North and South
afraid of owning that one place to which she was going was Nicholas
Higgins’; all she could do was to hope her aunt would be indisposed to
get out of the coach and walk up the court, and at every breath of wind
have her face slapped by wet clothes, hanging out to dry on ropes
stretched from house to house.
There was a little battle in Mrs. Shaw’s mind between ease and a sense
of matronly propriety; but the former gained the day; and with many an
injunction to Margaret to be careful of herself, and not to catch any
fever, such as was always lurking in such places, her aunt permitted her
to go where she had often been before without taking any precaution or
requiring any permission.
Nicholas was out; only Mary and one or two of the Boucher children at
home. Margaret was vexed with herself for not having timed her visit
better. Mary had a very blunt intellect, although her feelings were warm
and kind; and the instant she understood what Margaret’s purpose was in
coming to see them, she began to cry and sob with so little restraint
that Margaret found it useless to say any of the thousand little things
which had suggested themselves to her as she was coming along in the
coach. She could only try to comfort her a little by suggesting the
vague chance of their meeting again, at some possible time, in some
possible place, and bid her tell her father how much she wished, if he
could manage it, that he should come to see her when he had done his
work in the evening.
As she was leaving the place, she stopped and looked around; then
hesitated a little before she said:
“I should like to have some little thing to remind me of Bessy.”
Instantly Mary’s generosity was keenly alive. What could they give? And
on Margaret’s singling out a little common drinking-cup, which she
remembered as the one always standing by Bessy’s side with a drink for
her feverish lips, Mary said:
“Oh, take summat better; that only cost fourpence!”
“That will do, thank you,” said Margaret; and she went quickly away,
while the light caused by the pleasure of having something to give yet
lingered on Mary’s face.
“Now to Mrs. Thornton’s,” thought she to herself. “It must be done.” But
she looked rather rigid and pale at the thoughts of it, and had hard
work to find the exact words in which to explain to her aunt who Mrs.
Thornton was, and why she should go to bid her farewell.
They (for Mrs. Shaw alighted here) were shown into the drawing-room, in
which a fire had only just been kindled. Mrs. Shaw huddled herself up in
her shawl and shivered.
“What an icy room!” she said.
They had to wait for some time before Mrs. Thornton entered. There was
some softening in her heart towards Margaret, now that she was going
away out of her sight. She remembered her spirit, as shown at various
times and places, even more than the patience with which she had endured
long and wearing cares. Her countenance was blander than usual, as she
greeted her; there was even a shade of tenderness in her manner, as she
noticed the white, tear-swollen face, and the quiver in the voice which
Margaret tried to make so steady.
“Allow me to introduce my aunt, Mrs. Shaw. I am going away from Milton
to-morrow; I do not know if you are aware of it, but I wanted to see you
once again, Mrs. Thornton, to—to apologize for my manner the last time
I saw you; and to say that I am sure you meant kindly—however much we
may have misunderstood each other.”
Mrs. Shaw looked extremely perplexed by what Margaret had said. Thanks
for kindness! and apologies for failure in good manners! But Mrs.
Thornton replied:
“Miss Hale, I am glad you do me justice. I did no more than I believed
to be my duty in remonstrating with you as I did. I have always desired
to act the part of a friend to you. I am glad you do me justice.”
“And,” said Margaret, blushing excessively as she spoke, “will you do me
justice, and believe that though I cannot—I do not choose—to give
explanations of my conduct, I have not acted in the unbecoming way you
apprehended?”
Margaret’s voice was so soft, and her eyes so pleading, that Mrs.
Thornton was for once affected by the charm of manner to which she had
hitherto proved herself invulnerable.
“Yes, I do believe you. Let us say no more about it. Where are you going
to reside, Miss Hale? I understood from Mr. Bell that you were going to
leave Milton. You never liked Milton, you know,” said Mrs. Thornton,
with a sort of grim smile; “but for all that, you must not expect me to
congratulate you on quitting it. Where shall you live?”
“With my aunt,” replied Margaret, turning towards Mrs. Shaw.
“My niece will reside with me in Harley Street. She is almost like a
daughter to me,” said Mrs. Shaw, looking fondly at Margaret; “and I am
glad to acknowledge my own obligation for any kindness that has been
shown to her. If you and your husband ever come to the town, my son and
daughter, Captain and Mrs. Lennox, will, I am sure, join with me in
wishing to do anything in our power to show you attention.”
Mrs. Thornton thought in her own mind, that Margaret had not taken much
care to enlighten her aunt as to the relationship between the Mr. and
Mrs. Thornton, towards whom the fine-lady aunt was extending her soft
patronage; so she answered shortly,
“My husband is dead. Mr. Thornton is my son. I never go to London; so I
am not likely to be able to avail myself of your polite offers.”
At this instant Mr. Thornton entered the room; he had only just returned
from Oxford. His mourning suit spoke of the reason that had called him
there.
“John,” said his mother, “this lady is Mrs. Shaw, Miss Hale’s aunt. I am
sorry to say, that Miss Hale’s call is to wish us good-bye.”
“You are going then!” said he in a low voice.
“Yes,” said Margaret. “We leave to-morrow.”
“My son-in-law comes this evening to escort us,” said Mrs. Shaw.
