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NORTH AID SOUTH. 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF 
 
 •MARY BARTON," "THE MOORLAND COTTAGE," "CRANFOED," &e. 
 tl^.s £&£»-V-t*. Ck^>^ $&rtr*++rs. %*AaJJL 
 
 Ah, yet, though all the world forsake, 
 
 Though fortune clip my wings, 
 I will not cramp my heart, nor take 
 
 Half views of men and things. 
 Let Whig and Tory stir their blood ; 
 
 There must be stormy weather ; 
 But for some true result of good 
 
 All parties work together. 
 
 Tennyson. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 
 HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, 
 329 & 331 PEARL STREET, 
 
 FRANKLIN SQUAKE. 
 
 1855. 
 
NOBTH AID SOUTH. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " EwTn!" said Margaret, gently, " Edith!" 
 But, as Margaret half suspected, Edith had 
 fallen asleep. She, lay curled up on the sofa in 
 the hack drawing-room in Harley Street, look- 
 ing very lovely in her white muslin and blue 
 ribbons. If Titania had ever been dressed in 
 white muslin and blue ribbons, and fallen asleep 
 on a crimson damask sofa in a. back drawing- 
 room, Edith might have been taken for her. 
 Margaret was struck afresh by her cousin's 
 beauty. They had grown up together from 
 childhood, and all along Edith had been re- 
 marked upon by every one, except Margaret, 
 for her prettiness; but Margaret had never 
 thought about it until the last few days, when 
 the prospect of soon losing her companion 
 seemed to give force to every sweet quality 
 and charm which Edith possessed. They had 
 been talking about wedding-dresses, and wed- 
 ding ceremonies; and Captain Lennox, and what 
 he had told Edith about her future life at Cor- 
 fu, where his regiment was stationed; and the 
 , difficulty of keeping a piano in good tune (a 
 J difficulty which Edith seemed to consider as 
 1 one of the most formidable that could befall 
 her in her married life), and what gowns she 
 should want in the visits to Scotland, which 
 would immediately succeed her marriage ; but 
 the whispered tone had latterly become more 
 drowsy ; and Margaret, after a pause of a few 
 minutes, found, as she fancied, that, in spite of 
 the buzz in the next room, Edith had rolled 
 lierself into a soft ball of muslin and ribbon and 
 silken curls, and gone off into a peaceful little 
 after-dinner nap. 
 
 Margaret had been on the point of telling her 
 cousin of some of the plans and visions which 
 she entertained as to her future life in the coun- 
 try parsonage, where her father and mother 
 lived; and where her bright holidays had al- 
 ways been passed, though for the last ten year's 
 her aunt Shaw's house had been considered as 
 her home. But in default of -a listener, she had 
 to brood over the change in her life silently as 
 heretofore. It was a happy brooding, although 
 tinged with regret at being separated for an 
 indefinite time from her gentle aunt and dear 
 cousin. As she thought of the delight of filling 
 the important post of only daughter in Hel- 
 stone parsonage, pteces of the conversation out 
 of the next room came upon her ears. Her 
 aunt Shaw was talking to the five or six ladies 
 who had been dining there, and whose husbands 
 were still in the dining-room. They were the 
 familiar acquaintances of the house; neighbors 
 whom Mrs. Shaw called friends, because she 
 happened to dine with them more frequently 
 than with any other people, and because if she 
 or Edith wanted any thing from them, or they 
 from her, they did not scruple to make a call 
 
 at each other's houses before luncheon.''' These 
 ladies and their husljands were invited in their 
 capacity of friends to eat a farewell dinner in 
 honor of Edith's approaching marriage. Edith 
 had rather objected to this arrangement, for 
 Captain Lennox was expected to arrive by a 
 late train this very evening ; but, although she ; 
 was a spoilt child, she was too careless and idle 
 to have a very strong will of her own, and gave 
 way when she found that her mother had ab- 
 solutely ordered those extra delicacies of the 
 season which are always supposed to be effi- 
 cacious against immoderate grief at farewell 
 dinners. She contented herself by leaning back 
 in her chair, merely playing with the food on 
 her plate, and looking grave and absent ; while 
 all around her were enjoying the mots of Mr. 
 Grey, the gentleman who always took the bot- 
 tom of .the table at Mr. Shaw's dinner parties, 
 and asked Edith to give them some music in 
 the drawing-room. Mr. Grey was particularly 
 agreeable over this farewell dinner, and the 
 gentlemen staid down stairs longer than usual. 
 It was very well they did — to judge from the 
 fragments of conversation which Margaret over- 
 heard. 
 
