all her father said 
 
 " Of death, and of the heavy lull, 
 And of the brain that has grown dull." 
 
 It was curious how the presence of Mr. Thornton had 
 power over Mr. Hale to make him unlock the secret thoughts 
 which he kept shut up even from Margaret. Whether it was 
 that her sympathy would be so keen, and show itself in so lively 
 a manner, that he was afraid of the reaction upon himself, or 
 whether it was that to his speculative mind all kinds of doubts 
 presented themselves at such a time, pleading and crying aloud 
 to be resolved into certainties, and that he knew she would 
 have shrunk from the expression of any such doubts — nay, 
 from him himself as capable of conceiving them — whatever 
 was the reason, he could unburden himself better to Mr. 
 Thornton than to her of all the thoughts and fancies and fears 
 that had been frost-bound in his brain till now. Mr. Thornton 
 said very little ; but every sentence he uttered added to Mr. 
 Hale's reliance and regard for him. Was it that he paused in 
 the expression of some remembered agony, Mr. Thornton's 
 two or three words would complete the sentence, and show how 
 deeply its meaning was entered into. Was it a doubt — a 
 fear — a wandering uncertainty seeking rest, but finding none — 
 so tear-blinded were its eyes — ^Mr. Thornton, instead of being 
 shocked, seemed to have passed through that very stage of 
 thought himself, and could suggest where the exact ray of 
 light was to be found, which should make the dark places plain. 
 Man of action as he was, busy in the world's great battle, 
 there was a deeper religion binding him to God in his heart, 
 in spite of his strong wilfulness, through all his mistakes, than 
 Mr. Hale had ever dreamed. They never spoke of such things 
 again, as it happened ; but this one conversation made them 
 peculiar people to each other ; knit them together, in a way 
 which no loose indiscriminate talking about sacred things can 
 ever accomplish. When all are admitted, how can there be a 
 Holy of Holies ? 
 
 And all this while, Margaret lay as stilt and white as death 
 on the study floor ! She had sunk under her burden. It had 
 been heavy in weight and long carried ; and she had been very 
 meek and patient, till all at once her faith had given way, and 
 
278 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 She had groped in vain for help ! There was a pitiful con- 
 traction of suffering upon her beautiful brows, although there 
 was no other sign of consciousness remaining. The mouth — 
 a little while ago, so sullenly projected in defiance — ^was 
 relaxed and livid. 
 
 " E par che de la sua labbia si mova 
 Uno spirto soave epien d'amore, 
 Chi va dicendo a Tanima : sospira ! " 
 
 The first symptom of returning life was a quiveiing about 
 the lips — a little mute soundless attempt at speech ; but the 
 eyes were still closed ; and the quivering sank into stillness. 
 Then, feebly leaning on her arms for an instant to steady 
 herself, Margaret gathered herself up, and rose. Her comb 
 had fallen out of her hair ; and with an intuitive desire to efface 
 the traces of weakness, and bring herself into order again, 
 she sought for it, although from time to time, in the course of 
 the search, she had to sit down and recover strength. Her 
 head drooped forwards — ^her hands meekly laid one upon the 
 other — she tried to recall the force of her temptation, by 
 endeavouring to remember the details which had thrown her 
 into such deadly fright ; but she could not. She only under- 
 stood two facts — ^that Frederick had been in danger of being 
 pursued and detected in London, as not only guilty of man- 
 slaughter, but as the more unpardonable leader of the mutiny, 
 and that she had lied to save him. There was one comfort ; 
 her lie had saved him, if only by gaining some additional time. 
 If the inspector came again to-morrow, after she had received 
 the letter she longed for to assure her of her brother's safety, 
 she would brave shame, and stand in her bitter penance — she 
 the lofty Margaret — acknowledging before a crowded justice- 
 room, if need were, that she had been as " a dog, and done 
 this thing." But if he came before she heard from Frederick; 
 if he returned, as he had half threatened, in a few hours, why ! 
 she would teU that lie again ; though how the words would 
 come out, after all this terrible pause for reflection and self- 
 reproach, without betraying her falsehood, she did not know, 
 she could not tell. But her repetition of it would gain time — 
 time for Frederick. 
 
 She was roused by Dixon's entrance into the room ; she 
 had just been letting out Mr. Thornton. 
 
 He had hardly gone ten steps in the street, before a passing 
 omnibus stopped close by him, and a man got down, and came 
 
EXPIATION. 278 
 
 ap to Mm, tonchlng his hat as he did so. It was the police- 
 inspector. 
 
 Mr. Thornton had obtained for him his first situation in the 
 police, and had heard from time to time of the progress of his 
 prot^g^, but they had not often met, and at first Mr. Thornton 
 did not remember him. 
 
 " My name is "Watson — George Watson, sir, that, yon 
 got " 
 
 " Ah, yes I I recollect. Why you are getting on famously, 
 I hear." 
 
 " Yes, sir. I ought to thank you, sir. But it is on a 
 little matter of business I made so bold as to speak to you 
 now. I believe you were the magistrate who attended to take 
 down the deposition of a poor man who died in the Infirmary 
 last night." 
 
 " Yes," replied Mr. Thornton. " I went and heard some 
 kind of a rambling statement, which the clerk said was of no 
 great use. I'm afraid he was but a drunken fellow, though 
 there is no doubt he came to his death by violence at last. 
 One of my mother's servants was engaged to him, I believe, 
 and she is in great distress to-day. What about him ? " 
 
 " Why, sir, his death is oddly mixed up with somebody in 
 the house I saw you coming out of just now ; it was a Mr. 
 Hales's, I believe." 
 
 " Yes ! " said Mr. Thornton, turning sharp round and 
 looking into the inspector's face with sudden interest. " What 
 about it ? " 
 
 " Why, sir, it seems to me that I have got a pretty distinct 
 chain of evidence, inculpating a gentleman who was walking 
 with Miss Hale that night at the Outwood station, as the man 
 who struck or pushed Leonards off the platform and so caused 
 his death. But the young lady denies that she was there at 
 the time." 
 
 " Miss Hale denies she was there ! " repeated Mr. Thorn- 
 ton, in an altered voice. " Tell me, what evening was it ? 
 What time ? " 
 
 " About six o'clock, on the evening of Thursday, the 
 twenty-sixth." 
 
 They walked on, side by side, in silence for a minute or 
 two. The inspector was the first to speak. 
 
 " You see, sir, there is like to be a coroner's inquest; and 
 I've got a young man who is pretty positive, — at least he was 
 at first ; — since he has heard of the young lady's denial, he 
 
 18 
 
274 NOKTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 says he should not like to swear ; but still he's pretty positive 
 that he saw Miss Hale at the station, walking about with a 
 gentleman, not five minutes before the time, when one of the 
 porters saw a scuffle, which he set down to some of Leonards' 
 impudence — ^but which led to the fall which caused his death. 
 And seeing you come out of the very house, sir, I thought I 
 might make bold to ask if— you see, it's always awkward having 
 to do with cases of disputed identity, and one doesn't like to 
 doubt the word of a respectable young woman unless one has 
 strong proof to the contrary." 
 
 " And she denied having been at the station that evening ! " 
 repeated Mr. Thornton, in a low, brooding tone. 
 
 " Yes, sir, twice over, as distinct as could be. I told her I 
 should call again, but seeing you just as I was on my way back 
 from questioning the young man who said it was her, I thought 
 I would ask your advice, both as the magistrate who saw Leo- 
 nards on his death-bed, and as the gentleman who got me my 
 berth in the force." 
 
 "You were quite right," said Mr. Thornton. "Don't 
 take any steps till you have seen me again." 
 
 "The young lady will expect me to call, from what I 
 said." 
 
 " I only want to delay you an hour. It's now three. Come 
 to my warehouse at four." 
 
 " Very well, sir! " 
 
 And they parted company. Mr. Thornton hurried to his 
 warehouse, and, sternly forbidding his clerks to allow any one 
 to interrupt him, he went his way to his own private room, and 
 locked the door. Then he indulged himself in the torture of 
 thinking it all over, and realising every detail. How could he 
 have lulled himself into the unsuspicious calm in which her 
 tearful image had mirrored itself not two hours before, till he 
 had weakly pitied her and yearned towards her, and forgotten 
 the savage, distrustful jealousy with which the sight of her — 
 and that unknown to him — at such an hour — in such a place — 
 had inspired him ! How could one so pure have stooped from 
 her decorous and noble manner of bearing ! But was it deco- 
 rous — ^was it ? He hated himself for the idea that forced itself 
 upon him, just for an instant — no more — and yet, while it was 
 present, thrilled him with its old potency of attraction towards 
 her image. And then this falsehood — ^how terrible must be 
 some dread of shame to be revealed — for, after all, the provo- 
 cation given by such a man as Leonards was, when excited by 
 
EXPIATION. 275 
 
 drinking, might, in all probability, be more than enough to 
 justify any one who came forward to state the circumstances 
 openly and without reserve ! How creeping and deadly that 
 fear which could bow down the truthful Margaret to falsehood ! 
 He could almost pity her. What would be the end of it ? 
 She could not have considered all she was entering upon ; if 
 there was an inquest and the young man came forward. 
 Suddenly he started up. There should be no inquest. He 
 would save Margaret. He would take the responsibility of 
 preventing the inquest, the issue of which, from the uncertainty 
 of the medical testimony (which he had vaguely heard the 
 night before, from the surgeon in attendance), could be but 
 doubtful ; the doctors had discovered an internal disease far 
 advanced, and sure to prove fatal ; they had stated that death 
 might have been accelerated by the fall, or by the subsequent 
 drinking and exposure to cold. If he had but known how 
 Margaret would have become involved in the affair — ^if he had 
 but foreseen that he woidd have stained her whiteness by a 
 felsehood, he could have saved her by a word ; for the question, 
 of inquest or no inquest, had hung trembling in the balance 
 only the night before. Miss Hale might love another — was 
 indifferent and contemptuous to him — ^but he would yet do her 
 faithful acts of service of which she should never know. He 
 might despise her, but the woman whom he had once loved 
 should be kept from shame ; and shame it would be to pledge 
 herself to a lie in a public coiu:t, or otherwise to stand and 
 acknowledge her reason for desiring darkness rather than light. 
 
 Very gray and stem did Mr. Thornton look, as he passed 
 out through his wondering clerks. He was away about half 
 an hour ; and scarcely less stern did he look when he returned, 
 although his errand had been successful. 
 
 He wrote two lines on a slip of paper, put it in an envelope, 
 and sealed it up. This he gave to one of the clerks, saying : — 
 
 " I appointed Watson — he who was a packer in the ware- 
 house, and who went into the pohce — ^to call on me at four 
 o'clock. I have just met with a gentleman from Liverpool 
 who wishes to see me before he leaves town. Take care to 
 give this note to Watson when he calls." 
 
 The note contained these words : , 
 
 " There will be no inquest. Medical evidence not sufficient 
 to justify it. Take no further steps. I have not seen the 
 coroner ; but I will take the responsibility." 
 
 " Well," thought Watson, " it relieves me from an awk- 
 
 18-2 
 
£76 NORTH AJSD SOUTH. 
 
 ward job. None of my witnesses seemed certain of anything 
 except the young woman. She was clear and distinct enough ; 
 the porter at the railroad had seen a scuffle ! or when he found 
 it was likely to bring him in as a witness, then it might not 
 have been a souffle, only a little larking, and Leonards might 
 have jumped off the platform himself; — he would not stick 
 firm to anything. And Jennings, the grocer's shopman, — well, 
 he was not quite so bad, but I doubt if I could have got him 
 op to an oath after he heard that Miss Hale flatly denied it. 
 It would have been a troublesome job and no satisfeotion. And 
 now I must go and tell them they won't be wanted." 
 
 He accordingly presented himself again at Mr. Hale's that 
 evening. Her father and Dixon would fain have persuaded 
 Margaret to go to bed ; but they, neither of them, knew the 
 reason for her low continued refusals to do so. Dixon had 
 learnt part of the truth — but only part. Margaret would not 
 tell any human being of what she had said, and she did not 
 reveal the fatal termination to Leonards' fall from the platform. 
 So Dixon's curiosity combined with her allegiance to urge 
 Margaret to go to rest, which her appearance, as she lay on 
 the sofa, showed but too clearly that she required. She did 
 not speak except when spoken to ; she tried to smile back in 
 reply to her father's anxious looks and words of tender inquiry ; 
 but, instead of a smile, the wan lips resolved themselves into 
 a sigh. He was so miserably uneasy that, at last, she con- 
 sented to go into her own room, and prepare for going to bed. 
 She was indeed inclined to give up the idea that the inspector 
 would call again that night, as it was already past nine o'clock. 
 
 She stood by her father, holding on to the back of his 
 chair. 
 
 " You will go to bed soon, papa, won't you ? Don't sit up 
 alone ! " 
 
 What his answer was she did not hear ; the words were 
 lost in the far smaller point of sound that magnified itself to 
 her fears, and filled her brain. There was a low ring at the 
 door-bell. 
 
 She kissed her father and glided down stairs, with a 
 rapidity of motion of which no one would have thought hei 
 capable, who had seen her the minute before. She put aside 
 Dixen. , 
 
 " Don't come ; I wiU open the door. I know it is him — I 
 can — I must manage it all myself." 
 
 " As you please, miss ! " said Dixon, testily ; but in a 
 
EXPUTION. 277 
 
 moment afterwards, she added, " But you're not fit for it. 
 Yea are more dead than alive." 
 
 " Am I ? " said Margaret, taming round and showing her 
 eyes all aglow with strange fire, her cheeks flashed, though her 
 lips were baked and livid still. 
 
 She opened the door to the Inspector, and preceded him 
 into the study. She placed the candle on the table, and 
 snuffed it carefully, before she turned round and faced him. 
 
 "You are late!" said she. "Well?" She held her 
 breath for the answer. 
 
 " I'm sorry to have given any unnecessary trouble, ma'am ; 
 for, after all, they've given up all thoughts of holding an 
 inquest. I have had other work to do and other people to see, 
 or I should have been here before now." 
 
 " Then it is ended," said Margaret. " There is to he no 
 forther enquiry." 
 
 "I believe I've got Mr. Thornton's note about me," said 
 the Inspector, fumbling in his pocket-book. 
 
 " Mr. Thornton's ! " said Margaret. 
 
 " Yes ! he's a magistrate — ah ! here it is. She could not 
 see to read it — no, not although she was close to the candle. 
 The words swam before her. But she held it in her hand, and 
 looked at it as if she were intently studying it. 
 
 " I'm sure, ma'am, it's a great weight off my mind ; for the 
 evidence was so uncertain, you see, that the man had received 
 any blow at all, and if any question of identity came in, it so 
 complicated the case, as I told Mr. Thornton " 
 
 " Mr. Thornton ! " said Margaret, again. 
 
 " I met him this morning, just as he was coming out of this 
 iioase, and, as he's an old friend of mine, besides being the 
 magistrate who saw Leonards last night, I made bold to tell 
 him of my diflSculty." 
 
 Margaret sighed deeply. She did not want to hear any 
 more ; she was afraid alike of whai she had heard, and of what 
 she might hear. She wished that the man would go. She 
 forced herself to speak. 
 
 " Thank you for calling. It is very late. I dare say it is 
 past ten o'clock. Oh 1 here is the note!" she continued, 
 suddenly interpreting the meaning of the hand held out to 
 receive it. He was putting it up, when she said, " I think it 
 is a cramped, dazzling sort df writing. I could not read it ; 
 will you just read it to me ? " 
 
 He read it aloud to her. 
 
278 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 " Thank you. You told Mr. Thornton that I was not 
 there ? " 
 
 " Oh, of course, ma'am. I'm Borry now that I acted upon 
 information, which seems to have been so erroneous. At first 
 the young man was so positive ; and now he says that he 
 doubted all along, and hopes that his mistake won't have 
 occasioned you such annoyance as to lose their shop your 
 custom. Good night, ma'am." 
 
 " Good night." She rang the bell for Dixon to show him 
 out. As Dixon returned up the passage Margaret passed her 
 swiftly. 
 
 "It is all right ! " said she, without looking at Dixon ; and 
 before the woman could follow her with further questions she 
 had sped up-stairs, and entered her bed-chamber, and bolted 
 her door. 
 
 She threw herself, dressed as she was, upon her bed. She 
 was too much exhausted to think. Half-an-hour or more 
 elapsed before the cramped nature of her position, and the 
 chilliness, supervening upon great fatigue, had the power to 
 rouse her numbed faculties. Then she began to recall, to 
 combiue, to wonder. The first idea that presented itself to her 
 was, that all this sickening alarm on Frederick's behalf was 
 over ; that the strain was past. The next was a wish to 
 remember every word of the Inspector's which related to Mr. 
 Thornton. When had he seen him ? What had he said ? 
 What had Mr. Thornton done ? What were the exact words 
 of his note ? And until she could recollect, even to the placing 
 or omitting an article, the very expressions which he had used 
 in the note, her mind refased to go on with its progress. But 
 the next conviction she came to was clear enough ; — Mr. 
 Thornton had seen her close to Outwood station on the fetal 
 Thursday night, and had been told of her denial that she was 
 there. She stood as a liar in his eyes. She was a liar. But 
 she had no thought of penitence before God ; nothing but 
 cha,os and night surrounded the one lurid fact that, in Mr. 
 Thornton's eyes, she was degraded. She eared not to think, 
 even to herself, of how much of excuse she might plead. That 
 had nothing to do with Mr. Thornton ; she never dreamed that 
 he, or any one else, could find cause for suspicion in what was 
 so natural as her accompanying her brother; but what was 
 really false and wrong was known to him, and he had a right 
 to judge her. "Oh, Frederick! Frederick!" she cried, 
 " what have I not sacrificed for you ! " Even when she fell 
 
EXPIATION. 279 
 
 asleep her thonghlis were compelled to travel the same circle, 
 only with exaggerated and monstrous circumstances of pain. 
 
 When she awoke a new idea flashed upon her with all the 
 brightness of the morning. Mr. Thornton had leamt her 
 falsehood before he went to the coroner ; that suggested the 
 thought, that he had possibly been influenced so to do with a 
 ■view of sparing her the repetition of her denial. But she 
 pushed this notion on one side with the sick wilfulness of a 
 child. If it were so, she felt no gratitude to him, as it only 
 showed her how keenly he must have seen that she was 
 disgraced already, before he took such unwonted pains to spare 
 her any farther trial of tmthfhlaess, which had already failed 
 so signally. She would have gone through the whole — she 
 would have peijured herself to save Frederick, rather — ^far 
 rather — than Mr. Thornton should have had the knowledge that 
 prompted him to interfere to save her. What ill-fate brought 
 him in contact with the Inspector ? What made him be the 
 very magistrate sent for to receive Leonards' deposition ? 
 What had Leonards said ? How much of it was intelligible to 
 Mr. Thornton, who might already, for anght she knew, be aware 
 of the old accusation against Frederick, through their mutual 
 Mend, Mr. Bell ? If so, he had striven to save the son, who 
 came in defiance of the law to attend his mother's death-bed. 
 And under this idea she could feel grateful — not yet, if ever 
 she should, if his interference had been prompted by contempt. 
 Oh ! had any one such just cause to feel contempt for her ? 
 Mr. Thornton, above aU people, on whom she had looked down 
 from her imaginary heights till now ! She suddenly found 
 herself at his feet, and was strangely distressed at her fall. 
 She shrank from following out the premises to their conclusion, 
 and so acknowledging to herself how much she valued his 
 respect and good opinion. Whenever this idea presented itself 
 to her at the end of a long avenue of thoughts, she turned 
 away from following that path — she would not believe in it. 
 
 It was later than she fancied, for in the agitation of the 
 previous night, she had forgotten to wind up her watch ; and 
 Mr. Hale had given especial orders that she was not to be dis- 
 turbed by the usual awakening. By and by the door opened 
 cautiously, and Dixon put her head in. Perceiving that Mar- 
 garet was awake, she came forwards with a letter. 
 
 " Here's something to do you good, miss. A letter from 
 Master Frederick." 
 
 " Thank you, Dixon. How late it is ! " 
 
280 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 She spoke veiy languidly, and suffered Dixon to lay it on 
 the counterpane before her, without putting out a hand tc 
 take it. 
 
 " You want your breakfast, I'm sure. I will bring it 
 you in a minute. Master has got the tray all ready, I know." 
 
 Margaret did not reply ; she let her go ; she felt that she 
 must be alone before she could open that letter. She opened 
 it at last. The first thing that caught her eye was the date 
 two days earlier than she received it. He had then written 
 when he had promised, and their alarm might have been spared. 
 But she would read the letter and see. It was hasty enough, 
 but perfectly satisfactory. He had seen Henry Lennox, who 
 knew enough of the case to shake his head over it, in the first 
 instance, and tell him he had done a very daring thing in 
 returning to England, with snch an accusation, backed by such 
 powerful infiuence, hanging over him. But when they had 
 come to talk it over, Mr. Lennox had acknowledged that there 
 might be some chance of his acquittal, if he could but prove 
 his statements by credible witnesses — rthat in such case it 
 might be worth while to stand his trial, otherwise it would be 
 a great risk. He would examine — ^he would take every pains. 
 " It struck me," said Frederick, " that your introduction, little 
 sister of mine, went a long way. Is it so ? He made many 
 inquiries, I can assure you. He seemed a sharp, intelligent 
 fellow, and in good practice too, to judge irom the signs of 
 business and the number of clerks about him. But these may 
 be only lawyer's dodges. I have just caught a packet on the 
 point of Biuling — I am off in five minutes. I may have to 
 come back to England again on this business, so keep my visit 
 secret. I shall send my father some rare old sherry, such as 
 you cannot buy in England, — (such stuff as I've got in the 
 bottle before me) ! He needs something of the kind — my dear 
 love to him — God bless him. I'm sure — here's my cab. 
 P.S. — What an escape that was ! Take care you don't breathe 
 of my having been — not even to the Shaws." 
 
 Margaret turned to the envelope : it was marked " Too 
 late." The letter had probably been trusted to some careless 
 waiter, who had forgotten to post it. Oh ! what slight cob- 
 webs of chances stand between us and Temptation ! Frederick 
 had been safe, and out of England twenty, nay, thirty hours 
 ago ; and it was only about seventeen hours since she had told 
 a falsehood to bafiBe pursuit, which even then would have been 
 vain. How faithless she had been! Where now was her 
 
EXPIATION. 281 
 
 proud motto, " Fais ce que dois, advienne que pourra ? " D 
 she had but dared to bravely tell the truth as regarded herself, 
 defying them to find out -what she refdsed to tell concerning 
 another, how light of heart she would now have felt ! Not 
 humbled before God, as having failed in trust towards Him ; 
 not degraded and abased in Mr. Thornton's sight. She caught 
 herself up at this with a miserable tremor ; here was she 
 classing his low opinion of her alongside with the displeasure 
 of God. How was it that he haunted her imagination so per- 
 sistently ? What could it be ? Why did she care for what he 
 thought, in spite of all her pride; in spite of herself? She 
 believed that she could have borne the sense of Almighty dis- 
 pleasure, because He knew all, and could read her penitence, 
 and hear her cries for help in time to come. But Mr. 
 Thornton — why did she tremble, and hide her face in the 
 pillow ? What strong feeling had overtaken her at last ? 
 
 She sprang out of bed and prayed long and earnestly. It 
 soothed and comforted her so to open her heart. But as soon 
 as she reviewed her position she found the sting was still there; 
 that she was not good enough, nor pure enough to be indif- 
 ferent to th« lowered opinion of a fellow creature : that the 
 thought of how he must be looking upon her with contempt, 
 stood between her and her sense of wrong-doing. She took 
 her letter in to her father as soon as she was drest. There 
 was so slight an allusion to their alarm at the railroad station, 
 that Mr. Hale passed over it without paying any attention to 
 it. Indeed, beyond the mere fact of Frederick having sailed 
 undiscovered and unsuspected, he did not gather much from 
 the letter at the time, he was so uneasy about Margaret's 
 pallid looks. She seemed continually on the point of weeping. 
 
 " You are sadly overdone, Margaret. It is no wonder. 
 But you must let me nurse you now." 
 
 He made her lie down on the sofa, and went for a shawl to 
 cover her with. His tenderness released her tears ; and she 
 cried bitterly, 
 
 " Poor child ! — poor child ! " said he, looking fondly at 
 her, as she lay with her face to the wall, shaking with her sobs. 
 After a while they ceased, and she began to wonder whether 
 she durst give herself the relief of telling her father of all hei 
 trouble. But there were more reasons against it than for it. 
 The only one for it was the relief to herself; and against it 
 was the thought that it would add materially to her father's 
 nervousness, if it were indeed necessary for Frederick to come 
 
282 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 to England again ; that he would dwell on the circumstance oi 
 his son's having caused the death of a man, however unwit- 
 tingly and unwillingly ; that this knowledge would perpetually 
 recur to trouble him, in various shapes of exaggeration and 
 distortion from the simple truth. And about her own great 
 fault — he would be distressed beyond measure at her want of 
 courage and faith, yet perpetually troubled to make excuses 
 for her. Formerly Margaret would have come to him as priest 
 as well as father, to tell him of her temptation and her sm ; 
 but latterly they had not spoken much on such subjects ; and 
 she knew not how, in his change of opinions, he would reply 
 if the depth of her soul called unto his. No ; she would keep 
 her secret, and bear the burden alone. Alone she would go 
 before God, and cry foruHis absolution. Alone she would 
 endure her disgraced position in the opinion of Mr. Thornton. 
 She was unspeakably touched by the tender efforts of her father 
 to think of cheerftil subjects on which to talk, and so to take 
 her thoughts away from dwelling on all that had happened of 
 late. It was some months since he had been so talkative as 
 he was this day. He would not let her sit up, and offended 
 Dixon desperately by insisting on waiting upon her himself. 
 
 At last she smiled ; a poor, weak little smile ; but it gave 
 him the truest pleasure. 
 
 " It seems strange to think, that what gives us most hope 
 for the future should be called Dolores," said Margaret. The 
 remark was more in character with her father than with her 
 usual self ; but to-day they seemed to have changed natures. 
 
 " Her mother was a Spaniard, I believe : that accounts 
 for her religion. Her father was a stiff Presbyterian when I 
 knew him. But it is a very soft and pretty name." 
 
 " How young she is ! — younger by fourteen months than 
 I am. Just the age that Edith was when she was engaged 
 to Captain Lennox. Papa, we will go and see them in Spain." 
 
 He shook his head. But he said, " If you wish it, Mar- 
 garet. Only let us come back here. It would seem unfair — 
 unkind to your mother, who always, I'm afraid, disKked Milton 
 so much, if we left it now she is lying here, and cannot go with 
 us. No, dear ; you shall go and see them, and bring me back 
 a report of my Spanish daughter." 
 
 " No, papa, I won't go without you. Who is to take care 
 of you when I am gone ? " 
 
 " I should like to know which of us is taking care of the 
 other. But if you went, I should persuade Mr. Thornton to 
 
EXPIATION. 283 
 
 let me ^ve him double lessons. We would work up the 
 classics famously. That would be a perpetual interest. You 
 might go on, and see Edith at Corfu, if you liked." 
 
 Margaret did not speak all at once. Then she said rather 
 gravely : " Thank you, papa. But I don't want to go. We 
 wiU hope that Mr, Lennox will manage so well, that Frederick 
 may bring Dolores to see us when they are married. And as 
 for Edith, the regiment won't remain much longer, in Corfu. 
 Perhaps we shall see both of them here before another year is 
 out." 
 
 Mr. Hale's cheerful subjects had come to an end. Some 
 painftil recollection had stolen across his mind, and driven 
 him into silence. By and by Margaret said : 
 
 " Papa — did you see Nicholas Higgins at the funeral ? 
 He was there, and Mary too. Poor fellow ! it was his way of 
 showing sympathy. He has a good warm heart under his 
 bluff abrupt ways." 
 
 " I am sure of it," replied Mr. Hale. "I saw it all along, 
 even while you tried to persuade me that he was all sorts of 
 bad things. We will go and see them to-morrow, if you are 
 strong enough to walk so far." 
 
 " Oh yes. I want to see them. We did not pay Mary — 
 or rather she refused to take it, Dixon says. We will go so 
 as to catch him just after his dinner, and before he goes to his 
 work." 
 
 Towards evening Mr. Hale said : 
 
 " I half expected Mr. Thornton would have called. He 
 spoke of a book yesterday which he had, and which I wanted 
 to see. He said he would try and bring, it to-day." 
 
 Margaret sighed. She knew he would not come. He 
 would be too delicate to run the chance of meeting her, while 
 her shame must be so fresh in his memory. The very mention 
 of his name renewed her trouble, and produced a relapse into 
 the feeling of depressed, pre-occupied exhaustion. She gave 
 way to listless languor. Suddenly it struck her that this 
 was a strange manner to show her patience, or to reward her 
 father for his watchful care of her aU through the day. She 
 sate up, and offered to read aloud. His eyes were failing, and 
 he gladly accepted her proposal. She read well : she gave the 
 due emphasis ; but had any one asked her, when she had ended, 
 the meaning of what she had been reading, she could not have 
 told. She was smitten with a feeling of ingratitude to Mr. 
 Thornton, inasmuch as, ih the morning, she had refused to 
 
284 NOETH AND SOUTH. 
 
 accept the kindness he had shown her in making farther 
 inquiry from the medical men, so as to obviate any inquest 
 being held. Oh ! she was grateful ! She had been cowardly 
 and false, and had shown her cowardliness and falsehood in 
 action that could not be recalled ; but she was not ungrateM. 
 It sent a glow to her heart, to know how she could feel towards 
 one who had reason to despise her. His cause for contempt 
 was so just, that she should have respected him less if she had 
 thought he did not feel contempt. It was a pleasure to feel 
 how thoroughly she respected him. He could not prevent her 
 doing that ; it was the one comfort in all this misery. 
 
 Late in the evening, the expected book arrived, " with 
 Mr. Thornton's kind regards, and wishes to know how Mr. 
 Hale is." 
 
 " Say that I am much better, Dison, but that Miss 
 Hale—" 
 
 " No, papa," said Margaret, eagerly — •' don't say any- 
 thing about me. He does not ask." 
 
 " My dear child, how you are shivering ! " said her father, 
 a few minutes afterwards. " You must go to bed directly. 
 You have turned quite pale ! " 
 
 Margaret did not refuse to go, though she was loth to 
 leave her father alone. She needed the relief of solitude after 
 a day of busy thinking, and busier repenting. 
 
 But she seemed much as usual the next day ; the lingering 
 gravity and sadness, and the occasional absence of mind, were 
 not unnatural symptoms in the early days of grief. And almost 
 in proportion to her re-establishment in health, was her father's 
 relapse into his abstracted musings upon the wife he had lost, 
 and the past era in his life that was closed to biTn for ever. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXXVI. 
 
 UNION NOT ALWAYS STEENGTH. 
 
 " The steps of the bearers, heavy and slow. 
 The sobs of the mourners, deep and low." 
 
 Sh£I,LET. 
 
 At the time arranged the previous day, they set out on their 
 walk to see Nicholas Higgins and his daughter. They both 
 were reminded oi their recent loss, by a strange kind of shy- 
 ness in their new habiliments, and in the tact that it was the 
 
UNION NOT ALWAYS STRENGTH. 285 
 
 first time, for many weeks, that they had deliberately gone ont 
 together. They drew very close to each other in unspoken 
 sympathy. 
 
 Nicholas was sitting by the fire-side in his accustomed 
 corner : but he had not his accustomed pipe. He was leaning 
 hisi head upon his hand, his arm resting on his knee. He did 
 not get up when he saw them, though Margaret could read the 
 welcome in his eye. 
 
 " Sit ye down, sit ye down. Fire's welly out," said he, 
 giving it a vigorous poke, as if to turn attention away from 
 himself. He was rather disorderly, to be sure, with a black 
 unshaven beard of several days' growth, making his pale face 
 look yet paler, and a jacket which would have been all the 
 better for patching. 
 
 " We thought we should have a good chance of finding 
 you,, just after dinner-time," said Margaret. 
 
 "We have had our sorrow too, since we saw yon," said 
 Mr. Hale. 
 
 "Ay, ay. Sorrows is more plentiful than dinners just 
 now ; I reckon, my dinner hour stretches all o'er the day ; 
 yo're pretty sure of finding me." 
 
 " Are you out of work ? " asked Margaret. 
 
 " Ay," he replied shortly. Then, after a moment's silence, 
 he added, looking up for the fijst time : " I'm not wanting 
 brass. Dunno yo' think it. Bess, poor lass, had a little stock 
 under her pillow, ready to slip into my hand, last moment, 
 and Mary is fiistian-cutting. But I'm out of work a' the 
 same." 
 
 " We owe Mary some money," said Mr. Hale, before 
 Margaret's sharp pressure on his arm could arrest the words. 
 
 " If hoo takes it, I'll turn her out o' doors. I'll bide inside 
 these four walls, and she'U bide out. That's a'." 
 
 " But we owe her many thanks for her kind service," began 
 Mr. Hale again. 
 
 " I ne'er thanked your daughter theer for her deeds o' love 
 to my poor wench. I ne'er could find th' words. I'se have 
 to begin and try now, if yo' start making an ado about what 
 little Maiy could sarve yo'." 
 
 " Is it because of the strike you're out of work ? " asked 
 Margaret gently. 
 
 " Strike's ended. It's o'er for this time. I'm out o' work 
 because I ne'er asked for it. And I ne'er asked for it, because 
 f^ood words is scarce, and bad words is plentiful." 
 
286 NOETH AND SOUTH. 
 
 He was in a mood to take a surly pleasure in giving 
 answers that were like riddles. But Margaret saw that he 
 would like to be asked for the explanation. 
 
 " And good words are — ? " 
 
 "Asking for work. I reckon them's almost the best 
 words that men can say. ' Gi' me work ' means ' and I'll 
 do it like a man.' Them's good words." 
 
 " And bad words are refusing you work when you ask 
 for it." 
 
 " Ay. Bad words is saying ' Aha, my fine chap ! Yo've 
 been true to yo'r order, and I'll be true to mine. Yo' did the 
 best yo' could for them as wanted help ; that's yo're way of 
 being true to yo're kind : and I'll be true to mine. Yo've 
 been a poor fool, as knowed no better nor be a true faithAil 
 fool. So go and be d — d to yo'. There's no work for yo' 
 here.' Them's bad words. I'm not a fool ; and if I was, folk 
 ought to ha' taught me how to be wise after their fashion. I 
 could m'appen ha' leamt, if any one had tried to teach me." 
 
 "Would it not be worth while," said Mr. Hale, "to ask 
 your old master if he would take you back again ? It might 
 be a poor chance, but it would be a chance." 
 
 He looked up again, with a sharp glance at the questioner ; 
 and then tittered a low and bitter laugh. 
 
 " Measter ! if it's no offence, I'll ask yo' a question or two 
 in my turn." 
 
 " You're quite welcome," said Mr. Hale. 
 
 " I reckon yo'n some way of earning your bread. Folk 
 seldom lives i' Milton just for pleasure, if they can live any- 
 where else." 
 
 " You are quite right. I have some independent property, 
 but my intention in settliug in Milton was to become a private 
 tutor." 
 
 " To teach folk. Well ! I reckon they pay yo' for teaching 
 them, dunnot they ? " 
 
 " Yes," replied Mr. Hale, smiling. " I teach in order to 
 get paid." 
 
 " And them that pays yo', dun they tell yo' whatten to do, 
 or whatten not to do wi' the money they gives you in just 
 payment for your pains — ^in fair exchange like ? " 
 
 " No ; to be sure not ! '.' 
 
 " They dunnot say, ' Yo' may have a brother, or a friend 
 as dear as a brother, who wants this here brass for a purpose 
 both yo' and he think right ; but yo' mun promise not give it 
 
UNION NOT ALWAYS STRENGTH. 287 
 
 to him. Yo' may see a good use, as yo' think, to put yo'r 
 money to ; but we don't think it good, and so if yo' spend it 
 a-thatens we'll just leave off dealing with yo'.' They dunnot 
 say that, dun they ? " 
 
 " No : to be sure not ! " 
 
 " Would yo' stand it if they did ? " 
 
 "It would be some very hard pressure that would make 
 me even think of submitting to such dictation." 
 
 "There's not the pressure on all the broad earth that 
 would make me," said Nicholas Higgins. " Now ya've got it, 
 Yo've hit the bull's eye. Hampers — that's where I worked — 
 makes their men pledge 'emselves they'll not give a penny to 
 help th' Union or keep turn-outs fro' clemming. They may 
 pledge and make pledge," continued he, scornfally ; "they 
 nobbut make liars and hypocrites. And that's a less sin, to 
 my mind, to making men's hearts so hard that they'll not do 
 a kindness to them as needs it, or help on the right and just 
 cause, though it goes again the strong hand. But I'll ne'er I 
 forswear mysel' for a' the work the king could gi'e me. I'm 
 a member o' the Union ; and I think it's the only thing to do 
 the workman any good. And I've been a turn-out, and known 
 what it were to clem ; so if I get a shilling, sixpence shall go 
 to them if they axe it from me. Consequence is, I dunnot see 
 where I'm to get a shilling." 
 
 " Is that rule about not contributing to the Union in force 
 at all the mUls ?" asked Margaret. 
 
 " I cannot say. It's a new regulation at ourn ; and I 
 reckon they'll find that they cannot stick to it. But it's in 
 force now. By-and-by they'll find out, tyrants makes liars." 
 
 There was a little pause. Margaret was hesitating whether 
 she should say what was in her mind ; she was unwilling to 
 irritate one who was already gloomy and despondent enough. 
 At last out it came. But in her soft tones, and with her 
 reluctant manner, showing that she was unwilling to say any- 
 thing unpleasant, it did not seem to annoy Higgins, only to 
 perplex him. 
 
 " Do you remember poor Boucher saying that the Union 
 was a tyrant ? I think he said it was the worst tyrant of all. 
 And I remember, at the time I agreed with him." 
 
 It was a long while before he spoke. He was resting his 
 head on his two hands, and looking down into the fire, so she 
 could not read the expression on his face. 
 
 " I'll not deny hut what th' Union finds it necessary to 
 
288 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 force a man into bis own good. I'll speak truth. A man leads 
 a dree life who's not i' th' Union. But once i' th' Union, his 
 interests are taken care on better nor he could do it for himsel', 
 or by himsel', for that matter. It's the only way working men 
 can get their rights, by all joining together. More the members, 
 more chance for each one separate man haTing justice done 
 him. Government takes care o' fools and madmen ; «bBd if 
 any man is inclined to do himsel' or his neighbour a hurt, it 
 puts a bit of a check on him, whether he likes it or no. That's 
 all we do i' th' Union. We can't clap folk into prison ; but 
 we can make a man's life so heavy to be borne, that he's 
 obliged to come in, and be wise and helpful in spite of himself 
 Boucher were a fool all along, and ne'er a worse fool than at 
 th' last." 
 
 " He did you harm ? " asked Margaret. 
 
 " Aye, that did he. We had public opinion on our side, 
 tiU he and his sort began rioting and breaking laws. It were 
 all o'er wi' the strike then." 
 
 " Then would it not have been far better to have left him 
 alone, and not forced him to join the Union ? He did you no 
 good; and you drove him mad." 
 
 " Margaret," said her father, in a low and warning tone, 
 for he saw the cloud gathering on Higgins's face. 
 
 " I like her," said Higgins, suddenly. " Hoo speaks plain 
 out what's in her mind. Hoo doesn't comprehend th' Union 
 for all that. It's a great power: it's our only power. I ha' 
 read a bit o' poetry about a plough going o'er a daisy, as made 
 tears come into my eyes, afore I'd other cause for crying. 
 But the chap ne'er stopped driving the plough, I'se warrant, 
 for all he were pitiful about the daisy. He'd too much mother- 
 wit for that. Th' Union's the plough, making ready the land 
 for harvest^time. Such as Boucher — 'twould be settin' him 
 up too much to liken him to a daisy; he's liker a weed 
 lounging over the ground — mun just make up their mind to 
 be put out o' the way. I'm sore vexed wi' him just now. So 
 m'appen, I dunnot speak him fair. I could go o'er him wi' a 
 plough mysel', wi' a' the pleasure in life." 
 
 " Why ? What has he been doing ? Anything fresh ? " 
 
 "Ay, to be sure. He's ne'er out o' mischief, that man. 
 First of a' he must go raging like a mad fool, and kick up yon 
 riot. Then he'd to go into hiding, where he'd a been yet, if 
 Thornton had followed him out as I'd hoped he would ha' done. 
 But Thornton, having got his own purpose, didn't care to go 
 
UNION NOT ALWAYS STEENGTH. 289 
 
 on m' the prosecntion for the riot. So Boucher slunk back 
 again to his house. He ne'er showed himsel' abroad for a 
 day or two. He had that grace. And then, where think ye 
 that he went ? Why, to Hampers'. Damn him ! He went 
 wi' his mealy-mouthed face, that turns me sick to look at, 
 a-asking for work, though he knowed well enough the new 
 rule, o' pledging themselves to give nought to th' Unions ; 
 nought to help the starving turn-out ! Why he'd a clemmed 
 to death, if th' Union had na helped him in his pinch. There 
 he went, ossing to promise aught, and pledge hirnsel' to aught 
 — to tell a' he know'd on our proceedings, the good-for-nothing 
 Judas ! But I'll say this for Hamper, and thank him for it at 
 my dying day, he drove Boucher away, and would na listen to 
 him — ne'er a word — ^though folk standing by, says the traitor 
 cried like a babby ! " 
 
 " Oh t how shocking ! how pitiful ! " exclaimed Margaret. 
 " Higgins, I don't know you to-day. Don't you see how you've 
 made Boucher what he is, by driving him into the Union 
 against his will — ^without his heart going with it. You have 
 made him what he is ! " 
 
 Made him what he is ! What was he ? 
 
 Gathering, gathering along the narrow street, came a 
 hollow, measured sound ; now forcing itself on their attention. 
 Many voices were hushed and low : many steps were heard, 
 not moving onwards, at least not with any rapidity or steadi- 
 ness of motion, but as if circling round one spot. Yes, there 
 was one distinct, slow tramp of feet, which made itself a clear 
 path through the air, and reached their ears ; the measured 
 laboured walk of men carrying a heavy burden. They were- 
 all drawn towards the house-door by some irresistible impulse ; 
 impelled thither — ^not by a poor curiosity, but as if by some 
 solemn blast. 
 
 Six men walked in the middle of the road, three of them 
 being policemen. They carried a door, taken off its hinges, upon 
 their shoulders, on which lay some dead human creature ; and 
 from each side of the door there were constant droppings. All 
 ihe street turned out to see, and, seeing, to accompany the. 
 procession, each one questioning the bearers, who answered 
 almost reluctantly at last, so often had they told the tale. 
 
 " We found him i' th' brook in the field beyond there." 
 
 " Th' brook ! — ^why there's not water enough to drowni 
 him!" 
 
 " He was a determined chap. He lay with his face down- 
 
 19 
 
290 NOETH AUD SOUTH. 
 
 wards. He was sick euongh o' living, choose what canse he 
 had for it." 
 
 Higgins crept np to Margaret's side, and said in a weak 
 piping kind of voice : " It's not John Boucher ? He had na 
 spunk enough. Sure ! It's not John Boucher ! Why, they 
 are a' looking this way ! Listen ! I've a singing in my head, 
 and I cannot hear." 
 
 They put the door down carefully upon the stones, and aU 
 might see the poor drowned wretch.— his glassy eyes, one half- 
 open, staring right upwards to the sky. Owing to the position 
 in which he had been found lying, his face was swollen and 
 discoloured ; besides, his skin was stained by the water in the 
 brook, which had been used for dyeing purposes. The fore 
 part of his head was bald ; but the hair grew thin and long 
 behind, and every separate lock was a conduit for water. 
 Through all these disfigurements, Margaret recognized John 
 Boucher. It seemed to her so sacrilegious to be peering into 
 that poor distorted, agonised face, that, by a flash of instinct, 
 she went forwards and softly covered the dead man's counte- 
 nance with her handkerchief. The eyes that saw her do this 
 followed her, as she turned away from her pious office, and 
 were thus led to the place where Nicholas Higgins stood, like 
 one rooted to the spot. The men spoke together, and then 
 one of them came up to Higgins, who would have fain shrunk 
 back into his house. 
 
 " Higgins, thou knowed him ! Thou mun go tell the wife. 
 Do it gently, man, but do it quick, for we canna leave him 
 here long." 
 
 " I canna go," said Higgins. " Dunnot ask me. I canna 
 face her." 
 
 " Thou knows her best," said the man. " We'n done a 
 deal in bringing him here — thou take thy share." 
 
 " I canna do it," said Higgins. " I'm welly felled wi' 
 seeing him. We wasn't friends ; and now he's dead." 
 
 " Well, if thou wunnot thou wunnot. Some one mun 
 though. It's a dree task ; but it's a chance, every minute, as 
 she doesn't hear on it in some rougher way nor a person going 
 to make her let on by degrees, as it were." 
 
 "Papa, do you go," said Maxgai-et, in a low voice. 
 
 " If I could — if I had time to think of what I had better 
 
 say ; but all at once " Margaret saw that her father was 
 
 indeed unable. He was trembling from head to foot. 
 
 " I will go," said she. 
 