Mr. Thornton turned away. He had not sat down, and now he seemed to be
examining something on the table, almost as if he had discovered an
unopened letter, which had made him forget the present company. He did
not even seem to be aware when they got up to take leave. He started
forwards, however, to hand Mrs. Shaw down to the carriage. As it drove
up, he and Margaret stood close together on the door-step, and it was
impossible but that the recollection of the day of the riot should force
itself into both their minds. Into his it came associated with the
speeches of the following day; her passionate declaration that there was
not a man in all that violent and a desperate crowd, for whom she did
not care as much as for him. And at the remembrance of her taunting
words, his brow grew stern, though his heart beat thick with longing
love. “No!” said he, “I put it to the touch once, and I lost it all. Let
her go,—with her stony heart, and her beauty;—how set and terrible her
look is now, for all her loveliness of feature! She is afraid I shall
speak what will require some stern repression. Let her go. Beauty and
heiress as she may be, she will find it hard to meet with a truer heart
than mine. Let her go!”
And there was no tone of regret, or emotion of any kind in the voice
with which he said good-bye; and the offered hand was taken with a
resolute calmness, and dropped as carelessly as if it had been a dead
and withered flower. But none in his household saw Mr. Thornton again
that day. He was busily engaged; or so he said.
Margaret’s strength was so utterly exhausted by these visits, that she
had to submit to much watching and petting, and sighing
“I-told-you-so’s,” from her aunt. Dixon said she was quite as bad as she
had been on the first day she heard of her father’s death; and she and
Mrs. Shaw consulted as to the desirableness of delaying the morrow’s
journey. But when her aunt reluctantly proposed a few days’ delay to
Margaret, the latter writhed her body as if in acute suffering, and
said:
“Oh! let us go. I cannot be patient here. I shall not get well here. I
want to forget.”
So the arrangements went on: and Captain Lennox came, and with him news
of Edith and the little boy; and Margaret found that the indifferent,
careless conversation of one who, however kind, was not too warm and
anxious a sympathiser, did her good. She roused up; and by the time that
she knew she might expect Higgins, she was able to leave the room
quietly, and await in her own chamber the expected summons.
“Eh!” said he, as she came in, “to think of th’ oud gentleman dropping
off as he did! Yo’ might ha’ knocked me down wi’ a straw when they
telled me. ‘Mr. Hale?’ said I; ‘him as was th’ parson?’ ‘Ay,’ said they.
‘Then,’ said I, ‘there’s as good a man gone as ever lived on this earth,
let who will be t’other!’ And I came to see yo’, and tell yo’ how
grieved I were, but them women in th’ kitchen wouldn’t tell yo’ I were
there. They said yo’ were ill,—and butter me, but yo’ dunnot look like
the same wench. And yo’re going to be a grand lady up i’ Lunnon, aren’t
yo’?”
“Not a grand lady,” said Margaret, half smiling.
“Well! Thornton said—says he, a day or two ago, ‘Higgins, have yo’ seen
Miss Hale?’ ‘No,’ says I; ‘there’s a pack o’ women who won’t let me at
her. But I can bide my time, if she’s ill. She and I knows each other
pretty well; and hoo’l not go doubting that I’m main sorry for th’ oud
gentleman’s death, just because I can’t get at her and tell her so.’ And
says he, ‘Yo’ll not have much time for to try and see her, my fine chap.
She’s not for staying with us a day longer nor she can help. She’s got
grand relations, and they’re carrying her off; and we shan’t see her no
more.’ ‘Measter,’ said I, ‘if I dunnot see her afore hoo goes, I’ll
strive to get up to Lunnon next Whitsuntide, that I will. I’ll not be
baulked of saying her good-bye by any relations whatsomdever. But bless
yo’, I knowed yo’d come. It were only for to humour the measter, I let
on as if I thought yo’d m’appen leave Milton without seeing me.”
“You’re quite right,” said Margaret. “You only do me justice. And you’ll
not forget me, I’m sure. If no one else in Milton remembers me, I’m
certain you will; and papa too. You know how good and tender he was.
Look, Higgins! here is his Bible. I have kept it for you. I can ill
spare it; but I know he would have liked you to have it. I’m sure you’ll
care for it, and study what is in it, for his sake.”
“Yo’ may say that. If it were the deuce’s own scribble, and yo’ axed me
to read in it for yo’r sake and the oud gentleman’s, I’d do it.
Whatten’s this, wench! I’m not going for to take yo’r brass, so dunnot
think it. We’ve been great friends, ’bout the sound o’ money passing
between us.”
“For the children—for Boucher’s children,” said Margaret, hurriedly.
“They may need it. You’ve no right to refuse it for them. I would not
give you one penny,” she said, smiling; “don’t think there’s any of it
for you.”
“Well, wench! I can nobbut say, Bless yo’! and bless yo’!—and amen.”
CHAPTER XLIV.
EASE NOT PEACE.
“A dull rotation, never at a stay,
Yesterday’s face twin image of to-day.”
COWPER.
“Of what each one should be, he sees the form and rule,
And till he reach to that, his joy can ne’er be full.”
RÜCKERT.
It was very well for Margaret that the extreme quiet of the Harley
Street house, during Edith’s recovery from her confinement, gave her the
natural rest which she needed. It gave her time to comprehend the sudden
change which had taken place in her circumstances within the last two
months. She found herself at once an inmate of a luxurious house, where
the bare knowledge of the existence of every trouble or care seemed
scarcely to have penetrated. The wheels of the machinery of daily life