North and South
‘Papa, I do think Mr. Thornton a very remarkable man; but personally I don’t like him at all.’
‘And I do!’ said her father laughing. ‘Personally, as you call it, and all. I don’t set him up for a hero, or anything of that kind. But good night, child. Your mother looks sadly tired to-night, Margaret.’
Margaret had noticed her mother’s jaded appearance with anxiety for some time past, and this remark of her father’s sent her up to bed with a dim fear lying like a weight on her heart. The life in Milton was so different from what Mrs. Hale had been accustomed to live in Helstone, in and out perpetually into the fresh and open air; the air itself was so different, deprived of all revivifying principle as it seemed to be here; the domestic worries pressed so very closely, and in so new and sordid a form, upon all the women in the family, that there was good reason to fear that her mother’s health might be becoming seriously affected. There were several other signs of something wrong about Mrs. Hale. She and Dixon held mysterious consultations in her bedroom, from which Dixon would come out crying and cross, as was her custom when any distress of her mistress called upon her sympathy. Once Margaret had gone into the chamber soon after Dixon left it, and found her mother on her knees, and as Margaret stole out she caught a few words, which were evidently a prayer for strength and patience to endure severe bodily suffering. Margaret yearned to re-unite the bond of intimate confidence which had been broken by her long residence at her aunt Shaw’s, and strove by gentle caresses and softened words to creep into the warmest place in her mother’s heart. But though she received caresses and fond words back again, in such profusion as would have gladdened her formerly, yet she felt that there was a secret withheld from her, and she believed it bore serious reference to her mother’s health. She lay awake very long this night, planning how to lessen the evil influence of their Milton life on her mother. A servant to give Dixon permanent assistance should be got, if she gave up her whole time to the search; and then, at any rate, her mother might have all the personal attention she required, and had been accustomed to her whole life. Visiting register offices, seeing all manner of unlikely people, and very few in the least likely, absorbed Margaret’s time and thoughts for several days. One afternoon she met Bessy Higgins in the street, and stopped to speak to her.
‘Well, Bessy, how are you? Better, I hope, now the wind has changed.’
‘Better and not better, if yo’ know what that means.’
‘Not exactly,’ replied Margaret, smiling.
‘I’m better in not being torn to pieces by coughing o’nights, but I’m weary and tired o’ Milton, and longing to get away to the land o’ Beulah; and when I think I’m farther and farther off, my heart sinks, and I’m no better; I’m worse.’ Margaret turned round to walk alongside of the girl in her feeble progress homeward. But for a minute or two she did not speak. At last she said in a low voice,
‘Bessy, do you wish to die?’ For she shrank from death herself, with all the clinging to life so natural to the young and healthy.
Bessy was silent in her turn for a minute or two. Then she replied,
‘If yo’d led the life I have, and getten as weary of it as I have, and thought at times, “maybe it’ll last for fifty or sixty years—it does wi’ some,”—and got dizzy and dazed, and sick, as each of them sixty years seemed to spin about me, and mock me with its length of hours and minutes, and endless bits o’ time—oh, wench! I tell thee thou’d been glad enough when th’ doctor said he feared thou’d never see another winter.’
‘Why, Bessy, what kind of a life has yours been?’
‘Nought worse than many others, I reckon. Only I fretted again it, and they didn’t.’
‘But what was it? You know, I’m a stranger here, so perhaps I’m not so quick at understanding what you mean as if I’d lived all my life at Milton.’
‘If yo’d ha’ come to our house when yo’ said yo’ would, I could maybe ha’ told you. But father says yo’re just like th’ rest on ’em; it’s out o’ sight out o’ mind wi’ you.’
‘I don’t know who the rest are; and I’ve been very busy; and, to tell the truth, I had forgotten my promise—’
‘Yo’ offered it! we asked none of it.’
‘I had forgotten what I said for the time,’ continued Margaret quietly. ‘I should have thought of it again when I was less busy. May I go with you now?’ Bessy gave a quick glance at Margaret’s face, to see if the wish expressed was really felt. The sharpness in her eye turned to a wistful longing as she met Margaret’s soft and friendly gaze.
‘I ha’ none so many to care for me; if yo’ care yo’ may come.’
