North and South
“No,” replied the Doctor, shaking his head. “She craves for fruit,—she
has a constant fever on her; but jargonelle pears will do as well as
anything, and there are quantities of them in the market.”
“You will tell me if there is anything I can do, I’m sure,” replied Mr.
Thornton. “I rely upon you.”
“Oh! never fear! I’ll not spare your purse,—I know it’s deep enough. I
wish you’d give me a carte-blanche for all my patients, and all their
wants.”
But Mr. Thornton had no general benevolence,—no universal philanthropy;
few even would have given him credit for strong affections. But he went
straight to the first fruit-shop in Milton, and chose out the bunch of
purple grapes with the most delicate bloom upon them,—the
richest-coloured peaches,—the freshest vine-leaves. They were packed
into a basket, and the shopman awaited the answer to his inquiry, “Where
shall we send them to, sir?”
There was no reply. “To Marlborough Mills, I suppose, sir?”
“No!” Mr. Thornton said. “Give the basket to me,—I’ll take it.”
It took up both his hands to carry it; and he had to pass through the
busiest part of the town for feminine shopping. Many a young lady of his
acquaintance turned to look after him, and thought it strange to see him
occupied just like a porter or an errand-boy.
He was thinking, “I will not be daunted from doing as I choose by the
thought of her. I like to take this fruit to the poor mother, and it is
simply right that I should. She shall never scorn me out of doing what I
please. A pretty joke, indeed, if, for fear of a haughty girl, I failed
in doing a kindness to a man I liked! I do it for Mr. Hale; I do it in
defiance of her.”
He went at an unusual pace, and was soon at Crampton. He went upstairs
two steps at a time, and entered the drawing-room before Dixon could
announce him,—his face flushed, his eyes shining with kindly
earnestness. Mrs. Hale lay on the sofa, heated with fever. Mr. Hale was
reading aloud. Margaret was working on a low stool by her mother’s side.
Her heart fluttered, if his did not at this interview. But he took no
notice of her,—hardly of Mr. Hale himself; he went up straight with his
basket to Mrs. Hale, and said, in that subdued and gentle tone, which is
so touching when used by a robust man in full health, speaking to a
feeble invalid,—
“I met Dr. Donaldson, ma’am, and as he said fruit would be good for you,
I have taken the liberty—the great liberty—of bringing you some that
seemed to me fine.” Mrs. Hale was excessively pleased; quite in a
tremble of eagerness. Mr. Hale with fewer words expressed a deeper
gratitude.
“Fetch a plate, Margaret—a basket—anything.” Margaret stood up by the
table, half afraid of moving or making any noise to arouse Mr. Thornton
into a consciousness of her being in the room. She thought it would be
awkward for both to be brought into conscious collision: and fancied
that, from her being on a low seat at first, and now standing behind her
father, he had overlooked her in his haste. As if he did not feel the
consciousness of her presence all over, though his eyes had never rested
on her!
“I must go,” said he, “I cannot stay. If you will forgive this
liberty,—my rough ways,—too abrupt, I fear—but I will be more gentle
next time. You will allow me the pleasure of bringing you some fruit
again, if I should see any that is tempting. Good afternoon, Mr. Hale.
Good-bye, ma’am.”
He was gone. Not one word: not one look to Margaret. She believed that
he had not seen her. She went for a plate in silence, and lifted the
fruit out tenderly, with the points of her delicate taper fingers. It
was good of him to bring it; and after yesterday too!
“Oh! it is so delicious!” said Mrs. Hale, in a feeble voice. “How kind
of him to think of me! Margaret love, only taste these grapes! Was it
not good of him?”
“Yes!” said Margaret, quietly.
“Margaret!” said Mrs. Hale, rather querulously, “you won’t like anything
Mr. Thornton does. I never saw anybody so prejudiced.”
Mr. Hale had been peeling a peach for his wife; and, cutting off a small
piece for himself, he said:
“If I had any prejudices, the gift of such delicious fruit as this would
melt them away. I have not tasted such fruit—no! not even in
Hampshire—since I was a boy; and, to boys, I fancy, all fruit is good.
I remember eating sloes and crabs with a relish. Do you remember the
matted-up currant bushes, Margaret, at the corner of the west-wall 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 it like a map; the little
crane’s-bill that grew in the crevices? She had been shaken by the
events of the last two days; her whole life just now was a strain upon
her fortitude; and, somehow, these careless words of her father’s,
touching on the remembrance of the sunny times of old, made her start
up, and, dropping her sewing on the ground, she went hastily out of the
room into her own little chamber. She had hardly given way to the first
choking sob, when she became aware of Dixon standing at her drawers, and
evidently searching for something.
“Bless me, miss! How you startled me! Missus is not worse, is she? Is
anything the matter?”
“No, nothing. Only I’m silly, Dixon, and want a glass of water. What are
you looking for? I keep my muslins in that drawer.”
