North and South
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.
“And with a young man?”
Still no answer. At last he said: “I tell you, mother, 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 forwards 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,” says Mrs. Thornton, eagerly. “It
certainly signifies very little to us—not at all to you, after what has
passed! but 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 circumstance 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 difference 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! Really, 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.”
He turned round to his mother; his face was very gray and grim. “Yes,
mother. I do believe 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; but she may 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, which 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, unless you say more.
These half-expressions are what ruin a woman’s character.”
“Her character! Mother, 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!”
“No!” 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 speak to her as I would do to Fanny, if she had gone gallivanting
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! Margaret, 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 indiscretion, 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 stern 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
window, and she had her feet inside the little hall before Martha had
half answered the 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 impossible to utter the speech, so
easy of arrangement with no one to address it to. Margaret’s low rich
voice was softer than usual; her manner more gracious, because in her
heart she was feeling 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 attachment had fallen through, and that it suited
Miss Hale’s purpose 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 kindness 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 remonstrating; at least without offering advice, whether you
took it or not.”
Margaret stood before her, blushing like any culprit, with her 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, yet 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 far from home as the Outwood station,
at such a time of the evening, I could hardly believe it. But my son, I
am sorry to say, confirmed her story. It was indiscreet, to say the
least; many a young woman has lost her character before 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! she—Mrs.
Thornton, a mere stranger—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. She never meant me to be exposed to
insult, I am sure.”
“Insult, Miss Hale!”
“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 manufacturer, 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