 " I suffered too much myself; not that I was 
 not extremely happy with the poor dear Gen- 
 eral — but still disparity of age is a drawback ; 
 one that I was resolved Edith should not have 
 to encounter. Of course, without any maternal 
 partiality, I foresaw that the dear child was 
 likely to marry early ; indeed, I had often said 
 that I was sure she would be married before 
 she was nineteen. I had quite a prophetic 
 feeling when Captain Lennox" — and here the 
 voice dropped into a whisper, but Margaret 
 could easily supply the blank. The course of 
 true love in Edith's case had run remarkably 
 smooth. Mrs. Shaw had given way to the pre- 
 sentiment, as she expressed it ; and had rather 
 urged on the marriage, although it was below 
 the expectations which many of Edith's ac- 
 quaintances had formed for her, a young and 
 pretty heiress. But Mrs. Shaw said that her 
 only child should marry for love— ,and sighed 
 emphatically, as if love had not been her motive 
 foT marrying the General. Mrs. Shaw enjoyed 
 the romance of the present engagement rather 
 more than her daughter. Not but that Edith ' 
 was very thoroughly and properly in love ; still 
 she would certainly have preferred a good house 
 in Belgravia, to all" the picturesqueness of the 
 life which Captain Lennox described at Corfu. 
 The very parts which made Margaret glow as 
 she listened, Edith pretended to shiver and 
 shudder at ; partly for the pleasure she had in 
 being coaxed out of her dislike by her fond 
 lover, and partly because any thing of a gipsy 
 or make-shift life was really distasteful to her. 
 Yet had any one come with a fine house and a 
 fine estate, and a title to boot, Edith would 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 still have clung to Captain Lennox "while the 
 temptation lasted; when it -was over, it is pos- 
 sible she might have had little qualms of ill- 
 concealed regret that Captain Lennox could 
 not have united in his person every thing that 
 was desirable. In this she was but her moth- 
 er's child; who, after deliberately marrying 
 General Shaw with no warmer feeling than re- 
 spect for his character and establishment, was 
 constantly, though quietly, bemoaning her hard 
 lot in being united to one whom she could not 
 love. 
 
 " I have spared no expense in her trousseau," 
 were the next words Margaret heard. " She 
 has all the beautiful Indian shawls and scarfs 
 the General gave to me, but which I shall never 
 wear again." 
 
 " She is a lucky girl," replied another voice, 
 which Margaret knew to be that of Mrs. Gib- 
 son, a lady who was taking a double interest 
 in the conversation, from the fact of one of her 
 daughters having been married within the last 
 few weeks. " Helen had set her heart upon an 
 Indian shawl, but really when I found what an 
 extravagant price was asked, I was obliged to 
 refuse her. She will be quite envious when she 
 hears of Edith having Indian shawls. "What 
 kind are they ? Delhi ? with the lovely little 
 borders ?" 
 
 Margaret heard her aunt's voice again, but 
 this time it was as if she had raised herself up 
 from her half-recumbent position, and were 
 looking into the more dimly lighted back draw- 
 ing-room. " Edith I Edith !" cried she ; and then 
 she sank back as if wearied by the exertion. 
 Margaret stepped forward. 
 
 " Edith is asleep, Aunt Shaw. Is it any thing 
 I can do?" 
 
 All the ladies s,aid " Poor child!" on receiv- 
 ing this distressing intelligence about Edith; 
 and the minute lap-dog in Mrs. Shaw's arms 
 began to bark, as if excited by the burst of pity. 
 
 "Hush, Tiny! you naughty little girl! you 
 will waken your mistress. It was only to ask 
 Edith if she would tell Newton to bring down 
 her shawls: perhaps you would go, Margaret 
 dear?" 
 