UNION NOT ALWAYS STRENGTH. 291 
 
 " Bless yo' miss, it will be a kind act; for she's been but 
 a sickly sort of body, I hear, and few hereabouts know much 
 on her." 
 
 Margaret knocked at the closed door ; but there was such 
 a noise, as of many little ill-ordered children, that she could 
 hear no reply ; indeed, she doubted if she was heard, and as 
 every moment of delay made her recoil from her task more and 
 more, she opened the door and went in, shutting it after her, 
 and even, unseen to the woman, fasteniBg the bolt. 
 
 Mrs. Boucher was sitting in a rocking-chair, on the other 
 side of the ill-redd-rup fireplace ; it looked as if the house had 
 been untouched for days by any effort at cleanliness. 
 
 Margaret said something, she hardly knew what, her throat 
 and mouth were so dry, and the children's noise completely 
 prevented her from being heard. She tried again. 
 
 "How are you, Mrs. Boucher? But very poorly, I'm 
 afraid." 
 
 '' I've no chance o' being well," said she querulously. " I'm 
 left alone to manage these childer, and nought for to give 'em 
 for to keep 'em quiet. John should na ha' left me, and me so 
 poorly." 
 
 " How long is it since he went away ? " 
 
 " Four days sin'. No one would give him work here, and 
 he'd to go on tramp toward Greenfield. But he might ha' been 
 back afore this, or sent me some word if he'd gotten work. He 
 might " 
 
 " Oh, don't blame him," said Margaret. " He felt it 
 deeply, I'm sure " 
 
 " Willto' hold thy din, and let me hear the lady speak ! " 
 addressing herself, in no very gentle voice, to a little urchin of 
 about a year old. She apologetically continued to Margaret, 
 " He's always mithering me for ' daddy ' and ' butty ; ' and I 
 ha'no butties to give him, and daddy's away, and forgotten us 
 a', I think. He's his father's darling, he is," said she, witb 
 a sudden turn of mood, and, dragging the child up to her knee, 
 she began kissing it fondly. 
 
 Margaret laid her hand on the woman's arm to arrest her 
 attention. Their eyes met. 
 
 " Poor little fellow ! " said Margaret, slowly ; " he was his 
 father's darling." 
 
 " He is his father's darling," said the woman, rising hastily, 
 and standing face to face with Margaret. Neither of them 
 spoke for a moment or two. Then Mrs. Boucher began in a 
 
 19-2 
 
292 NOETH AND SOUTH. 
 
 low growling tone, gathering in wildness as she went on : " He 
 is his father's darling, I say. Poor folk can love their childer 
 as well as rich. Why dunno yo' speak ? Why dun yo' stare 
 at me wi' your great pitiful eyes ? Where's John ? " Weak 
 as she was, she shook Margaret to force out an answer. " Oh, 
 my God ! " said she, understanding the meaning of ihat tearfii] 
 look. She sank back into the chair. Margaret took up the^ 
 child and put him into her arms. 
 
 " He loved him," said she. 
 
 " Ay," said the woman, shaking her head, " he loved us a'. 
 We had some one to love us once. It's a long time ago ; but 
 when he were in life and with us he did love us, he did. He 
 loved this babby mappen the best on us ; but he loved me and 
 I loved him, though I was calling him five minutes agone. Are 
 yo' sure he's dead ? " said she, trying to get up. " If it's only 
 that he's ill and like to die, they may bring ^im round yet. 
 I'm but an ailing creature mysel' — ^I've been ailing this long 
 time." 
 
 " But he is dead — he is drowned ! " 
 
 " Folk are brought round after they're dead-drowned. 
 Whatten was I thinking of, to sit still when I should be stirring 
 mysel ? Here, whisth thee, child — whisth thee ! tak' this, tak' 
 aught to play wi,' but dunnpt cry while my heart's breaking! 
 Oh, where is my strength gone to ? Oh John — ^husband ! " 
 
 Margaret saved her from falling by catching her in her arms. 
 She sate down in the rocking chair, and held the woman upon 
 her knees, her head lying on Margaret's shoulder. The other 
 children, clustered together in afl&:ight, began to understand the 
 mystery of the scene ; but the ideas came slowly, for their 
 brains were dull and languid of perception. They set up such 
 a cry of despair as they guessed the truth, that Margaret knew 
 not how to bear it. Johnny's cry was loudest of them all, 
 though he knew not why he cried, poor little fellow. 
 
 The mother quivered as she lay in Margaret's anns. Mar- 
 garet heard a noise at the door. 
 
 " Open it. Open it quick," said she to the eldest child. 
 " It's bolted ; make no noise — ^be very still. Oh, papa, let 
 them go upstairs very softly and carefully, and perhaps she will 
 not hear them. She has fainted — that's all." 
 
 " It's as well for her, poor creature," said a woman fol- 
 lowing in the wake of the bearers of the dead. "But yo're not 
 fit to hold her. Stay, I'll run fetch a pillow, and we'll let her 
 down easy on the floor." 
 
UNION NOT ALWAYS STRENGTH. 293 
 
 This helpful neighbour was a great relief to Margaret ; she 
 was evidently a stranger to the house, a new-comer in the dis- 
 trict, indeed ; but she was so kind and thoughtful that Margaret 
 felt she was no longer needed ; and that it would be better, 
 perhaps, to set an example of clearing the house, which was 
 filled with idle, if sympathising gazers. 
 
 She looked round for Nicholas Higgins. He was not there. 
 So she spoke to the woman who had taken the lead in placing 
 Mrs. Boucher on the floor. 
 
 " Can you give all these people a hint that they had better 
 leave in quietness ? So that when she comes round, she could 
 only find one or two that she knows about her. Papa, will you 
 speak to the men, and get them to go away. She cannot 
 breathe, poor thing, with tins crowd about her." 
 
 Margaret was kneeling down by Mrs. Boucher and bathing 
 her face with vinegar ; but in a few minutes she was surprised 
 ■at the gush of fresh air. She looked round, and saw a smile 
 pass between her father and the woman. 
 
 " What is it ? " asked she. 
 
 " Only our good friend here," replied her father, " hit on 
 a capital expedient for clearing the place." 
 
 " I bid 'em begone, and each take a child with 'em, and to 
 mind that they were orphans, and their mother a widow. It 
 was who could do most, and the chUder are sure of a bellyful 
 to-day, and of kindness too. Does hoo know how he died ? " 
 
 " No," said Margaret ; " I could not tell her all at once." 
 
 " Hoo mun be told because of th' Inquest. See ! Hoo's 
 coming round ; shall you or I do it ? or mappen your father 
 would be best ? " 
 
 " No ; yon, you," said Margaret. 
 
 They awaited her perfect recovery in silence. Then the 
 neighbour woman sat down on the floor, and took Mrs. Boucher's 
 head and shoulders on her lap. 
 
 " Neighbour," said she, " your man is dead. Guess yo' 
 how he died ? " 
 
 " He were drowned," said Mrs. Boucher, feebly, beginning 
 to cry for the first time, at this rough probing of her sorrows. 
 
 " He were fonnd drowned. He were coming home very 
 hopeless o' aught on earth. He thought God could na be 
 harder than men ; mappen not so hard ; mappen as tender as 
 a mother ; mappen tenderer. I'm not saying he did right, and 
 I'm not saying he did wrong. AU I say is, may neither me nor 
 mine ever have his sore heart, or we may do like things." 
 
294 NOETH AND SOUTH. 
 
 " He has left me alone wi' a' these children ! " moaned fhe 
 tridow, less distressed at the manner of the death than Mar- 
 garet expected ; but it was of a piece with her helpless 
 character to feel his loss as principdly affecting herself and 
 her children. 
 
 " Not alone,'.' said Mr. Hale, solemnly. " Who is with 
 you ? Who will take up your cause ? " The widow opened 
 her eyes wide, and looked at the new speaker, of whose presence 
 she had not been aware till then. 
 
 " Who has promised to be a father to the fatherless ? " 
 continued he. 
 
 " But I've gotten six children, sir, and the eldest not eight 
 years of age. I'm not meaning for to doubt His power, 
 sir, — only it needs a deal o' trust ;" and she began to cry 
 afresh. 
 
 " Hoo'll be better able to talk to-morrow, sir," said the 
 neighbour. " Best comfort now would be the feel of a child at 
 her heart. I'm sorry they took the babby." 
 
 " I'll go for it," said Margaret. And in a few minutes she 
 returned, carrying Johnnie, his face all smeared with eating, 
 and his hands loaded with treasures in the shape of shells, and 
 bits of crystal, and the head of a plaster figure. She placed 
 him in his mother's arms. 
 
 " There ! " said the woman, " now you go. They'll cry 
 together, and comfort together, better nor any one but a child 
 can do. I'll stop with her as long as I'm needed, and if yo' 
 come to-morrow, yo' can have a deal o' wise talk with her, that 
 she's not up to to-day." 
 
 As Margaret and her father went slowly up the street, she 
 paused at Higgins's closed. door. 
 
 " Shall we go in ? " asked her father. " I was thinking 
 of him too." 
 
 They knocked. There was no answer, so they tried the 
 door. It was bolted, but they thought they heard him moving 
 within. 
 
 " Nicholas ! " said Margaret. There was no answer, and 
 they might have gone away, believing the house to be empty, 
 if there had not been some accidental fall, as of a book, 
 within. 
 
 " Nicholas ! " said Margaret, again. " It is only us. 
 Won't you let us come in ? " 
 
 " No," said he. " I spoke as plain as I could, 'bout using 
 words, when I bolted th' door. Let me be, this day." 
 
LOOKISQ SOUTH. 295 
 
 Mr. Hale would have urged their desire, but Margaret 
 placed her finger on his Ups. 
 
 " I don't wonder at it," said she. " I myself long to be 
 alone. It seems the only thing to do one good after a day 
 like this." 
 
 CHAPTEE XXXVII. 
 LOOKING SOUTH. 
 
 " A spade I a rake ! a hoe ! 
 A pickaxe or a bill ! 
 A hook to reap, or a scythe to mow, 
 
 A flail, or what ye wiU — 
 And here's a ready hand 
 
 To ply the needfdl tool, 
 And akill'd enough, hy lessons rough. 
 In Labour's rugged school. 
 
 Hood. 
 
 HiGGiNs's door was locked the next day, when they went to 
 pay their call on the widow Boucher: but they learnt this 
 time from an officious neighbour, that he was really from home. 
 He had, however, been in to see Mrs. Boucher, before starting 
 on his day's business, whatever that was. It was but an 
 unsatisfactory visit to Mrs. Boucher ; she considered herself 
 as an ill-used woman by her poor husband's suicide ; and there 
 was quite germ of truth enough in this idea to make it a very 
 difficult one to refute. StUl, it was unsatisfactory to see how 
 completely her thoughts were turned upon herself and her own 
 position, and this selfishness extended even to her relations 
 with her children, whom she considered as incumbrances, even 
 in the very midst of her somewhat animal afieotion for them. 
 Margaret tried to make acquaintances with one or two of them, 
 while her father strove to raise the widow's thoughts into some 
 higher channel than that of mere helpless querulousness. She 
 found that the children were truer and simpler mourners than 
 the widow. Daddy had been a kind daddy to them; each 
 could tell, in their eager stammeriag way, of some tenderness 
 shown, some indulgence granted by the lost father. 
 
 " Is yon thing upstairs really him ? it doesna look like 
 him. I'm feared on it, and I never was feared o' daddy." 
 
 Margaret's heart bled to hear that the mother, in her selfish 
 requirement of sympathy, had taken her children upstairs to 
 
296 NOETH AND SOUTH. 
 
 Bee their disfigured father. It was intermingling the coarse- 
 dsbS of horror with the profoundness ot natnral grief. She 
 tried to turn their thoughts in some other direction ; on what 
 they could do for mother ; on what — for this 'was a more effica- 
 cious way of putting it — what father would have wished them 
 to do. Margaret was more successful than Mr. Hale in her 
 efforts. The children seeing their little duties lie in action 
 dose around them, hegan to try each one to do something that 
 she suggested towards redding up the slatternly room. But 
 her father set too high a standard, and too abstract a view, 
 before the indolent invalid. She could not rouse her torpid 
 mind into any vivid imagination of what her husband's misery 
 might have been, before he had resorted to the last terrible 
 step ; she could only look upon it as it affected herself; she 
 could not enter into the enduring mercy of the God who had 
 not specially interposed to prevent the water from drowning her 
 prostrate husband ; and although she was secretly blaming her 
 husband for having fallen into such drear despair, and denying 
 that he had any excuse for his last rash act, she was inveterate 
 in her abuse of all who could by any possibility be supposed 
 to have driven him to such desperation. The masters — Mr. 
 Thornton in particular, whose mill had been attacked by 
 Boucher, and who, after the warrant had been issued for his 
 apprehension on the charge of rioting, had caused it to be 
 withdrawn, — ^the Union, of which Higgins was the representa- 
 tive to the poor woman, — the children so numerous, so hungry, 
 and so noisy — all made up one great army of personal enemies, 
 whose fault it was that she was now a helpless widow. 
 
 Margaret heard enough of this unreasonableness to dis- 
 hearten her ; and when they came away she found it impossible 
 to cheer her father. 
 
 " It is the town life," said she. " Their nerves are 
 quickened by the haste and bustle and speed of everything 
 around them, to say nothing of the confinement in these pent- 
 up houses, which of itself is enough to induce depression and 
 worry of spirits. Now in the country, people live so much 
 more out of doors, even children, and even in the winter." 
 
 " But people must" live in towns. And in the country 
 some get such stagnant habits of mind that they are almost 
 &talists." 
 
 " Yes ; I acknowledge that. I suppose each mode of life 
 produces its own trials and its own temptations. The dweller 
 in towns must find it as difficult to be patient and calm, as the 
 
LOOKING SOUTH. 297 
 
 eountry-bred man must find it to be active, and equal to un- 
 wonted emergencies. Both must find it hard to realise a future 
 of any kind ; the one because the present is so living and 
 hurrying and close around him ; the other because his life 
 tempts him to revel in the mere sense of animal existence, not 
 knowing of, and consequently not caring for any pungency of 
 pleasure, for the attainment of which he can plan, and deny 
 himself and look forward." 
 
 " And thus both the necessity for engrossment, and the 
 stupid content in the present, produce the same effects. But 
 this poor Mrs. Boucher! how little we can do for her." 
 
 " And yet we dare not leave her without our efforts, although 
 they may seem so useless. Oh papa ! it's a hard world to 
 live in ! " 
 
 " So it is, my child. We feel it so just now, at any rate ; 
 but we have been very happy, even in the midst of our sorrow. 
 What a pleasure Frederick's visit was ! " 
 
 " Yes, that it was," said Margaret, brightly. " It was 
 such at charming, snatched, forbidden thing." But she sud- 
 denly stopped speaking. She had spoUed the remembrance of 
 Frederick's visit to herself by her own cowardice. Of all 
 faults the one she most despised in others was the want of 
 bravery ; the meanness of heart which leads to untruth. And 
 here had she been guilty of it ! Then came the thought of 
 Mr. Thornton's cognisance of her falsehood. She wondered 
 if she should have minded detection half so much from any one 
 else. She tried herself in imagination with her Aunt Shaw 
 and Edith : with her father ; with Captain and Mr. Lennox ; 
 with Frederick. The thought of the last knowing what she 
 had done, even in his own behalf, was the most painful, for the 
 brother and sister were in the first flush of their mutual regard 
 and love; but even any fall in Frederick's opinion was as 
 nothing to the shame, the shrinking shame she felt at the 
 thought of meeting Mr. Thornton again. And yet she longed 
 to see him, to get it over ; to understand where she stood in 
 his opinion. Her cheeks burnt as she recollected how proudly 
 she had implied an objection to trade (in the early days of their 
 acquaintance), because it too often led to the deceit of passing 
 off inferior for superior goods, in the one branch ; of assuming 
 credit for wealth and resources not possessed, in the other. 
 She remembered Mr. Thornton's look of calm disdain, as in 
 few words he gave her to understand that, in the great scheme 
 of commerce, all dishonourable ways of acting were sure to 
 
298 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 prove injurious in the long run, and that, testing such actions 
 simply according to the poor standard of success, there was 
 folly and not wisdom in all such, and every kind of deceit in 
 trade, as well as in other things. She rememhered — she, then 
 strong in her own untempted truth — asking him, if he did not 
 think that buying in the cheapest and selling in the dearest 
 market proved some want of the transparent justice which is 
 80 intimately connected with the idea of truth : and she had 
 used the word chivabic — and her father had corrected her 
 with the higher word, Christian ; and so drawn the argument 
 upon himself, while she sate silent by with a slight feeling 
 of contempt. 
 
 No more contempt for her ! — no more talk about the chival- 
 ric ! Henceforward she must feel humiliated and disgraced in 
 his sight. But when should she see him ? Her heart leaped 
 up in apprehension at every ring of the door-bell ; and yet, 
 when it fell down to calmness, she felt strangely saddened and 
 sick at heart at each disappointment. It was very evident 
 that her father expected to see him, and was surprised that he 
 did not come. The truth was, that there were points in their 
 conversation the other night on which they had no time then 
 to enlarge ; but it had been understood that if possible on the 
 succeeding evening — if not then, at least the very first evening 
 that Mr. Thornton could command, — ^they should meet for 
 further discussion. Mr. Hale had looked forward to this 
 meeting ever since they had parted. He had not yet resumed 
 the instruction to his pupils, which he had relinquished at the 
 commencement of his wife's more serious iUness, so he had 
 fewer occupations than usual ; and the great interest of the 
 last day or so (Boucher's suicide) had driven him back with 
 more eagerness than ever upon his speculations. He was 
 restless all the evening. He kept saying, " I quite expected to 
 have seen Mr. Thornton. I think the messenger who brought 
 the book last night must have had some note, and forgot to 
 deliver it. Do you think there has been any message left 
 to-day?" 
 
 " I will go and inquire, papa," said Margaret,^ after the 
 changes on these sentences had been rung once or twice. 
 " Stay, there's a ring ! " She sat down instantly, and bent her 
 head attentively over her work. She heard a step on the stairs, 
 but it was only one, and she knew it was Dixon's. She lifted 
 np her head and sighed, and believed she felt glad. 
 
 "It's that Higgins, sir. He wants to see you, or else 
 
LOOKING SOUTH. 299 
 
 MisB Hale. Or it might be Miss Hale first, and then you, sir ; 
 for he's in a strange kind of way." 
 
 " He had better come up here, Dixon ; and then he can 
 see us both, and choose which he likes for his listener." 
 
 " Oh ! very well, sir. I've no wish to hear what he's got 
 to say, I'm sure ; only, if you could see his shoes, I'm sure 
 you'd say the kitchen was the fitter place." 
 
 "He can wipe them, I suppose," said Mr. Hale. So 
 Dixon flung off, to bid him walk up-stairs. She was a little 
 mollified, however, when he looked at his feet with a hesitating 
 air ; and then, sitting down on the bottom stair, he took off 
 the offending shoes, and without a word walked up-stairs. 
 
 " Sarvant, sir! " said he, slicking his hair down when he 
 came into the room : "If hoo'l excuse me (looking at Mar- 
 garet) for being i' my stockings ; I'se been tramping a' day, 
 and streets is none o' th' cleanest." 
 
 Margaret thought that fatigue might account for the change 
 in his manner, for he was unusually quiet and subdued ; and 
 he had evidently some difficulty in saying what he came to say. 
 
 Mr. Hale's ever-ready sympathy with anything of shyness 
 or hesitation, or want of self-possession, made him come to his 
 aid. 
 
 " We shall have tea up directly, and then you'll take a cup 
 with us, Mr. Higgins. I am sure you are tired, if you've been 
 out much this wet relaxing day. Margaret, my dear, can't you 
 hasten tea ? " 
 
 Margaret could only hasten tea by taking the preparation 
 of it into her own hands, and so offending Dixon, who was 
 emerging out of her sorrow for her late mistress into a very 
 touchy, irritable state. But Martha, like all who came in 
 contact with Margaret — even Dixon herself, in the long run — 
 felt it a pleasure and an honour to forward any of her wishes ; 
 and her readiness, and Margaret's sweet forbearance, soon 
 made Dixon ashamed of herself. 
 
 " Why master and you must always be asking the lower 
 classes up-stairs, since we came to Milton, I cannot understand. 
 Folk at Helstone were never brought higher than the kitchen ; 
 and I've let one or two of them know before now that they 
 might think it an honour to be even there." 
 
 Higgins found it easier to unburden himself to one than 
 to two. After Margaret left the room, he went to the door and 
 assured himself that it was shut. Then he came an^ stood 
 close to Mr. Hale, 
 
300 NOETH ASm SOUTH. 
 
 "Master," said he, "yo'd not guess easy what I've been 
 tramping after to-day. Special if yo'd remember my manner 
 o' talk yesterday. I've been a seeking work. I have," said 
 he. "I said to mysel', I'd keep a civil tongue in my head, 
 let who would say what 'em would. I'd set my teeth into my 
 tongue sooner nor speak i' haste. For that man's sake — ^yo' 
 understand," jerking his thumb back in some unknown 
 ■direction. 
 
 " No, I don't," said Mr. Hale, seeing he waited for some 
 kind of assent, and completely bewildered as to who " that 
 man" conid be. 
 
 " That chap as lies theer," said he, with another jerk. 
 " Trim as went and drownded himself, poor chap ! I did na 
 think he'd got it in him to lie still and let the water creep o'er 
 liitn till he died. Boucher, yo' know." 
 
 " Yes, I know now," said Mr. Hale. " Go back to what 
 you were saying : you'd not speak in haste "| 
 
 " For his sake. Yet not for his sake ; for where'er he is, 
 and whate'er, he'U ne'er know other clemming or cold again ; 
 but for the wife's sake, and the bits o' chUder." 
 
 " God bless you ! " said Mr. Hale, starting up ; then, 
 calming down, he said, breathlessly, " What do you mean ? 
 Tell me out." 
 
 "I have tailed yo'," said Higgins, a little surprised at 
 Mr. Hale's agitation. " I would na ask for work for mysel'; 
 but them's left as a charge on me. I reckon, I would ha 
 guided Boucher to a better end ; but I set him off o' th' road, 
 and so I mun answer for him." 
 
 Mr. Hale got hold of Higgins's hand and shook it heartily, 
 without speaking. Higgins looked awkward and ashamed. 
 
 " Theer, theer, master ! Theer's ne'er a man, to call a 
 man, amongst us, but what would do th' same ; ay, and better 
 too ; for, belie' me, Is'e ne'er got a stroke o' work, nor yet a 
 sight of any. For all I telled Hamper that, let alone his 
 fledge — which I would not sign — ^no, I could na, not e'en for 
 this — he'd ne'er ha' such a worker on his mill as I would be 
 — he'd ha' none o' me — no more would none o' th' others. I'm 
 a poor black feckless sheep — childer may clem for ought I can 
 do, unless, parson, yo'd help me ? " 
 
 " Help yon ! How ? I would do anything, — but what can 
 I do?" 
 
 " Miss there " — ^for Margaret had re-entered the room, 
 and stood silent, listening — " has often talked grand o' the 
 
LOOKING SOUTH. 301 
 
 South, and the ways down there. Now I dunnot know how 
 far off it is, but I've been thinking if I could get 'em down 
 theer, where food is cheap and wages good, and all the folk, 
 rich and poor, master and man, friendly like ; yo' could, may 
 be, help me to work. I'm not forty-five, and I've a deal o' 
 strength in me, measter." 
 
 " But what kind of work could you do, my man ? " 
 
 " Well, I reckon I could spade a bit " 
 
 "And for that," said Margaret, stepping forwards, "for 
 anything you could do, Higgins, with the best will in the world, 
 you would, may be, get nine shillings a week ; may be ten, at 
 the outside. ^ Food is much the same as here, except that you 
 might have a little garden " 
 
 " The chUder could work at that," said he. " I'm sick o* 
 Milton anyways, and Milton is sick o' me." 
 
 " You must not go to the South," said Margaret, " for all 
 that. You could not stand it. You would have to be out all 
 weathers. It would kill you with rheumatism. The mere 
 bodily work at your time of life would break you down. The 
 fare is far different to what you have been accustomed to." 
 
 "I'se nought particular about my meat," said he, as if 
 offended. 
 
 " But you've reckoned on having butcher's meat once a 
 day, if you're in work ; pay for that out of your ten shillings, 
 and keep those poor children if you can. I owe it to you — 
 since it's my way of talking that has set you off on this idea — 
 to put it all clear before you. You would not bear the dulness 
 of the life ; you don't know what it is ; it would eat you away 
 like rust. Those that have lived there all their lives, are used 
 to soaking in the stagnant waters. They labour on from day to 
 day, in the great solitude of steaming fields — never speaking or 
 lifting up their poor, bent, downcast heads. The hard spade- 
 work robs their brain of life ; the sameness of their toil deadens 
 their imagiaation ; they don't care to meet to talk over thoughts 
 and speculations, even of the weakest, wildest kind, after their 
 work is done ; they go home bmtishly tired, poor creatures ! 
 caring for nothing but food and rest. You could not stir them 
 up into any companionship, which you get in a town as 
 plentiful as the air you breathe, whether it be good or bad — 
 and that I don't know ; but I do know, that you of all men 
 are not one to bear a life among such labourers. What 
 would be peace to them, would be eternal fretting to you, 
 Think no more of it, Nicholas, I beg. Besides, you could 
 
302 NOETH AND SOUTH. 
 
 never pay to get mother and children all there — ^that's one 
 good thing." 
 
 " I've reckoned for that. One house mun do for us a', and 
 the furniture o' t'other would go a good way. And men theer 
 mun have their families to keep — ^mappen six or seven chUder. 
 God help 'em ! " said he, more convinced by his own presen- 
 tation of the facts than by all Margaret had said, and suddenly 
 renouncing the idea, which had but recently formed itself in a 
 brain worn out by the day's fatigue and anxiety. " God help 
 'em ! North an' South have each gotten their own troubles. 
 If work's sure and steady theer, labour's paid at starvation 
 prices ; while here we'n rucks o' money coming in one quarter, 
 and ne'er a farthing th' next. For sure, th' world is in a con- 
 fasion that passes me or any other man to understand ; it needs 
 fettling, and who's. to fettle it, if it's as yon folks say, and 
 there's nought but what we see? " 
 
 Mr. Hale was busy cutting bread and butter ; Margaret 
 was glad of this, for she saw that Higgins was better left to 
 himself: that if her father began to speak ever so mildly on 
 the subject of Higgins's thoughts, the latter would consider 
 himself challenged to an argument, and would feel himself 
 bound to maintain his own ground. She and her father kept 
 up an indifferent conversation until Higgins, scarcely aware 
 whether he ate or not, had made a very substantial meal. 
 Then he pushed his chair away from the table, and tried to 
 take an interest in what they were saying ; but it was of no 
 use ; and he fell back into dreamy gloom. Suddenly, Margaret 
 said (she had been thinking of it for some time, but the words 
 had stuck in her throat), " Higgins, have you been to Marl- 
 borough Mills to seek for work ? " 
 
 " Thornton's ?" asked he. " Ay, I've been at Thornton's ? " 
 
 " And what did he say ? " 
 
 " Such a chap as me is not like to see the measter. Th' 
 o'erlooker bid me go and be d d." 
 
 " I wish you had seen Mr. Thornton," said Mr. Hale. 
 " He might not have given you work, but he would not have 
 used such language." 
 
 " As to th' language, I'm welly used to it; it dunnot matter 
 to me. I'm not nesh mysel' when I'm put out. It were th' 
 fact that I were na wanted theer, no more nor ony other place, 
 as I minded." 
 
 "But I wish you had seen Mr. Thornton," repeated 
 Margaret. " Would you go again — ^it's a good deal to ask, I 
 
LOOKING SOUTH. 308 
 
 know — but would you go to-morrow and try him? I should 
 be so glad if you would." 
 
 " I'm afraid it would be of no use," said Mr. Hale, in a 
 low Toice. " It would be better to let me speak to him." 
 Margaret still looked at Higgins for his answer. Those grave 
 Boft eyes of hers were difficult to resist. He gave a great 
 
 " It would tax my pride above a bit ; if it were for mysel", 
 I could stand a deal o' clemming first ; I'd sooner knock him 
 down than ask a favour from him. I'd a deal sooner be flogged 
 mysel' ; but yo're not a common wench, axing yo'r pardon, nor 
 yet have yo' common ways about yo'. I'll e'en make a wry 
 face, and go at it to-morrow. Dunna yo' think that he'll do it. 
 That man has it in him to be burnt at the stake afore he'll 
 give in. I do it for yo'r sake, Miss Hale, and it's first time in 
 my life as e'er I give way to a woman. Neither my wife nor 
 Bess could e'er say that much again me." 
 
 " All the more do I thank you," said Margaret, smiling. 
 " Though I don't believe you : I believe you have just given 
 way to wife and daughter as much as most men." 
 
 "And as to Mr. Thornton," said Mr. Hale, "I'll give 
 you a note to him, which, I think I may venture to say, will 
 ensure you a hearing." 
 
 " I thank yo' kindly, sir, but I'd as lief stand on my own 
 bottom. I dunnot stomach the notion of having favour curried 
 for me, by one as doesn't know the ins and outs of the quarrel. 
 Meddling 'twixt master and man is liker meddhng 'twixt hus- 
 band and wife than aught else : it takes a deal o' wisdom for 
 to do ony good. I'll stand guard at the lodge door. I'll stand 
 there fi:o' six in the morning till I get speech on him. But 
 I'd liefer sweep th' streets, if paupers had na' got hold on that 
 work. Dunna yo' hope, miss. There'll be more chance o' 
 getting milk out of a flint. I wish yo' a very good night, and 
 many thanks to yo'." 
 
 " You'll find your shoes by the kitchen fire ; I took them 
 there to dry," said Margaret. 
 
 He turned round and looked at her steadily, and then he 
 brushed his lean hand across his eyes and went his way. 
 
 " How proud that man is ! " said her father, who was a 
 little annoyed at the manner in which Higgins had declined 
 his intercession with Mr. Thornton. 
 
 "He is," said Margaret; "but what grand makings of a 
 man there are in him, pride and all." 
 
804 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 " It's amnsing to see how he evidently respects the part in 
 Mr. Thornton's character which is like his own." 
 
 " There's granite in all these northern people, papa, is 
 there not ? " 
 
 " There was none in poor Boucher, I am afraid; none in 
 his wife either." 
 
 " I should guess from their tones that they had Irish blood 
 in them. I wonder what success he'll have to-morrow- If he 
 and Mr. Thornton would speak out together as man to man — 
 if Higgins would forget that Mr. Thornton was a master, and 
 speak to him as he does to us — and if Mr. Thornton would be 
 patient enough to listep to him with his human heart, not with 
 his master's ears — " 
 
 " You are getting to do Mr. Thornton justice at last, 
 Margaret," said her father, pinching her ear. 
 
 Margaret had a strange choking at her heart, which made 
 her unable to answer. "Oh!" thought she, "I wish I were 
 a man, that I could go and force him to express his disappro- 
 bation, and tell him honestly that I knew I deserved it. It 
 seems hard to lose him as a friend just when I had begun to 
 feel his value. How tender he was with dear mamma ! If it 
 were only for her sake, I wish he would come, and then at 
 least I should know how much I was abased in his eyes." 
 
 CHAPTEE XXXVni. 
 
 PROMISES FULFILLED. 
 
 " Then proudly, proudly up she rose, 
 
 Tho' the tear was in her e'e, 
 " "Whate'er ye say, think what ye may, 
 
 Ye's get nae word frae me ! " 
 
 Scotch Ballad. 
 
 It was not merely that Margaret was known to Mr. Thornton 
 to have spoken falsely,— though she imagined that for this 
 reason only was she so turned in his opinion, — but that this 
 falsehood of hers bore a distinct reference in his mind to some 
 other lover. He could not forget the fond and earnest look 
 that had passed between her and some other man — ^the attitude 
 of familiar confidence, if not of positive endearment. The 
 thought of this perpetually stung him ; it was a picture before 
 
PEOMISES FULFILLED. 805 
 
 liis eyes, whereTer he went and whatever he was doing. In 
 addition to this (and he ground his teeth as he remembered it), 
 was the hour, dusky twilight; the place, so far away from 
 home, and comparatively unfrequented. His nobler self had said 
 at first, that all this last might be accidental, innocent, justi- 
 fiable ; but once allow her right to love and be beloved (and 
 had he any reason to deny her right ? — had not her words been 
 severely explicit when she oast his love away from her?), she 
 might easily have been beguiled into a longer walk, on to a 
 later hour than she had anticipated. But that falsehood ! 
 which showed a fatal consciousness of something wrong, and to 
 be concealed, which was unlike her. He did her that justice, 
 though all the time it would have been a relief to believe her 
 utterly unworthy of his esteem. It was this that made the 
 misery — ^that he passionately loved her, and thought her, even 
 with all her faults, more lovely and more excellent than any 
 other woman ; yet he deemed her so attached to some other 
 man, so led away by her affection for him, as to violate her 
 truthful nature. The very falsehood that stained her, was a 
 proof how blindly she loved another — ^this dark, slight, elegant, 
 handsome man — while he himself was rough, and stem, and 
 strongly made. He lashed himself into an agony of fierce 
 jealousy. He thought of that look, that attitude ! — ^how he 
 would have laid his life at her feet for such tender glanoels, 
 such fond detention I He mocked at himself, for having valued 
 the mechanical way in which she had protected him from the 
 fury of the mob ; now he had seen how soft and bewitching she 
 looked when with a man she really loved. He remembered, 
 point by point, the sharpness of her words — " There was not a 
 man in all that crowd for whom she would not have done as 
 much, far more readily than for him." He shared with the 
 mob, in her desire of averting bloodshed from them ; but this 
 man, this hidden lover, shared with nobody; he had looks, 
 words, hand-cleavings, lies, concealment, all to himself. 
 
 Mr. Thornton was conscious that he had never been so 
 ii-ritable as he was now, in all his life long ; he felt inclined to 
 give a short abrupt answer, more like a bark than a speech, to 
 every one that asked him a question ; and this consciousness 
 hurt his pride : he had always piqued himself on his self-control, 
 and control himself he would. So the manner was subdued to 
 a quiet deliberation, but the matter was even harder and sterner 
 than common. He was more than usually silent at home; 
 employing his evenings in a continual pace backwards and for- 
 
806 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 wards, which -would have annoyed his mother exceedingly if it 
 had been practised by any one else ; and did not tend to pro- 
 mote any forbearance on her part even to this beloved son. 
 
 " Can you stop — can you sit down for a moment ? I have 
 something to say to you, if you would give up that everlasting 
 walk, walk, walk." 
 
 He sat down instantly, on a chair against the wall. 
 
 " I want to speak to you about Betsy. She says she must 
 leave us ; that her lover's death has so affected her spirits she 
 can't give her heart to her work." 
 
 " Very well. I suppose other cooks are to be met with." 
 
 " That's so like a man. It's not merely the cooking, it is 
 that she knows all the ways of the house. Besides, she tells 
 me something about your friend Miss Hale." 
 
 " Miss Hale is no friend of mine. Mr. Hale is my friend." 
 
 " I am glad to hear you say so, for if she had been your 
 friend, what Betsy says would have annoyed you." 
 
 " Let me hear it," said he, vpith the extreme quietness of 
 manner he 'had been assuming for the last few days. 
 
 " Betsy says, that the night on which her lover — I forget 
 his name — for she always calls him ' he ' " 
 
 " Leonards." 
 
 " The night on which Leonards was last seen at the 
 station — ^when he was last seen on duty, in fact — ^Miss Hale 
 was there, walking about with a young man who, Bessy believes, 
 killed Leonards by some blow or push." 
 
 " Leonards was not killed by any blow or push." 
 
 " How do you know ? " 
 
 " Because I distinctly put the question to the surgeon of 
 the Infirmary. He told me there was an internal disease of 
 long standing, caused by Leonards' habit of drinking to excess; 
 that the fact of his becoming rapidly worse while in a state of 
 intoxication, settled the question as to whether the last fatal 
 attack was caused by excess of drinking, or the fall." 
 
 " The fall ! What fall ? " 
 
 " Caused by the blow or push of which Betsy speaks." 
 
 " Then there was a blow or push ? " 
 
 " I believe so." 
 
 " And who did it ? " 
 
 " As there was no inquest, in consequence of the doctor's 
 opinion, I cannot tell you." 
 
 " But Miss Hale was there ? " 
 
 No answer. 
 
PROMISES FULFILLED. 307 
 
 " And with a young man ? " 
 
 Still no answer. At last he said : " I tell you, mothpr, 
 that there was no inquest — no inquiry. No judicial inquiry, I 
 mean." 
 
 " Betsy says that Woolmer (some man she knows, who is in 
 a grocer's shop out at Crampton) can swear that Miss Hale 
 was at the station at that hour, walking backwards and for- 
 wards with a young man." 
 
 " I don't see what we have to do with that. Miss Hale is 
 at liberty to please herself." 
 
 " I'm glad to hear you say so," said Mrs. Thornton, 
 eagerly. " It certainly signifies very little to us — ^not at aU to 
 you, after what has passed ! hut I — I made a promise to Mrs. 
 Hale, that I would not allow her daughter to go wrong without 
 advising and remonstrating with her. I shall certainly let her 
 know my opinion of such conduct." 
 
 " I do not see any harm in what she did that evening," 
 said Mr. Thornton, getting up, and coming near to his mother; 
 he stood by the chimney-piece with his face turned away from 
 the room. 
 
 " You would not have approved of Fanny's being seen out, 
 after dark, in rather a lonely place, walking about with a young 
 man. I say nothing of the taste which could choose the time, 
 when her mother lay unburied, for such a promenade. Should 
 you have liked your sister to have been noticed by a grocer's 
 assistant for doing so ? " 
 
 " In the first place, as it is not many years since I myself 
 was a draper's assistant, the mere circilmstance of a grocer's 
 assistant noticing any act does not alter the character of the 
 act to me. And in the next place, I see a great deal of dif- 
 ference between Miss Hale and Fanny. I can imagine that 
 the one may have weighty reasons, which may and ought to 
 make her overlook any seeming impropriety in her conduct. I 
 never knew Fanny have weighty reasons for anything. Other 
 people must guard her. I believe Miss Hale is a guardian to 
 herself." 
 
 " A pretty character of your sister, indeed ! EeaUy, John, 
 one would have thought Miss Hale had done enough to make 
 you clear-sighted. She drew you on to an offer, by a bold 
 display of pretended regard for you, — ^to play you off against 
 this very young man, I've no doubt. Her whole conduct is 
 clear to me now. You believe he is her lover, I suppose — ^you 
 agree to that." 
 ^ 20—2 
 
b08 NOETH AND SOUTH. 
 
 He turned round to his mother ; his face was very gray and 
 grim. " Yes, mother. I do helieve he is her lover." When 
 he had spoken, he turned round again ; he writhed himself 
 about, like one in bodily pain. He leant his face against his 
 hand. Then before she could speak, he turned sharp again : 
 
 "Mother. He is her lover, whoever he is; butshemay 
 need help and womanly counsel; — ^there may be difficulties 
 or temptations which I don't know. I fear there are. I don't 
 want to know what they are; but as you have ever been a 
 good — ay ! and a tender mother to me, go to her, and gain 
 her confidence, and tell her what is best to be done. I know 
 that something is wrong; some dread, must be a terrible 
 torture to her." 
 
 " For God's sake, John ! " said his mother, now really 
 shocked, " what do you mean ? What do you mean ? What 
 do you know ? " 
 
 He did not reply to her. 
 
 " John ! I don't know what I shan't think unless you 
 speak. You have no right to say what you have done against 
 her." 
 
 " Not against her, mother ! I could not speak against 
 her." 
 
 " Well ! you have no right to say what you have done, 
 dnless you say more. These half-expressions are what ruin a 
 woman's character." 
 
 " Her character ! Mothey, you do not dare — " he faced 
 about, and looked into her face with his flaming eyes. Then, 
 drawing himself up into determined composure and dignity, he 
 said, " I will not say any more than this, which is neither more 
 nor less than the simple truth, and I am sure you believe me, 
 — I have good reason to believe, that Miss Hale is in some 
 strait and difficulty connected with an attachment which, of 
 itself, from my knowledge of Miss Hale's character, is perfectly 
 innocent and right. What my reason is, I refuse to tell. But 
 never let me hear any one say a word against her, implying 
 any more serious imputation than that she now needs the 
 counsel of some kind and gentle woman. You promised Mrs. 
 Hale to be that woman ! " 
 
 " Nol " said Mrs. Thornton. " I am happy to say, I did 
 not promise kindness and gentleness, for I felt at the time that 
 it might be out of my power to render these to one of Miss 
 Hale's character and disposition. I promised counsel and 
 advice, such as I would give to my own daughter; I shall 
 
PEOMISES FULFILLED. 309 
 
 speak to her as I would do to Fanny, if she had gone galli- 
 vanting with a young man in the dusk. I shall speak with 
 relation to the circumstances I know, without being influenced 
 either one way or another by the ' strong reasons ' which you 
 will not confide to me. Then I shall have fulfilled my promise, 
 and done my duty." 
 
 " She will never bear it," said he passionately. 
 
 " She will have to bear it, if I speak in her dead mother's 
 name." 
 
 " Well ! " said he, breaking away, " don't tell me any more 
 about it. I cannot endure to think of it. It will be better 
 that you should speak to her any way, than that she should 
 not be spoken to at all. — Oh ! that look of love ! " continued 
 he, between his teeth, as he bolted himself into his own 
 private room. " And that cursed lie ; which showed some 
 terrible shame in the background, to be kept from the light 
 in which I thought she lived perpetually ! Oh, Margaret, 
 Margaret ! Mother, how you have tortured me ! Oh ! Mar- 
 garet, could you not have loved me ? I am but uncouth and 
 hard, but I would never have led you into any falsehood for 
 me." 
 
 The more Mrs. Thornton thought over what her son had 
 said, in pleading for a merciful judgment for Margaret's indis- 
 cretion, the more bitterly she felt inclined towards her. She 
 took a savage pleasure in the idea of " speaking her mind " to 
 her, in the guise of fulfilment of a, duty. She enjoyed the 
 thought of showing herself untouched by the " glamour," 
 which she was well aware Margaret had the power of throwing 
 over many people. She snorted scornfully over the picture 
 of the beauty of her victim ; her jet black hair, her clear 
 smooth skin, her lucid eyes would not help to save her one 
 word of the just and stem reproach which Mrs. Thornton spent 
 half the night in preparing to her mind. 
 
 " Is Miss Hale within ? " She knew she was, for she had 
 seen her at the vrindow, and she had her feet inside the little 
 hall before Martha had half answered her question. 
 
 Margaret was sitting alone, writing to Edith, and giving 
 her many particulars of her mother's last days. It was a 
 softening employment, and she had to brush away the unbidden 
 tears as Mrs. Thornton was announced. 
 
 She was so gentle and ladylike in her mode of reception 
 that her visitor was somewhat daunted ; and it became im- 
 possible to ntter the speech, so easy of arrangement with no 
 
310 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 one to address it to. Margaret's low rich voice was softer than 
 usual ; her manner more gracious, because in her heart she 
 was feeUng very grateful to Mrs. Thornton for the courteous 
 attention of her call. She exerted herself to find subjects of 
 interest for conversation ; praised Martha, the servant whom 
 Mrs. Thornton had found for them ; had asked Edith for a 
 little Greek air, about which she had spoken to Miss Thornton. 
 Mrs. Thornton was fairly discomfited. Her sharp Damascus 
 blade seemed out of place, and useless among rose-leaves. 
 She was silent because she was trying to task herself up to her 
 duty. At last she stung herself into its performance by a 
 suspicion which, in spite of all probability, she allowed to cross 
 her mind, that all this sweetness was put on with a view of 
 propitiating Mr. Thornton ; that, somehow, the other attach- 
 ment had fallen through, and that it suited Miss Hale's pur- 
 pose to recall her rejected lover. Poor Margaret ! there was 
 perhaps so much truth in the suspicion as this; that Mrs. 
 Thornton was the mother of one whose regard she valued, and 
 feared to have lost ; and this thought unconsciously added to 
 her natural desire of pleasing one who was showing her kind- 
 ness by her visit. Mrs. Thornton stood up to go, but yet she 
 seemed to have something more to say. She cleared her 
 throat and began : 
 
 " Miss Hale, I have a duty to perform. I promised your 
 poor mother that, as far as my poor judgment went, I would 
 not allow you to act in any way wrongly, or (she softened her 
 speech down a little here) inadvertently, without remonstrat- 
 ing ; at least without ofiiering advice, whether you took it or 
 not." 
 
 Margaret stood before her, blushing like any culprit, with 
 ber eyes dilating as she gazed at Mrs. Thornton. She thought 
 she had come to speak to her about the falsehood she had told 
 — ^that Mr. Thornton had employed her to explain the danger 
 she had exposed herself to, of being confuted in full court ! 
 and although her heart sank to think he had not rather chosen 
 to come himself, and upbraid her, and receive her penitence, 
 and restore her again to his good opinion, vet she was too 
 much humbled not to bear any blame on this subject patiently 
 and meekly. 
 