So they walked on together in silence. As they turned up into a small court, opening out of a squalid street, Bessy said,
‘Yo’ll not be daunted if father’s at home, and speaks a bit gruffish at first. He took a mind to ye, yo’ see, and he thought a deal o’ your coming to see us; and just because he liked yo’ he were vexed and put about.’
‘Don’t fear, Bessy.’
But Nicholas was not at home when they entered. A great slatternly girl, not so old as Bessy, but taller and stronger, was busy at the wash-tub, knocking about the furniture in a rough capable way, but altogether making so much noise that Margaret shrunk, out of sympathy with poor Bessy, who had sat down on the first chair, as if completely tired out with her walk. Margaret asked the sister for a cup of water, and while she ran to fetch it (knocking down the fire-irons, and tumbling over a chair in her way), she unloosed Bessy’s bonnet strings, to relieve her catching breath.
‘Do you think such life as this is worth caring for?’ gasped Bessy, at last. Margaret did not speak, but held the water to her lips. Bessy took a long and feverish draught, and then fell back and shut her eyes. Margaret heard her murmur to herself: ‘They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more; neither shall the sun light on them, nor any heat.’
Margaret bent over and said, ‘Bessy, don’t be impatient with your life, whatever it is—or may have been. Remember who gave it you, and made it what it is!’ She was startled by hearing Nicholas speak behind her; he had come in without her noticing him.
‘Now, I’ll not have my wench preached to. She’s bad enough as it is, with her dreams and her methodee fancies, and her visions of cities with goulden gates and precious stones. But if it amuses her I let it be, but I’m none going to have more stuff poured into her.’
‘But surely,’ said Margaret, facing round, ‘you believe in what I said, that God gave her life, and ordered what kind of life it was to be?’
‘I believe what I see, and no more. That’s what I believe, young woman. I don’t believe all I hear—no! not by a big deal. I did hear a young lass make an ado about knowing where we lived, and coming to see us. And my wench here thought a deal about it, and flushed up many a time, when hoo little knew as I was looking at her, at the sound of a strange step. But hoo’s come at last, and hoo’s welcome, as long as hoo’ll keep from preaching on what hoo knows nought about.’ Bessy had been watching Margaret’s face; she half sat up to speak now, laying her hand on Margaret’s arm with a gesture of entreaty. ‘Don’t be vexed wi’ him—there’s many a one thinks like him; many and many a one here. If yo’ could hear them speak, yo’d not be shocked at him; he’s a rare good man, is father—but oh!’ said she, falling back in despair, ‘what he says at times makes me long to die more than ever, for I want to know so many things, and am so tossed about wi’ wonder.’
‘Poor wench—poor old wench—I’m loth to vex thee, I am; but a man mun speak out for the truth, and when I see the world going all wrong at this time o’ day, bothering itself wi’ things it knows nought about, and leaving undone all the things that lie in disorder close at its hand—why, I say, leave a’ this talk about religion alone, and set to work on what yo’ see and know. That’s my creed. It’s simple, and not far to fetch, nor hard to work.’
But the girl only pleaded the more with Margaret.
‘Don’t think hardly on him—he’s a good man, he is. I sometimes think I shall be moped wi’ sorrow even in the City of God, if father is not there.’ The feverish colour came into her cheek, and the feverish flame into her eye. ‘But you will be there, father! you shall! Oh! my heart!’ She put her hand to it, and became ghastly pale.
Margaret held her in her arms, and put the weary head to rest upon her bosom. She lifted the thin soft hair from off the temples, and bathed them with water. Nicholas understood all her signs for different articles with the quickness of love, and even the round-eyed sister moved with laborious gentleness at Margaret’s ‘hush!’ Presently the spasm that foreshadowed death had passed away, and Bessy roused herself and said,
‘I’ll go to bed—it’s best place; but,’ catching at Margaret’s gown, ‘yo’ll come again—I know yo’ will—but just say it!’
‘I will come to-morrow,’ said Margaret.
Bessy leant back against her father, who prepared to carry her upstairs; but as Margaret rose to go, he struggled to say something: ‘I could wish there were a God, if it were only to ask Him to bless thee.’
Margaret went away very sad and thoughtful.
She was late for tea at home. At Helstone unpunctuality at meal-times was a great fault in her mother’s eyes; but now this, as well as many other little irregularities, seemed to have lost their power of irritation, and Margaret almost longed for the old complainings.