 Margaret went up into the old nursery at the 
 very top of the house, where Newton was busy 
 getting up some laces which were required for 
 the wedding. "While Newton went (not without 
 a muttered grumbling) to undo the shawls, 
 which had already been exhibited four or five 
 times that day, Margaret looked round upon 
 the nursery ; the first room in that house with 
 which she had become familiar nine years ago, 
 when she was brought, all untamed from th 
 
 lessons of her cousin Edith.> She remembered 
 the dark, dim look of the London nursery, pre- 
 sided over by an austere and ceremonious nurse, 
 who was terribly particular about clean hands 
 and torn frocks. She recollected the first tea 
 up there — separate from her father and aunt, 
 who were dining somewhere down below an 
 infinite' depth of stairs; for unless 6he were up 
 in the sky (the child thought), they must be 
 deep down in the bowels of the earth. At 
 home — before she came to live in Harley Street 
 — her mother's dressing-room had been her 
 nursery; and, as they kept early hours in the 
 country parsonage, Margaret had always had 
 
 her meals with her father and mother. Oh! 
 well did the tall, stately girl of eighteen remem- 
 ber the tears shed with such wild passion of 
 grief by the little girl of nine, as she hid her 
 face under the bed-clothes, in that first night; 
 and how she was bidden not to cry by the 
 nurse, because it would disturb Miss Edith; 
 and how she had cried as bitterly, but more 
 quietly, till her newly-seen grand pretty aunt 
 had come softly up stairs with Mr. Hale to show 
 him his little sleeping daughter. Then "the 
 little Margaret had hushed her sobs, and tried 
 to lie quiet as if asleep, for fear of making her 
 father unhappy by her grief, which she dared 
 not express before her aunt, and which she 
 rather thought it was wrong to feel at all after 
 the long hoping, and planning, and contriving 
 they had gone through at home, before her 
 wardrobe could be arranged so as to suit her 
 grander circumstances, and before papa could 
 leave his parish to come up to London, even 
 for a few days. 
 
 Now she had got to love the old nursery, 
 though it was but a dismantled place ; and she 
 looked all around, with a kind of cat-like re- 
 gret, at the idea of leaving it forever in three 
 
 Ah, Newton !" said she, " I think we shall 
 all be sorry to leave this dear old room." 
 
 " Indeed, miss, I shan't for one. My eyes arc 
 not so good as they*were, and the light here 
 is so bad that I can't see to mend laces except 
 just at the window, where there's always a 
 shocking draught — enough to give one one's 
 death of cold." 
 
 " Well, I dare say you will have both good 
 light and plenty of warmth at Naples. You 
 must keep as much of your darning as you can 
 till then. Thank you, Newton, I can take them 
 down — jwu're busy." 
 
 So Margaret went down laden with «bawls, 
 and snuffing up their spicy eastern smell. Her 
 aunt asked her to stand as a sort of lay figure 
 on which to display them, as Edith was still 
 asleep. No one thought about it ; but Marga- 
 ret's tall, finely-made figure, in the black sill?' 
 dress which she was wearing as mourning for 
 some distant relative of her father's set off the 
 long beautiful folds of the gorgeous shawls that 
 would have half-smothered Edith. Margaret 
 stood right under the chandelier, quite silent 
 and passive, while her aunt adjusted the dra- 
 peries. Occasionally, as she was turned round, 
 she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror 
 over the chimney-pieee, and smiled at her own 
 appearance there — the familiar features in the 
 unusual garb of a princess. She touched the 
 forest, to share the home, the play, and the" 'shawls gently as they hung aroundher, and took 
 