 Mrs. Thornton went on : 
 
 " At first, when I heard from one of my servants, that you 
 had been seen walking about with a gentleman, so fer from 
 home as the Outwood station, at such a time of the evening, I 
 
PROMISES FULFILLED. 311 
 
 eoold hardly believe it. But my son, I am sorry to say, con- 
 firmed her story. It was indiscreet, to say the least ; many a 
 young woman has lost her character hefore now " 
 
 Margaret's eyes flashed fire. This was a new idea — ^this 
 was too insulting. If Mrs. Thornton had spoken to her about 
 the lie she had told, well and good — she would have owned it, 
 and humiliated herself. But to interfere with her conduct — 
 to speak of her character 1 she — ^Mrs. Thornton,' a mere 
 Btranger — it was too impertinent ! She would not answer 
 her — not one word. Mrs. Thornton saw the battle-spirit in 
 Margaret's eyes, and it called up her combativeness also. 
 
 " For your mother's sake, I have thought it right to warn 
 you against such improprieties ; they must degrade you in the 
 long run in the estimation of the world, even if in fact they do 
 not lead you to positive harm." 
 
 "For my mother's sake," said Margaret, in a tearful 
 voice, " I will bear much ; but I cannot bear everything. Sh« 
 never meant me to be exposed to insult, I am sure." 
 
 " Insult, Miss Hale 1 " 
 
 " Yes, madam," said Margaret more steadily, " it is insult. 
 What do you know of me that should lead you to suspect — 
 Oh ! " said she, breaking down, and covering her face with her 
 hands — " I know now, Mr. Thornton has told you " 
 
 " No, Miss Hale," said Mrs. Thornton, her truthfulness 
 causing her to arrest the confession Margaret was on the point 
 of making, though her curiosity was itching to hear it. 
 " Stop. Mr. Thornton has told me nothing. You do not 
 know my son. You are not worthy to know him. He said 
 this. Listen, young lady, that you may understand, if you 
 can, what sort of a man you rejected. This Milton manufac- 
 turer, his great tender heart scorned as it was scorned, said to 
 me only last night, ' Go to her. I have good reason to know 
 that she is in some strait arising out of some attachment ; 
 and she needs womanly counsel.' I believe those were his 
 very words. Farther than that — beyond admitting the fact of 
 your being at the Outwood station with a gentleman, on the 
 evening of the twenty- sixth — ^he has said nothing — ^not one 
 word against you. If he has knowledge of anything which 
 should make you sob so, he keeps it to himself." 
 
 Margaret's face was still hidden in her hands, the fingers 
 of which were wet with tears. Mrs. Thornton was a little 
 mollified. 
 
 " Come, Miss Hale There may be ciroumstanofls, I'll 
 
812 NOETH AND SOUTH. 
 
 allow, that, if explained, may take off from the seeming 
 impropriety." 
 
 Still no answer. Margaret was considering what to say; 
 she -wished to stand well with Mrs. Thornton ; and yet she 
 could not, might not, give any explanation. Mrs. Thornton 
 grew impatient. 
 
 " I shall be sorry to break off an acquaintance ; but for 
 Fanny's sake — as I told my son, if Fanny had done so we 
 should consider it a great ^sgrace — and Fanny might be led 
 away " 
 
 " I can give you no explanation," said Margaret, in a low 
 voice. " I have done wrong, but not in the way you think or 
 know about. I think Mr. Thornton judges me more merciiully 
 than you ; " — she had hard work to keep herself from choking 
 with her tears — " but, I believe, madam, you mean to do 
 rightly." 
 
 " Thank you," said Mrs. Thornton, drawing herself up; 
 " I was not aware that my meaning was doubted. It is the 
 last time I shall interfere. I was unwilling to consent to do it, 
 when your mother asked me. I had not approved of my son's 
 attachment to you, while I only suspected it. You did not 
 appear to me worthy of him. But when you compromised 
 yourself as you did at the time of the riot, and exposed your- 
 self to the comments of servants and workpeople, I felt it was 
 no longer right to set myself against my son's wish of pro- 
 posing to you — a wish, by the way, which he had always denied 
 entertaining untU the day of the riot." Margaret winced, and 
 drew in her breath with a long, hissing sound ; of which, 
 however, Mrs. Thornton took no notice. " He came ; you had 
 apparently changed your mind. I told my son yesterday, that 
 I thought it possible, short as was the interval, you might have 
 heard or learnt something of this other lover " 
 
 " What must you think of me, madam ? " asked Margaret, 
 throwing her head back vrith proud disdain, till her throat 
 curved outwards like a swan's. " You can say nothing more, 
 Mrs. Thornton. I dechne every attempt to justify myself for 
 anything. You must allow me to leave the room." 
 
 And she swept out of it with the noiseless grace of an 
 offended princess. Mrs. Thornton had quite enough of natural 
 humour to make her feel the ludicrousness of the position in 
 which she was left. There was nothing for it but to show 
 herself out. She was not particularly annoyed at Margaret's 
 way of behaving. She did not care enough for her for that. 
 
PROMISES FULFILLED. 318 
 
 Bhe had taken Mrs. Thornton's remonstrance to the full as 
 keenly to heart as that lady expected ; and Margaret's passion 
 at once mollified her visitor, far more than any silence or 
 reserve could have done. It showed the efiect of her words. 
 " My young lady," thought Mrs. Thornton to herself; •' you've 
 a pretty good temper of your own. If John and you had come 
 together, he would have had to keep a tight hand over you, to 
 make you know your place. But I don't think you will go 
 a-walking again with your beau, at such an hour of the day, 
 in a hurry. You've too much pride and spirit in you for that. 
 I like to see a girl fly out at the notion of being talked about. 
 It shows they're neither giddy, nor bold by nature. As 
 for that girl, she might be bold, but she'd never be giddy. I'll 
 do her that justice. Now as to Fanny, she'd be giddy, and not 
 bold. She's no courage in her, poor thing !" 
 
 Mr. Thornton was not spending the morning so satis- 
 factorily as his mother. She, at any rate, was fulfilling her 
 determined purpose. He was trying to understand where he 
 stood; what damage the strike had done him. A good deal 
 of his capital was locked up in new and expensive machinery; 
 and he had also bought cotton largely, with a view to some 
 great orders which he had in hand. The strike had thrown 
 him terribly behindhand, as to the completion of these orders. 
 Even with his own accustomed and skilled workpeople, he 
 would have had some difficulty in falfilling his engagements ; 
 as it was, the incompetence of the Irish hands, who had to be 
 trained to their work, at a time requiring unusual activity, was 
 a daily annoyance. 
 
 It was not a favourable hour for Higgins to make his 
 request. But he had promised Margaret to do it at any cost. 
 So, though every moment added to his repugnance, his pride, 
 and his suUenness of temper, he stood leaning against the 
 dead wall, hour after hour, first on one leg, then on the other. 
 At last the latch was sharply lifted, and out came Mr. 
 Thornton. 
 
 " I want for to speak to yo', sir." 
 " Can't stay now, my man. I'm too late as it is." 
 " Well, sir, I reckon I can wait till yo' come back." 
 Mr. Thornton was half way down the street. Higgins 
 sighed. But it was no use. To catch him in the street, was 
 his only chance of seeing " the measter ; " if he had rung the 
 lodge jbell or even gone up to the house to ask for him, he 
 would have been referred to the overlooker. So he stood stUl 
 
814 NORTH AOT) SOUTH. 
 
 again, vouchsafing no answer, but a short nod of recognition 
 to the few men who knew and spoke to him, as the crowd drove 
 out of the millyard at dinner-time, and scowling with all his 
 might at the Irish " knobsticks " who had just been imported. 
 At last Mr. Thornton returned. 
 " What ! you there still ! " 
 " Ay, sir, I mun speak to yo'." 
 
 " Come in here, then. Stay, we'U go across the yard ; the 
 men are not come back, and we shall have it to ourselves. 
 These good people, I see, are at dinner ; " said he, closing the 
 door of the porter's lodge. 
 
 He stopped to speak to the overlooker. The latter said in 
 a low tone : 
 
 " I suppose you know, sir, that that man is Higgins, one 
 of the leaders of the Union ; he that made that speech in 
 Hurstfield." , 
 
 " No, I didn't," said Mr. Thornton, looking round sharply 
 at his follower. Higgins was known to him by name as a 
 turbulent spirit. 
 
 " Come along," said he, and his tone was rougher than 
 before. " It is men such as this," thought he, " who inter- 
 rupt commerce and injure the very town they live in : mere 
 demagogues, lovers of power, -at whatever cost to others." 
 
 " Well, sir ! what do you want with me ? " said Mr. 
 Thornton, facing round at him, as soon as they were in the 
 counting-house of the miU. 
 " My name is Higgins " — 
 
 "I know that," broke in Mr. Thornton. "What do yon 
 want, Mr. Higgins ? That's the question." 
 " I want work." 
 
 " Work ! You're a pretty chap to come asking me for 
 work. You don't want impudence, that's very clear." 
 
 " I've gotten enemies and backbiters, like my betters ; but 
 I ne'er heerd o' ony of them calling me o'er-modest," said 
 Higgins. His blood was a little roused by Mr. Thornton's 
 manner, more than by his words. 
 
 Mr. Thornton saw a letter addressed to himself on the table. 
 He took it up and read it through. At the end, he looked up 
 and said, " What are you waiting for ? " 
 " An answer to th' question I axed." 
 " I gave it you before. Don't waste any more of your 
 time." 
 
 ' ' Yo' made a remark, sir, on my impudence : but I were 
 
PROMISES FTTLFILLED. 315 
 
 ianght that it was manners to say either 'yes ' or 'no,' when 
 I were axed a civil question. I should he thanfu' to yo' if yo'd 
 give me work. Hamper will speak to my being a good hand." 
 
 " I've a notion you'd better not send me to Hamper to ask 
 for a character, my man. I might hear more than you'd like." 
 
 " I'd take th' risk. Worst they could say of me is, that 
 I did what I thought best, even to my own wrong." 
 
 " You'd better go and try them, then, and see whether 
 they'll give you work. I've turned off upwards of a hundred 
 of my best hands, for no other fault than following you, and 
 such as you ; and d'ye think I'll take you on ? I might as 
 well put a fire-brand into the midst of the cotton- waste." 
 
 Higgins turned away : then the recollection of Boucher 
 came over him, and he faced round with the greatest concession 
 he could persuade himself to make. 
 
 " I'd promise yo', measter, I'd not speak a word as could 
 do harm, if so be yo' did right by us ; and I'd promise more : 
 I'd promise that when I seed yo' going wrong, and acting 
 unfair, I'd speak to yo' in private first ; and that would be a 
 fair warning. If yo' and I did na agree in our opinion o' your 
 conduct, yo' might turn me off at an hour's notice." 
 
 " Upon my word, you don't think small beer of yourself! 
 Hamper has had a loss of you. How came he to let you and 
 your wisdom go ? " 
 
 " Well, we parted wi' mutual dissatisfaction. I wouldn't 
 gi'e the pledge they were asking ; and they wouldn't have me 
 at no rate. So I'm free to make another engagement ; and as 
 I said before, though I should na' say it, I'm a good hand, 
 measter, and a steady man — specially when I can keep fro' 
 drink ; and that I shall do now, if I ne'er did afore." 
 
 " That you may have more money laid up for another strike, 
 I suppose ? " 
 
 " No ! I'd be thankful if I was free to do that ; it's for to 
 keep th' widow and childer of a man who was drove mad by 
 them knobsticks o' yourn ; put out of his place by a Paddy 
 that did na know weft feo' warp." 
 
 " Well ! you'd better turn to something 'else, if you've any 
 such good intention in your head. I shouldn't advise you to 
 stay in Milton : you're too well known here." 
 
 " If it were summer," said Higgins, " I'd take to Paddy's 
 work, and go as a navvy, or haymaking, or summat, and ne'er 
 see Milton again. But it's winter, and th' childer will 
 clem." 
 
ai6 NOETH AND SOUTH. 
 
 " A pretty navvy you'd make ! why, you couldn't do half 
 a day's work at digging against an Irishman." 
 
 " I'd only charge half-a-day forth' twelve hours, if I could 
 only do half-a-day's work in th' time. Yo're not knowing of 
 any place, were they could gi' me a trial, away fro' the mills, 
 if I'm such a firebrand ? I'd take any wage they thought I 
 was worth, for the sake of those childer." 
 
 " Don't you see what you would be ? You'd be a knobstick. 
 You'd be taking less wages than the other labourers — all for 
 the sake of another man's children. Think how you'd abuse 
 any poor fellow who was willing to take what he could get to 
 keep his own children. You and your Union would soon be 
 down upon him. No ! no ! if it's only for the recoUeetion of 
 the way in which you've used the poor knobsticks before now, 
 I say No ! to your question. I'll not give you work. I won't 
 say, I don't believe your pretext for coming and asking for 
 work ; I know nothing about it. It may be true, or it may 
 not. It's a very unlikely story, at any rate. Let me pass. 
 I'll not give you work. There's your answer." 
 
 " I hear, sir. I would na ha' troubled yo,' but that I were 
 bid to come, by one as seemed to think yo'd getten some soft place 
 in your heart. Hoo were mistook, and I were misled. But 
 I'm not the first man as is misled by a woman." 
 
 " Tell her to mind her own business the next time, instead 
 of taking up your time and mine too. I believe women are at 
 the bottom of every plague in this world. Be off with yon." 
 
 "I'm obleeged to you for a' yo'r kindness, measter, and 
 most of a' for yo'r civil way o' saying good-bye." 
 
 Mr. Thornton did not deign a reply. But, looking out of 
 the window a minute after, he was struck with the lean, bent 
 figure going out of the yard ; the heavy walk was in strange 
 contrast with the resolute, clear determination of the man to 
 speak to him. He crossed to the porter's lodge : 
 
 " How long has that njan Higgins been waiting to speak 
 to me ? " 
 
 "He was outside the gate before eight o'clock, sir. I 
 think he's been there ever since." 
 
 " And it is now— ?" 
 
 " Just one, sir." 
 
 " Five hours," thought Mr. Thornton ; " it's a long time 
 for a man to wait, doing nothing but first hoping and then 
 fearing." 
 
( 317 ) 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX, 
 
 MAKING FRIENDS 
 
 " Nay, I have done ; you get no more of me t 
 And I am glad, yea glad with all my heart. 
 That thus so clearly I myself am free." 
 
 Drayton. 
 
 Margaret shut herself up in her own room, after she had quitted 
 Mrs. Thornton. She began to walk backwards and forwards, in 
 her old habitual way of showing agitation ; but, then, remember; 
 ing that in that slightly -built house every step was heard from one 
 room to another, she sate down until she heard Mrs. Thornton 
 go safely out of the house. She forced herself to recollect all 
 the conversation that had passed between them; speech by 
 speech, she compelled her memory to go through with it. At 
 the end, she rose up, and said to herself, in a melancholy 
 tone : 
 
 "At any rate, her words do not touch me; they fall oflf 
 from me ; for I am innocent of all the motives she attributes 
 to me. But still, it is hard to think that any one — any woman 
 — can believe all this of another so easily. It is hard and sad. 
 Where I have done wrong, she does not accuse me — she does 
 not know. He never told her : I might have known he would 
 not ! " 
 
 She lifted up her head, as if she took pride in any deli- 
 cacy of feeling which Mr. Thornton had shown. Then, as a 
 new thought came across her, she pressed her hands tightly 
 together : 
 
 "He, too, must take poor Frederick for some lover." 
 CShe blushed as the word passed through her mind.) " I see 
 it now. It is not merely that he knows of my falsehood, but 
 
 he believes that some one else cares for me ; and that I Oh 
 
 dear ! — oh dear ! What shall I do ? What do I mean ? Why 
 do I care what he thinks, beyond the mere loss of his good 
 opinion as regards my telling the truth or not ? I cannot tell. 
 But I am very miserable ! Oh, how unhappy this last year 
 has been ! I have passed out of childhood into old age. 
 I have had no youth — no womanhood ; the hopes of woman- 
 hood have closed for me — ^for I shall never many ; and I anti- 
 
318 NORTH AND SOTJTH. 
 
 cipate cares and sorrows just as if I were an old woman, and 
 with the same fearful spirit. I am weary of this continual call 
 upon me for strength. I could bear up for papa ; because that 
 is a natural, pious duty. And I think I could bear up against — 
 at any rate, I could have the energy to resent, Mrs. Thornton's 
 unjust, impertinent suspicions. But it is hard to feel how 
 completely he must misunderstand me. What has happened to 
 make me so morbid to-day ? I do not know. I only know I 
 eannot help it. I must give way sometimes. No, I wiU not 
 though," said she, springing to her feet. " I will not — ^I wUl 
 not think of myself and my own position. I won't examine 
 into my own feelings. It would be of no use now. Some time, 
 if I live to be an old woman, I may sit over the fire, and, look- 
 ing into the embers, see the life that might have been." 
 • All this time she was hastily putting on her things to go 
 . out, only stopping from time to time to wipe her eyes, with an 
 impatience of gesture at the tears that would come, in spite of 
 all her bravery. 
 
 " I dare say there's many a woman makes as sad a mistake 
 as I have done, and only finds it out too late. And how 
 proudly and impertinently I spoke to him that day ! But I did 
 not know then. It has come upon me little by little, and 
 I don't know where it began. Now I won't give way. I shall 
 find it difficult to behave in the same way to him, with this 
 miserable consciousness upon me ; but I will be very calm and 
 very quiet, and say very little. But, to be sure, I may not see 
 him ; he keeps out of our way evidently. That would be worse 
 than all. And yet no wonder that he avoids me, believing 
 what he must about me." 
 
 She went out, going rapidly towards the country, and try- 
 ing to drown reflection by swiftness of motion. 
 
 As she stood on the door-step, at her return, her father 
 came up : 
 
 " Good girl ! " said he. " You've been to Mr?. Boucher's. 
 I was just meaning to go there, if I had time, before 
 dinner." 
 
 " No, papa ; I have not," said Margaret, reddening. " 1 
 never thought about her. But I wiU go directly after dinner ; 
 I will go while you are taking your nap." 
 
 Accordingly Margaret went. Mrs. Boucher was very ill ; 
 really ill — not merely ailing. The kind and sensible neigh- 
 bour, who had come in the other day, seemed to have taken 
 charge of everything. Some of the children were gone to 
 
MAKING FKIENDS. 819 
 
 the neighbours. Mary Higgins had come for the three 
 youngest at dinner-time ; and since then Nicholas had gone for 
 the doctor. He had not come as yet ; Mrs. Boucher was dying ; 
 and there was nothing to do but to wait. Margaret thought 
 that she should like to know his opinion, and that she could 
 not do better than go and see the Higginses in the meantime. 
 She might then possibly hear whether Nicholas had been able 
 to make his application to Mr. Thornton. 
 
 She found Nicholas busily engaged in making a penny spin 
 on the dresser, for the amusement of three little children, who 
 were clinging to him in a fearless manner. He, as well as they, 
 was smiling at a good long spin ; and Margaret thought,' that 
 the happy look of interest in his occupation was a good sign. 
 When the penny stopped spinning, " lile Johnnie " began to cry. 
 
 " Come to me,," said Margaret, taking him off the dresser, 
 and holding him in her arms ; she held her watch to his ear, 
 while she asked Nicholas if he had seen Mr. Thornton, 
 
 The look on his face changed instantly. 
 
 " Ay ! " said he. " I've seen and heerd too much on him.' 
 
 " He refused you, then ?" said Margaret, sorrowfully. 
 
 " To be sure. I knew he'd do it all along. It's no good 
 expecting marcy at the hands o' them measters. Yo'r a 
 stranger and a foreigner, and aren't likely to know their ways ; 
 but I knowed it." 
 
 " I am sorry I asked you. Was he angry ? He did not 
 speak to you as Hamper did, did he ? " 
 
 " He weren't o'er-civil ! " said Nicholas, spinning the 
 penny again, as much for his own amusement as for that of the 
 children. " Never yo' fret, I'm only where I was. I'll go on 
 tramp to-morrow. I gave him as good as I got. I telled 
 him, I'd not that good opinion on him that I'd ha' bome a 
 second time of mysel' ; but yo'd advised me for to come, and 
 I were beholden to yo'." 
 
 " You -told him I sent you ? " 
 
 " I dunno, if I ca'd yo' by your name. I dunnot think 1 
 did. I said a woman who knew no better had advised me for 
 to come and see if there was a soft place in his heart." 
 
 " And he — ? " asked Margaret. 
 
 " Said I were to tell yo' to mind yo'r own business. — 
 That's the longest spin yet, my lads. — ^Aiid them's civil words 
 to what he used to me. But ne'er mind. We're but where 
 we was ; and I'U break stones on the road afore I let these 
 little uns clem." 
 
320 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 Margaret put the struggling Johnnie out of her arms, back 
 into his former place on the dresser. 
 
 " I am sorry I asked you to go to Mr. Thornton's. I am 
 disappointed in him." 
 
 There was a slight noise behind her. Both she and 
 Nicholas turned round at the same moment, and there stood 
 Mr. Thornton, with a look of displeased surprise upon his face. 
 Obeying her swift impulse, Margaret passed out before him, 
 saying not a word, only bowing low to hide the sudden paleness 
 that she felt had come over face. He bent equally low in 
 return, and then closed the door after her. As she hurried to 
 Mrs. Boucher's, she heard the clang, and it seemed to fill up 
 the measure of her mortification. He too was annoyed to find 
 her there. He had tenderness in his heart — " a soft place," 
 as Nicholas Higgins called it ; but he had some pride in conceal- 
 ing it ; he kept it very sacred and safe, and was jealous of every 
 circumstance that tried to gain admission. But if he dreaded 
 exposure of his tenderness, he was equally desirous that all 
 men should recognise his justice ; and he felt that he had been 
 unjust in giving so scornful a hearing to any one who had 
 waited, with humble patience, for five hours, to speak to him. 
 That the man had spoken saucily to him when he had the 
 opportunity, was nothing to Mr. 'Thornton. He rather hked 
 him for it ; and he was conscious of his own irritability of 
 temper at the time, which probably made them both quits. It 
 was the five hours of waiting that struck Mr. Thornton. He 
 had not five hours to spare himself; but one hour — two hours, 
 of his hard penetrating intellectual, as well as bodily labour, 
 did he give up to going about collecting evidence as to the 
 truth of Higgins's story, the nature of his character, the tenor 
 of his life. He tried not to be, but was convinced that aU that 
 Higgins had said was true. And then the conviction went in, 
 as if by some spell, and touched the latent tenderness of his 
 heart ; the patience of the man, the simple generosity of the 
 motive (for he had learnt about the quarrel between Boucher 
 and Higgins), made him forget entirely the mere reasonings of 
 justice, and overleap them by a diviner instinct. He came to 
 tell Higgins he would give him work; and he was more 
 annoyed to find Margaret there than by hearing her last words ; 
 for then he understood that she was the woman who had urged 
 Higgins to come to him ; and he dreaded the admission of any 
 thought of her, as a motive to what he was doing solely because 
 it was right. 
 
UAEING FRIENDS. 821 
 
 " So that was the lady you spoke of as a woman ? " said 
 he indignantly to Higgins. " You might have told me who 
 she was." 
 
 " And then, maybe, yo'd ha' spoken of her more civil than 
 yo' did ; yo'd getten a mother who might ha' kept yo'r tongue 
 in check when yo' were talking o' women being at the root of 
 all the plagues." 
 
 " Of course you told that to Miss Hale ? " 
 
 " In coorse I did. Leastways, I reckon I did. I telled 
 her she weren't to meddle again in aught that concerned yo'?" 
 
 " Whose children are those — ^yours ? " Mr. Thornton had 
 a pretty good notion whose they were, from what he had heard ; 
 but he felt awkward in turning the conversation round from 
 this unpromising beginning. 
 
 " They're not mine, and they are mine." 
 
 " They are the children you spoke of to me this mom- 
 ing?" 
 
 "When yo' said," replied Higgins, turning round, with 
 Ul-smothered fierceness, " that my story might be true or 
 might not, but it were a very unlikely one. Measter, I've not 
 forgotten." 
 
 Mr. Thornton was silent for a moment ; then he said : 
 " No more have I. I remember what I said. I spoke to you 
 about those children in a way I had no business to do. I did 
 not believe you. I could not have taken care of another man's 
 children myself, if he had acted towards me as I hear Boucher 
 did towards you. But I know now that you spoke truth. I beg 
 your pardon." 
 
 Higgins did not turn round, or immediately respond to 
 this. But when he did speak, it was in a softened tone, 
 although the words were gruff enough. 
 
 " Yo've no business to go prying into what happened 
 between Boucher and me. He's dead, and I'm sorry. That's 
 enough." 
 
 " So it is. WiU you take work with me ? That's what I 
 came to ask." 
 
 Higgins's obstinacy wavered, recovered strength, and stood 
 firm. He would not speak. Mr. Thornton would not ask 
 again. Higgins's eye fell on the cTiildren. 
 
 " Yo've called m© impudent, and a liar, and a mischief- 
 maker, and yo' might ha' said wi' some truth, as I were now 
 and then given to drink. An, I ha' called you a tyrant, an' 
 an oud bull dog, and a hard, cruel master; that's where 
 
 21 
 
822 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 it stands. But for th' childer. Measter, do yo' think we can 
 e'er get on together ? " 
 
 " Well ! " said Mr. Thornton, half-laughing, " it was not 
 my proposal that we should go together. But there's one 
 comfort, on your own showing. We neither of us can think 
 much worse of the other than we do now." 
 
 " That's true," said Higgins, reflectively. " I've been 
 thinking, ever sin' I saw you, what a marcy it were yo' did ua 
 take me on, for that I ne'er saw a man whom I could less 
 abide. But that's maybe been a hasty judgment ; and work's 
 work to such as me. So, measter, I'll come ; and what's 
 more, I thank yo' ; and that's a deal fro' me," said he, more 
 frankly, suddenly turning round and facing Mr. Thornton fuUy 
 for the first time. 
 
 " And this is a deal from me," said Mr. Thornton, giving 
 ffiggins's hand a good grip. " Now mind you come sharp to 
 your time," continued he, resuming the master. "I'll have 
 no laggards at my mill. What fines we have, we keep pretty 
 sharply. And the first time I catch you making mischief, off 
 you go. So now you know where you are." 
 
 " Yo' spoke of my wisdom this morning. I reckon I may 
 bring it wi' me ; or would yo' rayther have me 'bout my brains ? " 
 
 " 'Bout your brains if you use them for meddling with my 
 business ; with your brains if you can keep to your own." 
 
 " I shall need a deal o' brains to settle where my business 
 ends and yo'rs begins." 
 
 " Your business has not begun yet, and mine stands still 
 for me. So good afternoon." 
 
 Just before Mr. Thornton came up to Mrs. Boucher's door, 
 Margaret came out of it. She did not see him ; and he fol- 
 lowed her for several yards, admiring her light and easy walk, 
 and her tall and graceful figure. But, suddenly, this simple 
 emotion of pleasure was tainted, poisoned by jealousy. He 
 wished to overtake her, and speak to her, to see how she would 
 receive him, now she must know he was aware of some other 
 attachment. He wished too, but of this wish he was rather 
 ashamed, that she should know that he had justified her 
 wisdom in sending Higgins to him to ask for work, and had 
 repented him of his morning's decision. He came up to her. 
 She started. 
 
 " Allow me to say. Miss Hale, that you were rather pre- 
 mature in expressing your disappointment. I have takei 
 Higgins on." 
 
MAKING FEIENDS. 323 
 
 *' I am glad of it," said she coldly. 
 
 " He tells me, lie repeated to you, what I said this morning 
 about — ." Mr. Thornton hesitated. Margaret took it up : 
 
 " About women not meddling. You had a perfect right to 
 express your opinion, which was a very correct one, I have no 
 doubt. But " she went on a little more eagerly, " Higgins did 
 not quite tell you the exact truth." The word " truth," re- 
 mmded her of her own untruth, and she stopped short, feeling 
 exceedingly uncomfortable. 
 
 Mr. Thornton at first was puzzled to account for her 
 silence ; and then he remembered the lie she had told, and 
 all that was foregone. " The exact truth ! " said he. " Very 
 few people do speak the exact truth. I have given up hoping 
 for it. Miss Hale, have you no explanation to give me ? You 
 must perceive what I cannot but think." 
 
 Margaret was silent. She was wondering whether an ex- 
 planation of any kind would be consistent with her loyalty to 
 Frederick. 
 
 " Nay," said he, " I will ask no farther. I may be putting 
 temptation in your way. At present, believe me, your secret 
 is safe with me. But you run great risks, allow me to say, in 
 being so indiscreet, I am now only speaking as a friend of 
 your father's : if I had any other thought or hope, of course 
 that is at an end. t am quite disinterested." 
 
 " I am aware of that," said Margaret, forcing herself to 
 speak in an indifferent, careless way. " I am aware of what I 
 must appear to you, but the secret is another person's, and I 
 cannot explain it without doing him harm." 
 
 " I have not the slightest wish to pry into the gentleman's 
 secrets," he said, with growing anger. " My own interest in 
 you is — simply that of a friend. You may not believe me, Miss 
 Hale, but it is — in spite of the persecution I'm afraid I 
 threatened you with at one time — ^but that is all given up ; all 
 passed away. You believe me, Miss Hale ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Margaret, quietly and sadly. 
 
 " Then, really, I don't see any occasion for us to go on 
 walking together. I thought, perhaps, you might have had 
 something to say, but I see we are nothing to each other. If 
 you're quite convinced, that any foolish passion on my part is 
 entirely over, I will wish you good afternoon." He walked off 
 very hastily. 
 
 " What can he mean ? " thought Margaret, — " what 
 could he mean by speaking so, as if I were always thinking 
 
 21—2 
 
824 HOETH AND SOUTH. 
 
 that he cared for me, when I know he does not ; he cannot. 
 His mother will have said all those cruel things abont me to 
 him. But I won't care for him. I surely am mistress enough 
 of myself to control this wUd, strange, miserable feeling, which 
 tempted me even to betray my own dear Frederick, so that I 
 might but regain his good opinion — ^the good opinion of a man 
 who takes such pains to tell me that I am nothing to him. 
 Come ! poor little heart ! be cheery and brave. We'll be a 
 great deal to one another, if we are thrown off and left 
 desolate." 
 
 Her father was almost startled by her merriment this 
 morning. She talked incessantly, and forced her natural humour 
 to an unusual pitch ; and if there was a tinge of bitterness in 
 much of what she said ; if her accounts of the old Harley 
 Street set were a little sarcastic, her father could not bear to 
 oiieot her, as he would have done at another time — for he was 
 glad to see her shake off her cares. In the middle of the 
 evening, she was called down to speak to Mary Higgins ; and 
 when she came back, Mr. Hale imagined that he saw traces of 
 tears on her cheeks. But that could not be, for she brought 
 good news — that Higgins had got work at Mr. Thornton's mill. 
 Her spirits were damped, at any rate, and she found it very 
 difficult to go on talking at all, much more in the wild way 
 that she had done. For some days her spirits varied strangely; 
 and her father was beginning to be anxious about her, when 
 news arrived from one or two quarters that promised some 
 change and variety for her. Mr. Hale received a letter from 
 Mr. Bell, in which that gentleman volunteered a visit to them ; 
 and Mr. Hale imagined that the promised society of his old 
 Oxford friend would give as agreeable a turn to Margaret's ideas 
 as it did to his own. Margaret tried to take an interest in 
 what pleased her father ; but she was too languid to care about 
 any Mr. Bell, even though he were twenty times her godfather. 
 She was more roused by a letter from Edith, full of sympathy 
 about her aunt's death; fall of details about herself, her 
 husband, and child; and at the end saying, that as the 
 climate did not suit the baby, and as Mrs. Shaw was talking 
 of returning to England, she thought it probable that Captain 
 Lennox might sell out, and that they might all go and live again 
 in the old Harley Street house ; which, however, would seem 
 very incomplete without Margaret. Margaret yearned after that 
 old house, and the placid tranquillity of that old well-ordered, 
 monotonous life. She had found it occasionally tiresome 
 
OUT OF TUNE. 325 
 
 while it lasted ; but since then she had been buffeted about, 
 and felt so exhausted by this recent struggle with herself, that 
 she thought that even stagnation would be a rest and a refresh- 
 ment. So she began to look towards a long visit to the 
 Lennoxes, on their return to England, as to a point — ^no, not 
 of hope — ^but of leisure, in which she could- regain her power 
 and command over herself. At present it seemed to her as if 
 all subjects tended towards Mr. Thornton ; as if she could not 
 forget him with all her endeavours. If she went to see the 
 Higginses, she heard of him there ; her father had resumed 
 their readings together, and quoted his opinions perpetually ; 
 even Mr. Bell's visit brought his tenant's name upon the tapis ; 
 for he wrote word, that he believed he must be occupied some 
 great part of his time with Mr. Thornton, as a new lease was 
 in preparation, and the terms of it must be agreed upon. 
 
 CHAPTBK XL, 
 OUT OF TUNE. 
 
 "I have no wrong, where I can claim no right, 
 Naught ta'en me fro, where I have nothing had. 
 Yet of my woe I cannot so be quite ; 
 Namely, since that another may be glad 
 With fliat, that thus in sorrow makes me sad." 
 
 Wtatt. 
 
 Mabqabei had not expected much pleasure to herself from 
 Mr. Bell's visit — she had only looked forward to it on her 
 father's account, but when her godfather came, she at once 
 fell into the most natural position of friendship in the world. 
 He said she had no merit in being what she was, a girl so 
 entirely after his own heart ; it was an hereditary power which 
 she had, to walk in and take possession of his regard ; while 
 she, in reply, gave him much credit for being so fresh and 
 young under his Fellow's cap and gown. 
 
 " Fresh and young in warmth and kindness, I mean. I'm 
 afraid I must own, that I think your opinions are the oldest 
 and mustiest I have met with this long time." 
 
 " Hear this daughter of yours, Hale I Her residence in 
 Milton has quite corrupted her. She's a democrat, a red 
 republican, a member of the Peace Society, a socialist — " 
 
326 NOETH AND SOUTH. 
 
 " Papa, it's all because I'm standing up for the progress 
 of commerce. Mr. Bell would have had it keep stiU at exchang- 
 ing wild-beast skins for acorns." 
 
 "No, no. I'd dig the ground and grow potatoes. And 
 I'd shave the wild-beast skins and make the wool into broad 
 cloth. Don't exaggerate, missy. But I'm tired of this 
 bustle. Everybody rushing over everybody, in their hurry to 
 get rich." 
 
 "It is not every one who can sit comfortably in a set of 
 college rooms, and let his riches grow without any exertion of 
 his own. No doubt there is many a man here who would be 
 thankful if his property would increase as yours has done, 
 without his taking any trouble about it," said Mr. Hale. 
 
 " I don't believe they would. It's the bustle and the struggle 
 they like. As for sitting still, and learning from the past, or 
 shaping out the future by faithful work done in a prophetic 
 spirit — Why ! Pooh ! I don't believe there's a man in 
 Milton who knows how to sit still ; and it is a great art." 
 
 " Milton people, I suspect, think Oxford men don't know 
 how to move. It would be a very good thing if they mixed a 
 httle more." 
 
 " It might be good for the Miltoners. Many things might 
 be good for them which would be veiy disagreeable for other , 
 people." 
 
 " Are you not a Milton man yourself? " asked Margaret. 
 " I should have thought you would have been proud of yonr 
 town." 
 
 " I confess, I don't see what there is to be proud of. If 
 you'll only come to Oxford, Margaret, I will show you a place 
 to glory in." 
 
 "Well!" said Mr. Hale, "Mr. Thornton is. coming to 
 drink tea with us to-night, and he is as proud of Milton as you 
 of Oxford. You two must try and make each other a httle 
 more liberal-minded." 
 
 " I don't want to be more liberal-minded, thank you," said 
 Mr. Bell. 
 
 " Is Mr. Thornton coming to tea, papa ! " asked Margaret 
 in a low voice. 
 
 "Either to tea or soon after. He could not tell. He 
 told us not to wait." 
 
 Mr. Thornton had determined that he would make no 
 mquiry of his mother as to how far she had put her project 
 into execution of speaking to Margaret about the impropriety 
 
OUT OF TXniB. 827 
 
 of her conduct. He felt pretty sure that, if this interview took 
 place, his mother's account of what passed at it would only 
 annoy and chagrin him, though he would all the time be aware 
 of the colouring which it received by passing through her 
 mind. He shrank from hearing Margaret's very name men- 
 tioned ; he, while he blamed her— while he was jealous of her 
 —while he renounced her — ^he loved her sorely, in spite of 
 himself. He dreamt of her; he dreamt she came dancing 
 towards him with outspread arms, and with a lightness and 
 gaiety which made him loathe her, even while it allured him. 
 But the impression of this figure of Margaret — with all 
 Margaret's character taken out of it, as completely as if some 
 evil spirit had got possession of her form — ^was so deeply 
 stamped upon his imagination, that when he wakened he felt 
 hardly able to separate the Una from the Duessa ; and the 
 dislike he had to the latter seemed to envelope and disfigure 
 the former. Yet he was too proud to acknowledge his weak- 
 ness by avoiding the sight of her. He would neither seek an 
 opportunity of being in her company nor avoid it. To convince 
 himself of his power of self-control, he lingered over every 
 piece of business this afternoon ; he forced every movement 
 into unnatural slowness and deliberation ; and it was conse- 
 quently past eight o'clock before he reached Mr. Hale's. Then 
 there were business arrangements to be transacted in the 
 study with Mr. Bell ; and the latter kept on, sitting over the 
 fire, and talking wearily, long after all business was transacted, 
 and when they might just as well have gone upstairs. But 
 Mr. Thornton would not say a word about moving their 
 quarters ; he chafed and chafed, and thought Mr. Bell a most 
 prosy companion ; while Mr. BeU returned the compliment in 
 secret, by considering Mr. Thornton about as brusque and curt 
 a fellow as he had ever met with, and terribly gone off both in 
 intelligence and manner. At last, some slight noise in the 
 room above suggested the desirableness of moving there. 
 They found Margaret with a letter open before her, eagerly 
 discussing its contents with her father. On the entrance of 
 the gentlemen, it was immediately put aside ; but Mr. Thorn- 
 ton's eager senses caught some few words of Mr. Hale's to 
 Mr, Bell. 
 
 " A letter from Henry Lennox. It makes Margaret very 
 hopeful." 
 
 Mr. Bell nodded. Margaret was red as a rose when 
 Mr. Thornton looked at her. He had the greatest mind in 
 
328 NOETH AHD SOUTH. 
 
 the world to get up and go out of the room that Tory instant, 
 and never set foot in the house again. 
 
 " We were thinking," said Mr. Hale, " that you and 
 Mr. Thornton had taken Margaret's advice, and were each 
 trying to convert the other, you were so long in the study." 
 
 " And you thought there would be nothing left of us but 
 an opinion, like the -Kilkenny cat's tail. Pray whose opinion 
 did you think would have the most obstinate vitality ? " 
 
 Mr. Thornton had not a notion what they were talking 
 about, and disdained to inquire. Mr. Hale politely enlightened him. 
 
 " Mr. Thornton, we were accusing Mr. Bell this morning 
 of a kind of Oxonian mediaeval bigotry against his native town ; 
 and we — Margaret, I believe — suggested that it would do him 
 good to associate a little with Milton manufacturers." 
 
 " I beg your pardon. Margaret thought it would do the 
 Milton manufacturers good to associate a little more with 
 Oxford men. Now wasn't it so, Margaret ? " 
 
 " I believe I thought it would do both good to see a little 
 more of the other, — I did not know it was my idea any more 
 than papa's." 
 
 " Aid so you see, Mr. Thornton, we ought to have been 
 improving each other down-stairs, instead of talking over 
 vanished families of Smiths and Harrisons. However, I am 
 willing to do my part now. I wonder when yon Milton men 
 intend to live. All your lives seem to be spent in gathering 
 together the materials for life." 
 
 " By living, I suppose you mean enjoyment." 
 
 " Yes, enjoyment, — I don't specify of what, because I trust 
 we should both consider mere pleasure as very poor enjoy- 
 ment." 
 
 " I would rather have the nature of the enjoyment defined." 
 
 " Well ! enjoyment of leisure — enjoyment of the power 
 and influence which money gives. You are all striving for 
 money. What do you want it for ? " 
 
 Mr. Thornton was silent. Then he said, " I really don't 
 know. But money is not what I strive for." 
 
 " What then ? " 
 
 " It is a home question. I shall have to lay myself open 
 to such a catechist, and I am not sure that I am prepared 
 to do it." 
 
 " No ! " said Mr. Hale ; " don't let us be personal in our 
 catechism. You are neither of you representative men ; you 
 are each <rf you too individual for that." 
 
OUT OP TUNE. 829 
 
 " I am not sure whether to consider that as a compliment 
 or not. I should like to be the representative of Oxford, with 
 its beauty and its learning, and its proud old history. What 
 do you say, Margaret ; ought I to be flattered ? " 
 
 " I don't know Oxford. But there is a diiference between 
 being the representative of a city and the representative man of 
 its inhabitants." 
 
 " Very true. Miss Margaret. Now I remember, you were 
 against me this morning, and were quite Miltonian and 
 manufacturing in your preferences." 
 
 Margaret saw the quick glance of surprise that Mr. Thornton 
 gave her, and she was annoyed at the construction which he 
 might put on this speech of Mr. Bell's. Mr. Bell went on — 
 
 " Ah ! I wish I could show you our High Street — our 
 Radcliffe Square. I am leaving out our colleges, just as I 
 give Mr. Thornton leave to omit his factories in speaking of 
 the charms of Milton. I have a right to abuse my birth-place. 
 Eemember I am a Milton man." 
 
 Mr. Thornton was annoyed more than he ought to have 
 been at all that Mr. Bell was saying. He was not in a mood 
 for joking. At another time, he could have enjoyed Mr. Bell's 
 half testy condemnation of a town where the life was so at 
 variance with every habit he had formed ; but now, he was 
 galled enough to attempt to defend what was never meant to 
 be seriously attacked. 
 
 " I don't set up Milton as a model of a town." 
 
 " Not in architecture ? " slyly asked Mr. Bell. 
 
 " No ! We've been too busy to attend to mere outward 
 appearances." 
 
 " Don't say mere outward appearances," said Mr. Hale, 
 gently. " They impress us all, from childhood upward — every 
 day of our life." 
 
 "Wait a little while," said Mr. Thornton. " Kemember 
 we are of a different race from the Greeks, to whom beauty was 
 everything, and to whom Mr. Bell might speak of a life of 
 leisure and serene enjoyment, much of which entered in through 
 their outward senses. I don't mean to despise them, any more 
 than I would ape them. But I belong to Teutonic blood ; it is 
 little mingled in this part of England to what it is in others ; 
 we retain much of their language ; we retain more of their , 
 spirit ; we do not look upon life as a time for enjoyment, but 
 as a time for action and exertion. Our glory and our beauty 
 arise out of our inward strength, which makes us victorious over 
 
330 NORTH AND SOTJTH. 
 
 material resiBtanoe, and over greater difficulties still. We are 
 Teutonic up here in Darkshire in another way. We hate to 
 have laws made for us at a distance. We wish people would 
 allow us to right ourselves, instead of continuaUy meddling, 
 with their imperfect legislation. We stand up for self-govern- 
 ment, and oppose centralisation." 
 
 " In short, you would like the Heptarchy back again. WeU, 
 at any rate, I revoke what I said this morning — that you Milton 
 people did not reverence the past. You are regular worshippers 
 ofThor." • 
 
 " If we do not reverence the past as you do in Oxford, it is 
 because we want something which can apply to the present 
 more directly. It is fine when the study of the past leads to a 
 prophecy of the future. But to men groping in new circum- 
 stances, it would be finer if the words of experience could direct 
 us how to act in what concerns us most intimately and imme- 
 diately ; which is full of difficulties that must be encountered ; 
 and upon the mode in which they are met and conquered — not 
 merely pushed aside for the time — depends our future. Out of 
 the wisdom of the past, help us over the present. But no ! 
 People can speak of Utopia much more easily than of the next 
 day's duty ; and yet when that duty is all done by others, who 
 so ready to cry, ' Fie, for shame ! ' " 
 
 " And all this time I don't see what you are talking about. 
 Would you Milton men condescend to send up your to-day's 
 difficulty to Oxford ? You have not tried us yet." 
 
 Mr. Thomtofl laughed outright at this. " I believe I was 
 talking with reference to a good deal that has been troubling us 
 of late ; I was thinking of the strikes we have gone through, 
 which are troublesome and injurious things enough, as I am 
 finding to my cost. And yet this last strike, under which I am 
 smarting, has been respectable." 
 
 "A respectable strike!" said Mr. Bell. "That sounds 
 as if you were far gone in the worship of Thor." 
 
 Margaret felt, rather than saw, that Mr. Thornton was 
 chagrined by the repeated turning into jest of what he was 
 feeling as very serious. She tried to change the conversation 
 fi'om a subject about which one party cared little, while, to the 
 other, it was deeply, because personally, interesting. She forced 
 iierself to say something. 
 
 " Edith says she finds the printed calicoes in Corfu better 
 and cheaper than in London." 
 
 "Does she?" said her father. "I think that must 
 
OUT OF TtTNB. 33] 
 
 be one of Edith's exaggerations. Are yon sure of it, 
 Margaret ? " 
 
 " I am snre she says so, papa." 
 