‘Have you met with a servant, dear?’
‘No, mamma; that Anne Buckley would never have done.’
‘Suppose I try,’ said Mr. Hale. ‘Everybody else has had their turn at this great difficulty. Now let me try. I may be the Cinderella to put on the slipper after all.’
Margaret could hardly smile at this little joke, so oppressed was she by her visit to the Higginses.
‘What would you do, papa? How would you set about it?’
‘Why, I would apply to some good house-mother to recommend me one known to herself or her servants.’
‘Very good. But we must first catch our house-mother.’
‘You have caught her. Or rather she is coming into the snare, and you will catch her to-morrow, if you’re skilful.’
‘What do you mean, Mr. Hale?’ asked his wife, her curiosity aroused.
‘Why, my paragon pupil (as Margaret calls him), has told me that his mother intends to call on Mrs. and Miss Hale to-morrow.’
‘Mrs. Thornton!’ exclaimed Mrs. Hale.
‘The mother of whom he spoke to us?’ said Margaret.
‘Mrs. Thornton; the only mother he has, I believe,’ said Mr. Hale quietly.
‘I shall like to see her. She must be an uncommon person,’ her mother added.
‘Perhaps she may have a relation who might suit us, and be glad of our place. She sounded to be such a careful economical person, that I should like any one out of the same family.’
‘My dear,’ said Mr. Hale alarmed. ‘Pray don’t go off on that idea. I fancy Mrs. Thornton is as haughty and proud in her way, as our little Margaret here is in hers, and that she completely ignores that old time of trial, and poverty, and economy, of which he speaks so openly. I am sure, at any rate, she would not like strangers to know anything about it.’
‘Take notice that is not my kind of haughtiness, papa, if I have any at all; which I don’t agree to, though you’re always accusing me of it.’
‘I don’t know positively that it is hers either; but from little things I have gathered from him, I fancy so.’
They cared too little to ask in what manner her son had spoken about her. Margaret only wanted to know if she must stay in to receive this call, as it would prevent her going to see how Bessy was, until late in the day, since the early morning was always occupied in household affairs; and then she recollected that her mother must not be left to have the whole weight of entertaining her visitor.
CHAPTER 12 Morning Calls
‘Well—I suppose we must.’
FRIENDS IN COUNCIL.
Mr. Thornton had had some difficulty in working up his mother to the desired point of civility. She did not often make calls; and when she did, it was in heavy state that she went through her duties. Her son had given her a carriage; but she refused to let him keep horses for it; they were hired for the solemn occasions, when she paid morning or evening visits. She had had horses for three days, not a fortnight before, and had comfortably ‘killed off’ all her acquaintances, who might now put themselves to trouble and expense in their turn. Yet Crampton was too far off for her to walk; and she had repeatedly questioned her son as to whether his wish that she should call on the Hales was strong enough to bear the expense of cab-hire. She would have been thankful if it had not; for, as she said, ‘she saw no use in making up friendships and intimacies with all the teachers and masters in Milton; why, he would be wanting her to call on Fanny’s dancing-master’s wife, the next thing!’
‘And so I would, mother, if Mr. Mason and his wife were friendless in a strange place, like the Hales.’
‘Oh! you need not speak so hastily. I am going to-morrow. I only wanted you exactly to understand about it.’
‘If you are going to-morrow, I shall order horses.’
‘Nonsense, John. One would think you were made of money.’
‘Not quite, yet. But about the horses I’m determined. The last time you were out in a cab, you came home with a headache from the jolting.’
‘I never complained of it, I’m sure.’
‘No. My mother is not given to complaints,’ said he, a little proudly. ‘But so much the more I have to watch over you. Now as for Fanny there, a little hardship would do her good.’
