North and South
Thornton remained in the dining-room, trying to think of the business he
had to do at the police-office, and in reality thinking of Margaret.
Everything seemed dim and vague beyond—behind—besides the touch of her
arms round his neck—the soft clinging which made the dark colour come
and go in his cheek as he thought of it.
The tea would have been very silent, but for Fanny’s perpetual
description of her own feelings; how she had been alarmed—and then
thought they were gone—and then felt sick and faint and trembling in
every limb.
“There, that’s enough,” said her brother, rising from the table. “The
reality was enough for me.” He was going to leave the room, when his
mother stopped him with her hand upon his arm.
“You will come back here before you go to the Hales’,” said she, in a
low, anxious voice.
“I know what I know,” said Fanny to herself.
“Why? Will it be too late to disturb them?”
“John, come back to me for this one evening. It will be late for Mrs.
Hale. But that is not it. To-morrow, you will—— Come back to-night,
John!” She had seldom pleaded with her son at all—she was too proud for
that; but she had never pleaded in vain.
“I will return straight here after I have done my business. You will be
sure to enquire after them?—after her?”
Mrs. Thornton was by no means a talkative companion to Fanny, nor yet a
good listener while her son was absent. But on his return, her eyes and
ears were keen to see and to listen to all the details which he could
give, as to the steps he had taken to secure himself, and those whom he
chose to employ, from any repetition of the day’s outrages. He clearly
saw his object. Punishment and suffering were the natural consequences
to those who had taken part in the riot. All that was necessary, in
order that property should be protected, and that the will of the
proprietor might cut to his end, clean and sharp as a sword.
“Mother! You know what I have got to say to Miss Hale, to-morrow?”
The question came upon her suddenly, during a pause in which she, at
least, had forgotten Margaret.
She looked up at him.
“Yes! I do. You can hardly do otherwise.”
“Do otherwise! I don’t understand you.”
“I mean that, after allowing her feelings so to overcome her, I consider
you bound in honour—”
“Bound in honour,” said he scornfully. “I’m afraid honour has nothing to
do with it. ‘Her feelings overcome her!’ What feelings do you mean?”
“Nay, John, there is no need to be angry. Did she not rush down and
cling to you to save you from danger?”
“She did!” said he. “But, mother,” continued he, stopping short in his
walk right in front of her. “I dare not hope. I never was 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
to-night, I stand second. It was to have you to myself, all to myself, a
few hours longer, that I begged you not to go till to-morrow.”
“Dearest mother!” (Still love is selfish, and in an instant he reverted
to his own hopes and fears in a way that drew the cold creeping shadow
over Mrs. Thornton’s heart.) “But I know she does not care for me. I
shall put myself at her feet—I must. If it were but one chance in a
thousand—or a million—I should do it.”
“Don’t fear!” said his mother, crushing down her own personal
mortification at the little notice he had taken of the rare ebullition
of her maternal feelings—of the pang of jealousy that betrayed the
intensity of her disregarded love. “Don’t be afraid,” she said, coldly.
“As far as love may go she may be worthy of you. It must have taken a
good deal to overcome her pride. Don’t be afraid, John,” said she,
kissing him, as she wished him good-night. And she went slowly and
majestically out of the room. But when she got into her own, she locked
the door, and sate down to cry unwonted tears.
* * * * *
Margaret entered the room (where her father and mother still sat,
holding low conversation together), looking very pale and white. She
came close up to them before she could trust herself to speak.
“Mrs. Thornton will send the water-bed, mamma.”
“Dear, how tired you look! Is it very hot, Margaret?”
“Very hot, and the streets are rather rough with the strike.”
Margaret’s colour came back vivid and bright as ever; but it faded away
instantly.
“Here has been a message from Bessy Higgins, asking you to go to her,”
said Mrs. Hale. “But I’m sure you look too tired.”
“Yes!” said Margaret. “I am tired, I cannot go.”
She was very silent and trembling while she made tea. She was thankful
to see her father so much occupied with her mother as not to notice her
looks. Even after her mother went to bed, he was not content to be
absent from her, but undertook to read her to sleep. Margaret was alone.
“Now I will think of it—now I will remember it all. I could not
before—I dared not.” She sat still in her chair, her hands clasped on
her knees, her lips compressed, her eyes fixed as one who sees a vision.
She drew a deep breath.