 " Then I am snre of the fact," said Mr. Bell. " Margaret, 
 I go so far in my idea of your truthfulness, that it shall cover 
 your cousin's character. I don't believe a cousin of yours could 
 exaggerate." 
 
 " Is Miss Hale so remarkable for truth ? " said Mr. Thornton, 
 bitterly. The moment he had done so, he could have bitten his 
 tongue out. What was he ? And why should he stab her with 
 her shame in this way? How evil he was to-night ; possessed 
 by ill-humour at being detained so long from her ; irritated by 
 the mention of some name, because he thought it belonged to 
 a more successful lover ; now ill-tempered because he had been 
 nnable to cope, with a light heart, against one who was trying, 
 by gay and careless speeches, to make the evening pass plea- 
 santly away, — ^the kind old friend to all parties, whose manner 
 by this time might be well known to Mr. Thornton, who had 
 been acquainted with him for many years. And then to speak 
 to Margaret as he had done ! She did not get up and leave 
 the room, as she had done in former days, when his abruptness 
 or his temper had annoyed her. She sat quite still, after the 
 first momentary glance of grieved surprise, that made her eyes 
 look like some child's who has met with an unexpected rebuff ; 
 they slowly dilated into mournful, reproachful sadness ; and then 
 they fell, and she bent over her work, and did not speak again. 
 But he could not help looking at her, and he saw a sigh tremble 
 over her body, as if she quivered in some unwonted chill. He 
 felt as the mother would have done, in the midst of " her 
 rooking it, and rating it," had she been called away before her 
 slow confiding smile, implying perfect trust in mother's love, 
 had proved the renewing of its love. He gave short sharp 
 answers ; he was uneasy and cross, unable to discern between 
 jest and earnest ; anxious only for a look, a word of hers, 
 before which to prostrate himself in penitent humility. But 
 she neither looked nor spoke. Her round taper fingers flew in 
 and out of her sewing, as steadily and swiftly as if that were 
 the business of her life. She could not care for him, he thought, 
 or else the passionate fervour of his wish would have forced her 
 to raise those eyes, if but for an instant, to read the late repen- 
 tance in his. He could have struck her before he left, in order 
 that by some strange overt act of rudeness, he might earn the 
 privilege of telling her the remorse that gnawed at his heart. 
 
832 NORTH AKD SOUTH. 
 
 It was well that the long walk in the open air wound up this 
 evening for him. It sobered him back into grave resolution, 
 that henceforth he would see as little of her as possible, — since 
 the very sight of that face and form, the very sounds of that 
 voice (like the soft winds of pure taelody) had such power to 
 move him from his balance. Well ! He had known what love 
 was — a sharp pang, a fierce experience, in the midst of whose 
 flames he was struggling ! but, through that furnace he would 
 fight his way out into the serenity of middle age, — all the richer 
 and more human for having known this great passion. 
 
 When he had somewhat abruptly left the room, Margaret 
 rose from her seat, and began silently to fold up her work. The 
 long seams were heavy, and had an unusual weight for her 
 languid arms. The round lines in her face took a lengthened, 
 Btraighter form, and her whole appearance was that of one who 
 had gone through a day of great fatigue. As the three prepared 
 for bed, Mr. Bell muttered forth a little condemnation of Mr. 
 Thornton. 
 
 " I never saw a fellow so spoiled by success. He can't 
 bear a word ; a jest of any kind. Everything seems to touch 
 on the soreness of his high dignity. Formerly, he was as 
 simple and noble as the open day ; you could not offend him, 
 because he had no vanity." 
 
 " He is not vain now," said Margaret, turning round from 
 the table, and speaking with quiet distinctness. " To-night he 
 has not been like himself. Something must have annoyed him 
 before he came here." 
 
 Mr. Bell gave her one of his sharp glances from above his 
 spectacles. She stood it quite calmly ; but, after she had left 
 the room, he suddenly asked, — 
 
 " Hale ! did it ever strike you that Thornton and your 
 daughter have what the French call a tendresse for each 
 other ? " 
 
 " Never ! " said Mr. Hale, first startled and then flurried 
 by the new idea. " No, I am sure you are wrong. I am almost 
 certain you are mistaken. If there is anything, it is all on Mr. 
 Thornton's side. Poor fellow ! I hope and trust he is not 
 thinking of her, for I am sure she would not have him." 
 
 " Well ! I'm a bachelor, and have steered clear of love 
 affairs all my life ; so perhaps my opinion is not worth having. 
 Or else I should say there were very pretty symptoms about 
 her ! " 
 
 " Then I am sure you are wrong," said Mr. Hale. " He 
 
OUT OF TTOTB. 333 
 
 may care for her, thongh she really has been almost rode to him 
 at times. But she ! — why, Margaret would never think of him, 
 I'm sure. Such a thing has never entered her head." 
 
 " Entering her heart would do. But I merely threw out a 
 suggestion of what might be. I dare say I was wrong. And 
 whether I was wrong or right, I'm very sleepy ; so, having dis- 
 turbed your night's rest (as I can see) with my untimely fancies, 
 I'll betake myself with an easy mind to my own." 
 
 But Mr. Hale resolved that he would not be disturbed by 
 any such nonsensical idea ; so he lay awake, determining not 
 to think about it. 
 
 Mr. Bell took his leave the next day, bidding Margaret look 
 to him as one who had a right to help and protect her in all her 
 troubles, of whatever nature they might be. To Mr. Hale 
 he said, — 
 
 " That Margaret of yours has gone deep into my heart. 
 Take care of her, for she is a very precious creature, — a great 
 deal too good for Milton, — only fit for Oxford, in fact. The 
 town, I mean ; not the men. I can't match her yet. When I 
 can, I shall bring my young man to stand side by side with your 
 young woman, just as the genie in the Arabian Nights brought 
 Prince Caralmazan to match with the fairy's Princess Badoura." 
 
 " I beg you'U do no sach thing. Eemember the misfor- 
 tunes that ensued ; and besides, I can't spare Margaret." 
 
 " No ; on second thoughts, we'll have her to nurse us ten 
 years hence, when we shall be two cross old invalids. Seriously, 
 Hale ! I wish you'd leave Milton ; which is a most unsuitable 
 place for you, though it was my recommendation in the first 
 instance. If you would, I'd swallow my shadows of doubts, 
 and take a college living ; and you and Margaret should come 
 and live at the parsonage — you to be a sort of lay curate, and 
 take the unwashed off my hands ; and she to be our house- 
 keeper — ^the village Lady Bountiful — by day ; and read us to 
 sleep in the evenings. I could be very happy in such a life. 
 What do you think of it ? " 
 
 " Never," said Mr. Hale, decidedly. " My one great 
 change has been made and my price of suffering paid. Here 
 I stay out my life ; and here will I be buried, and lost in the 
 crowd." 
 
 " I- don't give up my plan yet. Only I won't bait you with 
 it any more just now. Where's the Pearl ? Come, Margaret, 
 give me a farewell kiss ; and remember, my dear, where you 
 may find a true Mend, as far as his capability goes. Yoti 
 
334 NOETH AHD SOUTH. 
 
 are my child, Margaret. Remember that, and God hles8 
 yon ! " 
 
 So they fell back into the monotony of the quiet life they 
 would henceforth lead. There was no invalid to hope and fear 
 about ; even the Higginses — so long a vivid interest — seemed 
 to have receded from any need of immediate thought. The 
 Boucher children, left motherless orphans, claimed what of 
 Margaret's care she could bestow ; and she went pretty often 
 to see Mary Higgins, who had charge of them. The two 
 families were living in one house : the elder children were at 
 humble schools, the younger ones were tended, in Mary's 
 absence at her work, by the kind neighbour whose good sense 
 had struck Margaret at the time of Boucher's death. Of course 
 she was paid for her trouble ; and indeed, in all his little 
 plans and arrangements for these orphan children, Nicholas 
 showed a sober judgment, and regulated method of thinking, 
 which were at variance with his former more eccentric jerks of 
 action. He was so steady at his work, that Margaret did not 
 often see him during these winter months ; but when she did, 
 she saw that he winced away from any reference to the father 
 of those children, whom he had so fuUy and heartily taken 
 under his care. He did not speak easily of Mr. Thornton. 
 
 " To tell the truth," said he, " he fairly bamboozles me. 
 He's two chaps. One chap I knowed of old as were measter 
 all o'er. T'other chap hasn't an ounce of measter's flesh 
 about him. How them two chap's is bound up in one body, 
 is a craddy for me to find out. I'U not be beat by it, though. 
 Meanwhile he comes here pretty often ; that's how I know the 
 chap that's a man, not a measter. And I reckon he's taken 
 aback by me pretty much as I am by him ; for he sits and 
 listens and stares, as if I were some strange beast newly caught 
 in some of the zones. But I'm none daunted. It would take 
 a deal to daunt me in my own house, as he sees. And I tell 
 him some of my mind that I reckon he'd ha' been the better of 
 hearing when he were a younger man." 
 
 " And does he not answer yon," asked Mr. Hale. 
 
 " Well ! I'll not say th' advantage is all on his side, for 
 all I take credit for improving him above a bit. Sometimes 
 he says a rough thing or two, which is not agreeable to look 
 at at first, but has a queer smack o' truth in it when yo' come 
 to chew it. He'll be coming to-night, I reckon, about them 
 childer's schooling. He's not satisfied wi' the make of it, and 
 wants for t' examine 'em." 
 
OUT OF Ttras. 885 
 
 " What are they " — ^began Mr. Hale ; but Margaret, 
 (onching his arm, showed him her watch. 
 
 " It is nearly seven," she said. " The evenings are getting 
 longer now. Come, papa." She did not breathe freely tUl 
 they were some distance from the house. Then, as she became 
 more calm, she wished that she had not been in so great a 
 hurry ; for, somehow, they saw Mr. Thornton but very seldom 
 now; and he might have come to see Higgins, and for the 
 old friendship's sake she should like to have seen him to- 
 night. 
 
 Yes ! he came very seldom, even for the dull cold purpose 
 of lessons. Mr. Hale was disappointed in his pupil's luke- 
 warmness about Greek literature, which had but a short time 
 ago so great an interest for him. And now it often happened 
 ihsA a hurried note from Mr. Thornton would arrive, just at 
 the last moment, saying that he was so much engaged that he 
 could not come to read with Mr. Hale that evening. And 
 though other pupils had taken more than his place as to time, 
 no one was like his first scholar in Mr. Hale's heart. He was 
 depressed and sad at this partial cessation of an intercourse 
 which had become dear to him ; and he used to sit pondering 
 over the reason that could have occasioned this change. 
 
 He startled Margaret, one evening as she sate at her work, 
 by suddenly asking : 
 
 " Margaret ! had you ever any reason for thinking that 
 Mr. Thornton cared for you ? " 
 
 He almost blushed as he put this question ; but Mr. Bell's 
 scouted idea recurred to him, and the words were out of his 
 mouth before he well knew what he was about. 
 
 Margaret did not answer immediately ; but by the bent 
 drooping of her head, he guessed what her reply would be. 
 
 "Yes; I believe — oh papa, I should have told you." 
 And she dropped her work, and hid her face in her hands. 
 
 " No, dear ; don't think that I am impertinently curious. 
 I am sure you would have told me if you had felt that you 
 could return his regard. Did he speak to you about it ? " 
 
 No answer at first ; but by-and-by a little gentle rsluctant 
 "Yes." 
 
 " And you refused him ? " 
 
 A long sigh : a more helpless, nerveless attitude, and 
 another " Yes." But before her father could speak, Margaret 
 lifted up her face, rosy with some beautiful shame, and, fixing 
 her eyes upon him, said : 
 
836 NOETH AND SOUTH. 
 
 " Now, papa, I have told you this, and I cannot tell yon 
 more ; and then the whole thing is bo painful to me ; every 
 word and action connected with it is so unspeakably bittei, 
 that I cannot bear to think of it. Oh, papa, I am Sony to 
 have lost you this friend, but I could not help it — ^but oh I I 
 am very sorry." She sate down on the ground, and laid her 
 head on his knees. 
 
 " I too, am sorry, my dear. Mr. Bell quite startled me 
 when he said, some idea of the kind — " 
 
 " Mr. BeU ! Oh did Mr. BeU see it ? " 
 
 " A little ; but he took it into his head that you — ^how 
 shall I say it ? — that you were not ungraciously disposed 
 towards Mr. Thornton. I knew that could never be. I hoped 
 the whole thing was but an imagination ; but I knew too well 
 what your real feelings were to suppose that you could ever 
 like Mr. Thornton in that way. But I am very sorry." 
 
 They were very quiet and still for some minutes. But, 
 on stroking her cheek in a caressing way soon after, he was 
 almost shocked to find her face wet with tears. As he touched 
 her, she sprang up, and smiling with forced brightness, began 
 to talk of the Lennoxes with such a vehement desire to turn 
 the conversation, that Mr. Hale was too tender-hearted to try 
 to force it back into the old channel. 
 
 " To-morrow — yes, to-morrow they wiU be back in Harley 
 Street. Oh, how strange it will be ! I wonder what room 
 they will make into the nursery ? Aunt Shaw wiU be happy 
 with the baby. Fancy Edith a mamma ! And Captain Lennox 
 — I wonder what he will do with himself now he has sold 
 out I " 
 
 "I'll tell you what," said her father, anxious to indulge 
 her in this fresh subject of interest, " I think I must spare you 
 for a fortnight just to run up to town and see the travellers. 
 You could learn more, by half an hour's conversation with Mr. 
 Henry Lennox, about Frederick's chances, than in a dozen 
 of these letters of his ; so it would, in fact, be uniting business 
 with pleasure." 
 
 " No, papa, you cannot spare me, and what's more, I won't 
 be spared." Then after a pause, she added : "I am losing 
 hope sadly about Frederick ; he is letting us down gently, but 
 I can see that Mr. Lennox himself has no hope of hunting up 
 the witnesses nnder years and years of time. No," said 
 she, " that bubble was very pretty, and very dear to our 
 hearts ; but it has burst like many another ; and we must con- 
 
Oirr OF TUNE. 337 
 
 Boie ourselves with being glad that Frederick is so happy, and 
 with being a great deal to each other. So don't offend me by 
 talking of being able to spare me, papa, for I assure you you 
 can't." 
 
 But the idea of a change took root and germinated in 
 Margaret's heart, although not in the way in which her father 
 proposed it at first. She began to consider how desirable 
 something of the kind would be to her father, whose spirits, 
 always feeble, now became too frequently depressed, and 
 whose health, though he never complained, had been seriously 
 affected by his wife's illness and death. There were the regular 
 hours of reading with his pupils, but that all giving and no 
 receiving could no longer be called companionship, as in the 
 old days when Mr. Thornton came to study under him. Mar- 
 garet was conscious of the want uuder which he was suffering, 
 unknown to himself; the want of a man's intercourse with 
 men. At Helstone there had been perpetual occasion for an 
 Interchange of visits with neighbouring clergymen ; and the 
 poor labourers in the fields, or leisurely tramping home at eve, 
 or tending their cattle in the forest, were always at liberty to 
 speak or be spoken to. But in Milton every one was too busy 
 for quiet speech, or any ripened intercourse of thought ; what 
 they said was about business, very present and. actual ; and 
 when the tension of mind relating to their daily affairs was 
 over, they sunk into . fallow rest until next morning. The 
 workman was not to be found after the day's work was done ; 
 he had gone away to some lecture, or some club, or some beer- 
 shop, according to his degree of character. Mr. Hale thought 
 of trying to dehver a course of lectures at some of the insti- 
 tutions, but he contemplated doing this so much as an effort 
 of duty, and with so little of the genial impulse of love towards 
 his work and its end, that Margaret was sure that it would 
 not be well done until he could look upon it with some kind of 
 zest. 
 
 22 
 
( sa8 ) 
 
 CHAPTEE XLI. 
 THE JOTFENEY'S END. 
 
 i Bee my way as birds their trackless way — 
 I shall arrive! what time, what circuit first, 
 I ask not: but unless God send his hail 
 Or blinding fire-balls, sleet, or stifling snow. 
 In some time — his good time — I shall arrive; 
 He guides me and the bird. In His good time! 
 
 Browning's Pakacelsus. 
 
 So the winter was getting on, and the days were beginning to 
 lengthen, without bringing with them any of the brightness of 
 hope which usually accompanies the rays of a February sun. 
 Mrs. Thornton had of course entirely ceased to come to the 
 house. Mr. Thornton came occasionally, but his visits were 
 addressed to her father, and were confined to the study. Mr. 
 Hale spoke of him as always the same ; indeed, the very rarity 
 of their intercourse seemed to make Mr. Hale set only the higher 
 value on it. And from what Margaret could gather of what 
 Mr. Thornton had said, there was nothing in the cessation of 
 his visits which could arise from any umbrage or vexation. 
 His business aflfairs had become complicated during the 
 strike, and required closer attention than he had given to them 
 last winter. Nay, Margaret could even discover that he spoke 
 from time to time of her, and always, as far as she could learn, 
 in the same calm friendly way, never avoiding and never 
 seeking any mention of her name. 
 
 She was not in spirits to raise her father's tone of mind. 
 The dreary peacefalness of the present time had been preceded 
 by so long a period of anxiety and care — even intermixed with 
 storms — that her mind had lost its elasticity. She tried to 
 find herself occupation in teaching the two younger Boucher 
 children, and worked hard at goodness; hard, I say most 
 truly, for her heart seemed dead to the end of all her efforts ; 
 and though she made them punctually and painfully, yet she 
 stood as far off as ever from any cheerfulness ; her life seemed 
 still bleak and dreary. The only thing she did well, was 
 ■what she did out of unconscious piety, the silent comforting 
 and consoling of her father. Not a mood of his but what 
 found a ready sympathiser ia Margaret ; not a wish of his that 
 she did not strive to forecast, and. to falfil. They were quiet 
 
THE JOITRNEY'S FOT). S39 
 
 wishes to be sttre, and hardly named withont hesitation and 
 apology. All the more complete and beautiful was her meek 
 spirit of obedience. March brought the news of Frederick's 
 marriage. He and Dolores wrote ; she in Spanish-English, 
 as was but natural, and he with little turns and inyersions of 
 words which proved how far the idioms of his bride's country 
 were infecting him. 
 
 On the receipt of Henry Lennox's letter, announcing how 
 little hope there was of his ever clearing himself at a court- 
 martial, in the absence of the missing witnesses, Frederick 
 had written to Margaret a pretty vehement letter, containing 
 his renunciation of England as his country ; he wished he could 
 nnnative himself, and declared that he would not take his 
 pardon if it were offered him, nor live in the country if he had 
 permission to do so. All of which made Margaret cry sorely, 
 80 unnatural did it seem to her at the first opening ; but on 
 consideration, she saw rather in such expression the poignancy 
 of the disappointment which had thus crushed his hopes ; and 
 she felt that there was nothing for it but patience. In the 
 next letter Frederick spoke so joyfuUy of the future that he 
 had no thought for the past ; and Margaret found a use in 
 herself for the patience she had been craving for him. She 
 would have to be patient. But the pretty, timid, girlish letters 
 of Dolores were beginning to have a charm for both Margaret 
 and her father. The young Spaniard was so evidently anxious 
 to make a favourable impression upon her lover's English 
 relations, that her feminine care peeped out at every erasure ; 
 and the letters announcing the marriage, were accompanied by 
 a splendid black lace mantiUa, chosen by Dolores herself for 
 her unseen sister-in-law, whom Frederick had represented as a 
 paragon of beauty, wisdom and virtue. Frederick's worldly 
 position was raised by this marriage on to as high a level as 
 they could desire. Barbour and Co. was one of the most 
 extensive Spanish houses, and into it he was received as a 
 junior partner. Margaret smiled a little and then sighed as 
 she remembered afresh her old tirades against trade. Here was 
 her prenx chevalier of a brother turned merchant, trader ! 
 But then she rebelled against herself, and protested silently 
 against the confusion implied between a Spanish merchant and 
 a Milton miUowner. Well, trade or no trade, Frederick 
 was very, very happy. Dolores must be charming, and 
 the mantilla was exquisite ! And then she returned to the 
 present life. 
 
 22—2 
 
340 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 Her father had occasionally experienced a difficulty in 
 breathing this spring, which had for the time distressed him 
 exceedingly. Margaret was less alarmed, as this difficulty 
 went off completely in the intervals ; but she still was so 
 desirous of his shaking off the liability altogether, as to make 
 her very urgent that he should accept Mr. BeU's invitation to 
 visit him at Oxford this April. Mr. Bell's invitation included 
 Margaret. Nay more, he wrote a special letter commanding 
 her to come ; but she felt as if it would be a greater relief to 
 her to remain quietly at home, entirely free from any respon- 
 sibility whatever, and so to rest her mind and heart in a 
 manner which she had not been able to do for more than two 
 years past. 
 
 When her father had driven off on his way to the rail- 
 road, Margaret felt how great and long had been the pressure 
 on her time and her spirits. It was astonishing, almost stun- 
 ning, to feel herself so much at liberty ; no one depending 
 on her for cheering care, if not for positive happiness ; no 
 invalid to plan and think for ; she might be idle, and 
 silent, and forgetful, — and what seemed worth more than 
 aU the other privileges — she might be unhappy if she liked. 
 For months past, all her own personal cares and troubles 
 had had to be stuffed away into a dark cupboard ; but now 
 she had leisure to take them out, and mourn over them, 
 and study their nature, and seek the true method of 
 subduing them into the elements of peace. All these 
 r/eeks she had been conscious of their existence in a dull 
 kind of way, though they were hidden out of sight. Now, 
 once for all she would consider them and appoint to 
 each of them its right work in her Hfe. So she sat almost 
 motionless for hours in the drawing-room, going over 
 the bitterness of every remembrance with an unwincing 
 resolution. Only once she cried aloud, at the stinging 
 thought of the faithlessness which gave birth to that abasing 
 falsehood. 
 
 She now would not even acknowledge the force of the 
 temptation ; her plans for Frederick had all failed, and the 
 temptation lay there a dead mockery, — a mockery which had 
 never had life in it; the lie had been so despicably foolish, seen 
 by the light of the ensuing events, and faith in the power of 
 truth so infinitely the greater wisdom ! 
 
 In her nervous agitation, she unconsciously opened a book 
 of her father's that lay upon the table, — ^the words that 
 
THE JOUENET'S END. 341 
 
 caught her eye in it, seemed ahnoBt made for her present state 
 of acnte self-abasement : — 
 
 " Je ne vondrois pas reprendre mon ccBur en ceste sorte : meurs 
 de honte, avengle, impudent, traiatre et desloyal ilton Dieu, et sembablea 
 choses; maia je voudrois le corriger par Toye de compassion. Or sns, 
 mou panvre coeur, nons voili tombe dana la fosse, laquelle nous avion? 
 tant resolu d' eschapper. Ah I re velons-nous, et quittons-la pour j amals, 
 reclamona la misericorde de Dien, et eaperous en elle qn'elle nous asaistera 
 pour desormaia estre plus fermes j et remettons-nous au chemin de 
 I'humilit^. Courage, soyons meshuy sur nos gardes, Dieu nous aydera." 
 
 " The way of humility. Ah," thought Margaret, " that is 
 what I have missed ! But courage, little heart. We will turn 
 back, and by God's help we may find the lost path." 
 
 So she rose up, and determined at once to set to on some 
 work which should take her out of herself. To begin with, she 
 called La Martha, as she passed the drawing-room door in 
 going up-stairs, and tried to find out what was below the 
 grave, respectful, servant-like manner, which crusted over hei 
 individual character with an obedience that was almost mecha- 
 nical. She found it difficult to induce Martha to speak of any 
 of her personal interests ; but at last she touched the right 
 chord, in naming Mrs. Thornton. Martha's whole face 
 brightened, and, on a little encouragement, out came a long 
 story, of how her father had been in early life connected with 
 Mrs. Thornton's husband — ^nay, had even been in a position to 
 show him some kindness ; what, Martha hardly knew, for it 
 had happened when she was quite a little child ; and circum- 
 stances had intervened to separate the two families until 
 Martha was nearly grown up, when, her father having sunk 
 lower and lower from his original occupation as clerk in a ware- 
 house, and her mother being dead, she and her sister, to use 
 Martha's own expression, would have been "lost" but for Mrs. 
 Thornton ; who sought them out, and thought for them, and 
 cared for them. 
 
 "I had had the fever, and was but delicate; and Mrs. 
 Thornton and Mr. Thornton too, they never rested till they 
 had nursed me up in their own house, and sent me to the sea 
 and all. The doctor said the fever was catching, but they 
 cared none for that — only Miss Fanny, and she went a-visiting 
 these folk that she is going to marry into. So though she 
 was afraid at the time, it has all ended well." 
 
 " Miss Fanny going to be married ! " exclaimed Margaret. 
 
 " Yes; and to a rich gentleman, too, only he's a deal older 
 
342 NOETH AND SOUTH. 
 
 than she is. His name is Watson ; and his mills are some- 
 where oat beyond Hayleigh ; it's a very good marriage, for all 
 he's got such gray hair." 
 
 At this piece of information, Margaret was silent long 
 enough for Martha to recover her propriety, and, with it, her 
 habitual shortness of answer. She swept up the hearth, asked 
 at what time she should prepare tea, and quitted the room 
 with the same wooden face with which she had entered it. 
 Margaret had to pull herself up from indulging a bad trict , 
 which she had lately fallen into, of trying to imagine how eveiy 
 event that she heard of in relation to Mr. Thornton would 
 affect him : whether he would like it or disHke it. 
 
 The next day she had the little Boucher children for their 
 lessons, and took a long walk, and ended by a visit to Mary 
 Higgins. Somewhat to Margaret's surprise, she found Nicholas 
 already come home from his work ; the lengthening light had 
 deceived her as to the lateness of the evening. He too seemed> 
 by his manners, to have entered a little more on the way of 
 humility ; he was quieter, and less self-asserting. 
 
 " So th' oud gentleman's away on his travels, is he ? " said 
 he. "Little 'uns tolled me so. Eh ! but the're sharp 'uns 
 they are ; I a'most think they beat my own wenches for 
 sharpness, though mappen it's wrong to say so, and one on 
 'em in her grave. There's summut in th' weather, I reckon, 
 as sets folk a-wandering. My measter, him at th' shop yonder, 
 is spinning about th' world somewhere." 
 
 "Is that the reason you're so soon at home to-night?" 
 asked Margaret innocently. 
 
 " Thou know'st nought about it, that's all," said he, con- 
 temptuously. " I'm not one wi' two faces — one for my measter, 
 and t'other for his back. I counted a' th' clocks in the town 
 striking afore I'd leave my work. No ! yon Thornton's good 
 enough for to fight wi', but too good for to be cheated. It were 
 you as getten me the place, and I thank yo' for it. Thornton's 
 is not" a bad mill, as times go. Stand down, lad, and say yo'r 
 pretty hymn to Miss Marget. That's right; steady on thy 
 legs, and right arm out as straight as a skewer. One to stop, 
 two to stay, three mak' ready, and four away ! ' ' 
 
 The little fellow repeated a Methodist hymn, far above his 
 comprehension in point of language, but of which the swinging 
 rhythm had caught his ear, and which he repeated with all the 
 developed cadence of a member of parliament. When Margaret 
 had duly applauded, Nicholas called for another, and yet 
 
THE JOUENET'S END. 343 
 
 another, mncli to her surprise, as she found him thus oddly 
 and unconsciously led to take an interest in the sacred things 
 which he had formerly scouted. 
 
 It was past the usual tea-time when she reached home ; 
 but she had the comfort of feeling that no one had been kept 
 waiting for her ; and of thinking her own thoughts while she 
 rested, instead of anxiously watching another person to learn 
 whether to be grave or gay. After tea she resolved to examine 
 a large packet of letters, and pick out those that were to be 
 destroyed. 
 
 Among them she came to four or five of Mr. Henry Lennox's, 
 relating to Frederick's affairs ; and she carefully read them over 
 again, with the sole intention, when she began, to ascertain 
 exactly on how fine a chance the justification of her brother 
 hung. But when she had finished the last, and weighed the 
 pros and cons, the little personal revelation of character con- 
 tained in them forced itself on her notice. It was evident 
 enough, fi:om the stiffness of the wording, that Mr. Lennox had 
 never forgotten his relation to her in any interest he might feel 
 in the subject of the correspondence. They were clever letters ; 
 Margaret saw that in a twinkling ; but she missed out of them 
 all hearty and genial atmosphere. They were to be preserved, 
 however, as valuable ; so she laid them carefully on one side. 
 When this little piece of business was ended, she fell into a 
 reverie ; and the thought of her absent father ran strangely in 
 Margaret's head this night. She almost blamed herself for 
 having felt her solitude (and consequently his absence) as a 
 relief; but these two days had set her up afiresh, with new 
 strength and brighter hope. Plans which had lately appeared 
 to her in the guise of tasks, now appeared like pleasures. The 
 morbid scales had fallen from her eyes, and she saw her position 
 and her work more truly. If only Mr. Thornton would restore 
 her the lost friendship, — ^nay, if he would only come from time 
 to time to cheer her father as in former days, — though she 
 should never see him, she felt as if the course of her future life, 
 though not brilliant in prospect, might lie clear and even before 
 her. She sighed as she rose up to go to bed. In spite of the 
 " One step's enough for me," — in spite of the one plain duty 
 of devotion to her father, — there lay at her heart an anxiety 
 and a pang of sorrow. 
 
 And Mr. Hale thought of Margaret, that April evening, just 
 as strangely and as persistently as she was thinking of him. 
 He had been fatigued by going about among his old Mends and 
 
844 NOETH AND SOUTH. 
 
 old familiar places. He had had exaggerated ideas of the 
 change which his altered opinions might make in his friends' 
 reception of him ; but although some of them might have felt 
 shocked or grieved, or indignant at his falling off in the abstract, 
 as soon as they saw the face of the man whom they had once 
 loved, they forgot his opinions in himself; or only remembered 
 them enough to give an additional tender gravity to their 
 manner. For Mr. Hale had not been known to many ; he had 
 belonged to one of the smaller colleges, and had always been 
 shy and reserved ; but those who in youth had cared to pene- 
 trate to the delicacy of thought and feeling that lay below his 
 silence and indecision, took him to their hearts, with something 
 of the protecting kindness which they would have shown to a 
 woman. And the renewal of this kindliness, after the lapse of 
 years, and an interval of so much change, overpowered him 
 more than any roughness or expression of disapproval could 
 have done. 
 
 "I'm afraid we've done too much," said Mr. Bell. 
 " You're suffering now from having lived so long in that 
 Milton air." 
 
 " I am tired," said Mr. Hale. " But it is not Milton air. 
 I'm fifty-five years of age, and that little fact of itself accounts 
 for any loss of strength." 
 
 " Nonsense ! I'm upwards of sixty, and feel no loss of 
 strength, either bodily or mental. Don't let me hear you 
 talking so. Fifty-five ! why, you're quite a young man." 
 
 Mr. Hale shook his head. " These last few years ! " said 
 he. But after a minute's pause, he raised himself from his 
 half recumbent position, in one of Mr. Bell's luxurious easy- 
 chairs, and said with a kind of trembling earnestness : 
 
 " Bell ! you're not to think, that if I could have foreseen 
 all that would come of my change of opinion, and my resignation 
 of my living — no ! not even if I could have known how she 
 would have suffered, — ^that I would undo it — the act of open 
 acknowledgment that I no longer held the same faith as the 
 church in which I was a priest. As I think now, even if I 
 could have foreseen that cruellest martyrdom of suffering, 
 through the sufferings of one whom I loved, I would have done 
 just the same as far as that step of openly leaving the church 
 went. I might have done differeniSy, and acted more wisely, 
 in all that I subsequently did for my family. But I don't think 
 God endued me with over-much wisdom or strength," he added, 
 falling back into his old position. 
 
THE JOURNET'S end. 345 
 
 Mr. Bell blew his nose ostentatiously before answeringa 
 Then he said : 
 
 " He gave yon strength to do what your conscience told you 
 was right ; and I don't see that we need any higher or holier 
 strength than that ; or wisdom either. I know I have not that 
 much ; and yet men set me down in their fool's books as a wise 
 man ; an independent character ; strong-minded, and all that 
 cant. The veriest idiot who obeys his own simple law of right, 
 if it be but in wiping his shoes on a door-mat, is wiser and 
 stronger than I. But what gulls men are ! " 
 
 There was a pause. Mr. Hale spoke first, in continuation 
 of his thought : 
 
 " About Margaret." 
 
 "Well! about Margaret, What then?" 
 
 " If I die " 
 
 "Nonsense I " 
 
 " What will become of her — I often think ? I suppose the 
 Lennoxes will ask her to live with them. I try to think they 
 will. Her aunt Shaw loved her well in her own quiet way ; but 
 she forgets to love the absent." 
 
 "A very common fault. What sort of people are the 
 Lennoxes ? " 
 
 " He, handsome, fluent, and agreeable. Edith, a sweet 
 little spoiled beauty. Margaret loves her with all her heart, 
 and Edith with as much of her heart as she can spare." 
 
 " Now, Hale; you know that girl of yours has got pretty 
 nearly all my heart. I told you that before. Of course, as 
 your daughter, as my god-daughter, I took great interest in her 
 before I saw her the last time. But this visit that I paid to 
 you at Milton made me her slave. I went, a willing old victim, 
 following the car of the conqueror. For, indeed, she looks as 
 grand and serene as one who has struggled, and may be strug- 
 gling, and yet has the victory secure in sight. Yes, in spite of 
 all her present anxieties, that was the look on her face. And 
 so, aU I have is at her service, if she needs it ; and will be 
 hers, whether she will or no, when I die. Moreover, I myself, 
 will be her preux chevalier, sixty and gouty though I be. 
 Seriously, old friend, your daughter shall be my principal charge 
 in life, and all the help that either my wit or my wisdom or my 
 willing heart can give, shall be hers. I don't choose her out 
 as a subject for fretting. Something, I know of old, you must 
 have to worry yourself about, or you wouldn't be happy. But 
 you're going to outlive me by many a long year. You, spare. 
 
346 NOKTH AOT) SOUTH. 
 
 thin men are always tempting and always cheating Death I It's 
 the stout, florid fellows like me, that always go off first." 
 
 If Mr. Bell had had a prophetic eye he might have seen 
 the torch all but inverted, and the angel with the grav6_ and 
 composed face standing very nigh, beckoning to his friend. 
 That night Mr. Hale laid his head down on the pillow on which 
 it never more should stir with life. The servant who entered 
 his room in the morning, received no answer to his speech ; 
 drew near the bed, and saw the calm, beautifal face lying white 
 and cold under the ineffaceable seal of death. The attitude was 
 exquisitely easy ; there had been no pain — no struggle. The 
 action of the heart must have ceased as he lay down. 
 
 Mr. Bell was stunned by the shock ; and only recovered 
 when the time came for being angry at every suggestion of his 
 man's. 
 
 " A coroner's inquest ? Pooh. You don't think I poisoned 
 him ! Dr. Forbes says it is just the natural end of a heart 
 complaint. Poor old Hale ! You wore out that tender heart 
 of yours before its time. Poor old friend ! how he talked of 
 
 his Wallis, pack up a carpet-bag for me in five minutes. 
 
 Here have I been talking. Pack it up, I say. I must go to 
 MUton by the next train." 
 
 The bag was packed, the cab ordered, the railway reached, 
 in twenty minutes fi'om the time of this decision. The 
 London train whizzed by, drew back some yards, and in Mr. 
 Bell was hurried by the impatient guard. He threw himself 
 back in his seat, to try, with closed eyes, to understand how one 
 in life yesterday could be dead to-day ; and shortly tears stole 
 out between his grizzled eye-lashes, at the feeling of which he 
 opened his keen eyes, and looked as severely cheerful as his 
 set determination could make him. He was not going to 
 blubber before a set of strangers. Not he ! 
 
 There was no set of strangers, only one sitting far from 
 him on the same side. By-and-by Mr. Bell peered at him, 
 to discover what manner of man it was that might have been 
 observing his emotion ; and behind the great sheet of the 
 outspread " Times," he recognized Mr. Thornton. 
 
 " Why, Thornton ! is that you ? " said he, removing hastily 
 to a closer proximity. He shook Mr. Thornton vehemently by 
 the hand, until the gripe ended in a, sudden relaxation, for the 
 hand was wanted to wipe away tears. He had last seen Mr. 
 Thornton in his friend Hale's company. 
 
 " I'm going to Milton, bound on a melancholy errand. 
 
THE JOURNEY'S END. 347 
 
 Going to break to Hale's daughter the news of his sadden 
 death ! " 
 
 "Death! Mr. Hale dead ! " 
 
 "Ay; I keep saying it to myself, 'Hale is dead!' but it 
 doesn't make it any the more real. Hale is dead for all that. 
 He went to bed well, to all appearance, last night, and was 
 quite cold this morning when my servant went to call him." 
 
 " Where ? I don't understand ! " 
 
 " At Oxford. He came to stay with me; hadn't been in 
 Oxford this seventeen years — and this is the end of it." 
 
 Not one word was spoken for above a quarter of an hour. 
 Then Mr. Thornton said : 
 
 " And she 1 " and stopped full short. 
 
 " Margaret you mean. Yes ! I am going to tell her. 
 Poor fellow ! how fall his thoughts were of her all last night ! 
 Good God I Last night only. And how immeasurably dis- 
 tant he is now ! But I take Margaret as my child for his 
 sake. I said last night I would take her for her own sake. 
 Well, I take her for both." 
 
 Mr. Thornton made one or two fruitless attempts to speak, 
 before he could get out the words : 
 
 " What will become of her ? " 
 
 " I rather fancy there will be two people waiting for her : 
 myself for one. I would take a live dragon into my house to 
 live, if, by hiring such a chaperon, and setting up an establish- 
 ment of my own, I could make my old age happy with having 
 Margaret for a daughter. But there are those Lennoxes ! " 
 
 " Who are they ? " asked Mr. Thornton with trembling 
 interest. 
 
 " Oh, smart London people, who very likely will think 
 they've the best right to her. Captain Lennox married her 
 cousin — the girl she was brought up with. Good enough 
 people, I dare say. And there's her aunt, Mrs. Shaw. There 
 might be a way open, perhaps, by my offering to marry that 
 worthy lady 1 but that would be quite a pis aller. And then 
 there's that brother ! " 
 
 " What brother ? A brother of her aunt's ? " 
 
 " No, no ; a clever Lennox (the captain's a fool, you must 
 understand) ; a young barrister, who will be setting has cap at 
 Margaret. I know he has had her in his mind this five years 
 or more ; one of his chums told me as much ; and he was only 
 kept back by her want of fortune. Now that will be done 
 away with." 
 
348 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 " How ? " asked Mr. Thornton, too earnestly curious to be 
 aware of the impertinence of his question. 
 
 " Why, she'll have my money at my death. And if this 
 Henry Lennox is half good enough for her, and she likes him 
 — well ! I might find another way of getting a home through a 
 marriage. I'm dreadfully afraid of being tempted, at an 
 unguarded moment, by the aunt." 
 
 Neither Mr. Bell nor Mr. Thornton was in a laughing 
 humour ; so the oddity of any of the speeches which the former 
 made was unnoticed by them. Mr. BeU whistled, without 
 emitting any sound beyond a long hissing breath ; changed his 
 eeat, without finding comfort or rest ; while Mr. Thornton sat 
 immoveably still, his eyes fixed on one spot in the newspaper, 
 which he had taken up in order to give himself leisure to 
 think. 
 
 " Where have you been ? " asked Mr. Bell, at length. 
 
 " To Havre. Trying to detect the secret of the great rise 
 in the price of cotton." 
 
 " Ugh ! Cotton, and speculations, and smoke, well- 
 cleansed and well-cared-for machinery, and unwashed and 
 neglected hands. Poor old Hale ! Poor old Hale ! If you 
 could have known the change which it was to him from Hel- 
 etone. Do you know the New Forest at aU ?" 
 
 "Yes." (Very shortly.) 
 
 " Then you can fancy the difference between it and MUton. 
 What part were you in ? Were you ever at Helstone ? a little 
 picturesque village, like some in the Odenwald ? You know 
 Helstone ? " 
 
 " I have seen it. It was a great change to leave it and 
 come to Milton." 
 
 He took up his newspaper with a determined air, as if 
 resolved to avoid further conversation ; and Mr. Bell was fain 
 to resort to his former occupation of trying to find out how he 
 could best break the news to Margaret. 
 
 She was at an upstairs window ; she saw him alight ; she 
 guessed the truth with an instinctive flash. She stood in the 
 middle of the drawing-room, as if arrested in her first impulse 
 to rush downstairs, and as if by the same restraining thought 
 8b« had been turned to stone ; so white and immoveable was 
 she. 
 
 " Oh ! don't tell me ! I know it irom your face ! Yon 
 would have sent — you would not have left him — if he were 
 alive I Oh, papa, papa ! " 
 
( 349 ) 
 
 CHAPTER XLE. 
 
 ALDNE ! ALONE ! 
 
 "• When some beloved voice that was to you 
 Both sound and sweetness, f aileth suddenly, 
 And silence, against which you dare not cry, 
 Aches round yon like a strong disease and new, — 
 What hope ? what help f what music will undo 
 That silence to your sense ? " 
 
 MbE. BBOWNIHtf. 
 
 Thb shock had been great. Margaret fell into a state of 
 prostration, which did not show itself in sobs and tears, or 
 even find the relief of words. She lay on the sofa with her 
 eyes shut, never speaking but when spoken to, and then 
 replying in whispers. Mr. Bell was perplexed. He dared not 
 leave her ; he dared not ask her to accompany him back to 
 Oxford, which had been one of the plans he had formed on 
 the journey to Milton, her physical exhaustion was evidently too 
 complete for her to undertake any such fatigue — putting the 
 sight that she would have to encounter out of the question. 
 Mi. Bell sate over the fire, considering what he had better do. 
 Margaret lay motionless, and almost breathless by him. He 
 would not leave her, even for the dinner which Dixon had pre- 
 pared for him downstairs, and, with sobbing hospitality, would 
 fain have tempted him to eat. He had a plateful of something 
 brought up to him. In general, he was particular and dainty 
 enough, and knew well each shade of flavour in his food, but 
 now the devilled chicken tasted like sawdust. He mineed up 
 some of the fowl for Margaret, and peppered and salted it well ; 
 but when Dixon, following his directions, tried to feed her, the 
 languid shake of head, proved that in such a state as Margaret 
 was in, food would only choke, not nourish her. 
 
 Mr. Bell gave a great sigh ; lifted up his stout old limbs 
 (stiff with travelling) from their easy position, and followed 
 Dixon out of the room. 
 
 " I can't leave her. • I must write to them at Oxford, to 
 see that the preparations are made : they can be getting on 
 with these till I arrive. Can't Mrs. Lennox come to her ? 
 I'll write and tell her she must. The girl must have some 
 
850 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 woman-friend about her, if only to talk her into a good fit of 
 crying." 
 
 Dixon was crying — enough for two ; bnt, after wiping her 
 eyes and steadying her voice, she managed to tell Mr. Bell, 
 that Mrs. Lennox was too near her confinement to be able to 
 undertake any journey at present. 
 
 " Well ! I suppose we must have Mrs. Shaw ; she's 
 come back to England, isn't she ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir, she's come back; but I don't think she will 
 hke to leave Mrs. Lennox at such an interesting time," said 
 Dixon, who did not much approve of a stranger entering the 
 household, to share with her in her nding care of Margaret. 
 
 " Interesting time be ." Mr. Bell restricted himself 
 
 to coughing over the end of his sentence. " She could be con- 
 tent to be at Venice or Naples, or some of those Popish places, 
 at the last ' interesting time,' which took place in Corfa, I 
 think. And what does that little prosperous woman's ' inter- 
 esting time ' signify, in comparison with that poor creature 
 there, — that helpless, homeless, friendless, Margaret — lying as 
 still on that sofa as if it were an altar-tomb, and she the stone 
 statue on it. I tell you, Mrs. Shaw shall come. See that a 
 room, or whatever she wants, is got ready for her by to-morrow 
 night. I'll take care she comes." 
 
 Accordingly Mr. Bell wrote a letter, which Mrs. Shaw 
 declared, with many tears, to be so like one of the dear 
 general's when he was going to have a fit of the gout, that she 
 should always value and preserve it. If he had given her the 
 option, by requesting or urging her, as if a refusal were possible, 
 she might not have come — true and sincere as was her sym- 
 pathy with Margaret. It needed the sharp uncourteous com- 
 mand to make her conquer her vis inertise, and allow herself 
 to be packed by her maid, after the latter had completed the 
 boxes. Edith, all cap, shawl, and tears, came out to the top 
 of the stairs, as Captain Lennox was taking her mother down 
 to the carriage : 
 
 " Don't forget, mamma ; Margaret must come and live 
 with us. Sholto will go to Oxford on Wednesday, and yon 
 must send word by Mr. Bell to him when we're to expect you. 
 And if you want Sholto, he can go on from Oxford to Milton. 
 Don't forget, mamma; you are to briijg back Margaret." 
 
 Edith re-entered the drawing-room. Mr. Henry Lennox 
 was there, cutting open the pages of a new Eeview. Without 
 lifting his head, he said, " If you don't like Sholto to be so 
 
AhOSE ! ALONE ! 851 
 
 long absent from you, Edith, I hope you will let me go down 
 to Milton, and give what assistance I can." 
 