Dixon did not speak, but went on rummaging. The scent of lavender came
out and perfumed the room.
At last Dixon found what she wanted; what it was Margaret could not see.
Dixon faced round, and spoke to her:
“Now I don’t like telling what I wanted, because you’ve fretting enough
to go through, and I know you’ll fret about this. I meant to have kept
it from you till night, may be, or such times as that.”
“What is the matter? Pray, tell me, Dixon, at once.”
“That young woman you go to see—Higgins I mean.”
“Well?”
“Well! she died this morning, and her sister is here—come to beg a
strange thing. It seems, the young woman who died had a fancy for being
buried in something of yours, and so the sister’s come to ask for
it,—and I was looking for a night-cap that wasn’t too good to give
away.”
“Oh! let me find one,” said Margaret, in the midst of her tears. “Poor
Bessy! I never thought I should not see her again.”
“Why, that’s another thing. This girl 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 face was all swollen with crying,
and she burst out afresh when she saw Margaret.
“Oh, ma’am, she loved yo’, she loved yo’, she did indeed!” And for a
long time, Margaret could not get her to say anything more than this. At
last, her sympathy, and Dixon’s scolding, forced out a few facts.
Nicholas Higgins had gone out in the morning, leaving Bessy as well as
on the day before. But in an hour she was taken worse; some neighbour
ran to the room where Mary was working; they did not know where to find
her father; Mary had only come in a few minutes before she died.
“It were a day or two ago she axed to be buried in somewhat o’ yourn.
She were never tired o’ talking o’ yo’. She used to say yo’ were the
prettiest thing she ever clapped eyes on. She loved yo’ dearly. Her last
words were ‘Give her my affectionate respects; and keep father fro’
drink.’ Yo’ll come and see her ma’am. She would ha’ thought it a great
compliment, I know.”
Margaret shrank a little from answering.
“Yes, perhaps I may. Yes, I will. I’ll come before tea. But where’s your
father, Mary?”
Mary shook her head, and stood up to be going.
“Miss Hale,” said Dixon, in a low voice, “where’s the use o’ your going
to see the poor thing laid out? I’d never say a word against it, if it
could do the girl any good; and I wouldn’t mind a bit going myself, if
that would satisfy her. They’ve just a notion, these common folks, of
its being a respect to the departed. Here,” said she, turning sharply
round, “I’ll come and see your sister. Miss Hale is busy, and she can’t
come, or else she would.”
The girl looked wistfully at Margaret. Dixon’s coming might be a
compliment, but it was not the same thing to the poor sister, who had
had her little pangs of jealousy, during Bessy’s lifetime, at the
intimacy between her and the young lady.
“No, Dixon!” said Margaret with decision. “I will go. Mary, you shall
see me this afternoon.” And for fear of her own cowardice, she went
away, in order to take from herself any chance of changing her
determination.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
COMFORT IN SORROW.
“Through cross to crown!—And though thy spirit’s life
Trials untold assail with giant strength,
Good cheer! good cheer! Soon ends the bitter strife,
And thou shalt reign in peace with Christ at length.”
KOSEGARTEN.
“Ay sooth, we feel too strong in weal, to need Thee on that road;
But woe being come, the soul is dumb, that crieth not on ‘God.’”
MRS. BROWNING.
That afternoon she walked swiftly to the Higgins’s house. Mary was
looking out for her, with a half-distrustful face. Margaret smiled into
her eyes to re-assure her. They passed quickly through the house-place,
upstairs, and into the quiet presence of the dead. Then Margaret was
glad that she had come. The face, so often 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 downstairs without a word.
Resting his hand upon the house-table, Nicholas Higgins stood in the
midst of the floor; his great eyes startled open by the news he had
heard, as he came along the court, from many busy tongues. His eyes were
dry and fierce; studying the reality of her death; bringing himself to
understand that her place should know her no more. For she had been
sickly, dying so long, that he had persuaded himself she would not die;
that she would “pull through.”
Margaret felt as if she had no business to be there, familiarly
acquainting herself with the surroundings of death, which he, the
father, had only just learnt. There had been a pause of an instant on
the steep crooked stair, when she first saw him; but now she tried to
steal past his abstracted gaze, and to leave him in the solemn circle of
his household misery.
Mary sat down on the first chair she came to, and throwing her apron
over her head, began to cry.
The noise appeared to rouse him. He took sudden hold of Margaret’s arm,
and held her till he could gather words to speak. His throat seemed dry;
they came up thick, and choked, and hoarse:
“Were yo’ with her? Did yo’ see her die?”
“No!” replied Margaret, standing still with the utmost patience, now she
found herself perceived. It was some time before he spoke again, but he
kept his hold on her arm.
“All men must die,” said he at last, with a strange sort of gravity,
which first suggested to Margaret the idea that he had been
drinking—not enough to intoxicate himself, but enough to make his
thoughts bewildered. “But she were younger than me.” Still he pondered
over the event, not looking at Margaret, though he grasped her tight.