‘She is not made of the same stuff as you are, John. She could not bear it.’ Mrs. Thornton was silent after this; for her last words bore relation to a subject which mortified her. She had an unconscious contempt for a weak character; and Fanny was weak in the very points in which her mother and brother were strong. Mrs. Thornton was not a woman much given to reasoning; her quick judgement and firm resolution served her in good stead of any long arguments and discussions with herself; she felt instinctively that nothing could strengthen Fanny to endure hardships patiently, or face difficulties bravely; and though she winced as she made this acknowledgement to herself about her daughter, it only gave her a kind of pitying tenderness of manner towards her; much of the same description of demeanour with which mothers are wont to treat their weak and sickly children. A stranger, a careless observer might have considered that Mrs. Thornton’s manner to her children betokened far more love to Fanny than to John. But such a one would have been deeply mistaken. The very daringness with which mother and son spoke out unpalatable truths, the one to the other, showed a reliance on the firm centre of each other’s souls, which the uneasy tenderness of Mrs. Thornton’s manner to her daughter, the shame with which she thought to hide the poverty of her child in all the grand qualities which she herself possessed unconsciously, and which she set so high a value upon in others—this shame, I say, betrayed the want of a secure resting-place for her affection. She never called her son by any name but John; ‘love,’ and ‘dear,’ and such like terms, were reserved for Fanny. But her heart gave thanks for him day and night; and she walked proudly among women for his sake.
‘Fanny dear I shall have horses to the carriage to-day, to go and call on these Hales. Should not you go and see nurse? It’s in the same direction, and she’s always so glad to see you. You could go on there while I am at Mrs. Hale’s.’
‘Oh! mamma, it’s such a long way, and I am so tired.’
‘With what?’ asked Mrs. Thornton, her brow slightly contracting.
‘I don’t know—the weather, I think. It is so relaxing. Couldn’t you bring nurse here, mamma? The carriage could fetch her, and she could spend the rest of the day here, which I know she would like.’
Mrs. Thornton did not speak; but she laid her work on the table, and seemed to think.
‘It will be a long way for her to walk back at night!’ she remarked, at last.
‘Oh, but I will send her home in a cab. I never thought of her walking.’ At this point, Mr. Thornton came in, just before going to the mill.
‘Mother! I need hardly say, that if there is any little thing that could serve Mrs. Hale as an invalid, you will offer it, I’m sure.’
‘If I can find it out, I will. But I have never been ill myself, so I am not much up to invalids’ fancies.’
‘Well! here is Fanny then, who is seldom without an ailment. She will be able to suggest something, perhaps—won’t you, Fan?’
‘I have not always an ailment,’ said Fanny, pettishly; ‘and I am not going with mamma. I have a headache to-day, and I shan’t go out.’
Mr. Thornton looked annoyed. His mother’s eyes were bent on her work, at which she was now stitching away busily.
‘Fanny! I wish you to go,’ said he, authoritatively. ‘It will do you good, instead of harm. You will oblige me by going, without my saying anything more about it.’
He went abruptly out of the room after saying this.
If he had staid a minute longer, Fanny would have cried at his tone of command, even when he used the words, ‘You will oblige me.’ As it was, she grumbled.
‘John always speaks as if I fancied I was ill, and I am sure I never do fancy any such thing. Who are these Hales that he makes such a fuss about?’
‘Fanny, don’t speak so of your brother. He has good reasons of some kind or other, or he would not wish us to go. Make haste and put your things on.’
But the little altercation between her son and her daughter did not incline Mrs. Thornton more favourably towards ‘these Hales.’ Her jealous heart repeated her daughter’s question, ‘Who are they, that he is so anxious we should pay them all this attention?’ It came up like a burden to a song, long after Fanny had forgotten all about it in the pleasant excitement of seeing the effect of a new bonnet in the looking-glass.
Mrs. Thornton was shy. It was only of late years that she had had leisure enough in her life to go into society; and as society she did not enjoy it. As dinner-giving, and as criticising other people’s dinners, she took satisfaction in it. But this going to make acquaintance with strangers was a very different thing. She was ill at ease, and looked more than usually stern and forbidding as she entered the Hales’ little drawing-room.
Margaret was busy embroidering a small piece of cambric for some little article of dress for Edith’s expected baby—‘Flimsy, useless work,’ as Mrs. Thornton observed to herself. She liked Mrs. Hale’s double knitting far better; that was sensible of its kind. The room altogether was full of knick-knacks, which must take a long time to dust; and time to people of limited income was money. She made all these reflections as she was talking in her stately way to Mrs. Hale, and uttering all the stereotyped commonplaces that most people can find to say with their senses blindfolded. Mrs. Hale was making rather more exertion in her answers, captivated by some real old lace which Mrs. Thornton wore; ‘lace,’ as she afterwards observed to Dixon, ‘of that old English point which has not been made for this seventy years, and which cannot be bought. It must have been an heirloom, and shows that she had ancestors.’ So the owner of the ancestral lace became worthy of something more than the languid exertion to be agreeable to a visitor, by which Mrs. Hale’s efforts at conversation would have been otherwise bounded. And presently, Margaret, racking her brain to talk to Fanny, heard her mother and Mrs. Thornton plunge into the interminable subject of servants.