 " Oh, thank you," said Edith, " I dare say old Mr. Bell 
 will do everything he can, and more help may not be needed. 
 Only one does not look for much savoir-faire from a resident 
 Fellow. Dear, darling Margaret ; won't it be nice to have her 
 here, again ? You were both great allies, years ago." 
 
 " Were we ? " asked he indifferently, with an appearance 
 of being interested in a passage in the Keview. 
 
 " Well, perhaps not — I forget. I was so full of Sholto. 
 But doesn't it fall out well, that if my uncle was to die, it 
 should be just now, when we are come home, and settled in 
 the old house, and quite ready to receive Margaret ? Poor 
 thing ! what a change it will be to her from Milton ! I'll have 
 new chintz for her bed-room, and make it look new and bright, 
 and cheer her up a little." 
 
 In the same spirit of kindness, Mrs. Shaw journeyed to 
 Milton, occasionally dreading the first meeting, and wondering 
 how it would be got over ; but more frequently planning how 
 Boon she could get Margaret away from " that horrid place," 
 and back into the pleasant comforts of Harley Street. 
 
 " Oh dear ! " she said to her maid ; " look at those 
 chimneys ! My poor sister Hale ! I don't think I could have 
 rested at Naples, if I had known what it was ! I must have 
 come and fetched her and Margaret away." And to herself 
 she acknowledged, that she had always thought her brother-in- 
 law rather a weak man, but never so weak as now, when she 
 saw for what a place he had exchanged the lovely Helstone 
 home. 
 
 Margaret had remained in the same state ; white, motion- 
 less, speechless, tearless. They had told her that her aunt 
 Shaw was coming ; but she had not expressed either surprise 
 or pleasure, or dislike to the idea. Mr. Bell, whose appetite 
 had returned, and who appreciated Dixon's endeavours to 
 gratify it, in vain urged upon her to taste some sweetbreads 
 stewed with oysters ; she shook her head with the same quiet 
 obstinacy as on the previous day ; and he was obliged to con- 
 sole himself for her rejection, by eating them all himself. But 
 Margaret was the first to hear the stopping of the cab that 
 brought her aunt from the railway station. Her eyelids 
 quivered, her lips coloured and trembled. Mr. Bell went down 
 to meet Mrs. Shaw ; and when they came up, Margaret was 
 standing, tr^ng to steady her dizzy self ; and when she saw 
 
352 NOETH AHD SOXJTH. 
 
 her aunt, she went forward to the arms open to receive her, 
 and first found the passionate relief of tears on her aunt's 
 shoulder. All thoughts of quiet habitual love, of tenderness 
 for years, of relationship to the dead, — all that inexplicable 
 likeness in look, tone, and gesture, that seem to belong to one 
 family, and which reminded Margaret so forcibly at this mo- 
 ment of her mother, — came in to melt and soften her numbed 
 heart into the overflow of warm tears. 
 
 Mr. Bell stole out of the room, and went down into the 
 study, where he ordered a fire, and tried to divert his thoughts 
 by taking down and examining the different books. Each 
 volume brought a remembrance or a suggestion of his dead 
 friend. It might be a change of employment fi:om his two 
 days' work of watching Margaret, but it was no change of 
 thought. He was glad to catch the sound of Mr. Thornton's 
 voice, making enquiry at the door. Dixon was rather cavalierly 
 dismissing him ; for with the appearance of Mrs. Shaw's maid, 
 came visions of former grandeur, of the Beresford blood, of the 
 " station " (so she was pleased to term it) from which her 
 young lady had been ousted, and to which she was now, please 
 God, to be restored. These visions, which she had been dwelling 
 on with complacency in her conversation with Mrs. Shaw's 
 maid (skilfully eliciting meanwhile aU the circumstances of 
 state and consequence connected with the Harley Street estab- 
 lishment, for the edification of the listening Martha), made 
 Dixon rather inclined to be supercilious in her treatment of 
 any inhabitant of Milton ; so, though she always stood rather 
 in awe of Mr. Thornton, she was as curt as she durst be in 
 telling him that he could see none of the inmates of the house 
 that night. It was rather uncomfortable to be contradicted in 
 her statement by Mr. Bell's opening the study-door, and calling 
 out: 
 
 " Thornton ! is that you ? Come in for a minute or two ; 
 I want to speak to you." So Mr. Thornton went into the 
 study, and Dixon had to retreat into the kitchen, and reinstate 
 herself in her own esteem by a prodigious story of Sir John 
 Beresford's coach and six, when he was high sheriff. 
 
 " I don't know what I wanted to say to you after all. Only 
 it's dull enough to sit in a room where everything speaks to 
 you of a dead friend. Yet Margaret and her aunt must have 
 the drawing-room to themselves ! " 
 
 " Is Mrs. — is her aunt come ? " asked Mr. Thornton. 
 
 " Come ? Yes 1 maid and all. One would have thought 
 
ALONE ! ALONE ! 353 
 
 she might have come by herself at such a time ! And now I 
 shall have to turn out and find my way to the Clarendon." 
 
 " You must not go to the Clarendon. We have five or sis 
 empty bed-rooms at home." 
 
 " Well aired ? " 
 
 " I think you may trust my mother for that." 
 
 " Then I'll only run up- stairs and wish that wan girl good- 
 night, and make my bow to her aunt, and go off with you 
 straight." 
 
 Mr. Bell was some time up-stairs. Mr. Thornton began to 
 think it long, for he was full of business, and had hardly been 
 able to spare the time for running np to Crampton, and en- 
 quiring how Miss Hale was. 
 
 Wten they had set out upon their walk, Mr. Bell said : 
 
 " I was kept by those women in the drawing-room, 
 Mrs. Shaw is anxious to get home — on account of her daugb 
 ter, she says — and wants Margaret to go off with her at once, 
 Now she is no more fit for travelling than I am for flying, 
 Besides, she says, and very justly, that she has friends she 
 must see — that she must wish good-bye to several people ; and 
 then her aunt worried her about old claims, and was she for- 
 getful of old Mends ? And she said, with a great burst of 
 crying, she should be glad enough to go from a place where 
 she had suffered so much. Now I must return to Oxford to- 
 morrow, and I don't know on which side of the scale to throw 
 in my voice." 
 
 He paused, as if asking a question ; but he received no 
 answer from Ms companion, the echo of whose thoughts kept 
 repeating — 
 
 " Where she had suffered so much." Alas ! and that was 
 the way in which this eighteen months in Milton — to him so 
 unspeakably precious, down to its very bitterness, which was 
 worth all tiie rest of life's sweetness — ^would be remembered. 
 Neither loss of father, nor loss of mother, dear as she was to 
 Mr. Thornton, could have poisoned the remembrance of the 
 weeks, the days, the hours, when a walk of two miles, every 
 step of which was pleasant, as it brought him nearer and nearer 
 to her, took bitn to her sweet presence — every step of which 
 was rich, as each recurring moment that bore him away fi:om 
 her made him recal some fresh grace in her demeanour, or 
 pleasant pungency in her character. Yes 1 whatever had hap- 
 pened to him, external to his relation to her, he could never 
 have spoken of that time, when he could have seen her every 
 
 23 
 
854 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 day — ^when he had her within his grasp, as it were — ^as a time 
 of suffering. It had been a royal time of luxury to him, with 
 all its stings and contumelies, compared to the poverty that 
 crept round and clipped the anticipation of the future down to 
 sordid fact, and life without an atmosphere of either hope or 
 fear. 
 
 Mrs. Thornton and Fanny were in the dining-room ; the 
 latter in a flutter of small exultation, as the maid held up one 
 glossy material after another, to try the effect of the wedding- 
 dresses by candlelight. Her mother really tried to sympathise 
 with her, but could not. Neither taste nor dress were in her 
 line of subjects, and she heartUy wished that Fanny had 
 accepted her brother's offer of haying the wedding clothes 
 provided by some first-rate London dressmaker, without the 
 endless troublesome discussions, and unsettled wavering, that 
 arose out of Fanny's desire to choose and superintend every- 
 thing herself. Mr. Thornton was only too glad to mark lus 
 grateful approbation of any sensible man, who could be capti- 
 vated by Fanny's second-rate airs and graces, by giving her 
 ample means for providing herself with the finery, which 
 certainly rivalled, if it did not exceed, the lover in her estima- 
 tion. When her brother and Mr. Bell came in, Fanny blushed 
 and simpered, and fluttered over the signs of her employment, 
 in a way which could not have failed to draw attention fi-om 
 any one else but Mr. Bell. If he thought about her and her 
 silks and satins at all, it was to compare her and them with 
 the pale sorrow he had left behind him, sitting motionless, with 
 bent head and folded hands, in a room where the stillness was 
 BO great that you might almost fancy the i-ush in your strainmg 
 ears was occasioned by the spirits of the dead, yet hovering 
 round their beloved. For, when Mr. Bell had first gone up- 
 stairs, Mrs. Shaw lay asleep on the sofa ; and no sound broke 
 the silence. 
 
 Mrs. Thornton gave Mr. Bell her formal, hospitable, wel- 
 come. She was never so gracious as when receiving her son's 
 friends in her son's house; and the more unexpected they 
 were, the more honour to her admirable housekeeping prepara- 
 tions for comfort. 
 
 " How is Miss Hale ? " she asked. 
 
 " About as broken down by this last stroke as she can be." 
 
 " I am sure it is very well for her that she has such a 
 friend as yon." 
 
 " I wish I were her only friend, madam, I daresay it 
 
AliONE ! ALONE ! 355 
 
 aounds very brutal; but here have I been displaced, and 
 turned out of my post of comforter and adviser by a fine lady 
 aunt ; and there are cousins and what not claiming her in 
 London, as if she were a lap-dog belonging to them. And she 
 is too weak and miserable to have a will of her own." 
 
 '' She must indeed be weak," said Mrs. Thornton, with an 
 implied meaning which her son understood well. " But where," 
 continued Mrs. Thornton, " have these relations been all this 
 time that Miss Hale has appeared almost friendless, and has 
 certainly had a good deal of anxiety to bear ? " But she did 
 not feel interest enough in the answer to her question to 
 wait for it. She left the room to make her household arrange- 
 ments. 
 
 " They have been living abroad. They have some kind of 
 claim upon her. I will do them that justice. The aunt 
 brought her up, and she and the cousin have been like sisters. 
 The thing vexing me, you see, is that I wanted to take her for 
 a child of my own ; and I am jealous of these people, who 
 don't seem to value the privilege of their right. Now it would 
 be different if Frederick claimed her." 
 
 " Frederick 1 " exclaimed Mr. Thornton. " Who is he ? 
 What right — ? " He stopped short in his vehement question. 
 
 " Frederick," said Mr. Bell in surprise. " Why don't you 
 know ? He's her brother. Have you not heard — " 
 
 " I never heard his name before. Where is he ? Who 
 is he ? " 
 
 " Surely I told you about him, when the family first came 
 to Milton — the son who was concerned in that mutiny." 
 
 " I never heard of him till this moment. Where does he 
 live?" 
 
 " In Spain. He's liable to be arrested the moment he sets 
 foot on English ground. Poor fellow ! he wiU grieve at not 
 being able to attend his father's funeral. We must be content 
 ■with Captain Lennox ; for I don't know of any other relation 
 to summon." 
 
 " I hope I may be aJIowed to go ? " 
 
 " Certainly ; thankfully. You're a good fellow, after all, 
 Thornton. Hale liked you. He spoke to me, only the other 
 day, about yon at Oxford. He regretted he had seen so little 
 of yon lately. I am obliged to you for wishing to show him 
 respect." 
 
 " But about Frederick. Does he never come to England ? " 
 
 " Never." 
 
 23—2 
 
356 NOETH AND SOUTH. 
 
 "He was not over here about the time of Mrs. Hale's 
 death ? " 
 
 " No. "Why, I was here then. I hadn't seen Hale for 
 years and years : and, if you remember, I came — No, it was 
 some time after that that I came. But poor Frederick Hale 
 was not here then. What made you think he was ? " 
 
 " I saw a young man walking with Miss Hale one day," 
 replied Mr. Thornton, " and I thmk it was about that time." 
 
 " Oh, that would be this young Lennox, the Captain's 
 brother. He's a lawyer, and they were in pretty constant 
 correspondence with him ; and I remember Mr. Hale told me 
 he thought he would come down. Do yon know," said Mr. 
 Bell, wheeling round, and shutting one eye, the better to bring 
 the forces of the other to bear with keen scrutiny on Mr. 
 Thornton's face, " that I once fancied you had a little tender- 
 ness for Margaret? " 
 
 No answer. No change of countenance. 
 
 "And so did poor Hale. Not at first, and not till I had 
 put it into his head." 
 
 " I admired Miss Hale. Every one must do so. She is 
 a beautiful creature," said Mr. Thornton, driven to bay by 
 Mr. Bell's pertinacious questioning. 
 
 "Is that all! You can speak of her in that measured 
 way, as simply a ' beautiful creature ' — only something to catch 
 the eye. I did hope you had had nobleness enough in you to 
 make you pay her the homage of the heart. Though I 
 believe — in fact I know, she would have rejected you, still to 
 have loved her without return would have lifted you higher 
 than all those, be they who they may, that have ever known 
 her to love. ' Beautiful creature ' indeed I Do you speak of 
 her as you would of a horse or a dog ? " 
 
 Mr. Thornton's eyes glowed like red embers. 
 
 " Mr. Bell," said he, " before you speak so, you should 
 remember that all men are not as free to express what they feel 
 as you are. Let us talk of something else." For though his 
 heart leaped up, as at a trumpet-call, to every word that Mr. 
 Bell had said, and though he knew that what he had said would 
 henceforward bind the thought of the old Oxford Fellow closely 
 np with the most precious things of his heart, yet he would 
 not be forced into any expression of what he felt towards Mar- 
 garet. He was no mocking-bird of praise to try, because 
 another extolled what he reverenced and passionately loved, to 
 outdo him in laudation. So he turned to some of the dry 
 
ALONE ! ALONE ! 357 
 
 matters of business that lay between Mr. Bell and him, as 
 landlord and tenant. 
 
 " What is that heap of brick and mortar we came against 
 in the yard ? Any repairs wanted ? " 
 
 " No, none, thank you." 
 
 " Are you building on your own account ? If you are, 
 I'm very much obliged to you." 
 
 " I'm building a dining-room — ^for the men I mean — the 
 hands." 
 
 "I thought you were hard to please, if this room wasn't 
 good enough to satisfy you, a bachelor." 
 
 " I've got acquainted with a strange kind of chap, and I 
 put one or two children in whom he is interested to school. 
 So, as I happened to be passing near his house one day, I just 
 went there about some trifling payment to be made ; and I saw 
 such a miserable black frizzle of a dinner — a greasy cinder of 
 meat, as first set me a-thinking. But it was not till provisions 
 grew so high this winter that I bethought me how, by buying 
 things wholesale, and cooking a good quantity of provisions 
 together, much money might be saved, and much comfort gained. 
 So I spoke to my friend — or my enemy — ^the man I told you 
 of — and he found fault with every detaU of my plan; and in 
 consequence I laid it aside, both as impracticable, and also 
 because if I forced it into operation I should be interfering 
 with the independence of my men; when, suddenly, this 
 Higgins came to me and graciously signified his approval of a 
 scheme so nearly the same as mine, that I might fairly have 
 claimed it ; and, moreover, the approval of several of his fellow- 
 workmen, to whom he had spoken. I was a little 'riled,' I 
 confess, by his manner, and thought of throwing the whole 
 thing overboard to sink or swim. But it seemed chUdish to 
 relinquish a plan which I had once thought wise and well-laid, 
 just because I myself did not receive all the honour and con- 
 sequence due to the originator. So I 'coolly took the part 
 assigned to me, which is something like that of steward to a 
 club. I bay in the provisions wholesale, and provide a fitting 
 matron or cook." 
 
 " I hope you give satisfaction in your new capacity. Are 
 you a good judge of potatoes and onions ? But I suppose 
 Mrs. Thornton assists you in your marketing." 
 
 "Not a bit," replied Mr. Thornton. " She disapproves of 
 the whole plan, and now we never mention it to each other. 
 But I manage pretty well, getting in great stocks from Liver- 
 
358 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 pool, and being served in bntcher's meat by our own family 
 bntcher. I can assure you, the hot dinners the matron turns 
 out are by no means to be despised." 
 
 " Do you taste each dish as it goes in, in virtue of your 
 office ? I hope you have a white wand." 
 
 " I was very scrupulous, at first, in confining myself to the 
 mere purchasing part, and even in that I rather obeyed the 
 men's orders, conveyed through the housekeeper, than went by 
 my own judgment. At one time, the beef was too large, at 
 another the mutton was not fat enough. I think they saw how 
 careM I was to leave them free, and not to intrude my own 
 ideas upon them ; so, one day, two or three of the men — my 
 Mend Higgins among them — asked me if I would not come in 
 and take a snack. It was a very busy day, but I saw that the 
 men would be hurt if, after making the advance, I didn't meet 
 them half-way, so I went in, and I never made a better dinner 
 in my life. I told them (my next neighbours I mean, for I'm 
 no speech-maker) how much I'd enjoyed it ; and for some time, 
 whenever that especial dinner recurred in their dietary, I was 
 sure to be met by these men, with a ' Master, there's hot-pot 
 for dinner to-day, win yo' come in ? ' If they had not asked me, 
 I would no more have intruded on them than I'd have gone to 
 the mess at the barracks without invitation." 
 
 " I should think you were rather a restraint on your hosts' 
 conversation. They can't abuse the masters wHle you're there. 
 I suspect they take it out on non-hot-pot days." 
 
 " Well ! hitherto we've steered clear of all vexed questions. 
 But if any of the old disputes came up again, I would certainly 
 speak out my mind next hot-pot day. But you are hardly 
 acquainted with our Darkshire fellows, for all you're a Dark- 
 shire man yourself. They have such a sense of humour, 
 and such a racy mode of expression ! I am getting really 
 to know some of them now, and they talk pretty fi-eely 
 before me." 
 
 "Nothing like the act of eating for equalising men, 
 Dying is nothing to it. The philosopher dies sententionsly— 
 the pharisee ostentatiously — ^the simple-hearted humbly — the 
 poor idiot blindly, as the sparrow falls to the ground; the 
 philosopher and idiot, publican and pharisee, all eat after the 
 Bame fashion — given an equally good digestion. There's 
 theory for theory for you ! " 
 
 " Indeed I have no theory ; I hate theories." 
 
 " I beg your pardon. To show my penitence, will yon 
 
ALONE 1 ALONE ! 359 
 
 ftceept a ten pound note towards your marketing, and give the 
 poor fellows a feast ? " 
 
 " Thank you ; but I'd rather not. They pay me rent for 
 the oven and cooking-places at the back of the mill : and 
 will have to pay more for the new dining-room. . I don't 
 want it to fall into a charity. I don't want donations. 
 Once let in the principle, and I should have people going 
 and talking, and spoiling the simplicity of the whole thing." 
 
 " People will talk about any new plan. You can't help 
 that." 
 
 " My enemies, if I have any, may make a philanthropic 
 fuss about this dinner-scheme ; but you are a friend, and I 
 expect you will pay my experiment the respect of silence. 
 It is but a new broom at present, and sweeps clean enough. 
 But by-and-by we shall meet with plenty of stumbling-blocks. 
 no doubt." 
 
 CHAPTER XLm. 
 MAHGABET'S FLITTIN'. 
 
 The meanest thing to which we bid adieu, 
 Loses its meanness in the parting hour." 
 
 Elliott. 
 
 Mrs. Shaw took as vehement a dislike as it was possible for 
 one of her gentle nature to do, against Milton. It was noisy, 
 and smoky, and the poor people whom she saw in the streets 
 were dirty, and the rich ladies over-dressed, and not a man 
 that she saw, high or low, had his clothes made to fit him. She 
 was sure Margaret would never regain her lost strength while 
 she stayed in Milton ; and she herself was afraid of one of her 
 old attacks of the nerves. Margaret must return with her, 
 and that quickly. This, if not the exact force of her words, 
 was at any rate the spirit of what she urged on Margaret, till 
 the latter, weak, weary, and broken-spirited, yielded a reluctant 
 promise that, as soon as Wednesday was over, she would pre- 
 pare to accompany her aunt back to town, leaving Dixon in 
 charge of all the arrangements for paying bills, disposing of 
 furniture, and shutting up the house. Before that Wednesday 
 — that mournful Wednesday, when Mr. Hale was to be iuterred, 
 for away from either of the homes he had known in life, and 
 
860 NOETH AND SOUTH. 
 
 far away from the wife who lay lonely among strangers (and 
 this last was Margaret's great trouble, for she thought that if 
 she had not given way to that overwhelming stupor during the 
 first sad days, she could have arranged things otherwise) — 
 before that Wednesday, Margaret received a letter from Mr, 
 Bell. 
 
 " Mr DEAR Mabgaeet :— I did mean to have returned to Milton on 
 Thursday, but unluckily it turns out to be one of the rare occafflons 
 when we, Plymouth Eellows, are called upon to perform any kind of 
 duty, and I must not be absent from my post. Captain Lennox and 
 Mr. Thornton are here. The former seems a smart, well-meaning man ; 
 and has proposed to go over to Milton, and assist you in any search for 
 the will ; of course tiiere is none, or you would have found it by this 
 time, if you followed my directions. Then the Captain declares he 
 must take you and his mother-in-law home ; and, in his wife's present 
 state, I don't see how yon can expect him to remain away longer than 
 Friday. However, that Dixon of yours is trusty ; and can hold her, or 
 your own, till I come. I will put matters into the hands of my Milton 
 attorney if there is no will ; for I doubt this smart Captain is no great 
 man of business. Nevertheless, his moustachios are splendid. There 
 will have to be a sale, so select what things you vrish reserved. Or you 
 can send a list afterwards. Now two things more, and I have done. 
 You know, or if you don't, your poor father did, that you are to have 
 my money and goods when I die. Not that I mean to die yet ; but I 
 name this just to explain what is coming. These Lennoxes seem very 
 fond of you now ; and perhaps may continue to be ; perhaps not. So 
 it is best to start with a formal agreement ; namely, that yon are to pay 
 them two hundred and fifty pounds a year, as leng as you and they find 
 it pleasant to live together. (This, of course, includes Dixon ; mind 
 yon don't be cajoled into paying any more for her.) Then you won't 
 be thrown adrift, if some day the captain wishes to have his house to 
 himself, but you can carry yourself and your two hundred and fifty 
 pounds off somewhere else ; if, indeed, I have not claimed you to come 
 and keep house for me first. Then as to dress, and Dixon, and personal 
 expenses, and confectionery (all young ladies eat confectionery till 
 wisdom comes by age), I shall consult some lady of my acquaintance, 
 and see how much you wiU have from your father before fixing this. 
 Now, Margaret, have you flown out before you have read this far, and 
 wondered what right the old man has to settle your aflEairs for yon so 
 cavalierly ? I make no doubt yon have. Yet the old man has a right. 
 He has loved your father for five and thirty years ; he stood beside him 
 on his wedding-day ; he closed his eyes in death. Moreover, he is your 
 godfather ; and as he cannot do you much good spiritually, having a 
 hidden consciousness of your superiority in such things, he would fain 
 do you the poor good of endowing you materially. And the old man 
 has not a known relation on earth ; ' who is there to monm for Adam 
 Bell ? ' and his whole heart is set and bent upon this one thing, and 
 Margaret Hale is not the girl to say him nay. Write by return, fi only 
 two lines, to tell me your answer. But no thanks." 
 
 Margaret took up a pen and scrawled with trembling hand. 
 
MARGARET'S FLITTIN'. 861 
 
 " Margaret Hale is not the girl to say him nay." In her 
 weak state she conld not think of any other words, and yet, 
 she was vexed to use these. But she was so much fatigued 
 even by this slight exertion, that if she could have thought of 
 another form of acceptance, she could not have sate up to write 
 A syllable of it. She was obliged to lie down again and try 
 not to think. 
 
 "My dearest child! Has that letter vexed or troubled 
 you?" 
 
 "No!" said Margaret feebly. "I shall be better when 
 to-morrow is over." 
 
 " I feel sure, darling, you won't be better till I get you out 
 of this horrid air. How you can have borne it this two years 
 I can't imagine." 
 
 " Where could I go to ? I could not leave papa and 
 mamma." 
 
 " Well ! don't distress yourself, my dear. I dare say it 
 was all for the best, only I had no conception of how you were 
 living. Our butler's wife lives in a better house than this." 
 
 "It is sometimes very pretty — in summer; you can't 
 judge by what it is now. I have been very happy here," 
 and Margaret closed her eyes by way of stopping the con- 
 versation. 
 
 The house teemed with comfort now, compared to what it 
 had been. The evenings were chilly, and by Mrs. Shaw's 
 directions fires were lighted in every bedroom. She petted 
 Margaret in every possible way, and bought every delicacy, or 
 soft luxury in which she herself would have burrowed and 
 sought comfort. But Margaret was indifferent to all these 
 things ; or, if they forced themselves upon her attention, it 
 was simply as causes for gratitude to her aunt, who was putting 
 herself so much out of her way to think of her. She was 
 restless, though so weak. All the day long, she kept herself 
 from thinking of the ceremony which was going on at Oxford, 
 by wandering from room to room, and languidly setting aside 
 Bueh articles as she wished to retain. Dixon followed her by 
 Mrs. Shaw's desire, ostensibly to receive instructions, but with 
 a private injunction to soothe her into repose as soon as 
 might be. 
 
 " These books, Dixon, I will keep. All the rest will yon 
 send to Mr. Bell ? They are of a kind that he will value for 
 
 themselves, as well as for papa's sake. This 1 should Hke 
 
 you to take this to Mr. Thornton, after I am gone. Stay ; I 
 
862 NOETH AND SOUTH. 
 
 will write a note with it." And she sate down hastily, as if 
 B&aid of thinking, and wrote : 
 
 " Deas Sie, — The accompanying book I am sure will be valued by 
 you for the sake of my father, to whom it belonged. 
 
 " Yours sincerely, 
 
 "Masgabet Hale," 
 
 She set out again upon her travels through the house, 
 turning over articles, known to her from her childhood, with a 
 wrt of caressing reluctance to leave them — old-fashioned, 
 worn and shabby, as they might be. But she hardly spoke 
 again ; and Dixon's report to Mrs. Shaw was, that " she 
 doubted whether Miss Hale heard a word of what she said, 
 though she talked the whole time, in order to divert her inten- 
 tion." The consequence of being on her feet all day was 
 excessive bodily weariness in the evening, and a better night's 
 rest than she had had since she had heard of Mr. Hale's death. 
 
 At breakfast time the next day, she expressed her wish 
 to go and bid one or two friends good-bye. Mrs. Shaw 
 objected : 
 
 " I am sure, my dear, you can have no friends here with 
 whom you are sufficiently intimate to justify you in calling upon 
 them so soon ; before you have been at church." 
 
 " But to-day is my only day ; if Captain Lennox comes 
 this afternoon, and if we must— if I must really go to- 
 morrow " 
 
 " Oh, yes ; we shall go to-morrow. I am more and more 
 convinced that this air is bad for you, and makes you look so 
 pale and iU ; besides, Edith expects us ; and she may be 
 waiting me ; and you cannot be left alone, my dear, at your 
 age. No ; if you must pay these calls, I will go with yon. 
 Dixon can get us a coach, I suppose ? " 
 
 So Mrs. Shaw went to take care of Margaret, and took her 
 maid with her to take care of the shawls and air-cushions. 
 Margaret's face was too sad to lighten up into a smile at all 
 this preparation for paying two visits, that she had often made 
 by herself at all hours of the day. She was half afraid of 
 owning that one place to which she was going was Nicholas 
 Higgins'; all she could do was to hope her aunt would bo 
 indisposed to get out of the coach, and walk up the court, and 
 at every breath of wind hive her face slapped by wet clothes, 
 hanging out to dry on ropes stretched from house to house. 
 
 There was a little battle in Mrs. Shaw's mind between ease 
 
MAEGAEET'S FLTTTIN'. 863 
 
 and a sense of matronly propriety ; but the former gained the 
 day ; and with many an injunction to Margaret to be careful 
 of herself, and not to catch any fever, such as was always 
 lurking in such places, her aunt permitted her to go where she 
 had often been before without taking any precaution or requir- 
 ing any permission. 
 
 Nicholas was out; only Mary and one or two of the 
 Boucher children at home. Margaret was vexed with herself 
 for not having timed her visit better. Mary had a very blunt 
 intellect, although her feelings were warm and kind ; and the 
 instant she understood what Margaret's purpose was in coming 
 to see them, she began to cry and sob with so little restraint 
 that Margaret found it useless to say any of the thousand little 
 things which had suggested themselves to her as she was 
 coming along in the coach. She could only try to comfort 
 her a little by suggesting the vague chance of their meeting 
 again, at some possible time, in some possible place, and 
 bid her tell her father how much she wished, if he could 
 manage it, that he should come to see her when he had 
 done his work in the evening. 
 
 As she was leaving the place, she stopped and looked 
 round ; then hesitated a little before she said : 
 
 " I should like to have some little thing to remind me of 
 Bessy." 
 
 Listantly Mary's generosity was keenly alive. What could 
 they give ? And on Margaret's singling out a little common 
 drinking-eup, which she remembered as the one always standing 
 by Bessy's side with drink for her feverish lips, Mary said : 
 
 " Oh, take summut better; that only cost fourpenoe ! " 
 
 " That will do, thank you," said Margaret; and she went 
 quickly away, while the light caused by the pleasure of having 
 something to give yet lingered on Mary's face. 
 
 " Now to Mrs. Thornton's," thought she to herself. " It 
 must be done." But she looked rather rigid and pale at the 
 thoughts of it, and had hard work to find the exact words in 
 which to explain to her aunt who Mrs. Thornton was, and why 
 she should go to bid her farewell. 
 
 They (for Mrs. Shaw alighted here) were shown into the 
 drawing-room, in which a fire had only just been kindled. 
 Mrs. Shaw huddled herself up in her shawl, and shivered. 
 
 " What an icy room I " she said. 
 
 They had to wait for some time before Mrs. Thornton 
 entered. There was some softening in her heart towards 
 
364 IfOETH AND SOUTH. 
 
 Margaret, now that she was going away out of her aight. She 
 remembered her spirit, as shown at various times and placoa, 
 even more than the patience with which she had endured long 
 and wearing cares. Her countenance was blander than usual, 
 as she greeted her ; there was even a shade of tenderness in 
 her manner, as she noticed the white, teai-swoUen face , and 
 the quiver in the voice which Margaret tried to make so 
 steady. 
 
 " Allow me to introduce my aunt, Mrs. Shaw. I am going 
 away from Milton to-morrow ; I do not know if you are aware 
 of it ; but I wanted to see you once again, Mrs. Thornton, to 
 — to apologise for my manner the last time I saw you ; and to 
 say that I am sure you meant kindly — ^however much we may 
 have misunderstood each other." 
 
 Mrs. Shaw looked extremely perplexed by what Margaret 
 had said. Thanks for kindness ! and apologies for failure in 
 good manners ! But Mrs. Thornton replied : 
 
 " Miss Hale, I am glad you do me justice. I did no more 
 than I believed to be my duty in remonstrating with you as I 
 did. I have always desired to act the part of a friend to yon. 
 I am glad you do me justice." 
 
 " And," said Margaret, blushing excessively as she spoke, 
 '' will you do me justice, and believe that though I cannot — ^I 
 do not choose — to give explanations of my conduct, I have not 
 acted in the unbecoming way you apprehended ? " 
 
 Margaret's voice was so soft, and her eyes so pleading, that 
 Mrs. Thornton was for once affected by the charm of manner 
 to which she had hitherto proved herself invulnerable. 
 
 " Yes, I do believe you. Let us say no more about it. 
 Where are you going to reside. Miss Hale ? I understood 
 from Mr. Bell that you were going to leave Milton. Yon never 
 liked Milton, you know," said Mrs. Thornton, with a sort of 
 grim smile ; " but for all that, you must not expect me to con- 
 gratulate you on quitting it. Where shall you live ? " 
 
 " Wili my aunt," replied Margaret, taming towards Mrs. 
 Shaw. 
 
 " My niece will reside with me in Harley Street. She ia 
 almost like a daughter to me," said Mrs. Shaw, looking fondly 
 at Margaret ; " and I am glad to acknowledge my own obliga- 
 tion for any kindness that has been shown to her. If you and 
 your husband ever come to town, my son and daughter, Captain 
 and Mrs. Lennox, will, I am sure, join with me in ■wishing to 
 do anything in our power to show you attention." 
 
MABGARET'S FLI'ITIN', 366 
 
 Mrs. Thornton thought in her own mind, that Margaret 
 had not taken much care to enlighten her aunt as to the rela- 
 tionship between the Mr. and Mrs. Thornton, towards whom 
 the fine-lady aunt was extending her soft patronage ; so she 
 answered shortly, 
 
 " My husband is dead. Mr. Thornton is my son. I never 
 go to London ; so I am not likely to be able to avail myself of 
 your polite offers." 
 
 At this instant Mr. Thornton entered the room ; he had 
 only just returned from Oxford. His mourning suit spoke of 
 the reason that had called him there. 
 
 " John," said his mother, " this lady is Mrs. Shaw, Miss 
 Hale's aunt. I am sorry to say, that Miss Hale's call is to 
 wish us good-bye." 
 
 " You are going then ! " said he, in a low voice. 
 
 " Yes," said Margaret. " We leave to-morrow." 
 
 "My son-in-law comes this evening to escort us," said 
 Mrs. Shaw. 
 
 Mr. Thornton turned away. He had not sat down, and 
 now he seemed to be examining something on the table, almost 
 as if he had discovered an unopened letter, which had made 
 him forget the present company. He did not even seem to be 
 aware when they got up to take leave. He started forwards, 
 however, to hand Mrs. Shaw down to the carriage, As it drove 
 np, he and Margaret stood close together on the door-step, and 
 it was impossible but that the recollection of the day of the 
 riot should force itself into both their minds. Into his it came 
 associated with the speeches of the following day ; her passionate 
 declaration that there was not a man in all that violent and 
 desperate crowd, for whom she did not care as much as for 
 him. And at the remembrance of her taunting words, his brow 
 grew stem, though his heart beat thick with longing love. 
 " No ! " said he, " I put it to the touch once, and I lost it all. 
 Let her go, — with her stony heart, and her beauty ; — how set 
 and terrible her look is now, for all her loveliness of feature I 
 She is afraid I shall speak what will require some stern repres- 
 sion. Let her go. Beauty and heiress as she may be, she will 
 find it hard to meet with a truer heart than mine. Let 
 her go ! " 
 
 And there was no tone of regret, or emotion of any kind in 
 the voice with which he said good-bye ; and the offered hand 
 was taken with a resolute calmness, and dropped as carelessly 
 as if it had been a dead and withered flower. But none in his 
 
366 NORTH AND SODTH. 
 
 household saw Mr. Thornton again that day. He was busily 
 engaged ; or so he said. 
 
 Margaret's strength was so utterly exhausted by these 
 •visits, that she had to submit to much watching and petting, 
 and sighing " I-told-you-so's," from her aunt. Dixon said 
 she was quite as bad as she had been on the first day she heard 
 of her father's death; and she and Mrs. Shaw consulted as to 
 the desirableness of delaying the morrow's journey. But when 
 her aunt reluctantly proposed a few days' delay to Margaret, 
 the latter writhed her body as if in acute suffering, and said : 
 
 " Oh I let us go. I cannot be patient here. I shall not 
 get well here. I want to forget." 
 
 So the arrangements went on : and Captain Lennox came, 
 and with him news of Edith and the little boy ; and Margaret 
 found that the indifferent, careless conversation of one who, 
 however kind, was not too warm and anxious a sympathiser, did 
 her good. She roused up ; and by the time that she knew she 
 might expect Higgins, she was able to leave the room quietly, 
 and await in her own chamber the expected summons. 
 
 " Eh ! " said he, as she came in, " to think of th' oud gen- 
 tleman dropping off as he did ! Yo' might ha' knocked me down 
 wi' a straw when they telled me. ' Mr. Hale ? " said I ; ' him 
 as was th' parson ? ' ' Ay,' said they. • Then,' said I, ' there's 
 as good a man gone as ever lived on this earth, let who will be 
 t' other ! ' And I came to see yo', and tell yo' how grieved I 
 were, but them women in th' kitchen wouldn't teU yo' I were 
 there. They said yo' were ill, — and butter me, but yo' dunnot 
 look like th' same wench. And yo're going to be a grand lady 
 up i' Lunnon, aren't yo' ? " 
 
 " Not a grand lady," said Margaret, half smiling. 
 
 "Well t Thornton said — says he, a day or two ago, ' Higgins, 
 have yo' seen Miss Hale ? ' ' No,' says I ; ' there's a pack o' 
 women who won't let me at her. But I can bide my time, if 
 she's ill. She and I knows each other pretty well ; and hoo'l 
 not go doubting that I'm main sorry for th' oud gentleman's 
 death, just because I can't get at her and tell her so.' And says 
 he, ' Yo'll not have much time for to try and see her, my fine 
 chap. She's not for staying with us a day longer nor she can 
 help. She's got grand relations, and they're carrying her off; 
 and we sha'n't see her no more.' ' Measter,' said I, ' if I dunnot 
 see her afore hoo goes, I'll strive to get up to Lunnun next 
 Whissuntide, that I will. I'll not be baulked of saying her 
 good-bye by any relations whatsomdever.' But, bless yo', I 
 
EASE NOT PEACE. 367 
 
 knowed yo'd come. It were only for to humonr the measter, I 
 let on as if I thought yo'd mappen leave Milton without 
 seeing me." 
 
 " You're quite right," said Margaret. "You only do me 
 justice. And you'll not forget me, I'm sure. If no one else in 
 Milton remembers me, I'm certain you will ; and papa too. You 
 know how good and how tender he was. Look, Higgins ! here 
 is his bible. I have kept it for you. I can ill spare it ; but I 
 I know he would have liked you to have it. I'm sure you'll care 
 for it, and study what is in it, for his sake." 
 
 " Yo' may say that. If it were the deuce's own scribble, 
 and yo' axed me to read in it for yo'r sake and th' oud gen- 
 tleman's, I'd do it. Whatten's this, wench ? I'm not going for 
 to take yo'r brass, so dunnot think it. We've been great friends, 
 'bout the sound o' money passing between us." 
 
 " For the children — for Boucher's children," said Margaret, 
 hurriedly. " They may need it. You've no right to refuse it 
 for them. I would not give you a penny," she said, smiling ; 
 " don't think there's any of it for you." 
 
 " Well, wench 1 I can nobbut say. Bless yo' ! and bless 
 yo' ! — and amen." 
 
 CHAPTER XLrV. 
 EASE NOT PEACE. 
 
 " A dull rotation, never at a stay, 
 Yesterday's face twin image of to-day." 
 
 COWPER. 
 
 " Of what each one should he, he sees the form and rule. 
 And tiU he reach to that, his joy can ne'er be foil." 
 
 BUCKEBI. 
 
 It was very well for Margaret that the extreme quiet of the 
 Harley Street house, during Edith's recovery from her confine- 
 ment, gave her the natural rest which she needed. It gave 
 her time to comprehend the sudden change which had taken 
 place in her circumstances within the last two months. She 
 found herself at once an inmate of a luxurious house, where 
 the bare knowledge of the existence of every trouble or care 
 seemed scarcely to have penetrated. The wheels of the 
 machinery of daily life were well oiled, and went along with 
 delicious smoothness. Mrs. Shaw and Edith could hardly 
 
868 NOETH AMD SOUTH. 
 
 make enough of Margaret, on her return to what they persisted 
 in calling her home. And she felt that it was almost nngratefnl 
 in her to have a secret feeling that the Helstone vicarage — 
 nay, even the poor little house at Milton, with her anxious 
 father and her invalid mother, and all the small honsehold 
 cares of comparative poverty, composed her idea of home. 
 Edith was impatient to get well, in order to fill Margaret's 
 bed-room with all the soft comforts, and pretty nick-baacks, 
 with which her own abounded. Mrs. Shaw and her maid 
 found plenty of occupation in restoring Margaret's wardrobe to 
 a state of elSgant variety. Captain Lennox was easy, kind, 
 and gentlemanly ; sate with his wife in her dressing-room an 
 hour or two every day ; played with his little boy for another 
 hour, and lounged away the rest of his time at his club, when 
 he was not engaged out to dinner. Just before Margaret had 
 recovered from her necessity for quiet and repose — ^before she 
 had begun to feel her life wanting and dull — ^Edith came down- 
 stairs and resumed her usual part in the honsehold ; and 
 Margaret fell into the old habit of watching, and admiring, and 
 ministering to her cousin. She gladly took all ehai-ge of the 
 semblances of duties off Edith's hands ; answered notes, 
 reminded her of engagements, tended her when no gaiety wag 
 in prospect, and she was consequently rather inclined to fancy 
 herself ill. But all the rest of the family were in the fdl busi- 
 ness of the London season, and Margaret was often left alone. 
 Then her thoughts went back to Milton, with a strange sense 
 of the contrast between the life there, and here. She was 
 getting surfeited of the eventless ease in which no struggle or 
 endeavour was required. She was afraid lest she should even 
 become sleepily deadened into forgetfulness of anything beyond 
 the life which was lapping her round with luxury. There might 
 be toilers and moilers there in London, but she never saw 
 them ; the very servants lived in an underground world of their 
 own, of which she knew neither the hopes nor the fears ; they 
 only seemed to start into existence when some want or whim 
 of their master and mistress needed them. There was a strange 
 unsatisfied vacuum in Margaret's heart and mode of life ; and, 
 once_ when she had dimly hinted this to Edith, the latter, 
 wearied with dancing the night before, languidly stroked 
 Margaret's cheek as she sat by her in the old attitude, — she 
 on a footstool by the sofa where Edith lay. 
 
 " Poor child ! " said Edith. " It is a little sad for you to 
 be left, night after night, just at this time when all the world 
 
SiASE SOT PEACK. 369 
 
 is SO gay. " Bat we shall be having our dinner-parties soon — 
 as soon as Henry comes back from circuit — and then there 
 will be a little pleasant variety for you. No wonder it is 
 moped, poor darling ! " 
 
 Margaret did not feel as if the dinner-parties would be a 
 panacea. But Edith piqued herself on her dinner-parties ; 
 " so different," as she said, " from the old dowager dinners 
 under mamma's regime ; " and Mrs. Shaw herself seemed to 
 take exactly the same kind of pleasure in the very different 
 arrangements and circle of acquaintances which were to Captain 
 and Mrs. Lennox's taste, as she did in the more formal and 
 ponderous entertainments which she herself used to give. 
 Captain Lennox was always extremely kind and brotherly to 
 Margaret. She was really very fond of him, excepting when 
 he was anxiously attentive to Edith's dress and appearance, 
 with a view to her beauty making a sufficient impression on 
 the world. Then all the latent Vashti in Margaret was roused, 
 and she could hardly keep herself from expressing hei feelings. 
 
 The course of Margaret's day was this ; a quiet hour 
 or two before a late breakfast ; an unpunctual meal, lazily 
 eaten by weary and half-awake people, but yet at which, in all 
 its dragged-out length, she was expected to be present, because, 
 directly afterwards, came a discussion of plans, at which, 
 although they none of them concerned her, she was expected 
 to give her sympathy, if she could not assist with her advice ; 
 an endless number of notes to write, which Edith invariably 
 left to her, with many caressing compUments as to her eloquence 
 du billet ; a little play with Sholto as he returned from his 
 morning's walk ; besides the care of the children during the 
 servants' dinner ; a drive or callers ; and some dinner or 
 morning engagement for her aunt and cousins, which left 
 Margaret free, it is true, but rather wearied with the inactivity 
 of the day, coming upon depressed spirits and delicate health. 
 
 She looked forward with longing, though unspoken interest 
 to the homely object of Dixon's return from Milton ; where, 
 until now, the old servant had been busily engaged in winding 
 up all the affairs of the Hale family. It had appeared a sudden 
 famine to her heart, this entire cessation of any news respect- 
 ing the people amongst whom she had lived so long. It was 
 true, that Dixon, in her business-letters, quoted, every now 
 and then, an opinion of Mr. Thornton's as to what she had 
 better do about the furniture, or how act in regard to the 
 landlord of the Crampton Terrace house. But it was only 
 
 24 
 
870 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 here and there that the name came in, or any Milton name, 
 indeed; and Margaret was sitting one evening, all alone in 
 the Lennox's drawing-room, not reading Dixon's letters, which 
 yet she held in her hand, hut thiiiking over them, and recalling 
 the days which had heen, and picturing the husy life out of 
 which her own had heen taken and never missed ; wondering 
 if all went on in that whirl just as if she and her father had 
 never been ; questioning within herself, if no one in all the 
 crowd missed her (not Higgins, she was not thinking of him), 
 when, suddenly, Mr. BeU was announced ; and Margaret 
 hurried the letters into her work-basket, and started up, blush- 
 ing as if she had been doing some guilty thing. 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Bell ! I never thought of seeing you ! " 
 
 " But you give me a welcome, I hope, as well as that very 
 pretty start of surprise." 
 
 "Have you dined ? How did you come? Let me order 
 you some dinner." 
 