 a pleasure in their soft feel and' their brilliant 
 colors, and rather liked to be dressed in such 
 splendor — enjoying it much as a child would 
 do, with a quiet pleased smile on her lips. Just 
 then the door opened, and Mr. Henry Lennox 
 was suddenly announced. Some of the ladies 
 started back, as if half-ashamed of their femi- 
 nine interest in dress. Mrs. Shaw held out her 
 hand to the new-oomer; Margaret stood per- 
 fectly still, thinking she might be yet wanted 
 as a sort of block for the shawls ; but looking 
 at Mr. Lennox with a bright, amused face, as 
 if sure of his sympathy in her sense of the ludi- 
 crousness at being thus surprised. 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 Her aunt was so much absorbed in asking 
 Mr. Henry Lennox — who had not been, able to 
 come to dinner — all sorts of questions about his 
 brother the bridegroom, his sister the brides- 
 maid (coming with the Captain from Scotland 
 for the occasion), and various other members 
 of the Lennox family, that Margaret saw that 
 she was no more wanted as shawl-bearer, and 
 devoted herself to the amusement of the other 
 visitors, whom her aunt had for -the moment 
 forgotten. Almost immediately, Edith came 
 in from the back drawing-room, winking and 
 blinking her eyes at the stronger light, shaking 
 back her slightly ruffled curls, and altogether 
 looking like the Sleeping Beauty just startled 
 from her dreams. Even m her slumber she had 
 instinctively felt that a Lennox was worth rous- 
 ing herself for; and she had a multitude of 
 questions to ask about dear Janet, the future, 
 unseen sister-in-law, for whom she professed so 
 much affection, that if Margaret had not been 
 very proud she might have almost felt jealous 
 of the mushroom rival. As Margaret sank 
 rather more into the background on her aunt's 
 joining the conversation, she saw. Henry Lennox 
 directing his looks toward a vacant seat near 
 her ; and she knew perfectly well that as soon 
 as Edith released him from her questioning, he 
 would take possession of that chair. She had 
 not been quite sure, from her aunt's rather con- 
 fused acoount of his engagements, whether he 
 would come that night; it was almost a sur- 
 prise to see him; and now she was sure of a 
 pleasant evening. He liked and disliked pretty 
 nearly the same things that she did. Margaret's 
 face was lightened up into an honest; open 
 brightness. By-and-by he came. She received 
 him with a smile which had not a tinge of shy- 
 ness or self-consciousne%s in it. 
 
 " Well, I suppose you are all in the depths 
 of business.-*— ladies' business, I mean, very 
 different to my business, which is real tru.e law 
 business. Playing with shawls is very different 
 work to, drawing up settlements." ■*•'-.. , 
 
 "Ah, I knew now you would be amgsed to 
 find us all so occupied in admiring fiijery. But 
 really Indian shawls are very perfect things of 
 theif kind." 
 
 i'-I have no doubt they are. Their prioes are 
 very perfect, too. Nothing wanting." 
 
 The gentlemen came dropping in one by one, 
 and the buzz and noise deepened in tone. 
 
 "This is your last dinner-party, is it not? 
 There are no more before Thursday?" 
 
 "No. I think after this evening we shall 
 feel attest, which I am sure I have not done 
 for many weeks; at least, that kind of rest 
 when the hands have nothing more to do, and 
 all the arrangements are complete for an event 
 which must occupy one's head and heart. I 
 shall be glad to have time to think, and I am 
 sure Edith will." 
 
 " I am not so sure about her ; but I can fancy 
 that you will. Whenever I have seen Vou late- 
 ly, you have been carried away by a whirlwind 
 of some other persons making." 
 
 "Yes," said Margaret, rather sadly, remem- 
 bering the never-ending commotion about trifles 
 that had been going on for more than a month 
 
 East; "I wonjer if a marriage must always 
 e preceded b^what you call a whirlwind, 
 or whether in some eases there might not 
 
 rather be a calm and peaceful time just be- 
 fore it." \, 
 
 " Cinderella's godmother ordering the trous- 
 seau, the wedding-breakfast, writing the notes 
 of invitation, -for instance," said Mr. Lennox, 
 laughing. 
 
 " But are all these quite necessary troubles ?" 
 asked Margaret, looking up straight at him for 
 an answer. A sense of indescribable weariness 
 of all the arrangements for a pretty* effect, in 
 which Edith had been busied as supreme au- 
 thority for the last six weeks, oppressed her . 
 just now ; and she really wanted some oftc-to - 
 help her to a few pleasant, quiet ideas connect- 
 ed with a marriage. 
 
 " Oh, of course," he replied, with a change \ 
 to gravity in his tone. "There are forms and ) 
 ceremonies to be gone through, not so much to I 
 satisfy oneself, as to stop the world's mouth, / 
 without which stoppage there would bo very 1 
 little satisfaction in life. But how would you 
 have a wedding arranged?" 
 
 "Oh, I have never thought much about it; 
 only I should like it to be a very fine summer 
 morning ; and I should like to walk to church 
 through the shade of trees ; and not to have so 
 many bridesmaids, and no wedding-breakfast. 
 I dare say I am resolving against the very 
 things that have given me the most trouble 
 just now." 
 