“I, who hate scenes—I, who have despised people for showing
emotion—who have thought them wanting in self-control—I went down and
must needs throw myself into the melée, 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 will say
what they like of me. If I saved one blow, one cruel, angry action that
might otherwise have been committed, I did a woman’s work. Let them
insult my maiden pride as they will—I walk pure before God!”
She looked up, and a noble peace seemed to descend and calm her face,
till it was “stiller than chiselled marble.”
Dixon came in:
“If you please, Miss Margaret, here’s the water-bed from Mrs.
Thornton’s. It’s too late for to-night, I’m afraid, for missus is nearly
asleep: but it will do nicely for to-morrow.”
“Very,” said Margaret. “You must send our best thanks.”
Dixon left the room for a moment.
“If you please, Miss Margaret, he says he’s to ask particular how you
are. I think he must mean missus; but he says his last words were, to
ask how Miss Hale was.”
“Me!” said Margaret, drawing herself up. “I am quite well. Tell him I am
perfectly well.” But her complexion was as deadly white as her
handkerchief; and her head ached intensely.
Mr. Hale now came in. He had left his sleeping wife; and wanted, as
Margaret saw, to be amused and interested by something that she was to
tell him. With sweet patience did she bear her pain, without a word of
complaint; and rummaged up numberless small subjects for
conversation—all except the riot, and that she never named once. It
turned her sick to think of it.
“Good-night, Margaret. I have every chance of a good night myself, and
you are looking very pale with your watching. I shall call Dixon if your
mother needs anything. Do you go to bed and sleep like a top; for I’m
sure you need it, poor child!”
“Good-night, papa!”
She let her colour go—the false smile fade away—the eyes grow dull
with heavy pain. She released her strong will from its laborious task.
Till morning she might feel ill and weary.
She lay down and never stirred. To move hand or foot, or even so much as
one finger, would have been beyond the powers of either volition or
motion. She was so tired, so stunned, that she thought she never slept
at all; her feverish thoughts passed and repassed the boundary between
sleeping and waking, and kept their own miserable identity. She could
not be alone, prostrate, powerless as she was,—a cloud of faces looked
up at her, giving her no idea of fierce vivid anger, or of personal
danger, but a deep sense of shame that she should thus be the object of
universal regard—a sense of shame so acute that it seemed as if she
would fain have burrowed into the earth to hide herself, and yet she
could not escape out of that unwinking glare of many eyes.
CHAPTER XXIV.
MISTAKES CLEARED UP.
“Your beauty was the first that won the place
And scal’d the walls of my undaunted heart,
Which, captive now, pines in a caitive case,
Unkindly met with rigour for desert:—
Yet not the less your servant shall abide,
In spite of rude repulse or silent pride.”
WILLIAM FOWLER.
The next morning, Margaret dragged herself up, thankful that the night
was over,—unrefreshed, yet rested. All had gone well through the house;
her mother had only wakened once. A little breeze was stirring in the
hot air, and though there were no trees to show the playful tossing
movement caused by the wind among the leaves, Margaret knew how,
somewhere or another, by wayside, in copses, or in thick green woods,
there was a pleasant, murmuring dancing sound,—a rushing and falling
noise, the very thought of which was an echo of distinct gladness in her
heart.
She sat at her work in Mrs. Hale’s room. As soon as that forenoon
slumber was over, she would help her mother to dress; after dinner, she
would go and see Bessy Higgins. She would banish all recollection of the
Thornton family—no need to think of them till they absolutely stood
before her in flesh and blood. But, of course, the effort not to think
of them brought them only the more strongly before her; and from time to
time, the hot flush came over her pale face sweeping it into colour, as
a sunbeam from between watery clouds comes swiftly moving over the sea.
Dixon opened the door very softly, and stole on tiptoe up to Margaret,
sitting by the shaded window.
“Mr. Thornton, Miss Margaret. He is in the drawing-room.”
Margaret dropped her sewing.
“Did he ask for me? Isn’t papa come in?”
“He asked for you, miss; and master is out.”
“Very well, I will come,” said Margaret, quietly. But she lingered
strangely.
Mr. Thornton stood by one of the windows, with his back to the door
apparently absorbed in watching something in the street. But, in truth,
he was afraid of himself. His heart beat thick at the thought of her
coming. He could not forget the touch of her arms around his neck,
impatiently felt as it had been at the time; but now the recollection of
her clinging defence of him, seemed to thrill him through and
through,—to melt away every resolution, all power of self-control, as