North and South
already for a little stir and change. Beside, I shall be a deal here to
make it more lively for thee.”
“Tobacco-smoke chokes me!” said she, querulously.
“Then I’ll never smoke no more i’ the house!” he replied, tenderly. “But
why didst thou not tell me afore, thou foolish wench?”
She did not speak for a while, and then so low that only Margaret heard
her:
“I reckon, he’ll want a’ the comfort he can get out o’ either pipe or
drink afore he’s done.”
Her father went out of doors, evidently to finish his pipe.
Bessy said passionately,
“Now am not I a fool,—am I not, Miss?—there, I knew I ought for to
keep father at home, and away fro’ the folk that are always ready for to
tempt a man, in time o’ strike, to go drink,—and there my tongue must
needs quarrel with this pipe o’ his’n—and he’ll go off, I know he
will,—as often as he wants to smoke—and nobody knows where it’ll end.
I wish I’d letten myself be choked first.”
“But does your father drink?” 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
bit of a change—a bit of a fillip, as it were. I know I ha’ gone and
bought a four-pounder out o’ another baker’s shop to common on such
days, just because I sickened at the thought of going on for ever wi’
the same sight in my eyes, and the same sound in my ears, and the same
taste i’ my mouth, and the same thought (or no thought, for that matter)
in my head, day after day, for ever. I’ve longed for to be a man to go
spreeing, even 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 little blame
to them if they do go into th’ gin-shop for to make their blood flow
quicker, and more lively, and see things they never see at no other
time—pictures, and looking-glass, and such like. But father never was a
drunkard, though maybe, he’s got worse for drink, now and then. Only yo’
see,” and now her voice took a mournful, pleading tone, “at times o’
strike there’s much to knock a man down, for all they start so
hopefully; and where’s the comfort to come fro’? He’ll get angry and
mad—they all do—and then they get tired out wi’ being angry and mad,
and maybe ha’ done things in their passion they’d be glad to forget.
Bless yo’r sweet pitiful face! but yo’ dunnot know what a strike is
yet.”
“Come, Bessy,” said Margaret, “I won’t say you’re exaggerating, because
I don’t know enough about it: but, perhaps, as you’re not well, you’re
only looking on one side, and there is another and a brighter to be
looked to.”
“It’s all well enough for yo’ to say so, who have lived in pleasant
green places all your life long, and never known want or care, or
wickedness either, for that matter.”
“Take care,” said Margaret, her cheek flushing, and her eye lightening,
“how you judge, Bessy. I shall go home to my mother, who is so ill—so
ill, Bessy, that there’s no outlet but death for her out of prison of
her great suffering; and yet I must speak cheerfully to my father, who
has no notion of her real state, and to whom the knowledge must come
gradually. The only person—the only one who could sympathise with me
and help me—whose presence could comfort my mother more than any other
earthly thing—is falsely accused—would run the risk of death if he
came to see his dying mother. This I tell you—only you, Bessy. You must
not mention it. No other person in Milton—hardly any other person in
England knows. Have I not care? Do I not know anxiety, though I go about
well-dressed, and have food enough? Oh, Bessy, God is just, and our lots
are well portioned out by Him, although none but He knows the bitterness
of our souls.”
“I ask your pardon,” replied Bessy, humbly. “Sometimes, when I’ve
thought o’ my life, and the little pleasure I’ve had in it, I’ve
believed that, maybe, I was one of those doomed to die by the falling of
a star from heaven; ‘And the name of the star is called Wormwood; and
the third part of the waters became wormwood; and men died of the
waters, because they were made bitter.’ One can bear pain and sorrow
better if one thinks it has been prophesied long before for one:
somehow, then it seems as if my pain was needed for the fulfilment;
otherways it seems all sent for nothing.”
“Nay, Bessy—think!” said Margaret. “God does not willingly inflict.
Don’t dwell so much on the prophecies, but read the clearer parts of the
Bible.”
“I dare say it would be wiser; but where would I hear such grand words
of promise—hear tell o’ anything so far different fro’ this dreary
world, and this town above a’ as in Revelations? Many’s the time I’ve
repeated the verses in the seventh chapter to myself, just for the
sound. It’s as good as an organ, and as different from every day, too.
No, I cannot give up Revelations. It gives me more comfort than any
other book i’ the Bible.”
“Let me come and read you some of my favourite chapters.”
“Ay,” said she greedily, “come. Father will maybe hear yo.’ He’s deaved
wi’ my talking; he says it’s all nought to do with the things o’ to-day,
and that’s his business.”
“Where is your sister?”
“Gone fustian cutting. I were loth to let her go; but somehow we must
live; and th’ Union can’t afford us much.”
“Now I must go. You have done me good, Bessy.”
“I done you good!”
“Yes, I came here very sad, and rather too apt to think my own cause for
grief was the only one in the world. And now I hear how you have had to
bear for years, and that makes me stronger.”
“Bless yo’! I thought a’ the good-doing was on the side of 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.”
“You’re not like no one I ever seed. I dunno what to make of yo’.”
“Nor I of myself. Good-bye!”