 " If you're going to have any. Otherwise, you know, there 
 is no one who cares less for eating than I do. But where are 
 the others ? Gone out to dinner? Left you alone ? " 
 
 " Oh yes ! and it is such a rest. I was just thinking — 
 But will you run the risk of dinner ? I don't know if there 
 is anything in the house." 
 
 " Why, to tell you the truth, I dined at my club. Only 
 they don't cook as well as they did, so I thought, if you were 
 going to dine, I might try and make out my dinner. But 
 never mind, never mind ! There aren't ten cooks in England 
 to be trusted at impromptu dinners. If their skill and their 
 fires will stand it, their tempers won't. You shall make me 
 some tea, Margaret. And now, what were you thinking of ? 
 you were going to tell me. Whose letters were those, god- 
 daughter, that you hid away so speedily? " 
 
 " Only Dixon's," replied Margaret, growing very red. 
 
 " Whew ! is that all ? Who do you think came np in the 
 train vrith me ? " 
 
 " I don't know," said Margaret, resolved against making 
 a guess. 
 
 " Your what d'ye call him ? What's the right name for a 
 cousin-in-law's brother ? " 
 
 " Mr. Henry Lennox ? " asked Margaret. 
 
 " Yes," replied Mr. Bell. " You knew him formerly, didn't 
 you ? What sort of a person is he, Margaret ? " 
 
 " I liked him long ago," said Margaret, glancing down for 
 
EASE NOT PBACB. 871 
 
 & moment. And then she looked straight up and went on in 
 her natural manner. " You know we have been corresponding 
 about Frederick since ; but I have not seen him for nearly 
 three years, and he may be changed. What did you think of 
 him ? " 
 
 " I don't know. He was so busy trying to find out who I 
 was, in the first instance, and what I was in the second, that 
 he never let out what he was ; unless indeed that veiled 
 curiosity of his as to what manner of man he had to talk to 
 was not a good piece, and a fair indication of his character. 
 Do you call him good-looking, Margaret ? " 
 
 " No ! certainly not. Do you ? " 
 
 " Not I. But I thought perhaps you might. Is he a 
 great deal here ? " 
 
 "I fancy he is when he is in town. He has been on 
 circuit now since I came. But — Mr. Bell — have you come 
 from Oxford or from Milton ?" 
 
 "From Milton. Don't you see I'm smoke-dried ? " 
 
 " Certainly. But I thought that it might be the effect of 
 the antiquities of Oxford." 
 
 " Come now, be a sensible woman ! In Oxford, I could 
 have managed all the landlords in the place, and had my own 
 way, with half the trouble your Milton landlord has given me, 
 and defeated me after all. He won't take the house off our 
 hands till next June twelvemonth. Luckily, Mr. Thornton 
 found a tenant for it. Why don't you ask after Mr. Thornton, 
 Margaret ? He has proved himself a very active friend of 
 yours, I can tell you. Taken more than half the trouble off 
 my hands." 
 
 "And how is he? How is Mrs. Thornton?" asked 
 Margaret hurriedly and below her breath, though she tried to 
 speak out. 
 
 " I suppose they're well. I've been staying at their house 
 till I was driven out of it by the perpetual clack about that 
 Thornton girl's marriage. It was too much for Thornton 
 himself, though she was his sister. He used to go and sit in 
 his own room perpetually. He's getting past the age for caring 
 for such things, either as principal or accessory. I was sur- 
 prised to find the old lady falling into the current, and carried 
 away by her daughter's enthusiasm for orange-blossoms and 
 lace. Ithought Mrs. Thornton had been made of sterner stuff." 
 
 " She would put on any assumption of feeling to veil het 
 daughter's weakness," said Margaret in alow voice. 
 
 24— J 
 
a72 HOETH AND SOUTH. 
 
 " Perhaps so. You've studied her, have yoa ? She 
 doesn't seem over fond of you, Margaret." 
 
 " I know it," said Margaret. " Oh, here is tea at last ! " 
 exclaimed she, as if relieved. And with tea came Mr. Hemy 
 Lennox, who had walked up to Harley Street after a late 
 dinner, and had evidently expected to find his brother and 
 sister-in-law at home. Margaret suspected* him of being as 
 thankful as she was at the presence of a third party, on this 
 their first meeting since the memorable day of his offer, and 
 her refasal at Helstone. She could hardly tell what to say at 
 first, and was thankful for all the tea-table occupations, which 
 gave her an excuse for keeping silence, and him an opportu- 
 nity of recovering himself. For, to tell the truth, he had 
 rather forced himself up to Harley Street this evening, with a 
 view of getting over an awkward meeting, awkward even in the 
 presence of Captain Lennox and Edith, and doubly awkward 
 now that he found her the only lady there, and the person to 
 whom he must naturally and perforce address a great part 
 of his conversation. She was the first to recover her self- 
 possession. She began to talk on the subject which came 
 uppermost in her mind, after the first flush of awkward 
 shyness. 
 
 " Mr. Lennox, I have been so much obliged to you for all 
 you have done about Frederick." 
 
 " I am only sorry it has been so unsuccessfal," rephed he, 
 with a quick glance towards Mr. Bell, as if reconnoitring how 
 much he might say before him. Margaret, as if she read his 
 thought, addressed herself to Mr. Bell, both including him in 
 the conversation, and implying that he was perfectly aware of 
 the endeavours that had been made to clear Frederick. 
 
 " That Horrocks — ^that very last witness of aU, has proved 
 as unavailing as all the others. Mr. Lennox has discovered 
 that he sailed for Australia only last August ; only two months 
 before Frederick was in England, and gave us the names 
 of " 
 
 "Frederick in England ! you never told me that! " ex- 
 claimed Mr. Bell in surprise. 
 
 " I thought you knew. I never doubted you had been 
 told. Of course, it was a great secret, and perhaps I should 
 not have named it now," said Margaret, a little dismayed. 
 
 " I have never named it to either my brother or your 
 cousin," said Mr. Lennox, with a little professional dryness oi 
 implied reproach. 
 
EASE NOT PEACE. 373 
 
 " Never mind, Margaret. I am not living in a talking, 
 babbling world, nor yet among people who are trying to worm 
 facts out of me ; yon needn't look so frightened becanse you 
 have let the cat out of the bag to a faithful old hermit like me. 
 I shall never name his having been in England ; I shall be 
 out of temptation, for no one will ask me. Stay ! " (inter- 
 rupting himself rather abruptly). " Was it at your mother's 
 fdneral ? " 
 
 " He was with mamma when she died," said Margaret, 
 softly. 
 
 "To be sure I To be sure ! Why, some one asked me 
 if he had not been over then, and I denied it stoutly — ^not 
 many weeks ago — ^who could it have been ? Oh ! I recol- 
 lect ! " 
 
 But he did not say the name ; and although Margaret 
 would have given much to kpow if her suspicions were right, 
 and it had been Mr. Thornton who had made the enquiry, she 
 could not ask the question of Mr, Bell, much as she longed to 
 do so. 
 
 There was a pause for a moment or two. Then Mr. 
 Lennox said, addressing himself to Margaret, " I suppose as 
 Mr. BeU is now acquainted with all the circumstances attending 
 your brother's imfortunate dilemma, I cannot do better than 
 inform him exactly how the research into the evidence we once 
 hoped to produce in his favour stands at present. So, if he 
 will do me the honour to breakfast with me to-morrow, we will 
 go over the names of these missing gentry." 
 
 " I should like to hear all the particulars, if I may. Can- 
 not you come here ? I dare not ask you both to breakfast, 
 though I am sure you would be welcome. But let me know 
 all I can about Frederick, even though there may be no hope 
 &t present." 
 
 " I have an engagement at half-past eleven. But I will 
 certainly come if you wish it," replied Mr. Lennox with a 
 little afler-thought of extreme wiUingness, which made Mar- 
 garet shrink into herself, and almost wish that she had not 
 proposed her natural request. Mr. Bell got up and looked 
 around him for his hat, which had been removed to make room 
 for tea. 
 
 " Well ! " said he, " I don't know what Mr. Lennox is 
 inclined to do, but I'm disposed to be moving off homewards. 
 I've been a journey to-day, and journeys begin to tell upon 
 my sixty and odd years." 
 
374 NOETH AND SOUTH. 
 
 "I believe I shall stay and see my brother and Bister," 
 said Mr. Lennox, making no movement of departure. Mar- 
 garet was seized with a shy awkward dread of being left alone 
 with him. The scene on the little terrace in the Helstone 
 garden was so present to her, that she could hardly help 
 believing it was so with him. 
 
 " Don't go yet, please Mr. Bell," said she, hastily. " I 
 want you to see Edith; and I want Edith to know you. 
 Please ! " said she, laying a light but determined hand on his 
 arm. He looked at her, and saw the confusion stirring in her 
 countenance ; he sate down again, as if her little touch had 
 been possessed of resistless strength. 
 
 " You see how she overpowers me, Mr. Lennox," said he. 
 " And I hope you noticed the happy choice of her expressions ;. 
 she wants me to ' see ' this cousin Edith, who, I am told, is 
 a great beauty ; but she has the honesty to change her word 
 when she comes to me — Mrs. Lennox is to ' know ' me. I 
 suppose I am not mnch to ' see,' eh, Margaret ? " 
 
 He joked, to give her time to recover from the slight 
 flutter which he had detected in her manner on his proposal 
 to leave ; and she caught the tone, and threw the ball back. 
 Mr. Lennox wondered how his brother, the Captain, could have 
 reported her as having lost all her good looks. To be sure, in 
 her quiet black dress, she was a contrast to Edith, dancing in 
 her white crape mourning, and long floating golden hair, all 
 softness and glitter. She dimpled and blushed most becom- 
 ingly when introduced to Mr. BeU, conscious that she had her 
 reputation as a beauty to keep up, and that it would not do to 
 have a Mordecai refusing to worship and admire, even in the 
 shape of an old Fellow of a College, which nobody had ever 
 heard of. Mrs. Shaw and Captain Leimox, each in their 
 separate way, gave Mr. Bell a kind and sincere welcome, winning 
 him over to like them almost in spite of himself, especially 
 when he saw how naturally Margaret took her place as sister 
 and daughter of the house. 
 
 "What a shame that we were not at home to receive yon," 
 said Edith. " You, too, Henry ! though I don't know that 
 we should have stayed at home for you. And for Mr. Bell I 
 for Margaret's Mr. Bell " 
 
 " There is no knowing what sacrifices you would not have 
 made," said her brother-in-law. " Even a dinner-party I and 
 the delight of wearing this very becoming dress." 
 
 Edith did not know whether to frown or to smile. But it 
 
EASE NOT PEACE. 375 
 
 did not suit Mr. Lennox to drive her to the first of these alter- 
 natives ; so he went on. 
 
 " Will you show your readiness to make sacrifices to- 
 morrow morning, first by asking me to breakfast, to meet Mr. 
 Bell, and secondly, by being so kind as to order it at half-past 
 nine, instead of ten o'clock ? I have some letters and papers 
 that I want to show to Miss Hale and Mr. Bell." 
 
 " I hope Mr. Bell will make our house his own during his 
 stay in London," said Captain Lennox. "I am only so sorry 
 we cannot offer him a bedroom." 
 
 " Thank you. I am much obliged to you. You would 
 only think me a churl if you had, for I should decline it, 
 I believe, in spite of all the temptations of such agreeable 
 company," said Mr. Bell, bowing all round, and secretly con- 
 gratulating himself on the neat turn he had given to his sen- 
 tence, which, if put into plain language, would have been more 
 to this effect : "I couldn't stand the restraints of such a 
 proper-behaved and civil-spoken set of people as these are : it 
 would be like meat without salt. I'm thankful they haven't a 
 bed. And how well I rounded my sentence ! I'm absolutely 
 catching the trick of good manners." 
 
 His self-satisfaction lasted him till he was fairly out in the 
 streets, walking side by side with Henry Lennox. Here he 
 suddenly remembered Margaret's little look of entreaty as she 
 urged him to stay longer, and he also recollected a few hints 
 given him long ago by an acquaintance of Mr. Lennox's, as to 
 his admiration of Margaret. It gave a new direction to his 
 thoughts. " You have known Miss Hale for a long time, I 
 believe. How do you think her looking ? She strikes me as 
 pale and ill." 
 
 " I thought her looking remarkably well. Perhaps not 
 when I first came in — now I think of it. But certainly, when 
 she grew animated, she looked as well as ever I saw her do." 
 " She has had a great deal to go through," said Mr. Bell. 
 " Yes ! I have been sorry to hear of all she has had 
 to bear ; not merely the common and universal sorrow arising 
 from death, but all the annoyance which her father's conduct 
 
 must have caused her, and then " 
 
 " Her father's conduct ! " said Mr. Bell, in an accent of 
 surprise. " You must have heard some wrong statement. He 
 behaved in the most conscientious manner. He showed more 
 resolute strength than I should ever have given him credit for 
 formerly." 
 
876 NORTH ASD SOUTH. 
 
 "Perhaps I have been wrongly informed. But I hare 
 
 been told, by his successor in the living — a clever sensible 
 man, and a thoroughly active clergyman — ^that there was no 
 call upon Mr. Hale to do what he did, relinquish the living, 
 and throw himself and his family on the tender mercies of 
 private teaphing in a manufacturing town ; the bishop had 
 offered him another living, it is true, but if he had come to 
 entertain certain doubts, he could have remained where he was, 
 and so had no occasion to resign. But the truth is, these 
 country clergymen live such isolated lives — isolated, I mean, 
 from all intercourse with men of equal cultivation with 
 themselves, by whose minds they might regulate their own, 
 and discover when they were going either too fast or too 
 slow — that they are very apt to disturb themselves with 
 imaginary doubts as to the articles of faith, and throw up 
 certain opportunities of doing good for very uncertain fancies 
 of their own." 
 
 " I differ from you. I do not think they are very apt to 
 do as my poor friend Hale did." Mr. BeU was inwardly 
 chafing. 
 
 " Perhaps I used too general an expression in saying ' very 
 apt.' But certainly, their lives are such as very often to pro- 
 duce either inordinate self-sufficiency, or a morbid state of 
 conscience," replied Mr. Lennox with perfect coolness. 
 
 " You don't meet with any self-sufficiency among the 
 lawyers, for instance?" asked Mr. BeU. "And seldoio, I 
 imagine, any cases of morbid conscience." He was becoming 
 more and more vexed, and forgetting his lately-caught trick of 
 good manners. Mr. Lennox saw now that he had annoyed his 
 companion ; and as he had talked pretty much for the sake of 
 saying something, and so passing the time while their road lay 
 together, he was very indifferent as to th6 exact side he took 
 upon the question, and quietly came round by saying : "To 
 be sure, there is something fine in a man of Mr. Hale's age 
 leaving his home of twenty years, and giving up aU settled 
 habits, for an idea which was probably erroneous — but that does 
 not matter — an untangible thought. One cannot help admiring 
 him, with a mixture of pity in one's admiration, something 
 like what one feels for Don Quixote. Such a gentleman as he 
 was too ! I shall never forget the refined and simple hospitality 
 he showed to me that last day at.Helstone." 
 
 Only half-mollified, and yet anxious, in order to lull 
 certain qualms of his own conscience, to believe that Mr. 
 
NOT ALL A DEEAM. 377 
 
 Hale's conduct had a tinge of Quixotism in it, Mr. Bell growled 
 out — " Aye ! And you don't know Milton. Such a change 
 from Helstone ! It is years since I have been at Helstone — 
 but I'll answer for it, it is standing there yet — every stick and 
 every stone as it has done for the last century, while Milton 1 
 I go there every four or five years — and I was born there — yet 
 I do assure you, I often lose my way — aye, among the very 
 piles of warehouses that are built upon my father's orchard. 
 Do we part here ? Well, good night, sir ; I suppose we shall 
 meet in Harley Street to-morrow morning." 
 
 CHAPTER XLV. 
 NOT ALL A DEEAM. 
 
 "Where are the sounds that swam along 
 The buoyant air when I was young ; 
 The last vibration now is o'er, 
 And they who listened are no more ; 
 Ah 1 let me close my eyes and dream." 
 
 W. S. Lakdok. 
 
 The idea of Helstone had been suggested to Mr. Bell's waking 
 mind by his conversation with Mr. Lennox, and all night long 
 it ran riot through his dreams. He was again the tutor in the 
 college where he now held the rank of Fellow ; it was again a 
 long vacation, and he was staying vrith his newly married friend, 
 the proud husband, and happy Vicar of Helstone. Over 
 babbling brooks they took impossible leaps, which seemed 
 to keep them whole days suspended in the air. Time and 
 space were not, though all other things seemed real. Every event 
 was measured by the emotions of the mind, not by its actual 
 existence, for existence it had none. But the trees were gor- 
 geous in their autumnal leafiness — the warm odours of flower 
 and herb came sweet upon the sense — the young wife moved 
 about her house with just that mixture of annoyance at her 
 position, as regarded wealth, with pride in her handsome and 
 devoted husband, which Mr. Bell had noticed in real life a 
 quarter of a century ago. The dream was so like life that, 
 -when he awoke, his present life seemed like a dream. Where 
 was he ? In the close, handsomely furnished room of a 
 London hotel ! Where were those who spoke to him, moved 
 
378 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 around him, touched him, not an instant ago ? Dead ! buried ? 
 lost for evermore, as far as earth's for eTermore would extend. 
 He was an old man, so lately exultant in the full strength of 
 manhood. The utter loneliness of his life was insupportable 
 to think about. He got up hastily, and tried to forget what 
 never more might be, in a hurried dressing for the breakfast in 
 Harley Street. 
 
 He could not attend to all the lawyer's details, which, as 
 he saw, made Margaret's eyes dilate, and her lips grow pale, 
 as one by one fate decreed, or so it seemed, every morsel of 
 evidence which would exonerate Frederick, should fall from 
 beneath her feet and disappear. Even Mr. Lennox's well- 
 regulated professional voice took a softer, tenderer tone, as he 
 drew near to the extinction of the last hope. It was not that 
 Margaret had not been perfectly aware of the result before. 
 It was only that the details of each successive disappointment 
 came with such relentless minuteness to quench aU hope, that 
 she at last fairly gave way to tears. Mr. Lennox stopped 
 reading. 
 
 " I had better not go on," said he, in a concerned voice. 
 " It was a foolish proposal of mine. Lieutenant Hale," and 
 even this giving him the title of the service from which he had 
 so harshly been expelled, was soothing to Margaret. " Lieu- 
 tenant Hale is happy now ; more secure in fortune and future 
 prospects than he could ever have been in the navy ; and has, 
 doubtless, adopted his wife's country as his own." 
 
 " That is it," said Margaret. " It seems so selfish in me 
 to regret it," trying to smile, " and yet he is lost to me, and 
 I am so lonely." Mr. Lennox turned over his papers, and 
 wished that he were as rich and prosperous as he believed he 
 should be some day. Mr. Bell blew his nose, but, otherwise, 
 he also kept silence ; and Margaret, in a minute or two, had 
 apparently recovered her usual composure. She thanked Mr. 
 Lennox very courteously for his trouble ; all the more cour- 
 teously and graciously because she was conscious that, by her 
 behaviour, he might have probably been led to imagine that he 
 had given her needless pain. Yet it was pain she would not 
 have been without. 
 
 Mr. Bell came up to wish her good-bye. 
 
 " Margaret ! " said he, as he fambled vdth his gloves, 
 " I am going down to Helstone to-morrow, to .look at the old 
 place. Would you like to come vrith me ? Or would it give 
 you too much pain ? Speak out, don't be afraid." 
 
NOT ALIi A DREAM. 879 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Bell," said she — and could say no more. But 
 she took his old gouty hand, and kissed it. 
 
 " Come, come ; that's enough," said he, reddening with 
 awkwardness. " I suppose your aunt Shaw will trust you with 
 me. We'll go to-morrow momiug, and ws shall get there ahout 
 two o'clock, I fancy. We'll take a snack, and order dinner at 
 the little inn — the Lennard Arms, it used to he, — and go and 
 get an appetite in the forest. Can you stand it, Margaret ? 
 It will be a trial, I know, to both of us, but it will be a pleasure 
 to me, at least. And there we'll dine — it will be but doe- 
 venison, if we can get it at all — and then I'U take my nap while 
 you go out and see old Mends. I'll give you back safe and sound, 
 barring railway accidents, and I'll insure your life for a thou- 
 sand pounds before starting, which may be some comfort tO' 
 your relations; but otherwise, I'll bring you back to Mrs. 
 Shaw by lunch-time on Friday. So, if you say yes, I'll just 
 go up- stairs and propose it." 
 
 " It's no use my trying to say how much I shall like it," 
 said Margaret, through her tears. 
 
 " Well, then, prove your gratitude by keeping those foun- 
 tains of yours dry for the next two days. If you don't, I shall 
 feel queer myself ahout the lachrymal ducts, and I don't like 
 that." 
 
 " I won't cry a drop," said Margaret, winking her eyes to. 
 shake the tears off her eyelashes, and forcing a smile. 
 
 " There's my good girl. Then we'll go upstairs and settla 
 it all." Margaret was in a state of almost trembling eager- 
 ness, while Mr. Bell discussed his plan with her aunt Shaw, 
 who was first startled, then doubtful and perplexed, and in the 
 end, yieldiag rather to the rough force of Mr. Bell's words 
 than to her own conviction ; for to the last, whether it was right 
 or wrong, proper or improper, she could not settle to her own 
 satisfaction, till Margaret's safe return, the happy fulfilment of 
 the project, gave her decision enough to say, " she was sure it 
 had been a very kind thought of Mr. Bell's, and just what she 
 herself had been wishing for Margaret, as giving her the very 
 change which she required, after all the anxious time she> 
 had bad." 
 
( 880 ) 
 
 CHAPTER XLVI. 
 ONCE AND NO^. 
 
 "So on those happy days of yore 
 Oft as I dare to dwell once more, 
 Still must I miss the friends so tried, 
 Whom Death has severed from my side. 
 
 But ever when true friendship binds. 
 Spirit it is that spirit finds ; 
 In spirit then our bliss we found. 
 In spirit yet to them I'm bound." 
 
 Uhlakd. 
 
 Maegaeet was ready long before the appointed time, and Lad 
 leisure enough to cry a little, quietly, when unobserved, and to 
 emile brightly when any one looked at her. Her last alarm was 
 lest they should be too late and miss the train ; but no ! they 
 were all in time ; and she breathed freely and happily at length, 
 seated in the carriage opposite to Mr. Bell, and whirling away 
 past the well-known stations ; seeing the old south country- 
 towns and hamlets sleeping in the warm light of the pure sun, 
 ■which gave a yet ruddier colour to their tiled roofs, so different 
 to the cold slates of the north. Broods of pigeons hovered 
 around these peaked quaint gables, slowly settling here and 
 there, and ruffling their soft, shiny feathers, as if exposing 
 every fibre to the delicious warmth. There were few people 
 about at the stations, it almost seemed as if they were too 
 lazily content to wish to travel ; none of the bustle and stir 
 that Margaret had noticed in her two journeys on the London 
 and North-Western line. Later on ia the year, this line of 
 railway should be stirring and alive with rich pleasure-seekers ; 
 but as to the constant going to and fro of busy tradespeople it 
 would always be widely different from, the northern lines. Here 
 a spectator or two stood lounging at nearly every station, with 
 his hands in his pockets, so absorbed in the simple act of 
 watching, that it made the travellers wonder what he could find 
 to do when the train whirled away, and only the blank of a 
 railway, some sheds, and a distant field or two were left for 
 him to gaze upon. The hot air danced over the golden still- 
 ness of the land, farm after farm was left behind, each reminding 
 Margaret of German Idyls — of Herman and Dorothea — of 
 Evangeline. From this waking dream she was roused. It was 
 the place to leave the train and take the fly to Helstone. And 
 
ONCE AND NOW. 381 
 
 now sharper feelings came shooting through her heart, whether 
 pain or pleasure she could hardly tell. Every mile was redo- 
 lent of associations, which she would not have missed for tha 
 world, but each of which made her cry upon " the days that 
 are no more," with ineffable longing. The last time she had 
 passed along this road was when she had left it with her father 
 and mother — the day, the season, had been gloomy, and she 
 herself hopeless, but they were there with her. Now she was 
 alone, an orphan, and they, strangely, had gone away from her, 
 and vanished from the face of the earth. It hurt her to see the 
 Helstone road so flooded in the sun-light, and every turn and 
 every familiar tree so precisely the same in its summer glory 
 as it had been in former years. Nature felt no change, and 
 was ever young. 
 
 Mr. Bell Imew something of what would be passing through 
 her mind, and wisely and kindly held his tongue. They drove 
 up to the Lennard Arms ; half farm-house, half-inn, standing 
 a little apart from the road, as much as to say, that the host 
 did not so depend on the custom of travellers, as to have to 
 court it by any obtrusiveness ; they, rather, must seek him out. 
 The house fronted the village green ; and right before it stood 
 an immemorial lime-tree benched all round, in some hidden 
 recesses of whose leafy wealth hung the grim escutcheon of the 
 Lennards. The door of the inn stood wide open, but there was 
 no hospitable hurry to receive the travellers. When the land- 
 lady did appear — and they might have abstracted many an 
 article first--she gave them a kind welcome, almost as if they 
 had been invited guests, and apologised for her coming having 
 been so delayed, by saying, that it was hay-time, and the pro- 
 visions for the men had to be sent a-field, and she had been too 
 busy packing up the baskets to hear the noise of wheels over 
 the road, which, since they had left the highway, ran over soft 
 short turf. 
 
 " Why, bless me ! " exclaimed she, as at the end of her 
 apology a glint of sunshine showed her Margaret's face, 
 hitherto unobserved in that shady parlour. " It's Miss Hale, 
 Jenny," said she, running to the door, and calling to her 
 daughter. " Come heie, come directly, it's Miss Hale ! " 
 And then she went up to Margaret, and shook her hands with 
 motherly fondness. 
 
 " And how are you all ? How's the Vicar and Miss 
 Dixon ? The Vicar above all ! God bless him ! We've never 
 ceased to be sorry that he left." 
 
382 NORTH AOT) SOUTH. 
 
 Margaret tried to speak and tell her of her father's death ; 
 of her mother's it was evident that Mrs. Purkis was aware, 
 from her omission of her name. But she choked in the effort, 
 and could only touch her deep mourning, and say the one word, 
 " Papa." 
 
 " Surely, sir, it's never so ! " said Mrs. Purkis, turning to 
 Mr; Bell for confirmation of the sad suspicion that now entered 
 her mind. " There was a gentleman here in the spring — it 
 might have heen as long ago as last winter — who told us a deal 
 of Mr. Hale and Miss Margaret ; and he said Mrs. Hale was 
 gone, poor lady. But never a word of the Vicar's being ailing ! " 
 
 " It is so, however," said Mr. Bell. " He died quite sud- 
 denly, when on a visit to me at Oxford. He was a good man, 
 Mrs. Purkis, and there's many of us that might be thankful to 
 have as calm an end as his. Come, Margaret, my dear ! Her 
 father was my oldest friend, and she's my god-daughter, so I 
 thought we would just come down together and see the old 
 place ; and I know of old you can give us comfortable rooms 
 and a capital dinner. You don't remember me I see, but my 
 name is Bell, and once or twice when the parsonage has been 
 full, I've slept here, and tasted your good ale." 
 
 "To be sure; I ask your pardon; but you see I was 
 taken up with Miss Hale. Let me show you to a room. Miss 
 Margaret, where you can take off your bonnet, and wash your 
 face. It's only this very morning I plunged some fresh- 
 gathered roses head downward in the water-jug, for, thought 
 I, perhaps some one will be coming, and there's nothing so 
 sweet as spring-water scented by a musk rose or two. To 
 think of the Vicar being dead ! Well, to be sure, we must aU 
 die ; only that gentleman said, he was quite picking up after 
 his trouble about Mrs. Hale's death." 
 
 " Come down to me, Mrs. Purkis, after you have attended 
 to Miss Hale. I want to have a consultatioa with you about 
 dinner." 
 
 The little casement window in Margaret's bed-chamber was 
 almost filled up with rose and vine branches; but, pushing 
 theja aside, and stretching a little out, she could see ttie tops 
 of 'the parsonage chimneys above the trees, and distinguish 
 many a well-known line through the leaves. 
 
 "Aye ! " said Mrs. Purkis, smoothing down the bed, and 
 despatching Jenny for an armful of lavender-scented towels, 
 " times is changed, miss ; our new Vicar has seven children, 
 and is building a nursery ready for more, just out where the 
 
ONCE AND NOW. 388 
 
 arbour and tool-house used to be in old times. And he has 
 bad new grates put in, and a plate-glass window in the drawing' 
 room. He and his wife are stirring people, and have done a 
 deal of good ; at least they say it's doing good ; if it were not, 
 I should call it turning things upside down for very httle pur- 
 pose. The new Vicar is a teetotaller, miss, and a magistrate, 
 and his wife has a deal of receipts for economical cooking, and 
 is for making bread without yeast ; and they both talk so much, 
 and both at a time, that they knock one down as it were, and 
 it's not till they're gone, and one's a little at peace, that one 
 «an think that there were things one might have said on one's 
 own side of the question. He'll be after the men's cans in the 
 hay-field, and peeping in ; and then there'll be an ado because 
 it's not ginger beer, but I can't help it. My mother and my 
 grandmother before me sent good malt liquor to haymakers, 
 and took salts and senna when anything ailed them ; and I 
 must e'en go on in their ways, though Mrs. Hepworth does 
 want to give me comfits instead of medicine, which, as she says, 
 is a deal pleasanter, only I've no faith in it. But I must go, 
 miss, though I'm wanting to hear many a thing ; I'll come 
 back to you before long." 
 
 Mr. Bell had strawberies and cream, a loaf of brown bread, 
 and a jug of milk (together with a Stilton cheese and a bottle 
 of port for his own private refreshment), ready for Margaret on 
 her coming down stairs ; and after this rustic luncheon they 
 set out to walk, hardly knowing in what direction to turn, so 
 many old familiar inducements were there in each. 
 
 " Shall we go past the vicarage ? " asked Mr. Bell. 
 
 " No, not yet. We will go this way, and make a round so 
 as to come back by it," replied Margaret. 
 
 Here and there old trees had been felled the autumn before ; 
 or a squatter's roughly-built and decaying cottage had dis- 
 appeared. Margaret missed them each and all, and grieved 
 over them like old friends. They came past the spot where she 
 and Mr. Lennox had sketched. The white, lightning-scarred 
 trunk of the venerable beech, among whose roots they had sate 
 down was there no more ; the old man, the inhabitant of ihe 
 ruinous cottage, was dead ; the cottage had been pulled dolm, 
 and a new one, tidy and respectable, had been built in its 
 stead. There was a small garden on the place where the 
 beech-tree had been. 
 
 " I did not think I had been so old," said Margaret after a 
 pause of silence ; and she turned away sighing. 
 
384 NOHTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 " Yes 1 " said Mr. Bell. "It is the first changes among 
 familiar things that make such a mystery of time to the young, 
 afterwards we lose the sense of the mysterious. I take changes 
 in all I see as a matter of course. The instability of alt 
 human things is familiar to me, to you it is new and oppres- 
 sive." 
 
 " Let us go on to see little Susan," said Margaret, drawing 
 her companion up a grassy road- way, leading under the shadow 
 of a forest glade. 
 
 " With all my heart, though I have not an idea who little 
 Susan may be. But I have a kindness for all Susans, for 
 simple Susan's sake." 
 
 " My little Susan was disappointed when I left without 
 wishing her goodbye ; and it has been on my conscience ever 
 since, that I gave her pain which a little more exertion on my 
 part might have prevented. But it is a long way. Are you 
 sure you will not be tired ? " 
 
 " Quite sure. That is, if you don't walk so fast. You 
 see, here there are no views that can give one an excuse for 
 stopping to take breath. You would think it romantic to be 
 walking vrith a person ' fat and scant o' breath ' if I were 
 Hamlet, Prince of Denmark. Have compassion on my infir- 
 mities for his sake." 
 
 " I will walk slower for your own sake. I like you twenty 
 times better than Hamlet." 
 
 " On the principle that a living ass is better than a dead 
 lion ? " 
 
 " Perhaps so. I don't analyse my feelings." 
 
 " I am content to take your liking me, without examining 
 too curiously into the materials it is made of. Only we need 
 not walk at a snail's pace." 
 
 " Very well. Walk at your own pace, and I will follow. 
 Or stop still and ineditate, like the Hamlet you compare your- 
 self to, if I go too fast." 
 
 " Thank you. But as my mother has not murdered my 
 father, and afterwards married my uncle, I shouldn't know what 
 to think about, unless it were balancing the chances of our 
 hfWng a well-cooked dinner or not. What do you think ? " 
 
 " I am in good hopes. She used to be considered a famous 
 cook as far as Helstone opinion went." 
 
 " But have you considered the distraction of mind pro- 
 duced by all this haymaking ? " 
 
 Margaret felt all Mr. Bell's kindness in trying to make 
 
ONCE AND NOW. 885 
 
 cheerful talk about nothing, to endeavour to prevent her from 
 thinking too curiously about the past. But she would rather 
 have gone over these dear-loved walks in silence, if indeed she 
 were not ungrateful enough to wish that she might have been 
 alone. 
 
 They reached the cottage where Susan's widowed mother 
 lived. Susan was not there. She was gone to the parochial 
 school. Margaret was disappointed, and the poor woman saw 
 it, and began to make a kind of apology. 
 
 " Oh ! it is quite right," said Margaret. " I am vei^ glad 
 to hear it. I might have thought of it. Only she used to stop 
 at home with you." 
 
 " Yes, she did ; and I miss her sadly. I used to teach 
 her what little I knew at nights. It were not much to be 
 sure. But she were getting such a handy girl, that I miss her 
 sore. But she's a deal above me in learning now." And the 
 mother sighed. 
 
 " I'm all wrong," growled Mr. Bell. " Don't mind whatf 
 I say. I'm a hundred years behind the world. But I should I 
 say, that the child was getting a better and simpler, and more j 
 natural education stopping at home, and helping her mother, 
 and learning to read a chapter in the New Testament every | 
 night by her side, than from all the schooling under the sun." 
 
 Margaret did not want to encourage him to go on by reply- 
 ing to him, and so prolonging the discussion before the mother. | 
 So she turned to her and asked, 
 
 " How is old Betty Barnes ? " 
 
 " I don't know," said the woman rather shortly. " We'se 
 not Mends." 
 
 " Why not ? " asked Margaret, who had formerly been the 
 peacemaker of the village. 
 
 " She stole my cat." 
 
 " Did she know it was yours ? " 
 
 " I don't know. I reckon not." 
 
 " Well 1 could not you get it back again when you told her 
 it was yours ? " 
 
 "No! for she'd burnt it." 
 
 " Burnt it ! " exclaimed both Margaret and Mr, Bell. 
 
 " Boasted it ! " explained the woman. 
 
 It was no explanation. By dint of questioning, Margaret 
 extracted from her the horrible fact that Betty Barnes, having 
 been induced by a gipsy fortune-teller to lend the latter her 
 husband's Sunday clothes, on promise of having them faith- 
 
 25 
 
S86 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 fully returned on the S&turday night before Goodman BamsB 
 should have missed them, became alarmed by their non-appear' 
 ance, and her consequent dread of her husband's anger, and 
 as, according to one of the savage country superstitions, the 
 cries of a cat, in the agonies of being boiled or roasted alive, 
 compelled (as it were) the powers of darkness to fulfil the 
 wishes of the executioner, resort had been had to the charm. 
 The poor woman evidently believed in its efficacy ; her only 
 feeling was indignation that her cat had been chosen out from 
 all others for a sacrifice. Margaret listened in horror ; and 
 endeavoured in vain to enlighten the woman's mind ; but she 
 was obliged to give it up in despair. Step by step she got the 
 woman to admit certain facts, of which the logical connexion 
 and sequence was perfectly clear to Margaret ; but at the end, 
 the bewildered woman simply repeated her first assertion, 
 namely, that " it were very cruel for sure, and she should not 
 like to do it ; but that there were nothing like it for giving a 
 person what they wished for ; she had heard it all her life ; 
 but it were very cruel for all that." Margaret gave it up in 
 despair, and walked away sick at heart. 
 
 "You are a good girl not to triumph over me," said Mr. 
 Bell. 
 
 " How ? What do you mean ? " 
 
 " I own, I am wrong about schooling. AnjHihing rather 
 than have that child brought up in such practical paganism." 
 
 " Oh ! I remember. Poor little Susan ! I must go and 
 see her ; would you mind calling at the school ? " 
 
 " Not a bit. I am curious to see something of the teaching 
 she is to receive." 
 
 They did not speak much more, but thridded their way 
 through many a bosky dell, whose soft green influence could 
 not charm away the shock and the pain in Margaret's heart, 
 caused by the recital of such cruelty ; a recital too, the manner 
 of which betrayed such utter want of imagination, and there- 
 fore of any sympathy with the sufiering animal. 
 
 The buzz of voices, like the murmur of a hive of busy 
 human bees, made itself heard as soon as they emerged from 
 the forest on the more open village-green on which the school 
 was situated. The door was wide open, and they entered. A 
 brisk lady in black, here, there, and everywhere, perceived 
 them, and bade them welcome with somewhat of the hostess- 
 air which, Margaret remembered, her mother was wont to 
 assume, only in » more Boft and languid manner, when any 
 
ONOE AND NOW. 887 
 
 rare visitors strayed in to inspect the school. She knew at 
 once it was the present Vicar's wife, her mother's successor ; 
 and she would have drawn back from the interview had it been 
 possible ; but in an instant she had conquered this feeling, and 
 modestly advanced, meeting many a bright glance of recogni- 
 tion, and hearing many a half- suppressed murmur of " It's 
 Miss Hale." The Vicar's lady heard the name, and her 
 manner at once became more kindly. Margaret wished she 
 could have helped feeling that it also became more patronizing. 
 The lady held out a hand to Mr. Bell, with — 
 
 " Your father, I presume. Miss Hale. I see it by the 
 likeness. I am sure I am very glad to see you, sir, and so 
 will the Vicar be." 
 
 Margaret explained that it was not her father, and stam- 
 -mered out the fact of his death ; wondering all the time how 
 Mr. Hale could have borne coming to revisit Helstone, if it 
 had been as the Vicar's lady supposed. She did not hear 
 what Mrs. Hepworth was saying, and left it to Mr. Bell to 
 reply, looking round, meanwhile, for her old acquaintances. 
 
 " Ah ! I see you would like to take a class, Miss Hale. I 
 know it by myself. First class stand up for a parsing lesson 
 with Miss Hale." 
 
 Poor Margaret, whose visit was sentimental, not in any 
 degree inspective, felt herself taken in ; but as in some way 
 bringing her in contact with little eager faces, once well- 
 known, and who had received the solemn rite of baptism from 
 her father, she sate down, half losing herself in tracing out the 
 changing features of the girls, and holding Susan's hand for a 
 minute or two, unobserved by all, while the first class sought 
 for their books, and the Vicar's lady went as near as a lady 
 could towards holding Mr. Bell by the button, while she 
 explained the Phonetic system to him, and gave him a conver- 
 sation she had had with the Inspector about it. 
 
 Margaret bent over her book, and seemg nothing but that 
 — shearing the buzz of children's voices, old times rose up, and 
 she thought of them, and her eyes filled with tears, till all at 
 once there was a pause — one of the girls was stumbling over 
 the apparently simple word "a," uncertain what to call it. 
 
 "A, an indefinite article," said Margaret, mildly. 
 
 " I beg your pardon," said the Vicar's wife, jdl eyes and 
 «ars ; " but we are taught by Mr. Milsome to call ' a ' an — 
 who can remember ? " 
 
 "An adjective absolnte," said half-a-dozen voices at once. 
 
 25—8 
 
888 NOETH AND BOXTTH. 
 
 And Margaret sate abashed. The children knew more than 
 she did. Mr. Bell turned away, and smiled. 
 
 Margaret spoke no more during the lesson. But after it 
 was over, she went quietly round to one or two old favourites, 
 and talked to them a little. They were growing out of children 
 into great girls ; passing out of her recollection in their rapid 
 development, as she, by her three years' absence, was vanishing 
 from theirs. Still she was glad to have seen them all again, 
 though a tinge of sadness mixed itself with her pleasure. 
 When school was over for the day, it was yet early in the 
 summer afternoon ; and Mrs. Hepworth proposed to Margaret 
 that she and Mr. Bell should accompany her to the parsonage, 
 and see the — ^the word " improvements " had half slipped out 
 of her mouth, but she substituted the more cautious term 
 " alterations " which the present Vicar was making. Margaret 
 did not care a straw about seeing the alterations, which jarred 
 upon her fond recollection of what her home had been ; bnt 
 she longed to see the old place once more, even though she 
 shivered away from the pain which she knew she should feel. 
 
 The parsonage was so altered, both inside and out, that the 
 real pain was less than she had anticipated. It was not like 
 the same place. The garden, the grass-plat, formerly so 
 daintily trim that even a stray rose-leaf seemed like a fleck on 
 its exquisite arrangement and propriety, was strewed with 
 children's things; a bag of marbles here, a hoop there; a 
 straw-hat forced dovm upon a rose-tree as on a peg, to the 
 destruction of a long beautiful tender branch laden with flowers, 
 which in former days would have been trained up tenderly, as 
 if beloved. The little square matted hall was equally filled 
 with signs of merry healthy rough childhood. 
 
 "Ahl" said Mrs. Hepworth, "yon must excuse this 
 untidiness. Miss Hale. When the nursery is finished, I shall 
 insist upon a little order. We are building a nursery out of 
 your room, I believe. How did you manage. Miss Hale, with- 
 out a nursery ? " 
 
 " We were but two," said Margaret. " You have many 
 children, I presume ? " 
 
 "Seven. Look here! we are throwing out a window to 
 the road on this side. Mr. Hepworth is spending an immense 
 deal of money on this house ; but really it was scarcely habi- 
 table when we came — for so large a family as ours I mean, of 
 course." Every room in the house was changed, besides the 
 one of which Mrs. Hepworth spoke, which had been Mr. Hale's 
 
ONCE AND NOW. 889 
 
 Btudy formerly ; and where the green gloom and delicious quiet 
 of the place had conduced, as he had said, to a habit of medi- 
 tation, but, perhaps, in some degree to the formation of a 
 character more fitted for thought than action. The new win- 
 dow gave a view of the road, and had many advantages, as 
 Mrs. Hepworth pointed out. From it the wandering sheep of 
 her husband's flock might be seen, who straggled to the 
 tempting beer-house, unobserved as they might hope, but not 
 unobserved in reality ; for the active Vicar kept his eye on the 
 road, even during the composition of his most orthodox sermons, 
 and had a hat and stick hanging ready at hand to seize, before 
 sallying out after his parishioners, who had need of quick legs 
 if they could take refuge in the " Jolly Forester" before the 
 teetotal Yicar had arrested them. The whole family were 
 quick, brisk, loud-talking, kind-hearted, and not troubled with 
 much delicacy of perception. Margaret feared that Mrs. Hep- 
 worth would find out that Mr. Bell was playing upon her, in 
 the admiration he thought fit to express for everything that 
 especially grated on his taste. But no ! she took it all literally, 
 and with such good faith, that Margaret could not help remon- 
 strating with him as they walked slowly away from the parsonage 
 back to their inn. 
 
 " Don't scold, Margaret. It was all because of you. If 
 she had not shown you every change with such evident exulta- 
 tion in their superior sense, in perceiving what an improvement 
 this and that would be, I could have behaved well. But if you 
 must go on preaching, keep it till after dinner, when it will 
 send me to sleep, and help my digestion." 
 
 They were both of them tired, and Margaret herself so 
 much so, that she was unwilling to go out as she had proposed 
 to do, and have another ramble among the woods and fields so 
 close to the home of her childhood. And, somehow, this visit 
 to Helstone had not been all — had not been exactly what she 
 had expected. There was change everywhere; slight, yet 
 pervading all. Households were changed by absence, or death, 
 or marriage, or the natural mutations brought by days and 
 months and years, which carry us on imperceptibly from child- 
 hood to youth, and thence through manhood to age, whence we 
 drop Uke fruit, fully ripe, into the quiet mother earth. Places 
 were changed— a tree gone here, a bough there, bringing in a 
 long ray of light where no light was before — a road was trim- 
 med and narrowed, and the green straggling pathway by its 
 side enclosed and cultivated. A great improvement it was 
 
890 NOETH AND SOUTH. 
 
 called ; but Margaret sighed over the old picturesqueness, the 
 old gloom, and the grassy way-side of fonner days. She sate 
 by the window on the little settle, sadly gazing out upon the 
 gathering shades of night, which harmonized well with her 
 pensive thought. Mr. Bell slept soundly, after his unusual 
 exercise through the day. At last he was roused by the 
 entrance of the tea-tray, brought in by a flushed-looking 
 country-girl, who had evidently been finding some variety from 
 her usual occupation of waiter, in assisting this day in the hay- 
 field. 
 
 " HaUo ! Who's there ! Where are we ? Who's that,— 
 Margaret ? Oh, now I remember all. I could not imagine 
 what woman was sitting there in such a doleful attitude, with 
 her hands clasped straight out upon her knees, and her face 
 looking so steadfastly before her. What were you looking at?" 
 asked Mr. Bell, coming to the window, and standing behind 
 Margaret. 
 
