North and South
Higginses, that Mary had gone to work at Mr. Thornton’s mill, because
her father wished her to know how to cook; but what nonsense that could
mean she didn’t know. Margaret rather agreed with her that the story was
incoherent enough to be like a dream. Still it was pleasant to have some
one now with whom she could talk of Milton, and Milton people. Dixon was
not over-fond of the subject, rather wishing to leave that part of her
life in shadow. She liked much more to dwell upon speeches of Mr.
Bell’s, which had suggested an idea to her of what was really his
intention—making Margaret his heiress. But her young lady gave her no
encouragement, nor in any way gratified her insinuating enquiries,
however disguised in the form of suspicions or assertions.
All this time Margaret had a strange undefined longing to hear that Mr.
Bell had gone to pay one of his business visits to Milton; for it had
been well understood between them, at the time of their conversation at
Helstone, that the explanation she had desired should only be given to
Mr. Thornton by word of mouth, and even in that manner should be in
nowise forced upon him. Mr. Bell was no great correspondent, but he
wrote from time to time long or short letters, as the humour took him,
and although Margaret was not conscious of any definite hope, on
receiving them, yet she always put away his notes with a little feeling
of disappointment. He was not going to Milton; he said nothing about it
at any rate. Well! she must be patient. Sooner or later the mists would
be cleared away. Mr. Bell’s letters were hardly like his usual self;
they were short, and complaining, with every now and then a little touch
of bitterness that was unusual. He did not look forward to the future;
he rather seemed to regret the past, and be weary of the present.
Margaret fancied that he could not be well; but in answer to some
enquiry of hers as to his health, he sent her a short note, saying there
was an old-fashioned complaint called the spleen; that he was suffering
from that, and it was for her to decide if it was more mental or
physical; but that he should like to indulge himself in grumbling,
without being obliged to send a bulletin every time.
In consequence of this note, Margaret made no more enquiries about his
health. One day Edith let out accidentally a fragment of a conversation
which she had had with Mr. Bell, when he was last in London, which
possessed Margaret with the idea that he had some notion of taking her
to pay a visit to her brother and new sister-in-law, at Cadiz, in the
autumn. She questioned and cross-questioned Edith, till the latter was
weary, and declared that there was nothing more to remember; all he had
said was that he half-thought he should go, and hear for himself what
Frederick had to say about the mutiny; and that it would be a good
opportunity for Margaret to become acquainted with her new
sister-in-law; that he always went somewhere during the long vacation,
and did not see why he should not go to Spain as well as anywhere else.
That was all. Edith hoped Margaret did not want to leave them, that she
was so anxious about all this. And then, having nothing else particular
to do, she cried, and said that she knew she cared much more for
Margaret than Margaret did for her. Margaret comforted her as well as
she could, but she could hardly explain to her how this idea of Spain,
mere Château en Espagne as it might be, charmed and delighted her. Edith
was in the mood to think that any pleasure enjoyed away from her was a
tacit affront, or at best a proof of indifference. So Margaret had to
keep her pleasure to herself, and could only let it escape by the
safety-valve of asking Dixon, when she dressed for dinner, if she would
not like to see Master Frederick and his new wife very much indeed?
“She’s a Papist, Miss, isn’t she?”
“I believe—oh yes, certainly!” said Margaret, a little damped for an
instant at this recollection.
“And they live in a Popish country?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’m afraid I must say, that my soul is dearer to me than even
Master Frederick, his own dear self. I should be in a perpetual terror,
Miss, lest I should be converted.”
“Oh,” said Margaret, “I do not know that I am going; and if I go, I am
not such a fine lady as to be unable to travel without you. No! dear old
Dixon, you shall have a long holiday, if we go. But I’m afraid it is a
long ‘if.’”
Now Dixon did not like this speech. In the first place, she did not like
Margaret’s trick of calling her ‘dear old Dixon’ whenever she was
particularly demonstrative. She knew that Miss Hale was apt to call all
people that she liked “old,” as a sort of term of endearment; but Dixon
always winced away from the application of the word to herself, who,
being not much past fifty, was, she thought, in the very prime of life.
Secondly, she did not like being so easily taken at her word; she had,
with all her terror, a lurking curiosity about Spain, the Inquisition,
and Popish mysteries. So, after clearing her throat, as if to show her
willingness to do away with difficulties, she asked Miss Hale whether
she thought, if she took care never to see a priest, or enter into one
of their churches, there would be so very much danger of her being
converted? Master Frederick, to be sure, had gone over unaccountably.
“I fancy it was love that first predisposed him to conversion,” said
Margaret, sighing.
“Indeed, Miss!” said Dixon; “well! I can preserve myself from priests,
and from churches; but love steals in unawares! I think it’s as well I
should not go.”