Bessy stilled her rocking to gaze after her.
“I wonder if there are many folk like her down South. She’s like a
breath of country air, somehow. She freshens me up above a bit. Who’d 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’ll sin.
All on us must sin. I think a deal on her, for sure. But father does the
like, I see. And Mary even. It’s not often hoo’s stirred up to notice
much.”
CHAPTER XVIII.
LIKES AND DISLIKES.
“My heart revolts within me, and two voices
Make themselves audible within my bosom.”
WALLENSTEIN.
On Margaret’s return home she found two letters on the table: one was a
note for her mother,—the other, which had come by the post, was
evidently from her aunt Shaw—covered with foreign post-marks—thin,
silvery, and rustling. She took up the other, and was examining it, when
her father came in suddenly:
“So your mother is tired, and gone to bed early! I’m afraid, such a
thundery day was not the best in the world for the doctor to see her.
What did he say? Dixon tells me he spoke to you about her.”
Margaret hesitated. Her father’s looks became more grave and anxious:
“He does not think her seriously ill?”
“Not at present; she needs care, he says; he was very kind, and he said
he would call again, and see how his medicines worked.”
“Only care?—he did not recommend change of air?—he did not say this
smoky town was doing her any harm, did he, Margaret?”
“No! not a word,” she replied, gravely. “He was anxious, I think.”
“Doctors have that anxious manner; it’s professional,” said he.
Margaret saw, in her father’s nervous ways, that the first impression of
possible danger was made upon his mind, in spite of all his making light
of what she told him. He could not forget the subject,—could not pass
from it to other things; he kept recurring to it through the evening,
with an unwillingness to receive even the slightest unfavourable idea,
which made Margaret inexpressibly sad.
“This letter is from Aunt Shaw, papa. She has got to Naples, and finds
it too hot, so she has taken apartments at Sorrento. But I don’t think
she likes Italy.”
“He did not say anything about diet, did he?”
“It was to be nourishing, and digestible. Mamma’s appetite is pretty
good, I think.”
“Yes! and that makes it all the more strange he should have thought of
speaking about diet.”
“I asked him, papa.” Another pause. Then Margaret went on: “Aunt Shaw
says she has sent me some coral ornaments, papa: but,” added Margaret,
half smiling, “she’s afraid the Milton dissenters won’t appreciate them.
She has got all her ideas of Dissenters from the Quakers, has she not?”
“If ever you hear or notice that your mother wishes for anything, be
sure you let me know. I am so afraid she does not tell me always what
she would like. Pray, see after that girl Mrs. Thornton named. If we had
a good, efficient house-servant, Dixon could be constantly with her, and
I’d answer for it we’d soon set her up amongst us, if care will do it.
She’s been very much tired of late, with the hot weather, and the
difficulty of getting a servant. A little rest will put her quite to
rights—eh, Margaret?”
“I hope so,” said Margaret,—but so sadly, that her father took notice
of it. He pinched her cheek.
“Come; if you look so pale as this, I must rouge you up a little. Take
care of yourself, child, or you’ll be wanting the doctor next.”
But he could not settle to anything that evening. He was continually
going backwards and forwards, on laborious tiptoe, to see if his wife
was still asleep. Margaret’s heart ached at his restlessness—his trying
to stifle and strangle the hideous fear that was looming out of the dark
places of his heart.
He came back at last, somewhat comforted.
“She’s awake now, Margaret. She quite smiled as she saw me standing by
her. Just her old smile. And she says she feels refreshed, and ready for
tea. Where’s the note for her? She want’s to see it. I’ll read it to her
while you make tea.”
The note proved to be a formal invitation from Mrs. Thornton, to Mr.,
Mrs., and Miss Hale to dinner, on the twenty-first instant. Margaret was
surprised to find an acceptance contemplated, after all she had learnt
of sad probabilities during the day. But so it was. The idea of her
husband’s and daughter’s going to this dinner had quite captivated Mrs.
Hale’s fancy, even before Margaret had heard the contents of the note.
It was an event to diversify the monotony of the invalid’s life; and she
clung to the idea of their going, with even fretful pertinacity, when
Margaret objected.
“Nay, Margaret: if she wishes it, I’m sure we’ll both go willingly. She
never would wish it unless she felt herself really stronger—really
better than we thought she was, eh, Margaret?” said Mr. Hale, anxiously,
as she prepared to write the note of acceptance, the next day.
“Eh! Margaret?” questioned he, with a nervous motion of his hands. It
seemed cruel to refuse him the comfort he craved for. And besides, his
passionate refusal to admit the existence of fear, almost inspired
Margaret herself with hope.
“I do think she is better since last night,” said she. “Her eyes look
brighter, and her complexion clearer.”
“God bless you,” said her father earnestly. “But is it true? Yesterday
was so sultry every one felt ill. It was a most unlucky day for Mr.
Donaldson to see her on.”
So he went away to his day’s duties, now increased by the preparation of
some lectures he had promised to deliver to the working people at a
neighbouring Lyceum. He had chosen Ecclesiastical Architecture as his
subject, rather more in accordance with his own taste and knowledge than