 " Nothing," said she, rising up quickly, and speaking as 
 cheerfully as she could at a moment's notice. 
 
 " Nothing indeed ! A bleak back-ground of trees, some 
 white linen hung out on the sweet-briar hedge, and a great 
 waft of damp air. Shut the window, and come in and make 
 tea." 
 
 Margaret was silent for some time. She played with her 
 teaspoon, and did not attend particularly to what Mr. BeU 
 said. He contradicted her, and she took the same sort of 
 smiling notice of his opinion as if he had agreed with her. 
 Then she sighed, and putting down her spoon, she began, 
 apropos of nothing at all, and in the high-pitched voice which 
 usually shows that the speaker has been thinking for some time 
 on the subject that they wish to introduce — " Mr. Bell, you 
 remember what we were saying about Frederick last night, 
 don't you ? " 
 
 "Last night. Where was I ? Oh, I remember ! Why, 
 it seems a week ago. Yes, to be sure, I recollect we talked 
 about him, poor fellow." 
 
 " Yes — and do you not remember that Mr. Lennox spoke 
 about his having been in England about the time of dear 
 mamma's death ? " asked Margaret, her voice now lower than 
 usual. 
 
 " I recollect. I hadn't heard of it before." 
 
 " And I thought — ^I always thought that papa had told yon. 
 about it." 
 
ONCE AND NOW. 391 
 
 " No ! he never did. But what about it, Margaret ? " 
 
 " I want to tell you of something I did that was very wrong, 
 ftbout that time," said Margaret, suddenly looking up at him 
 with her clear honest eyes. 
 
 " I told a lie ; " and her face became scarlet. 
 
 ' ' True, that was bad I own ; not but what I have told a 
 pretty round number in my life, not all in downright words, as 
 I suppose you did, but in actions, or in some shabby circumlo- 
 cutory way, leading people either to disbelieve the truth, or 
 believe a falsehood. You know who is the father of lies, 
 Margaret ? Well ! a great number of folk, thinking themselves 
 very good, have odd sorts of connexion with lies, left-hand 
 marriages, and second-cousins-once-removed. The tainting 
 blood of falsehood runs through us all. I should have guessed 
 you as far from it as most people. What I crying, child ? 
 Nay, now we'll not talk of it, if it ends in this way. I dare 
 say you have been sorry for it, and that you won't do it again, 
 and it's long ago now, and in short I want you to be very 
 cheerful, and not very sad, this evening." 
 
 Margaret wiped her eyes, and tried to talk about something 
 else, but suddenly she burst out a&esh. 
 
 " Please, Mr. Bell, let me teU you about it — ^you could 
 perhaps help me a little ; no, not help me, but if you knew the 
 trath, perhaps you could put me to rights — ^that is not it, after 
 all," said she, in despair at not beiug able to express herself 
 more exactly as she wished. 
 
 Mr. Bell's whole manner changed. " Tell me all about it, 
 child," said he. 
 
 " It's a long story ; but when Fred came, mamma was very 
 ill, and I was undone with anxiety, and afraid, too, that I 
 might have drawn him into danger ; and we had an alarm just 
 after her death, for Dixon met some one in Milton — a man 
 called Leonards — ^who had known Fred, and who seemed to 
 owe him a grudge, or at any rate to be tempted by the recol- 
 lection of the reward offered for his apprehension ; and with 
 this new fright, I thought I had better hurry off Fred to 
 London, where, as you would understand from what we said 
 the other night, he was to go to consult Mr. Lennox as to his 
 chances if he stood trial. So we — that is, he and I, — went to 
 the railway station ; it was one evening, and it was just getting 
 rather dusk, but still light enough to recognize and be recog- 
 nized, and we were too early, and went out to walk in a field 
 just close by ; I was always in a panic about this Leonards, 
 
892 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 who was, I knew, somewhere in the neighhourhood ; and then, 
 when we were in the field, the low red sunhght just in my face, 
 some one came by on horseback in the road just below the 
 field-style by which we stood. I saw him look at me, but I 
 did not know who it was at first, the sun was so in my eyes, 
 but in an instant the dazzle went off, and I saw it was 
 Mr. Thornton, and we bowed," 
 
 "And he saw Frederick of course," said Mr. Bell, helping 
 her on with her story, as he thought. 
 
 " Yes ; and then at the station a man came up — tipsy and 
 reeling — and he tried to collar Fred, and over-balanced him- 
 self as Fred wrenched himself away, and fell over the edge of 
 the platform ; not far, not deep ; not above three feet ; but 
 oh ! Mr. Bell, somehow that fall killed him ! " 
 
 " How awkward. It was this Leonards, I suppose. And 
 how did Fred get off?" 
 
 "Oh! he went off immediately after the fall, which we 
 never thought could have done the poor fellow any harm, it 
 seemed so slight an injury." 
 
 " Then he did not die directly ? " 
 
 " No ! not for two or three days. And then — oh, Mr. 
 Bell ! now comes the bad part," said she, nervously twining 
 her fingers together. " A police inspector came and taxed me 
 with having been the companion of the young man, whose push 
 or blow had occasioned Leonards' death ; that was a false accu- 
 sation, you know, but we had not heard that Fred had sailed, 
 he might still be in London and liable to be arrested on this 
 false charge, and his identity with the Lieutenant Hale, accused 
 of causing that mutiny, discovered, he might be shot ; all this 
 flashed through my mind, and I said it was not me. I was not 
 at the railway station that night. I knew nothing about it. 
 I had no conscience or thought but to save Frederick." 
 
 " I say it was right. I should have done the same. You 
 forgot yourself in thought for another. I hope I should have 
 done the same." 
 
 " No, you would not. It was wrong, disobedient, faithless. 
 At that very time Fred was safely out of England, and in my 
 blindness I forgot that there was another witness who could 
 testify to my being there." 
 
 " Who ? " 
 
 " Mr. Thornton. You know he had seen me close to the 
 station ; we had bowed to each other." 
 
 " Well ! he would know nothing of this riot, about the 
 
ONCE AMD NOW. 393 
 
 drunken fellow's death. I suppose the inquiry never came to 
 anything." 
 
 " No ! the proceedings they had begun to talk about on the 
 inquest were stopped. Mr. Thornton did know all about it. 
 He was a magistrate, and he found out that it was not the fall 
 that had caused the death. But not before he. knew what I 
 had said. Oh, Mr. Bell ! " She suddenly covered her face 
 with her hands, as if wishing to hide herself from the presence 
 of the recollection. 
 
 " Did you have any explanation with him ? Did you evir 
 tell him the strong, instinctive motive ? " 
 
 " The instinctive want of faith, and clutching at a sin to 
 keep myself from sinking," said she bitterly. " No ! How 
 could I ? He knew nothing of Frederick. To put myself to 
 rights in his good opinion, was I to tell him the secrets of our 
 famUy, involving, as they seemed to do, the chances of poor 
 Frederick's entire exculpation ? Fred's last words had been to 
 enjoin me to keep his visit a secret from all. You see, papa 
 never told, even you. No ! I could bear the shame — I thought 
 I could at least. I did bear it. Mr. Thornton has never 
 respected me since." 
 
 "He respects you, lam sure," said Mr. Bell. " To be 
 
 sure it accounts a little for . But he always speaks of you 
 
 with regard and esteem, though now I understand certain reser- 
 vations in his manner." 
 
 Margaret did not speak; did not attend to what Mr. Bell 
 went on to say ; lost all sense of it. By-and-by she said : 
 
 " Will you tell me what you refer to about ' reservations' 
 in his manner of speaking of me ? " 
 
 " Oh ! simply he has annoyed me by not joining in my 
 praises of you. Like an old fool, I thought that every one 
 would have the same opinions as I had ; and he evidently could 
 not agree with me. I was puzzled at the time. But he must 
 be perplexed, if the affair has never been in the least explained. 
 There was first your walking out with a young man in the 
 dark—" 
 
 "But it was my brother! " said Margaret, surprised. 
 
 " True. But how was he to know that ? " 
 
 " I don't know. I never thought of any thing of that 
 kind," said Margai-et, reddening, and looking hurt and 
 offended. 
 
 " And perhaps he never would, but for the lie, — which, 
 under the circumstances, I maintain, was necessary." 
 
S94: NORTH AND SOTJTH. 
 
 " It was not. I know it now. I bitterly repent it." 
 
 There was a long pause of silence. Margaret was the first 
 to speak. 
 
 " I am not likely ever to see Mr. Thornton again," — and 
 there she stopped. 
 
 " There are many things more unlikely, I should say," 
 replied Mr. Bell. 
 
 " But I beUeve I never shall. Still, somehow one does 
 not like to have sunk so low in — ^in a friend's opinion as I have 
 done in his." Her eyes were full of tears, but her voice was 
 steady, and Mr. Bell was not looking at her. " Ajid now that 
 Frederick has given up all hope, and almost all wish of ever 
 clearing himself, and returning to England, it would be only 
 doing myself justice to have aU this explained. If you please, 
 and if yon can, if there is a good opportunity, (don't force an 
 explanation upon him, pray,) but if you can, vrill you tell him 
 the whole circumstances, and tell him also that I gave you 
 leave to do so, because I felt that for papa's sake I should not 
 like to lose his respect, though we may never be likely to meet 
 again ? " 
 
 " Certainly. I think he ought to know. I do not like you 
 to rest even under a shadow of an impropriety ; he would not 
 know what to think of seeing you alone with a young man." 
 
 " As for that," said Margaret, rather haughtily, " I hold 
 it is ' Honi soit qui mal y pense,' Yet still I should choose 
 to have it explained, if any natural opportunity for easy expla- 
 nation occurs. But it is not to clear myself of any suspicion 
 of improper conduct that I wish to have him told — if I thought 
 that he had suspected me, I should not caxe for his good 
 opinion — no ! it is that he may learn how I was tempted, and 
 how I fell into the snare ; why I told that falsehood, in 
 short." 
 
 " Which I don't blame you for. It is no partiality of mine, 
 I assure you." 
 
 " What other people may think of the rightness or wrong- 
 ness is nothing in comparison to my own deep knowledge, 
 my innate conviction that it was wrong. But we will not 
 talk of that any more, if you please. It is done — ^my sin 
 is sinned. I have now to put it behind me, and be truthful 
 for evermore, if I can." 
 
 " Very well. If you like to be uncomfortable and morbid, 
 be so. I always keep my conscience as tight shut up as a 
 jack-in-a-box, lor when it jumps into existence it surprises 
 
ONCE AND NOW. 395 
 
 me by its size. So I coax it down again, as the fisherman 
 coaxed the genie. ' Wonderfiil,' says I, ' to think that you 
 have been concealed so long, and in so small a compass, that 
 I really did not know of your existence. Pray, sir, instead of 
 growing larger and larger every instant, and bewildering me 
 with your misty outlines, would you once more compress your- 
 self into your former dimensions ? ' And when I've got him 
 down, don't I clap the seal on the vase, and take good care 
 how I open it again, and how I go against Soloman, wisest of 
 men, who confined him there." 
 
 But it was no smiling matter to Margaret. She hardly 
 attended to what Mr. Bell was saying. Her thoughts ran upon 
 the idea, before entertained, but which now had assumed the 
 strength of a conviction, that Mr. Thornton no longer held his 
 former good opinion of her — ^that he was disappointed in her. 
 She did not feel as if any explanation could ever reinstate 
 her — not in his love, for that and any return on her part she had 
 resolved never to dwell upon, and she kept rigidly to her reso- 
 lution — but in the respect and high regard which she had 
 hoped would have ever made him willing, in the spirit of 
 Gerald Griffin's beautiful lines, 
 
 " To turn and look back when thou hearest 
 The aonnd of my name." 
 
 She kept choking and swallowing all the time that she thought 
 about it. She tried to comfort herself with the idea, that what 
 he imagined her to be, did not alter the fact of what she was. 
 But it was a truism, a phantom, and broke down under the 
 weight of her regret. She had twenty questions on the tip of 
 her tongue to ask Mr. Bell, but not one of them did she utter, 
 Mr. Bell thought that she was tired, and sent her early to her 
 room, where she sate long hours by the open window, gazing 
 out on the purple dome above, where the stars arose, and 
 twinkled and disappeared behind the great umbrageous trees 
 before she went to bed. All night long too, there burnt a 
 little light on earth ; a candle in her old bedroom, which was 
 the nursery with the present inhabitants of the parsonage^ 
 until the new one was built. A sense of change, of individual 
 nothingness, of perplexity and disappointment, overpowered 
 Margaret. Nothing had been the same ; and this slight, all- 
 pervading instability, had given her greater pain than if all had 
 been too entirely changed for her to recognise it. 
 
896 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 " I begin to understand now what heaven must be — and, 
 oh ! the grandeur and repose of the words — ' The same yester- 
 day, to-day, and for ever.' Everlasting! ' From everlasting 
 to everlasting, Thou art God.' That sky above me looks as 
 though it could not change, and yet it will. I am so tired — 
 so tired of being whirled on through all these phases of my life, 
 in which nothing abides by me, no creature, no place ; it is 
 like the circle in which the victims of earthly passion eddy 
 continually. I am in the mood in which women of another 
 religion take the veil. I seek heavenly steadfastness in earthly 
 monotony. If I were a Koman Catholic and could deaden my 
 heart, stun it with some great blow, I might become a nun. 
 But I should pine after my kind ; no, not my kind, for love for 
 my species could never fill my heart to the utter exclusion of 
 love for individuals. Perhaps it ought to be so, perhaps not ; 
 I cannot decide to-night." 
 
 Wearily she went to bed, wearily she arose in four or five 
 hours' time. But with the morning came hope, and a brighter 
 view of things. 
 
 " After all it is right," said she, hearing the voices of 
 children at play while she was dressing. " If the world stood 
 still, it would retrograde and become corrupt, if that is not 
 Irish. Looking out of myseK, and my own painfol sense of 
 change, the progress of all around me is right and necessary. 
 I must not think so much of how circumstances afiect me 
 myself, but how they afiiect others, if I wish to have a right 
 judgment, or a hopeful trustfiil heart." And with a smile 
 ready in her eyes to quiver down to her lips, she went into the 
 parlour and greeted Mr. Bell. 
 
 " Ah, Missy ! you were up late last night, and so you're 
 late this morning. Now I've got a little piece of news for you. 
 What do you think of an invitation to dinner ? a morning call, 
 literally in the dewy morning. Why, I've had the Vicar here 
 already, on his way to the school. How much the desire of 
 giving our hostess a teetotal lecture for the benefit of the hay- 
 makers, had to do with his earliness, I don't know ; but here 
 he was, when I came down just before nine ; and we are asked 
 to dine there to-day." 
 
 "But Edith expects me back — I carmot go," said Mar- 
 garet, thankful to have so good an excuse. 
 
 " Yes ! I know ; so I told him. I thought you would not 
 want to go. Still it is open, if you would like it." 
 
 "Oh, no ! " said Margaret. " Let us keep to our plan. 
 
SOMETHING WANTING. 89T 
 
 Let us start at twelve. It is very good and kind of them ; 
 but indeed I could not go." 
 
 " Very well. Don't fidget yourself, and I'll arrange it all." 
 
 Before they left, Margaret stole round to the back of the 
 Vicarage garden, and gathered a little straggling piece of 
 honeysuckle. She would not take a flower the day before, for 
 fear of being observed, and her motives and feelings com- 
 mented upon. But as she returned across the common, the 
 place was reinvested with the old enchanting atmosphere. 
 The common sounds of life were more musical there than any- 
 where else in the whole world, the light more golden, the life 
 more tranquil and full of dreamy delight. As Margaret 
 remembered her feelings yesterday, she said to herself : 
 
 " And I too change perpetually — now this, now that — now 
 disappointed and peevish because all is not exactly as I had 
 pictured it, and now suddenly discovering that the reality is far 
 more beautiful than I had imagined it. Oh, Helstone ! I 
 shall never love any place like you." 
 
 A few days afterwards, she had found her level, and 
 decided that she was very glad to have been there, and that 
 she had seen it again, and that to her it would always be the 
 prettiest spot in the world, but that it was so fall of associa- 
 tions with former d-ays, and especially with her father and 
 mother, that if it were all to come over again, she should 
 shrink back from such another visit as that which she had 
 paid with Mr. Bell. 
 
 CHAPTEE XLVn. 
 
 SOMETHING WANTING. 
 
 " Experience, like a pale musician, holds 
 A dulcimer of patience in his hand ; 
 Whence harmonies we cannot understand. 
 Of God's will in His worlds, the strain unfolds 
 In Ead, perplexed minors." 
 
 Mbb. Bbownino. 
 
 About this time Dixon returned from Milton, and assumed her 
 post as Margaret's maid. She brought endless pieces of 
 Milton gossip: How Martha had gone to live with Miss 
 Thornton, on the latter's marriage; with an account of the 
 
898 NOKTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 bridesmaids, dresses and breakfasts, at that interesting cere- 
 mony ; how people thought that Mr. Thornton had made too 
 grand a wedding of it, considering he had lost a deal by the 
 strike, and had had to pay so much for the failure of his con- 
 tracts ; how little money articles of furniture — ^long cherished 
 by Dixon — ^had fetched at the sale, which was a shame con- 
 sidering how rich folks were at Milton ; how Mrs. Thornton 
 had come one day and got two or three good bargains, and Mr. 
 Thornton had come the next, and in his desire to obtain one 
 or two things, had bid against himself, much to the enjoyment 
 of the bystanders, so as Dixon observed, that made things 
 even ; if Mrs. Thornton paid too little, Mr. Thornton paid too 
 much. Mr. Bell had sent all sorts of orders about the books ; 
 there was no understanding him, he was so particular ; if he 
 had come himself it would have been all right, but letters 
 always were and always will be more puzzling than they are 
 worth. Dixon had not much to tell about the Higginses. Her 
 memory had an aristocratic bias, and was very treacherous 
 whenever she tried to recall any circumstance connected ■With 
 those below her in life. Nicholas was very well she beheved. 
 He had been several times at the house asking for news of 
 Miss Margaret — the only person who ever did ask, except 
 once Mr. Thornton. And Mary ? oh ! of course she was very 
 well, a great, stout, slatternly thing ! She did hear, or perhaps 
 it was only a dream of hers, though it would be strange if she 
 had dreamt of such people as the Higginses, that Mary had 
 gone to work at Mr. Thornton's mill, because her father 
 wished her to know how to cook ; but what nonsense that 
 could mean she didn't know. Margaret rather agreed with 
 her that the story was incoherent enough to be like a dream. 
 Still it was pleasant to have some one now with whom she 
 could talk of Milton, and Milton people. Dixon was not over- 
 fond of the subject, rather wishing to leave that part of her life 
 in shadow. She liked much more to dwell upon speeches of 
 Mr. Bell's, which had suggested an idea to her of what was 
 really his intention — making Margaret his heiress. But her 
 young lady gave her no encouragement, nor in any way 
 gratified her insinuating enquiries, however disguised in the 
 form of suspicions or assertions. 
 
 All this time Margaret had a strange undefined longing 
 to hear that Mr. Bell had gone to pay one of his business 
 visits to Milton ; for it had been well understood between them, 
 at the time of their conversation at Helstoue, that the explana- 
 
SOMETHING WANTING. 399 
 
 tion she had desired should only be given to Mr. Thornton by 
 word of mouth, and even in that manner should be in nowisa 
 forced upon him. Mr. Bell was no great correspondent, but 
 he wrote from time to time long or short letters, as the humour 
 took him, and although Margaret was not conscious of any- 
 definite hope, on receiving them, yet she always put away his 
 notes with a little feeling of disappointment. He was not going 
 to Milton ; he said nothing about it at any rate. Well ! she 
 must be patient. Sooner or later the mists would be cleared 
 away. Mr. Bell's letters were hardly like his usual self ; they 
 were short, and complaining, with every now and then a little 
 touch of bitterness that was unusual. He did not look forward 
 to the future ; he rather seemed to regret the past, and be 
 weary of the present. Margaret fancied that he could not be 
 we]l ; but in answer to some enquiry oi hers as to his health, 
 he sent her a short note, saying there was an oldfashioned 
 complaint called the spleen ; that he was suffering from that, 
 and it was for her to decide ii it was more mental or physical; 
 but that he should like to indulge himself in grumbling, without 
 being obliged to send a bulletin every time. 
 
 In consequence of this note, Margaret made no more 
 enquiries about his health. One day Edith let out accident- 
 ally a fragment of a conversation which she had had with 
 Mr. Bell, when he was last in London, which possessed Mar- 
 garet with the idea that he had some notion of taking her to 
 pay a visit to her brother and new sister-in-law, at Cadiz, in 
 the autumn. She questioned and cross-questioned Edith, tUI 
 the latter was weary, and declared that there was nothing more 
 to remember ; all he had said was that he half-thought he 
 should go, and hear for himself what Frederick had to say 
 about the mutiny ; and that it would be a good opportunity for 
 Margaret to become acquainted with her new sister-in-law ; 
 that he always went somewhere during the long vacation, and 
 did not see why he should not go to Spain as well as anywhere 
 else. That was all. Edith hoped Margaret did not want to 
 leave them, that she was so anxious about all this. And then, 
 having nothing else particular to do, she cried, and said that 
 she knew she cared much more for Margaret than Margaret 
 did for her. Margaret- comforted her as well as she could, 
 but she could hardly explain to her how this idea of Spain, 
 mere Chateau en Espagne as it might he, charmed and 
 delighted her. Edith was in the mood to think that any plea- 
 sure enjoyed away from her was a tacit afiront, or at best a 
 
400 NORTH Airo SOTTTH. 
 
 proof of indifference. So Margaret had to keep her pleasure 
 to herself, and could only let it escape by the safety-valve of 
 asking Dixon, when she dressed for dinner, if she would not 
 like to see Master Frederick and his new wife very much 
 indeed ? 
 
 " She's a Papist, Miss, isn't she ?" 
 
 •'I believe — oh yes, certainly 1" said Margaret, a Uttle 
 damped for an instant at this recollection. 
 
 " And they live in a Popish country ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Then I'm afraid I must say, that my soul is dearer to me 
 than even Master Frederick, his own dear self. I should be 
 in a perpetual terror. Miss, lest I should be converted." 
 
 "Oh," said Margaret, " I do not know that I am going ; 
 and if I go, I am not such a fine lady as to be unable to travel 
 without you. No ! dear old Dixon, you shall have a long 
 hohday, if we go. But I'm afraid it is a long ' if.' " 
 
 "Now Dixon did not like this speech. In the first place, 
 she did not like Margaret's trick of palling her ' dear old 
 Dixon ' whenever she was particularly demonstrative. She 
 knew that Miss Hale was apt to call all people that she liked 
 " old," as a sort of term of endearment ; but Dixon always 
 winced away from the application of the word to herself, who, 
 being not much past fifty, was, she thought, in the very prime 
 of life. Secondly, she did not like being so easily taken at her 
 word ; she had, with all her terror, a lurking curiosity about 
 Spain, the Inquisition, and Popish mysteries. So, after 
 clearing her throat, as if to show her willingness to do away 
 with diflSculties, she asked Miss Hale whether she thought, if 
 she took care never to see a priest, or enter into one of their 
 churches, there would be so very much danger of her being 
 converted? Master Frederick, to be sure, had gone over 
 unaccountably. 
 
 " I fancy it was love that first predisposed him to conver- 
 sion," said Margaret, sighing. 
 
 "Indeed, Miss!" said Dixon; "well! I can preserve 
 myself from priests, and from churches ; but love steals in 
 unawares ! I think it's as well I should not go." 
 
 Margaret was afraid of letting her mind run too much upon 
 this Spanish plan. But it took off her thoughts from too 
 impatiently dwelling upon her desire to have all explained to 
 Mr. Thornton. Mr. Bell appeared for the present to be 
 stationary at Oxford, and to have no immediate purpose of 
 
SOMETHING WANTED. 401 
 
 going to Milton, and some secret restraint seemed to hang 
 over Margaret, and prevent her from even asking, or alluding 
 again to any probability of such a visit on his part. Nor did 
 she feel at liberty to name what Edith had told her of the idea 
 he had entertained, — it might be but for five minutes, — of 
 going to Spain. He had never named it at Helstone, during 
 all that sunny day of leisure ; it was very probably but the 
 fancy of a moment, — but if it were true, what a bright outlet 
 it would be from the monotony of her present life, which was 
 beginning to faU upon her. 
 
 One of the great pleasures of Margaret's life at this time 
 was in Edith's boy. He was the pride and plaything of both 
 iather and mother, as long as he was good ; but he had a 
 strong will of his own, and as soon as he burst out into one of 
 his stormy passions, Edith would throw herself back in despair 
 and fatigue, and sigh out, " Oh dear, what shall I do with him ! 
 Do, Margaret, please ring the bell for Hanley." 
 
 But Margaret almost liked him better in these manifes- 
 tations of character than in his good blue-sashed moods. She 
 would carry him off into a room, where they two alone battled 
 it out ; she with a firm power which subdued him into peace, 
 while every sudden charm and wile she possessed was exerted 
 on the side of right, imtil he would rub his little hot and tear- 
 smeared face all over hers, kissing and caressing till he often 
 fell asleep in her arms or on her shoulder. Those were 
 Margaret's sweetest moments. They gave her a taste of the 
 feeling that she believed would be denied to her for ever. 
 
 Mr. Henry Lennox added a new and not disagreeable 
 element to the course of the household life by his frequent 
 presence. Margaret thought him colder, if more brilliant than 
 formerly ; but there were strong intellectual tastes, and much 
 and varied knowledge, which gave flavour to the otherwise 
 rather insipid conversation. Margaret saw glimpses in him oi" 
 a slight contempt for his brother and sister-in-law, and for their 
 mode of life, which he seemed to consider as frivolous and 
 purposeless. He once or twice spoke to his brother, in 
 Margaret's presence, in a pretty sharp tone of enquiry, as to 
 whether he meant entirely to relinquish his profession ; and on 
 Captain Lennox's reply, that he had quite enough to live upon, 
 she had seen Mr. Lennox's curl of the lip ar ^e said, " And is 
 that all you live for ? " 
 
 But the brothers were much attached to each other, in 
 the way that any two persons are, when the one is cleverer 
 
 26 
 
402 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 and always leads the other, and this last is patiently content 
 to be led. Mr. Lennox was pushing on in his profession; 
 cultivating, with profound calculation, all those connections 
 that might eventually be of service to him ; keen-sighted, far- 
 seeing, intelligent, sarcastic, and proud. Since the one long 
 conversation relating to Frederick's affairs, which she had 
 with him the first evening in Mr. Bell's presence, she had had 
 no great intercourse with him, further than that which arose 
 out of their close relations with the same household. But this 
 was enough to wear off the shyness on her side, and any 
 symptoms of mortified pride and vanity on his. They met 
 continually, of course, but she thought that he rather avoided 
 being alone with her ; she fancied that he, as weU. as she, 
 perceived that they had drifted strangely apart firom their 
 former anchorage, side by side, in many of their opinions, and 
 all their tastes. 
 
 And yet, when he had spoken imusuaUy well, or with 
 remarkable epigrammatic point, she felt that his eye sought the 
 expression of her countenance first of all, if but for an instant ; 
 and that, in the family intercourse which constantly threw them 
 together, her opinion was the one to which he listened with a 
 deference, — the more complete, because it was reluctantly paid, 
 and concealed as much as poseible. 
 
{ 403 1 
 
 CHAPTER XLVni. 
 
 "NE'ER TO BE EOTJND AG-AIN." 
 
 "My own, my father's friend ! 
 I cannot part -with thee ! 
 I ne'er have shown, thou ne'er hast knowi^, 
 How dear thou art to me." 
 
 Anon. 
 
 The elements of the dinner-parties which Mrs. Lennox gave, 
 were these ; her friends contributed the beauty, Captain Lennox 
 the easy knowledge of the subjects of the day ; and Mr. Henry 
 Lennox, and the sprinkling of rising men who were received as 
 his friends, brought the wit, the cleverness, the keen and ex- 
 tensive knowledge of which they knew well enough how to 
 avail themselves without seeming pedantic, or burdening the 
 rapid flow of conversation. 
 
 These dinners were delightful ; but even here Margaret's 
 dissatisfaction found her out. Every talent, every feeling, 
 every acquirement ; nay, even every tendency towards virtue, 
 was used up as materials for fireworks ; the hidden,' sacred fire, 
 exhausted itself in sparkle and crackle. They talked about! 
 art in a merely sensuous way, dwelling on outside effects," 
 instead of allowing themselves to learn what it has to teach. 
 They lashed themselves up into an enthusiasm about high 
 subjects in company, and never thought about them when 
 they were alone ; they squandered their capabilities of appre- 
 ciation into a mere flow of appropriate words. One day, after 
 the gentlemen had come up into the drawing-room, Mr. Lennox 
 drew near to Margaret, and addressed her in almost the first 
 voluntary words he had spoken to her since she had returned! 
 to live in Harley Street. 
 
 " You did not look pleased at what Shirley was saying at 
 dinner." 
 
 " Didn't I ? My face must be very expressive," replied 
 Margaret. 
 
 "It always was. It has not lost the trick of being 
 eloquent." 
 
 " I did not like," said Margaret, hastily, " his way o/ 
 advocating what he knew to be wrong — so glaringly wrong — 
 even in jest." 
 
 " But it was very clever. How every word told ! Do yon 
 remember the happy epithets 't " 
 
 26—=' 
 
404 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 « Yes." 
 
 " And despise them, you would like to add. Pray don't 
 scruple, though he is my friend." 
 
 " There ! that is the exact tone in you, that " — she 
 stopped short. 
 
 He listened for a moment to see if she would finish her 
 sentence ; but she only reddened, and turned away ; before 
 she did so, however, she heard him say, in a very low, clear 
 voice, — 
 
 " If my tones, or modes of thought, are what you dislike, 
 will you do me the justice to tell me so, and so give me the 
 chance of learning to please you ? " 
 
 All these weeks there was no intelligence of Mr. Bell's 
 going to Milton. He had spoken of it at Helstone as of a 
 journey which he might have to take in a very short time from 
 then ; but he must have transacted his business by writing, 
 Margaret thought, ere now, and she knew that if he could, he 
 would avoid going to a place which he disliked, and moreover 
 would little understand the secret importance which she affixed 
 to the explanation that could only be given by word of mouth. 
 She knew that he would feel that it was necessary that it should 
 be done ; but whether in summer, autumn, or winter, it would 
 signify very little. It was now August, and there had been no 
 mention of the Spanish journey to which he had alluded to 
 Edith, and Margaret tried to reconcile herself to the feding 
 away of this illusion. 
 
 But one morning she received a letter, saying that next 
 week he meant to come up to town ; he wanted to see her 
 about a plan which he had in his head ; and, moreover, he 
 intended to treat himself to a little doctoring, as he had begun 
 to come round to her opinion, that it would be pleaaanter to 
 think that his health was more in fault than he, when he found 
 himself irritable and cross. There was altogether a tone of 
 forced cheerfulness in the letter, as Margaret noticed after- 
 wards ; but at the time her attention was taken up by Edith's 
 exclamations. 
 
 " Coming up to town ! Oh dear I and I am so worn out 
 by the heat that I don't believe I have strength enough in me 
 foi another dinner. Besides, everybody has left but our dear 
 stupid selves, who can't settle where to go to. There would 
 be nobody to meet him." 
 
 " I'm sure he would much rather come and dine with 
 UB quite alone than with the most agreeable strangers you 
 
"ne'er to be found again." 405 
 
 could pick up. Besides, if he is not -well he won't wish for 
 invitations. I am glad he has owned it at last. I was sure 
 he was ill from the whole tone of Ms letters, and yet he would 
 not answer me when I asked him, and I had no third person to 
 whom I could apply for news." 
 
 " Oh ! he is not very ill, or he would not think of Spain." 
 
 " He never mentions Spain." 
 
 " No ! but his plan that is to be proposed evidently relates 
 to that. But would you really go in such weather as 
 this?" 
 
 " Oh, it will get cooler every day. Yes ! Think of it. 
 I am only afraid I have thought and wished too much — in that 
 absorbing wilful way which is sure to be disappointed — or else 
 gratified, to the letter, while in the spirit it gives no pleasure." 
 
 " But that's superstitious, I'm sure, Margaret." 
 
 " No, I don't think it is. Only it ought to warn me, and 
 check me from giving way to such passionate wishes. It is a 
 sort of ' Give me children, or else I die.' I'm afraid my cry 
 is, ' Let me go to Cadiz, or else I die.' " 
 
 " My dear Margaret ! You'll be persuaded to stay there ; 
 and then what shall I do,? Oh ! I wiii I could find somebody 
 for you to marry here, that I could be sure of you ! " 
 
 " I shall never marry." 
 
 " Nonsense, and double nonsense 1 Why, as Sholto says, 
 you're such an attraction to the house, that he knows ever 
 so many men who wiU be glad to visit here next year for your 
 sake." 
 
 Margaret drew herself up haughtily. " Do you know, 
 Edith, I sometimes think your Corfu life has taught you " 
 
 « WeU ! " 
 
 "Just a shade or two of coarseness.'' 
 
 Edith began to sob so bitterly, and to declare so vehe- 
 mently that Margaret had lost all love for her, and no longer 
 looked upon her as a friend, that Margaret came to think that 
 she had expressed too harsh an opinion for the relief of her 
 own wounded pride, and ended by being Edith's slave for the 
 rest of the day ; while that little lady, overcome by wounded 
 feeling, lay like a victim on the sofa, heaving occasionally a 
 profound sigh, tUl at last she fell asleep. 
 
 Mr. Bell did not make his appearance even on the day to 
 which he had for a second time deferred his visit. The next 
 morning there came a letter from Wallis, his servant, stating 
 that his maater had not been feeling well for some time, which 
 
406 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 had been the true reason of his putting off his journey ; and 
 that at the very time when he should have set out for London, 
 he had been seized with an apoplectic fit; it was, indeed, 
 Wallis added, the opinion of the medical men — that he could 
 not survive the night ; and more than probable, that by the 
 time Miss Hale received this letter his poor master would be 
 no more. 
 
 Margaret received this letter at breakfast-time, and turned 
 very pale as she read it ; then silently putting it into Edith's 
 hands, she left the room. 
 
 Edith was terribly shocked as she read it, and cried in a 
 sobbing, frightened, childish way, much to her husband's 
 distress. Mrs. Shaw was breakfasting in her own room, and 
 upon him devolved the task of reconciling his wife to the near 
 contact into which she seemed to be brought with death, for 
 the first time that she could remember in her life. Here was 
 a man who was to have dined with them to-day lying dead or 
 dying instead ! It was some time before she could think of 
 Margaret. Then she started up, and followed her upstairs 
 into her room. Dixon was packing up a few toilette articles, 
 and Margaret was hastily putting on her bonnet, shedding tears 
 all the time, and her hands trembling so that she could hardly 
 tie the strings. 
 
 " Oh, dear Margaret J how shocking I What are you 
 doing? Are you going out? Sholto would telegraph or do 
 anything you like." 
 
 " I am going to Oxford. There is a train in half-an-hour. 
 Dixon has offered to go with me, but I could have gone by 
 myself. I must see him again. Besides, he may be better, 
 and want some care. He has been like a father to me. Don't 
 stop me, Edith." 
 
 ' ' But I must. Mamma won't like it at all. Come and ask 
 her about it, Margaret. You don't know where you're going. 
 I should not mind if he had a house of his own ; but in his 
 Fellow's rooms ! Come to mamma, and do ask her before you 
 go. It will not take a minute." 
 
 Margaret yielded, and lost her train. In the suddenness 
 of the event, Mrs. Shaw became bewildered and hysterical, and 
 so the precious time slipped by. But there was another train 
 in a couple of hours ; and after various discussions on propriety 
 and impropriety, it was decided that Captain Lennox diould 
 accompany Margaret, as the one thing to which she was con- 
 stant was her resolution to go, alone or otherwise, by the nex 
 
"ne'ee to be found again.' 40' 
 
 train, whatever might be said of the propriety or impropriety 
 of the step. Her father's friend, her own iriend, was lying at 
 the point of death ; and the thought of this came upon her 
 with such vividness, that she was surprised herself at the 
 firmness with which she asserted something of her right to 
 independence of action ; and five minutes before the time for 
 starting, she found herself sitting in a railway carriage opposite 
 to Captain Lennox. It was always a comfort to her to think 
 that die had gone, though it was only to hear that he had died 
 in the night. She saw the rooms that he had occupied, and 
 associated them ever after most fondly in her memory with the 
 idea of her father, and his one cherished and faithful friend. 
 
 They had promised Edith before starting, that if all had 
 ended as they feared, they would return to dinner ; so that 
 long, lingering look around the room in which her father had 
 died, had to be interrupted, and a quiet farewell taken of the 
 kind old fece that had so often come out with pleasant words, 
 and merry quips and cranks. 
 
 Captain Lennox fell asleep on their journey home ; and 
 Margaret could cry at leisure, and bethink her of this fatal 
 year, and all the woes it had brought to her. No sooner was 
 she fully aware of one loss than another came — not to super- 
 sede her grief for the one before, but to re-open wounds and 
 feelings scarcely healed. But at the sound of the tender 
 voices of her aunt and Edith, of merry little Sholto's glee at 
 her arrival, and at the sight of the well-lighted rooms, with 
 their mistress, pretty in her paleness and her eager sorrowftd 
 interest, Margaret roused herself from her heavy trance of 
 almost superstitious hopelessness, and began to feel that even 
 around her joy and gladness might gather. She had Edith's 
 place on the sofa ; Sholto was taught to carry Aunt Margaret's 
 cup of tea very carefully to her ; and by the time she went up 
 to dress, she could thank God for having spared her dear old 
 friend a long or a painilil illneBP. 
 
( 408 ) 
 
 CHAPTEB XLIX. 
 BBEATEING TRANQUILLITY. 
 
 " And down the eunny beach she paces slowly. 
 With many doubtful pauses by the way ; 
 Grief hath an Influence so hushed and holy." 
 
 Hooi>. 
 
 " Is not Margaret the heiress ? " whispered Edith to her 
 husbatid, as they were in their room alone at night after the 
 sad journey to Oxford. She had pnlled his tall head down, 
 and stood upon tiptoe, and implored him not to be shocked, 
 before she had ventured to ask this question. Captain 
 Lennox was, however, quite in the dark ; if he had ever heard, 
 he had forgotten ; it could not be much that a Fellow of 
 a small CoUege had to leave ; but he had never wanted her to 
 pay for her board ; and two hundred and fifty pounds a year 
 was something ridiculous, considering that she did not take 
 wine. Edith came down upon her feet a little bit sadder; 
 with a romance blown to pieces. 
 
 A week afterwards, she came prancing towards her husband, 
 and made him a low curtsey : 
 
 " I am right, and you are wrong, most noble Captain. 
 Margaret has had a lawyer's letter, and she is residuary 
 legatee — ^the legacies being about two thousand pounds, and the 
 remainder about forty thousand, at the present value of pro- 
 perty in Milton. 
 
 " Indeed ! and how does she take her good fortune ? " 
 
 " Oh, it seems she knew she vas to have it all along ; only 
 she had no idea it was so much. She looks very white and 
 pale, and says she's afraid of it; but that's nonsense, yon 
 know, and will soon go off. I left mamma pouring congratu- 
 lations down her throat, and stole away to tell you." 
 
 It seemed to be supposed, by general consent, that the 
 most natural thing was to consider Mr. Lennox henceforward 
 as Margaret's legal adviser. She was so entirely ignorant of 
 all forms of business that in nearly everything she had to refer 
 to him. He chose out her attorney; he came to her with 
 papers to be signed. He was never so happy as when teach- 
 ing her of what all these mysteries of the law were the signs 
 and types. 
 
 "Henry," said Edith, one day, archly; "do yon know 
 
BREATHING TEAKQUILLITT. 409 
 
 what I hope and expect all these long conversations with 
 Margaret will end in ? " 
 
 " No, I don't," said he, reddening. " And I desire yon 
 not to tell me." 
 
 " Oh, very well ; then I need not tell Sholto not to ask 
 Mr. Montagu so often to the house." 
 
 "Just as you choose," said he vrith forced coolness. 
 " What you are thinking of, may or may not happen ; but this 
 time, before I commit myself, I will see my ground clear. 
 Ask whom you choose. It may not be very civil, Edith, but 
 if you meddle in it you will mar it. She has been very 
 farouche with me for a long time ; and is only just beginning 
 to thaw a little from her Zenobia ways. She has the making 
 of a Cleopatra in her, if only she were a little more pagan." 
 
 "For my part," said Edith, a little maliciously, "I am 
 very glad she is a Christian. I know so very few ! " 
 
 There was no Spain for Margaret that autumn ; although 
 to the last she hoped that some fortunate occasion would call 
 Frederick to Paris, whither she could easily have met with a 
 convoy. Instead of Cadiz, she had to content herself with 
 Cromer. To that place her aunt Shaw and the Lennoxes were 
 bound. They had all along wished her to accompany them, 
 and, consequently, with their characters, they made but lazy 
 efforts to forward her own separate wish. Perhaps Cromer 
 was, in one sense of the expression, the best for her. She 
 needed bodily strengthening and bracing as well as rest. 
 
 Among other hopes that had vanished, was the hope, the 
 trust she had had, that Mr. Bell would have given Mr. 
 Thornton the simple facts of the family circumstances which 
 had preceded the unfortunate accident that led to Leonards' 
 death. Whatever opinion — ^however changed it might be from 
 what Mr. Thornton had once entertained, she had wished it to 
 be based upon a true understanding of what she had done, 
 and why she had done it. It would have been a pleasure to 
 her ; would have given her rest on a point on which she should 
 now all her life be restless, unless she could resolve not to 
 think upon it. It was now so long after the time of these 
 occurrences, that there was no possible way of explaining them 
 save the one which she had lost by Mr. Bell's death. She 
 must just submit, like many another, to be misunderstood ; 
 but, though reasoning herself into the belief that in this hers 
 was no uncommon lot, her heart did not ache the less with 
 longing that some, time — years and years hence — before he 
 
410 MOATH AMD SOUTH. 
 
 died at any rate, he might know how mnch she had beeB 
 tempted. She thought that she did not want to hear that aU 
 was explained to him, if only she could be sure that he would 
 know. But this wish was vain, like so many others ; and 
 when she had schooled herself into this conviction, she 
 turned with all her heart and strength to the life that lay 
 immediately before her, and resolved to strive and make the 
 best of that. 
 
 She used to sit long hours upon the beach, gazing intently 
 on the waves as they chafed with perpetual motion against the 
 pebbly shore, — or she looked out upon the more distant heave, 
 and sparkle against the sky, and heard, without being conscious 
 of hearing, the eternal psalm, which went up continually. She 
 was soothed without knowing how or why. Listlessly she sat 
 there, on the ground, her hands clasped round her knees, 
 while her aunt Shaw did small shoppings, and Edith and 
 Captain Lennox rode far and wide on shore and inland. The 
 nurses, sauntering on with their charges, would pass and repass 
 her, and wonder in whispers what she could find to look at so 
 long, day after day. And when the family gathered at dinner- 
 time, Margaret was so silent and absorbed that Edith voted 
 her moped, and hailed a proposal of her husband's with great 
 satisfaction, that Mr. Henry Lennox should be asked to take 
 Cromer for a week, on his return from Scotland in October. 
 
 But all this time for thought enabled Margaret to put 
 events in their right places, as to origin and significance, both 
 as regarded her past life and her future. Those hours by the 
 sea-side were not lost, as any one might have seen who had 
 had the perception to read, or the care to understand, the look 
 that Margaret's face was gradually acquiring. Mr. Henry 
 Lennox was excessively struck by the change. 
 
 " The sea has done Miss Hale an immense deal of good, I 
 should fancy," said he, when she first left the room after his 
 arrival in their family circle. " She looks ten years younger 
 than she did in Harley Street." 
 
 " That's the bonnet I got her 1 " said Edith, triumphantly^ 
 " I knew it would suit her the moment I saw it." 
 
 " I beg your pardon," said Mr. Lennox, in the half-con- 
 temptuous, half-indulgent tone he generally used to Edith. 
 " But I believe I know the difference between the charms of a 
 dress and the charms of a woman. No mere bonnet would 
 have made Miss Hale's eyes so lustrous and yet so soft, or her 
 lips so ripe and red — and her face altogether so full of peace 
 
BBEATHINGt TRANQUILLITY. 411 
 
 and light. — She is like, and yet more," — ^he dropped hfs voice, 
 — " like the Margaret Hale of Helstone." 
 
 From this time the clever and ambitious man bent all hia 
 powers to gaining Margaret. He loved her sweet beauty. He 
 saw the latent sweep of her mind, which could easily (he 
 thought) be led to embrace all the objects on which he had set 
 his heart. He looked upon her fortune only as a part of the 
 complete and superb character of herself and her position ; yet 
 he was fully aware of the rise which it would immediately 
 enable him, the poor barrister, to take. Eventually he would 
 earn such success, and such honours, as would enable him to 
 pay her back, with interest, that first advance in wealth which 
 he should owe to her. He had been to Milton on business 
 connected with her property, on his return from Scotland ; and 
 with the quick eye of a skilled lawyer, ready ever to take in 
 and weigh contingencies, he had seen that much additional 
 value was yearly accruing to the lands and tenements which 
 she owned in that prosperous and increasing town. He was 
 glad to find that the present relationship between Margaret and 
 himself, of client and legal adviser, was gradually superseding 
 the recollection of that unlucky, mismanaged day at Helstone. 
 He had thus unusual opportunities of intimate intercourse with 
 her, besides those that arose from the connection between the 
 families. 
 
