North and South
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 dishearten 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 fatalists.”
“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, as the country-bred man must find it to be
active, and equal to unwonted 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 a charming,
snatched, forbidden thing.” But she suddenly stopped speaking. She had
spoiled 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 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 remembered—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 so intimately connected with the idea of
truth: and she had used the word chivalric—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 chivalric!
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 illness, 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 up her head and sighed, and believed she felt glad.
“It’s that Higgins, sir. He wants to see you, or else Miss 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 Margaret) 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 and stood close to Mr. Hale.
“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” could be.
“That chap as lies theer,” said he, with another jerk. “Him 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 him 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’ll ne’er know other clemming or cold again; but for the wife’s sake,
and the bits o’ childer.”
“God bless you!” said Mr. Hale, starting up; then, calming down, he
said, breathlessly, “What do you mean? Tell me out.”
“I have telled 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 pledge—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 you! 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 South, and the ways down
there. Now I dunnot know how far off it is, but I 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 childer could work at that,” said he. “I’m sick o’ Milton anyways,
and Milton is sick o’ me.”
“You must not go 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