Margaret was afraid of letting her mind run too much upon this Spanish
plan. But it took off her thoughts from too impatiently dwelling upon
her desire to have all explained to Mr. Thornton. Mr. Bell appeared for
the present to be stationary at Oxford, and to have no immediate purpose
of going to Milton, and some secret restraint seemed to hang over
Margaret, and prevent her from even asking, or alluding again to any
probability of such a visit on his part. Nor did she feel at liberty to
name what Edith had told her of the idea he had entertained,—it might
be but for five minutes,—of going to Spain. He had never named it at
Helstone, during all that sunny day of leisure; it was very probably but
the fancy of a moment,—but if it were true, what a bright outlet it
would be from the monotony of her present life, which was beginning to
fall upon her.
One of the great pleasures of Margaret’s life at this time was in
Edith’s boy. He was the pride and plaything of both father and mother,
as long as he was good; but he had a strong will of his own, and as soon
as he burst out into one of his stormy passions, Edith would throw
herself back in despair and fatigue, and sigh out, “Oh dear, what shall
I do with him! Do, Margaret, please ring the bell for Hanley.”
But Margaret almost liked him better in these manifestations of
character than in his good blue-sashed moods. She would carry him off
into a room, where they two alone battled it out; she with a firm power
which subdued him into peace, while every sudden charm and wile she
possessed was exerted on the side of right, until he would rub his
little hot and tear-smeared face all over hers, kissing and caressing
till he often fell asleep in her arms or on her shoulder. Those were
Margaret’s sweetest moments. They gave her a taste of the feeling that
she believed would be denied to her for ever.
Mr. Henry Lennox added a new and not disagreeable element to the course
of the household life by his frequent presence. Margaret thought him
colder, if more brilliant than formerly; but there were strong
intellectual tastes, and much and varied knowledge, which gave flavour
to the otherwise rather insipid conversation. Margaret saw glimpses in
him of a slight contempt for his brother and sister-in-law, and for
their mode of life, which he seemed to consider as frivolous and
purposeless. He once or twice spoke to his brother, in Margaret’s
presence, in a pretty sharp tone of enquiry, as to whether he meant
entirely to relinquish his profession; and on Captain Lennox’s reply,
that he had quite enough to live upon, she had seen Mr. Lennox’s curl of
the lip as he said, “And is that all you live for?”
But the brothers were much attached to each other, in the way that any
two persons are, when the one is cleverer and always leads the other,
and this last is patiently content to be led. Mr. Lennox was pushing on
in his profession; cultivating, with profound calculation, all those
connections that might eventually be of service to him; keen-sighted,
far-seeing, intelligent, sarcastic, and proud. Since the one long
conversation relating to Frederick’s affairs, which she had with him the
first evening in Mr. Bell’s presence, she had had no great intercourse
with him, further than that which arose out of their close relations
with the same household. But this was enough to wear off the shyness on
her side, and any symptoms of mortified pride and vanity on his. They
met, continually, of course, but she thought that he rather avoided
being alone with her; she fancied that he, as well as she, perceived
that they had drifted strangely apart from their former anchorage, side
by side, in many of their opinions, and all their tastes.
And yet, when he had spoken unusually well, or with remarkable
epigrammatic point, she felt that his eye sought the expression of her
countenance first of all, if but for an instant; and that, in the
family intercourse which constantly threw them together, her opinion was
the one to which he listened with a deference,—the more complete,
because it was reluctantly paid, and concealed as much as possible.
CHAPTER XLVIII.
“NE’ER TO BE FOUND AGAIN.”
“My own, my father’s friend!
I cannot part with thee!
I ne’er have shown, thou ne’er hast known,
How dear thou art to me.”
ANON.
The elements of the dinner-parties which Mrs. Lennox gave, were these;
her friends contributed the beauty, Captain Lennox the easy knowledge of
the subjects of the day; and Mr. Henry Lennox, and the sprinkling of
rising men who were received as his friends, brought the wit, the
cleverness, the keen and extensive knowledge of which they knew well
enough how to avail themselves without seeming pedantic, or burdening
the rapid flow of conversation.
These dinners were delightful; but even here Margaret’s dissatisfaction
found her out. Every talent, every feeling, every acquirement; nay, even
every tendency towards virtue, was used up as materials for fireworks;
the hidden, sacred fire, exhausted itself in sparkle and crackle. They
talked about art in a merely sensuous way, dwelling on outside effects,
instead of allowing themselves to learn what it has to teach. They
lashed themselves up into an enthusiasm about high subjects in company,
and never thought about them when they were alone; they squandered their
capabilities of appreciation into a mere flow of appropriate words. One
day, after the gentlemen had come up into the drawing-room, Mr. Lennox
drew near to Margaret, and addressed her in almost the first voluntary
words he had spoken to her since she had returned to live in Harley
Street.
“You did not look pleased at what Shirley was saying at dinner.”
“Didn’t I? My face must be very expressive,” replied Margaret.
“It always was. It has not lost the trick of being eloquent.”
“I did not like,” said Margaret, hastily, “his way of advocating what he
knew to be wrong—so glaringly wrong—even in jest.”
“But it was very clever. How every word told! Did you remember the happy
epithets?”
“Yes.”
“And despise them, you would like to add. Pray don’t scruple, though he
is my friend.”
“There! that is the exact tone in you, that”—she stopped short.