 Margaret was only too willing to listen as long as he talked 
 of MUton, though he had seen none of the people whom she 
 more especially knew. It had been the tone with her aunt 
 and cousin to speak of Milton with dislike and contempt ; just 
 such feelings as Margaret was ashamed to remember she had 
 expressed and felt on first going to live there. But Mr. 
 Lennox almost exceeded Margaret in his appreciation of the 
 character of Milton and its inhabitants. Their energy, then- 
 power, their indomitable courage in struggling and fighting ; 
 their lurid vividness of existence, captivated and arrested his 
 attention. He was never tired of talking about them; and 
 had never perceived how selfish and material were too many 
 of the ends they proposed to themselves as the result of all 
 their mighty, untiring endeavour, till Margaret, even in the 
 midst of her gratification, had the candour to point this out, 
 as the tainting sin in so much that was noble and to be 
 admired. Still, when other subjects palled upon her, and she 
 gave but short answers to many questions, Henry Lennox 
 found out that an enquiry as to some Darkshire peculiarity of 
 
412 NOETH AlfD BOirrH. 
 
 character called back the light into her eye, the glow into he; 
 cheek. 
 
 When they returned to town, Margaret fdlfilled one of her 
 sea-side resolves, and took her life into her own hands. Before 
 they went to Cromer, she had been as docile to her annt's laws 
 as if she were still the scared little stranger who cried herself 
 to sleep that first night in the Harley Street nursery. But she 
 had learnt, in those solemn hours of thought, that she herself 
 must one day answer for her own life, and what she had done 
 with it ; and she tried to settle that most difficult problem for 
 woman, how much was to be utterly merged in obedience to 
 authority, and how much might be set apart for freedom in 
 working. Mrs. Shaw was as good-tempered as could be ; and 
 Edith had inherited this charming domestic quality ; Margaret 
 herself had probably the worst temper of the tluree, for her 
 quick perceptions and over-lively imagination made her hasty, 
 and her early isolation from sympathy had made her proud ; 
 but she had an indescribable childlike sweetness of heart, which 
 made her manners, even in her rarely wilful moods, irresistible 
 of old ; and now, chastened even by what the world called her 
 good fortune, she charmed her reluctant aunt into acquiescence 
 with her will. So Margaret gained the acknowledgment of 
 her right to follow her own ideas of duty. 
 
 " Only don't be strong-minded," pleaded Edith. " Mamma 
 wants you to have a footman of your own ; and I'm sure 
 you're very welcome, for they're great plagues. Only to please 
 me, darling, don't go and have a strong mind ; it's the only 
 thing I ask. Footman or no footman, don't be strong- 
 minded." 
 
 " Don't be afraid, Edith. I'll faint on your hands at the 
 servants' dinner-time, the very first opportunity; and then, 
 what with Sholto playing with the fire, and the baby crying, 
 you'll begin to wish for a strong-minded woman, equal to any 
 emergency." 
 
 " And you'll not grow too good to joke and be merry ? " 
 
 " Not I. I shall be merrier than I have ever been, now I 
 have got my own way." 
 
 " And you'll not go a figure, but let me buy your dresses 
 for you ? " 
 
 " Indeed I mean to buy them for myself. You shall 
 come with me if you like ; but no one can please me but 
 myself." 
 
 " Oh 1 1 was afraid you'd dress in brown and dust-colour, 
 
BKBATHING TEANQUILLITT. 413 
 
 not to show the dirt you'll pick up in all thosa places. I'm 
 glad you're going to keep one or two vanities, just by way of 
 specimens of the old Adam." 
 
 " I'm going to be just the same, Edith, if you and my aunt 
 could but fancy so. Only as I have neither husband nor child 
 to give me natural duties, I must make myself some, in addi- 
 tion to ordering my gowns. 
 
 In the family conclave, which was made up of Edith, ber 
 mother, and her husband, it was decided that perhaps all these 
 plans of hers would only secure her the more for Henry 
 Lennox. They kept her out of the way of other Mends who 
 might have eligible sons or brothers ; and it was also agreed 
 that she never seemed to take much pleasure in the society of 
 any one but Henry, out of their own family. The other 
 admirers, attracted by her appearance or the reputation of her 
 fortune, were swept away, by her unconscious smiling disdain, 
 into the paths frequented by other beauties less fastidious, or 
 other heiresses with a larger amount of gold. Henry and she 
 grew slowly into closer intimacy ; but neither he nor she were 
 people to brook the slightest notice of their proceedings. 
 
 CHAPTEB L. 
 
 CHANGES AT MILTON. 
 
 " Here we go, up, up ; 
 And here we go down, down, downee I " 
 
 NCBSEKT SONO. 
 
 Meanwhile at Milton the chimneys smoked, the ceaseless roar 
 and mighty beat and dizzling whirl of machinery struggled and 
 strove perpetually. Senseless and purposeless were wood and 
 iron and steam in their endless labours ; but the persistence 
 of their monotonous work was rivalled in tireless endurance by 
 the strong crowds, who, with sense and with purpose, were 
 busy and restless in seeking after — ^What ? In the streets 
 there were few loiterers, — ^none walking for mere pleasure ; 
 every man's face was set in lines of eagerness or anxiety ; news 
 was sought for with fierce avidity ; and men jostled each other 
 aside in the Mart and in the Exchange, as they did in life, in 
 
414 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 the deep selfishness of competition. There was gloom over the 
 town. Few came to buy, and those who did were looked at 
 suspiciously by the sellers ; for credit was insecure, and the 
 most stable might have their fortunes affected by the sweep in 
 the great neighbouring port among the shipping houses. 
 Hitherto there had been no failures in Milton ; but, from the 
 immense speculations that had come to light in making a bad 
 end in America, and yet nearer home, it was known that some 
 Milton houses of business must suffer so severely that every 
 day men's faces asked, if their tongues did not, " What news? 
 Who is gone ? How will it affect me ? " And if two or three 
 spoke together, they dwelt rather on the names of those who 
 were safe than dared to hint at those likely, in their opinion, 
 to go ; for idle breath may, at such times, cause the downfall 
 of some who might otherwise weather the storm ; and one 
 going down drags many after. " Thornton is safe," say they. 
 " His business is large — extending every year ; but such a 
 head as he has, and so prudent with all his daring ! " Then 
 one man draws another aside, and walks a little apart, and 
 with head inclined into his neighbour's ear, he says, " Thorn- 
 ton's business is large ; but he has spent his profits in extend- 
 ing it ; he has no capital laid by ; his machinery is new within 
 these two years, and has cost him — ^we won't say what ! — a 
 word to the wise I " But that Mr. Harrison was a croaker, — 
 a man who had succeeded to his father's trade-made fortune, 
 which he had feared to lose by altering his mode of business to 
 any having a larger scope ; yet he grudged every penny made 
 by others more daring and far-sighted. 
 
 But the truth was, Mr. Thornton was hard pressed. He 
 felt it acutely in his vulnerable point — his pride in the com- 
 mercial character which he had established for himself. 
 Architect of his own fortunes, he attributed this to no special 
 merit or qualities of his own, lant to the power, which he 
 believed that commerce gave to every brave, honest, and per- 
 severing man, to raise himself to a level from which he might 
 see and read the great game of worldly success, and honestly, 
 by such far-sightedness, command more power and influence 
 than in any other mode of life. Far away, in the East and in 
 the West, where his person would never be known, his name 
 was to be regarded, and his wishes to be fulfilled, and his word 
 pass like gold. That was the idea of merchant-life with which 
 Mr. Thornton had started. " Her merchants be like princes," 
 said his mother, reading the text aloud, as if it were a trumpet- 
 
CHANGES AT MILTON. 415 
 
 call to invite her boy to the struggle. He was but like many i 
 others — men, women, and children — alive to distant, and dead 
 to near things. He sought to possess the influence of a name 
 in foreign countries and far-away seas, — ^to become the head ] 
 of a firm that should be known for generations ; and it had i 
 taken him long silent years to come even to a glimmering of 
 what he might be now, to-day, here in his own town, his own ^ 
 factory, among his own people. He and they had led parallel \ 
 lives — very close, but never touching — ^till the accident (or so 
 it seemed) of his acquaintance with Higgins. Once brought 
 face to face, man to man, with an individual of the masses 
 around him, and (take notice) out of the character of master 
 and workman, in the first instance, they had each begun to , 
 recognise that " we have all of us one human heart." It was 
 the fine point of the wedge ; and until now, when the appre- ; 
 hension of losing his connection with two or three of the 
 workmen whom he had so lately begun to know as men, — of | 
 having a plan or two, which were experiments lying very close | 
 to his heart, roughly nipped off without trial, — gave a new 
 poignancy to the subtle fear that came over him from time to ' 
 time ; until now, he had never recognised how much and how ,' 
 deep was the interest he had grown of late to feel in his posi- | 
 tion as manufacturer, simply because it led him into such close j 
 contact, and gave him the opportunity of so much power, 
 among a race of people strange, shrewd, ignorant ; but, above J 
 all, full of character and strong human feeling. 
 
 He reviewed his position as a Milton manufacturer. The 
 strike a year and a half ago, — or more, for it was now untimely 
 wintry weather, in a late spring, — that strike, when he was 
 young, and he now was old — had prevented his completing 
 some of the large orders he had then on hand. He had looked 
 up a good deal of his capital in new and expensive machinery, 
 and he had also bought cotton largely, for the fulfilment of 
 these orders, taken under contract. That he had not been able 
 to complete them, was owing in some degree to the utter want 
 of skill on the part of the Irish hands whom he had imported ; 
 much of their work was damaged and unfit to be sent forth by 
 a house which prided itself on turning out nothing but first- 
 rate articles. For many months, the embarrassment caused 
 by the strike had been an obstacle in Mr. Thornton's way; and 
 often, when his eye fell on Higgins, he could have spoken 
 angrily to him without any present cause, just from feeling 
 how serious was the injury that had arisen from this affair in 
 
416 WOETH AOT) SOUTH. 
 
 which he was implicated. But when he became conscions of 
 this sudden, quick resentment, he resolved to curb it. It would 
 not satisfy him to avoid Higgins ; he must convince himself 
 that he was master over his own anger, by being particularly 
 careful to allow Higgins access to him, whenever the strict 
 rules of business, or Mr. Thornton's leisure permitted. And 
 by-and-bye, he lost all sense of resentment in wonder how it was, 
 or could be, that two men like himself and Higgins, living by the 
 same trade, working in their different ways at the same object, 
 could look upon each other's position and duties in so strangely 
 different a way. And thence arose that intercourse, which, 
 though it might not have the effect of preventing all future 
 clash of opinion and action, when the occasion arose, would, at 
 any rate, enable both master and man to look upon each other 
 with far more charity and sympathy, and bear with each other 
 more patiently and kindly. Besides this improvement of feel- 
 ing, both Mr. Thornton and his workmen found out their 
 ignorance as to positive matters of fact, known heretofore te 
 one side, but not to the other. 
 
 But now had come one of those periods of bad trade, when 
 the market falling brought down the value of all large stocks ; 
 Mr. Thornton's fell to nearly half. No orders were coming in; 
 so he lost the interest of the capital he had locked up in 
 machinery; indeed, it was difficult to get payment for the 
 orders completed ; yet there was the constant drain of expenses 
 for working the business. Then the bills became due for the 
 cotton he had purchased ; and money being scarce, he could 
 only borrow at exorbitant interest, and yet he could not realise 
 any of his property. But he did not despair ; he exerted him- 
 self day and night to foresee and to provide for all emergencies ; 
 he was as calm and gentle to the women in his home as ever ; 
 to the workmen in his mill he spoke not many words, but they 
 knew him by this time ; and many a curt, decided answer was 
 received by them rather with sympathy for the care they saw 
 pressing upon him, than with the suppressed antagonism which 
 had formerly been smouldering, and ready for hard words and 
 hard judgments on all occasions. " Th' measter's a deal to 
 potter him," said Higgins, one day, as he heard Mr. Thornton's 
 short, sharp inquiry, why such a command had not been 
 obeyed ; and caught the sound of the suppressed sigh which 
 he heaved in going past the room where some of the men were 
 working. Higgins and another man stopped over-hours that 
 night unknown to any one, to get the neglected piece of work 
 
CHANGES AT MILTON. 417 
 
 done ; and Mr. Thornton never knew but that the overlooker, 
 to whom he had given the command in the first instance, had 
 done it himself. 
 
 " Eh ! I reckon I know who'd ha' been sorry for to see our 
 measter sitting so like a piece o' grey calico ! Th' oud parson 
 would ha' fretted his woman's heart out, if he'd seen the woeful 
 looks I have seen on our measter's face," thought Higgins, 
 one day, as he was approaching Mr. Thornton in Marlborough 
 Street. 
 
 "Measter," said he, stopping his employer in his quick 
 resolved walk, and causing that gentleman to look up with a 
 sudden annoyed start, as if his thoughts had been far away. 
 
 " Have yo' heerd aught of Miss Marget lately ? " 
 
 " Miss — ^who ?" replied Mr. Thornton. 
 
 " Miss Marget — Miss Hale — ^th' oud parson's daughter — 
 yo' known who I mean well enough, if yo'U only think a bit — " 
 (there was nothing disrespectful in the tone in which this was 
 said). 
 
 " Oh yes ! " and suddenly, the wintry frost-bound look of 
 care had left Mr. Thornton's face, as if some soft summer gale 
 had blown all anxiety away from his mind ; and though his 
 mouth was as much compressed as before, his eyes smiled out 
 benignly on his questioner. 
 
 " She's my landlord now, you know, Higgins. I hear of 
 her through her agent here, every now and then. She's well 
 and among friends — ^thauk you, Higgins." That "thank 
 you " that lingered after the other words, and yet came with 
 so much warmth of feeling, let in a new Ught to the acute 
 Higgins. It might be but a wUl-o'-th'-wisp, but he thought 
 he would foUow it and ascertain whither it would lead him. 
 
 " And she's not getten married, measter ? " 
 
 " Not yet." The face was cloudy once more. " There is 
 some talk of it, as I understand, with a connection of the 
 family." 
 
 " Then she'll not be for coming to Milton again, I reckon." 
 
 " No ! " 
 
 " Stop a minute, measter.'' Then going up confidentially 
 close, he said, " Is th' young gentleman cleared ? " He en- 
 forced the depth of his intelligence by a wink of the eye, which 
 only made things more mysterious to Mr. Thornton. 
 
 " Th' young gentleman, I mean — Master Frederick, they 
 ca'ed him — her brother as was over here, yo' known." 
 
 " Over here." 
 
 27 
 
418 NOETH AND SOUTH. 
 
 " Ay, to be sure, at th' missus's death. Yo' need na be 
 feared of my telling ; for Mary and me, we knowed it all along, 
 only we held our peace, for we got it through Mary working in 
 th' house." 
 
 " And he was over. It was her brother." 
 
 " Sure enough, and I reckoned yo' knowed it, or I'd never 
 ha' let on. Yo' knowed she had a brother ? " 
 
 " Yes, I know all about him. And he was over at Mrs. 
 Hale's death ? " 
 
 " Nay ! I'm not going for to tell more. I've maybe getten 
 them into mischief already, for they kept it very close. I nob- 
 but wanted to know if they'd getten him cleared ? " 
 
 " Not that I know of. I know nothing. I only hear of 
 Miss Hale, now, as my landlord, and through her lawyer." 
 
 He broke oflf from Higgins, to follow the business on which 
 he had been bent when the latter first accosted him ; leaving 
 Higgins baffled in his endeavour. 
 
 " It was her brother," said Mr. Thornton to himself, "i 
 am glad. I may never see her again ; but it is a comfort — a 
 relief — ^to know that much. I knew she could not be nn- 
 maidenly ; and yet I yearned for conviction. Now I am 
 glad ! " 
 
 It was a little golden thread running through the dark web 
 of his present fortunes; which were growing 'ever gloomier 
 and more gloomy. His agent had largely trusted a house in the 
 American trade, which went down, along with several others, 
 just at this time, like a pack of cards, the fall of one compel- 
 ling other failures. What were Mr. Thornton's engagements? 
 Could he stand ? 
 
 Night after night he took books and papers into his own 
 private room, and sate up there long after the family were 
 gone to bed. He thought that no one knew of this occupation 
 of the hours he should have spent in sleep. One morning, 
 when daylight was stealing in through the crevices of lus 
 shutters, and he had never been in bed, and, in hopeless 
 indifference of mind, was thinking that he could do without 
 the hour or two of rest, which was all that he should be able 
 to take before the ^tir of daily labo,ur began again, the door of 
 Ms room opened, and his mother stood there, dressed as she 
 had been the day before. She had never laid herself down to 
 slumber any more than he. Their eyes met. Their faces 
 were cold and rigid, and wan, from long watching. 
 
 •' Mother ! why are not you in bed ? " 
 
CHANGES AT MILTON. 41tf 
 
 " Son John," said she, " do you think I can sleep with an 
 easy mind, while you keep awake full of care ? You have not 
 told me what your trouble is ; but sore trouble you have had 
 these many days past." 
 
 " Trade is bad." 
 
 " And you dread " 
 
 " I dread nothing," replied he, drawing up his head, and 
 holding it erect. " I know now that no man will suffer by me. 
 That was my anxiety." 
 
 " But how do you stand ? Shall you — will it be a failure ? " 
 her steady voice trembling in an unwonted manner. 
 
 " Not a failure. I must give up business, but I pay all 
 men. I might redeem myself — ^I am sorely tempted — " 
 
 "How? Oh, John! keep up your name — ^try all risks 
 for that. How redeem it ? " 
 
 " By a speculation offered to me, full of risk ; but, if sue- 
 cessful, placing me high above water-mark, so that no one 
 need ever know the strait I am in. Still, if it fails — " 
 
 " And if it faUs," said she, advancing, and laying her hand 
 on his arm, her eyes full of eager light. She held her breath 
 to hear the end of his speech. 
 
 " Honest men are ruined by a rogue," said he gloomily. 
 " As I stand now, my creditors' money is safe — every farthing 
 of it ; but I don't know where to find my own — ^it may be all 
 gone, and I penniless at this moment. Therefore, it is my 
 creditors' money that I should risk." 
 
 "But if it succeeded, they need never know. Is it so 
 desperate a speculation ? I am sure it is not, or you would 
 never have thought of it. If it succeeded — " 
 
 " I should be a rich man, and my peace of conscience 
 would be gone ! " 
 
 " Why ! You would have injured no one." 
 
 " No ; but I should have run the risk of ruining many for 
 my own paltry aggrandisement. Mother, I have decided ! 
 ■Sou won't much grieve over our leaving this house, shall you, 
 dear mother ? " 
 
 " No ! but to have you other than what you are will break 
 my heart. What can you do ? " 
 
 " Be always the same John Thornton in whateviar circum- 
 stances ; endeavouring to do right, and making great blunders ; 
 and then trying to be brave in setting to afresh. But it is 
 hard, mother. I have so worked and planned. I have disco- 
 vered new powers in my situation too late — and now all is over. 
 
 27—2 
 
420 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 I am too old to begin again with the same heart. It is hard, 
 mother." 
 
 He turned away from her, and covered his face with his 
 
 hands. 
 
 " I can't think," said she, with gloomy defiance in her 
 tone, " how it comes about. Here is my boy — good son, just 
 man, tender heart — and he fiiils in all he sets his mind upon : 
 he finds a woman to love, and she cares no more for his 
 affection than if he had been any common man ; he labours, 
 and his labour comes to nought. Other people prosper and 
 grow rich, and hold their paltry names high and dry above 
 ehame." 
 
 " Shame never touched me," said he, in a low tone : but 
 she went on. 
 
 " I sometimes have wondered where justice was gone to, 
 and now I don't believe there is such a thing in the world, — 
 now you are come to this ; you, my own John Thornton, 
 though you and I may be beggars together — my own dear 
 son ! " 
 
 She fell upon his neck, and kissed him through her tears. 
 
 "Mother!" said he, holding her gently in his arms, 
 " who has sent me my lot in life, both of good and of evil ? " 
 
 She shook her head. She would have nothing to do with 
 religion just then. 
 
 " Mother," he went on, seeing that she would not speak, 
 " I, too, have been rebellious ; but I am striving to be so no 
 longer. Help me, as you helped me when I was a chUd. 
 Then yon said many good words — ^when my father died, and we 
 were sometimes sorely short of comforts — which we shall never 
 be now ; you said brave, noble, trustful words then, mother, 
 which I have never forgotten, though they may have lain dor- 
 mant. Speak to me again in the old way, mother. Do not 
 let us have to think that the world has too much hardened 
 our hearts. If you would say the old good words, it would 
 make me feel something of the pious simplicity of my childhood. 
 I say them to myself, but they would come differently from yon, 
 remembering all the cares and trials you have had to bear." 
 
 " I have had a many," said she, sobbing, " but none so 
 sore as this. To see you cast down from your rightful place ! 
 I could say it for myself, John, but not for you. Not for you ! 
 God has seen fit to be very hard on you, very." 
 
 She shook with the sobs that come so convulsively when an 
 old person weeps. The silence around her struck her at last ; 
 
CHAHGBS AT MILTON. 421 
 
 and she quieted herself to listen. No sound. She looked. 
 Her son sate hy the table, his arms thrown half across it, hia 
 head bent faee downwards. 
 
 " Oh, John ! " she said, and she lifted his faee up. Such 
 a strange, pallid look of gloom was on it, that for a moment 
 it struck her that this look was the forerunner of death ; but, 
 as the rigidity melted out of the countenance and the natural 
 colour returned, and she saw that he was himself once again, 
 all worldly mortification sank to nothing before the consciousness 
 of the great blessing that he himself by his simple existence 
 was to her. She thanked God for this, and this alone, with a 
 fervour that swept away all rebellious feelings from her mind. 
 
 He did not speak readily ; but he went and opened the 
 shutters, and let the ruddy light of dawn flood the room. But 
 the wind was in the east ; the weather was piercing cold, as it 
 had been for weeks ; there would be no demand for light sum- 
 mer goods this year. That hope for the revival of trade must 
 utterly be given up. 
 
 It was a great comfort to have had this conversation with 
 his mother ; and to feel sure that, however they might hence- 
 forward keep silence on all these anxieties, they yet understood 
 each other's feelings, and were, if not in harmony, at least not 
 in discord with each other, in their way of viewing them. 
 Fanny's husband was vexed at Thornton's refusal to take any 
 share in the speculation which he had offered to him, and with- 
 drew from any possibility of being supposed able to assist him 
 with the ready money, which indeed the speculator needed for 
 his own venture. 
 
 There was nothing for it at last, but that which Mr. 
 Thornton had dreaded for many weeks ; he had to give up the 
 business in which he had been so long engaged with so much 
 honour and success ; and look out for a subordinate situation. 
 Marlborough Mills and the adjacent dwelling were held under 
 a long lease ; they must if possible be relet. There was an 
 immediate choice of situations offered to Mr. Thornton. Mr. 
 Hamper would have been only too glad to have secured him as 
 a steady and experienced partner for his son, whom he was 
 setting up with a large capital in a neighbouring town ; but the 
 young man was half-educated as regarded information, and 
 wholly uneducated as regarded any other responsibility than 
 that of getting money, and brutalised both as to his pleasures 
 and his pains. Mr. Thornton declined having any share in a 
 partnership, which would frastrate what few plans he had that 
 
422 NORTH ASO SOUTH. 
 
 survived the wreck of his fortunes. He would sooner consent 
 to be only a manager, where he could have a certain degree of 
 power beyond the mere money-getting part, than have to fall in 
 with the tyrannical humours of a moneyed partner with whom 
 he felt sure that he should quarrel in a few months. 
 
 So he waited, and stood on one side vrith profound humility, 
 38 the news swept through the Exchange of the enormous 
 fortune which his brothet-in-law had made by his daring specu- 
 lation. It was a nine days' wonder. Success brought with it 
 its worldly consequence of extreme admiration. No one was 
 considered so wise and far-seeing as Mr. Watson. 
 
 CHAPTER LI. 
 
 MEETING AGAIN. 
 
 " Bear up, brare heart ! we will be calm and strong ; 
 Sure, we can master eyes, or cheek, or tongue. 
 Nor let the smallest tell-tale sign appear 
 She ever was, and is, and will be dear." 
 
 Ehtmikg Plat. 
 
 It was a hot summer's evening. Edith came into Margaret's 
 bedroom, the first time in her habit, the second ready dressed 
 for dinner. No one was there at first ; the next time Edith 
 found Dixon laying out Margaret's dress on the bed ; but no 
 Margaret. Edith remained to fidget about. 
 
 " Oh, Dixon ! not those horrid blue flowers to that dead 
 gold-coloured gown. What taste ! Wait a minute, and I will 
 bring you some pomegranate blossoms." 
 
 " It's not a dead gold-colour, ma'am. It's a straw-colour. 
 And blue always goes with straw-colour." But Edith had 
 brought the brilliant scarlet flowers before Dixon had got half 
 through her remonstrance. 
 
 " Where is Miss Hale ? " asked Edith, as soon as she had 
 tried the efiect of the garniture. " I can't think," she went 
 on, pettishly, " how my aunt allowed her to get into such 
 rambling habits in Milton ! I'm sure I'm always expecting to 
 hear of her having met with something horrible among all 
 those wretched places she pokes herself into. I should never 
 dare to go down some of those streets without a servant. 
 They're not fit for ladies." 
 
MEETING AGAIN. 423 
 
 Discn was still ha£fed about her despised taste ; so she 
 replied rather shortly : 
 
 " It's no wonder to my mind, when I hear ladies talk such 
 & deal about being ladies — and when they're such fearful, 
 delicate, dainty ladies too — I say it's no wonder to me that 
 there are no longer any saints on earth " 
 
 "Oh, Margaret ! here you are ! I have been so wanting 
 you. But how your cheeks are flushed with the heat, poor 
 child ! But only think what that tiresome Henry has done ; 
 really, he exceeds brother-in-law's limits. Just when my party 
 was made up so beautifully — fitted in so precisely for Mr. Col- 
 thurst — there has Henry come, with an apology it is true, and 
 making use of your name for an excuse, and asked me if he 
 may bring that Mr. Thornton of Milton — your tenant, you 
 know, — who is in London about some law business. It will 
 spoil my number, quite." 
 
 " I don't mind dinner. I don't want any," said Margaret, 
 in a low voice. " Dixon can get me a cup of tea here, and I 
 will be in the drawing-room by the time you come up. I shall 
 really be glad to lie down." 
 
 " No, no ! that will never do. You do look wretchedly 
 white, to be sure ; but that is just the heat, and we can't do 
 without you possibly. (Those flowers a little lower, Dixon. 
 They look glorious flames, Margaret, in your black hair.) 
 You know we planned you to talk about Milton to Mr. Col- 
 thurst. Oh ! to be sure ! and this man comes from Milton. 
 I believe it will be capital, after all. Mr. Colthurst can pump 
 him well on all the subjects in which he is interested, and it 
 will be great fun to trace out your experiences, and this Mr. 
 Thornton's wisdom, in Mr. Colthurst's next speech in the 
 House. Eeally, I think it is a happy hit of Henry's. I asked 
 him if he was a man one would be ashamed of ; and he replied. 
 ' Not if you've any sense in you, my Uttle sister.' So 1 suppose 
 he is able to sound his h's, which is not a common Darkshire 
 accomphshment — eh, Margaret ? " 
 
 " Mr. Lennox did not say why Mr. Thornton was come up 
 to town ? Was it law business connected with the property ?" 
 asked Margaret, in a constrained voice. 
 
 " Oh ! he's failed, or something of the kind, that Henry 
 told you of that day you had such a headache, — what was it ? 
 (There, that's capital, Dixon. Miss Hale does us credit, does 
 she not ?) I wish I was as tall as a queen, and as brown as a 
 gipsy, Margaret." 
 
424 NOETH AND SOUTH. 
 
 " But about Mr. Thornton ? " 
 
 " Oh ! I really have such a terrible head for law business. 
 Henry will like nothing better than to tell you all about it. I 
 know the impression he made upon me was, that Mr. Thornton 
 is very badly off, and a very respectable man, and that I'm to 
 be very civil to him : and as I did not know how, I came to 
 you to ask you to help me. And now come down with me, and 
 rest on the sofa for a quarter of an hour." 
 
 The privileged brother-in-law came early; and Margaret, 
 reddening as she spoke, began to ask him the questions she 
 wanted to hear answered about Mr. Thornton. 
 
 "He came up about this sub-letting the property — Marl- 
 borough Mills, and the house and premises adjoining, I mean. 
 He is unable to keep it on ; and there are deeds and leases to 
 be looked over, and agreements to be drawn up. I hope Edith 
 will receive him properly; but she was rather put out, as 1 
 could see, by the liberty I had taken in begging for an invita- 
 tion for him. But I thought you would like to have some 
 attention shown liim : and one would be particularly scrupuloua 
 in paying every respect to a man who is going down in the 
 world." He had dropped his voice to speak to Margaret, by 
 whom he was sitting ; but as he ended he sprang up, and intro- 
 duced Mr. Thornton, who had that moment entered, to Edith 
 and Captain Lennox. 
 
 Margaret looked with an anxious eye at Mr. Thornton 
 while he was thus occupied. It was considerably more than a 
 year since she had seen him ; and events had occurred to 
 change him much in that time. His fine figure yet bore him 
 above the common height of men ; and gave him a distinguished 
 appearance, from the ease of motion which arose out of it, and 
 was natural to him ; but his face looked older and care-worn ; 
 yet a noble composure sate upon it, which impressed those who 
 had just been hearing of his changed position, with a sense of 
 inherent dignity and manly strength. He was aware, from the 
 first glance he had given round the room, that Margaret was 
 there ; he had seen her intent look of occupation as she lis- 
 tened to Mr. Henry Lennox ; and he came up to her with the 
 perfectly regulated manner of an old Mend. With his first 
 calm words a vivid colour flashed into her cheeks, which never 
 left them again during the evening. She did not seem to have 
 much to say to him. She disappointed him by the quiet way 
 in which she asked what seemed to him to be the merely 
 necessary questions respecting her old acquaintances, in 
 
MEKTIITG AGAIN. 425 
 
 Milton ; bnt others came in — ^more intimate in the house then 
 he — and he fell into the background, where he and Mr. Lennox 
 talked together from time to time. 
 
 " You think Miss Hale looking well," said Mr. Lennox, 
 " don't you ? MUton didn't agree with her, I imagine ; for 
 when she first came to London, I thought I had never seen 
 any one so much changed. To-night she is looking radiant. 
 But she is much stronger. Last autumn she was fatigued with 
 a walk of a couple of miles. On Friday evening we walked up 
 to Hampstead and back. Yet on Saturday she looked as well 
 as she does now." 
 
 " We ! " "Who ? They two alone ? 
 
 Mr. Colthurst was a very clever man, and a rising member 
 of Parliament. He had a quick eye at discerning character, 
 and was struck by a remark which Mr. Thornton made at 
 dinner-time. He enquired from Edith who that gentleman 
 was ; and, rather to her surprise, she found, from the tone of 
 his " Indeed ! " that Mr. Thornton of Milton was not such an 
 unknown name to him as she had imagined it would be. Her 
 dinner was going off well. Hienry was in good humour, and 
 brought out his dry caustic wit admirably. Mr. Thornton and 
 Mr. Colthurst found one or two mutual subjects of interest, 
 which they could only touch upon then, reserving them for 
 more private after-dinner talk. Margaret looked beautiful in 
 the pomegranate flowers ; and if she did lean back in her chair 
 and speak but little, Edith was not annoyed, for the conversa- 
 tion flowed on smoothly without her. Margaret was watching 
 Mr. Thornton's face. He never looked at her ; so she might 
 study him unobserved, and note the changes which even this 
 short time had wrought in him. Only at some unexpected mot 
 of Mr. Lennox's, his face flashed out into the old look of intense 
 enjoyment ; the merry brightness returned to his eyes, the lips 
 just parted to suggest the brilliant smile of former days ; and 
 for an instant, his glance instinctively sought hers, as if he 
 wanted her sympathy. But when their eyes met, his whole 
 countenance changed ; be was grave and anxious once more ; 
 and he resolutely avoided even looking near her again daring 
 dinner. 
 
 There were only two ladies besides their own party, and as 
 these were occupied in conversation by her aunt and Edith, 
 when they went up into the drawing-room, Margaret languidly 
 employed herself about some work. Presently the gentlemen 
 same up, Mr. Colthurst and Mr. Thornton in close conversa- 
 
426 NOETH 4.ND SOUTH. 
 
 tion. Mr. Lennox drew near to Margaret, and said in a jow 
 voice : 
 
 " I really think Edith owes me thanks for my contribution 
 to her party. You've no idea what an agreeable, sensible 
 fellow this tenant of yours is. He has been the very man to 
 give Colthurst all the facts he wanted coaching in. I cani 
 conceive how he contrived to mismanage his affairs." 
 
 " With his powers and opportunities you would have buc- 
 i3eeded," said Margaret. He did not quite relish the tone in 
 which she spoke, although the words but expressed a thought 
 which had passed through his own mind. As he was silent, 
 they caught a swell in the sound of conversation going on near 
 the fire-place between Mr. Colthurst and Mr. Thornton. 
 
 " I assure you, I heard it spoken of with great interest — 
 tfuriosity as to its result, perhaps I should rather say. I heard 
 your name frequently mentioned during my short stay in the 
 neighbourhood." Then they lost some words ; and when next 
 they could hear Mr. Thornton was speaking. 
 
 " I have not the elements for popularity — if they spoke of 
 me in that way, they were mistaken. I fall slowly into new 
 projects ; and I find it difficult to let myself be knovm, even by 
 those whom I desire to know, and with whom I would fain have 
 no reserve. Yet, even with aU these drawbacks, I felt that I 
 was on the right path, and that, starting from a kind of friend- 
 ship with one, I was becoming acquainted with many. The 
 advantages were mutual : we were both unconsciously and 
 consciously teaching each other." 
 
 " You say ' were.' I trust you are intending to pursue the 
 same course ? " 
 
 " I must stop Colthurst," said Henry Lennox, hastily. 
 And by an abrupt, yet apropos question, he turned the current 
 01 the conversation, so as not to give Mr. Thornton the morti- 
 fication of acknowledging his want of success and consequent 
 change of position. But as soon as the newly- started subject 
 had come to a close, Mr. Thornton resumed the conversation 
 just where it had been interrupted, and gave Mr. Colthurst the 
 reply to his inquiry. 
 
 " I have been unsuccessful in business, and have had to 
 give up my position as a master. I am on the look-out for a 
 situation in Milton, where I may meet with employment under 
 some one who will be willing to let me go along my own way 
 in such matters as these. I can depend upon mysek' for 
 having no goahead theories that I would rashly bring into 
 
MEETING AGAIN. 427 
 
 practice. My only wish is to have the opportunity of culti- 
 vating some intercourse with the hands beyond the mere ' cash 
 nexus.' But it might he the point Archimedes sought from 
 which to move the earth, to judge from the importance 
 attached to it by some of our manufacturers, who shake their 
 heads and look grave as soon as I name the one or two experi- 
 ments that I should like to try." 
 
 " You call them ' experiments ' I notice," said Mr. Col- 
 thurst, with a deUcate increase of respect in his manner. 
 
 " Because I believe them to be such. I am not sure of the i 
 consequences that may result from them. But I am sure they i 
 ought to be tried. I have arrived at the conviction that no ' 
 mere institutions, however wise, and however much thought I 
 may have been required to organise and arrange them, can 
 attach class to class as they should be attached, unless the 
 working out of such institutions bring the individuals of the 
 different classes into actual personal contact. Such inter- 
 course is the very breath of life. A working man can hardly 
 be made to feel and know how much his employer may have 
 laboured in his study at plans for the benefit of his workpeople. 
 A complete plan emerges like a piece of machinery, apparently i 
 fitted for every emergency. But the hands accept it as they : 
 do machinery, without understanding the intense mental labour 
 and forethought required to bring it to such perfection. But I 
 would take an idea, the working out of which would necessitate 
 personal intercourse ; it might not go ■^ell at first, but at every 
 hitch interest would be felt by an increasing number of men, 
 and at last its success in working come to be desired by all, as 
 all had borne a part in the formation of the plan ; and even 
 then I am sure that it would lose its vitality, cease to be living, 
 as soon as it was no longer carried on by that sort of common 
 interest which invariably makes people find means and ways of i 
 seeing each other, and becoming acquainted with each others' > 
 characters and persons, and even tricks of temper and modes 
 of speech. We should understand each other better, and I'll 
 venture to say we should like each other more." 
 
 ' ' And you think they may prevent the recurrence of strikes ? " 
 
 " Not at all. My utmost expectation only goes so far as 
 this — that they may render strikes not the bitter, venomous 
 sources of hatred they have hitherto been. A more hopefrJ 
 man might imagine that a closer and more genial intercourse 
 between classes might do away with strikes. Bat I am not a {, 
 hopeful man." 
 
428 NOETH AND SOUTH. 
 
 " Suddenly, as if a new idea had struck him, he crossed 
 over to where Margaret was sitting, and began, without prefece, 
 as if he knew she had been listening to all that had passed : 
 
 " Miss Hale, I had a round-robin from some of my men — 
 I suspect in Higgins' handwriting — stating their wish to wcrk 
 for me, if ever I was in a position to elnploy men again on my 
 own behalf. That was good, wasn't it ? " 
 
 " Yes. Just right. I am glad of it," said Margaret, 
 looking up straight into his face with her speaking eyes, and 
 then dropping them under his eloquent glance. He gazed back 
 at her for a minute, as if he did not know exactly what he was 
 about. Then sighed ; and saying, " I knew you would like 
 it," he turned away, and never spoke to her again until he bid 
 her a formal " good night." 
 
 As Mr. Lennox took his departure, Margaret said, with a 
 blush that she could not repress, and with some hesitation, 
 
 " Can I speak to you to-morrow ? I want your help about 
 — something." 
 
 " Certainly. I will come at whatever time you name. You 
 cannot give me a greater pleasure than by making me of any 
 use. At eleven? Very well." 
 
 His eye brightened with exultation. How she was learning 
 to depend upon him ! It seemed as if any day now might give 
 him the certainty, without having which he had determined 
 never to oflFer to her again. 
 
 CHAPTEK Ln. 
 "PACK CLOUDS AWAY." 
 
 " For joy or grief, for hope or fear, 
 For all hereafter, as for here, 
 In peace or strife, in storm or shine." 
 
 Anon. 
 
 Edith went about on tip-toe, and checked Sholto in all loud 
 speaking that next morning, as if any sudden noise would 
 interrupt the conference that was taking place in the drawing- 
 room. Two o'clock came; and they still sate there with 
 closed doors. Then there was a man's footstep running down 
 Btairs ; and Edith peeped out of the dravring-room. 
 
" PACK CLOUDS AWAY." 429 
 
 " Well, Henry ? " said she, with a look of interrogation. 
 
 "Well ! " said he, rather shortly. 
 
 " Come in to Innch ! " 
 
 " No, thank you, I can't. I've lost too much time hete 
 already." 
 
 " Then it's not all settled ?" said Edith, despondingly. 
 
 " No ! not at all. It never will be settled, if the ' it ' is 
 what I conjecture you mean. That will never be, Edith, so 
 give up thinking about it." 
 
 " But it would be so nice for us all," pleaded Edith. " I 
 should always feel comfortable about the children, if I had 
 Margaret settled down near me. As it is, I am always afraid 
 of her going off to Cadiz." 
 
 " I will try, when I marry, to look out for a young lady 
 who has a knowledge of the management of children. That is 
 all I can do. Miss Hale would not have me. And I shall not 
 ask her." 
 
 " Then what have you been talking about ? " 
 
 "A thousand things you would not understand: Invest- 
 ments, and leases, and value of land." 
 
 " Oh, go away if that's all. You and she will be unbear- 
 ably stupid, if you've been talking all this time about such 
 weary things." 
 
 "Very well. I'm coming again to-morrow, and bringing 
 Mr. Thornton vrith me, to have some more talk with Miss 
 Hale." 
 
 " Mr. Thornton I What has he to do with it ? " 
 
 "He is Miss Hale's tenant," said Mr. Lennox, turning 
 away. " And he wishes to give up his lease." 
 
 " Oh ! very well. I can't understand details, so don't give 
 them me." 
 
 " The only detail I want you to understand is, to let us 
 have the back drawing-room undisturbed, as it was to-day. In 
 general, the children and servants are so in and out, that I 
 can never get any business satisfactorily explained; and 
 the arrangements we have to make to-morrow are of im- 
 portance." 
 
 No one ever knew why Mr. Lennox did not keep to his 
 appointment on the following day. Mr. Thornton came true to 
 his time ; and after keeping him waiting for nearly an hour, 
 Margaret came in looking very white and anxious. 
 
 She began hurriedly : 
 
 '' I am BO sorry Mr. Lennox is not here, — he could 
 
430 HOETH AISB SOUTH. 
 
 have done it so much better than I can. He is my adviser in 
 this" 
 
 " I am sorry that I came, if it troubles you. Shall I go 
 to Mr. Lennox's chambers and try and find him ? " 
 
 " No, thank you. I wanted to tell you, how grieved I was 
 to find that I am to lose you as a tenant. But, Mr. Lennox 
 says, things are sure to brighten " 
 
 " Mr. Lennox knows little about it," said Mr. Thornton 
 quietly. " Happy and fortunate in all a man cares for, he does - 
 not understand what it is to find oneself no longer young — 
 yet thrown back to the starting-point which requu'es the 
 hopeful energy of youth — to feel one half of Ufa gone, and 
 nothing done — nothing remaining of wasted opportunity, but 
 the bitter recollection that it has been. Miss Hale, I would 
 rather not hear Mr. Lennox's opinion of my affairs. Those 
 who are happy and suceessfnl themselves are too apt to make 
 light of the misfortunes of others." 
 
 " You are unjust," said Margaret, gently. "Mr. Lennox 
 has only spoken of the great probability which he believes 
 there to be of your redeeming — your more than redeeming 
 what you have lost — don't speak till I have ended — pray 
 don't ! " And collecting herself once more, she went on rapidly 
 turning over some law papers, and statements of accounts in a 
 trembling hurried manner. " Oh ! here it is I and — he drew 
 me out a proposal — I wish he was here to explain it — showing 
 that if you would take some money of mine, eighteen hundred 
 and fifty-seven pounds, lying just at this moment unused in the 
 bank, and bringing me in only two and a half per cent. — ^you 
 could pay me much better interest, and might go on working 
 Marlborough Mills." Her voice had cleared itself and become 
 more steady. Mr. Thornton did not speak, and she went on 
 looking for some paper on which were written down the pro- 
 posals for security ; for she was most anxious to have it all 
 looked upon in the hght of a mere business arrangement, in 
 which the principal advantage would be on her side. While 
 she sought for this paper, her very heart-pulse was arrested by 
 the tone in which Mr. Thornton spoke. His voice was hoarse, 
 and trembling with tender passion, as he said : — 
 
 "Margaret! " 
 
 For an instant she looked up ; and then sought to veil her 
 luminous eyes by dropping her forehead on her hands. Again, 
 stepping nearer^ he besought her with another tremulous eager 
 call upon her name. 
 
'• PACK CLODDS AWAY." 431 
 
 " Margaret ! " 
 
 Still lower went the head ; more closely hidden was the 
 face, almost resting on the table before her. He came close 
 to her. He knelt by her side, to bring his face to a level with 
 her ear ; and whispered — panted out the words : — 
 
 " Take care. — If you do not speak — I shall claim you as 
 my own in some strange presumptuous way. — Send me away 
 at once, if I must go ; — Margaret ! — " 
 
 At that third call she turned her face, still covered with 
 her smail white hands, towards him, and laid it on his shoulder, 
 hiding it even there ; and it was too delicious to feel her soft 
 cheek against his, for him to wish to see either deep blushes 
 or loving eyes. He clasped her close. But they both kept 
 silence. At length she murmured in a broken voice : 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Thornton, I am not good enough ! " 
 
 " Not good enough ! Don't mock my own deep feeling of 
 unworthiness." 
 
 After a minute or two, he gently disengaged her hands 
 from her face, and laid her arms as they had once before been 
 placed to protect him from the rioters. 
 
 "Do you remember, love ? " he murmured. " And how 
 I requited you with my insolence the next day ? " 
 
 " I remember how wrongly I spoke to you, — that is all." 
 
 "Look here! Lift up your head. I have something to 
 show you ! " She slowly faced him, glowing with beautifiil 
 shame. 
 
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 " I wanted to see the place where Margaret grew to what 
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 " You must give them to ma," she said, trying to take 
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432 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 " Very well. Only yon must pay me for them ! " 
 
 " How shall I ever tell Aunt Shaw ? " she whispered, aflei 
 
 some time of delicious silence. 
 " Let me speak to her." 
 
 " Oh, no ! I owe to her, — but what will she say ? " 
 " I can guess. Her first exclamation will be, ' That 
 
 man ! ' " 
 
 " Hush ! " said Margaret, " or I shall try and show you 
 
 your mother's indignant tones as she says, ' That woman 1 ' 
 
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