‘I suppose you are not musical,’ said Fanny, ‘as I see no piano.’
‘I am fond of hearing good music; I cannot play well myself; and papa and mamma don’t care much about it; so we sold our old piano when we came here.’
‘I wonder how you can exist without one. It almost seems to me a necessary of life.’
‘Fifteen shillings a week, and three saved out of them!’ thought Margaret to herself ‘But she must have been very young. She probably has forgotten her own personal experience. But she must know of those days.’ Margaret’s manner had an extra tinge of coldness in it when she next spoke.
‘You have good concerts here, I believe.’
‘Oh, yes! Delicious! Too crowded, that is the worst. The directors admit so indiscriminately. But one is sure to hear the newest music there. I always have a large order to give to Johnson’s, the day after a concert.’
‘Do you like new music simply for its newness, then?’
‘Oh; one knows it is the fashion in London, or else the singers would not bring it down here. You have been in London, of course.’
‘Yes,’ said Margaret, ‘I have lived there for several years.’
‘Oh! London and the Alhambra are the two places I long to see!’
‘London and the Alhambra!’
‘Yes! ever since I read the Tales of the Alhambra. Don’t you know them?’
‘I don’t think I do. But surely, it is a very easy journey to London.’
‘Yes; but somehow,’ said Fanny, lowering her voice, ‘mamma has never been to London herself, and can’t understand my longing. She is very proud of Milton; dirty, smoky place, as I feel it to be. I believe she admires it the more for those very qualities.’
‘If it has been Mrs. Thornton’s home for some years, I can well understand her loving it,’ said Margaret, in her clear bell-like voice.
‘What are you saying about me, Miss Hale? May I inquire?’
Margaret had not the words ready for an answer to this question, which took her a little by surprise, so Miss Thornton replied:
‘Oh, mamma! we are only trying to account for your being so fond of Milton.’
‘Thank you,’ said Mrs. Thornton. ‘I do not feel that my very natural liking for the place where I was born and brought up—and which has since been my residence for some years, requires any accounting for.’
Margaret was vexed. As Fanny had put it, it did seem as if they had been impertinently discussing Mrs. Thornton’s feelings; but she also rose up against that lady’s manner of showing that she was offended.
Mrs. Thornton went on after a moment’s pause:
‘Do you know anything of Milton, Miss Hale? Have you seen any of our factories? our magnificent warehouses?’
‘No!’ said Margaret. ‘I have not seen anything of that description as yet.’ Then she felt that, by concealing her utter indifference to all such places, she was hardly speaking with truth; so she went on:
‘I dare say, papa would have taken me before now if I had cared. But I really do not find much pleasure in going over manufactories.’
‘They are very curious places,’ said Mrs. Hale, ‘but there is so much noise and dirt always. I remember once going in a lilac silk to see candles made, and my gown was utterly ruined.’
‘Very probably,’ said Mrs. Thornton, in a short displeased manner. ‘I merely thought, that as strangers newly come to reside in a town which has risen to eminence in the country, from the character and progress of its peculiar business, you might have cared to visit some of the places where it is carried on; places unique in the kingdom, I am informed. If Miss Hale changes her mind and condescends to be curious as to the manufactures of Milton, I can only say I shall be glad to procure her admission to print-works, or reed-making, or the more simple operations of spinning carried on in my son’s mill. Every improvement of machinery is, I believe, to be seen there, in its highest perfection.’
‘I am so glad you don’t like mills and manufactories, and all those kind of things,’ said Fanny, in a half-whisper, as she rose to accompany her mother, who was taking leave of Mrs. Hale with rustling dignity.
‘I think I should like to know all about them, if I were you,’ replied Margaret quietly.
‘Fanny!’ said her mother, as they drove away, ‘we will be civil to these Hales: but don’t form one of your hasty friendships with the daughter. She will do you no good, I see. The mother looks very ill, and seems a nice, quiet kind of person.’