 " No, I don't think you are. The idea of 
 stately simplicity accords well with your char- 
 acter." 
 
 Margaret did not quite like this speech ; she 
 winced away from it more, from remembering 
 former occasions on which he had tried to lead 
 herintQa discussion (in which he took the com- 
 plimentary part) about her own character and 
 ways of going on. She cut his speech rather 
 short by saying: 
 
 " It is natural for me to think of Helstone 
 church, and the walk to it, rather than of driv- 
 ing up to a London church in the middle of a 
 paved street." 
 
 "Tell me about Helstone. You have never 
 described it to me. I should like to have some 
 idea of the place you will be living in, when 
 ninety-six Harley Street will be looking dingy 
 ,and dirty, and dull, and shut up. Is Helstone 
 a village, or a town, in the first place ?" 
 
 "Oh, only a hamlet; I don't think I could 
 call it a village at all. There is the church 
 and a few houses near it on the green — cottages 
 rather — with roses growing all over them." 
 
 "And flowering all the year round, especial- 
 ly at Christmas — make your picture complete," 
 said he. -' :t 
 
 " No," replied Margaret, somewhat annoyed, 
 " I am not making a picture. I am trying to 
 describe Helstone as it really is. You should 
 not have said that." 
 
 " I am penitent," he answered. " Only it 
 really sounded like a village in a tale rather 
 than in real life." 
 
 "And so it is," replied Margaret, eagerly. 
 "All the other places in England that I have 
 seen seem so hard and prosaic-looking, after 
 the New Forest. Helstone is like a village in 
 a poem — in one of Tennyson's poems. But I 
 won't try and describe it any more. You would 
 only laugh at me if I told you what I think of 
 it — what it really is." • 
 
NORTH and south. 
 
 "Indeed I would not. But I see you are 
 going to be very resolved. Well, then, tell me 
 that which I should like still better to know : 
 what the parsonage is like." 
 
 " Oh, I can't describe my home. It is home, 
 and I can't put its charm into words." 
 
 " I submit. You are rather severe to night, 
 Margaret." 
 
 " How ?" said she, turning her large soft eyes 
 round full upon him. "I did not know I was." 
 
 " "Why, because I made an unlucky remark, 
 you will neither tell me what Helstone is like, 
 nor will you say any thing about your home, 
 though I have told you how much I want to 
 hear about both, the latter especially." 
 
 "But indeed I can not tell you about my 
 own home. I don't quite think it is a thing to 
 be talked about, unless you knew it." 
 
 "Well, then" — pausing for a moment — "tell 
 me what you do there? Here you read, or 
 have lessons, or otherwise improve your mind, 
 till the middle of the day ; take a walk before 
 lunch, go a drive with your aunt after, and 
 have some kind of engagement in the evening. 
 There, now fill up your day at Helstone. Shall 
 you ride, drive, or walk?" 
 
 " Walk, decidedly. We have no horse, not 
 oven for papa. He walks to the very extremity 
 of his parish. The walks are so beautiful, it 
 would be a shame to drive — almost a shame to 
 ride." 
 
 " Shall you garden much ? That, I believe, is 
 a proper employment for young ladies in the 
 country." 
 
 "I don't know. I am afraid I shan't like 
 such hard work." 
 
 "Archery parties — pic-nics — race-balls — 
 hunt-balls V 
 
 " Oh no I said she, laughing. "Papa's living 
 is very small ; and even if we were near such 
 things, I doubt if I should go to them." 
 
 "I see, you won't tell me any thing. You 
 will only tell me that you are not going to do 
 this and that. Before the vacation ends, I 
 think I shall pay you a call, and see what you 
 really do employ yourself in." 
 
 "I hope you will. Then you will see for 
 yourself how beautiful Helstone is. Now I 
 must go. Edith is sitting down to play, and I 
 just know enough of music to turn over the 
 leaves for her; and besides, Aunt Shaw won't 
 like lis to talk." 
 
 Edith played brilliantly. In the middle of 
 tho piece the door half-opened, and Edith saw 
 Captain Lennox hesitating whether to come in. 
 She threw down her music, and rushed out of 
 the room, leaving Margaret standing confused 
 and blushing to explain to the astonished guests 
 what vision had shown itself to cause Edith's 
 sudden flight. Captain Lennox had come earli- 
 er than was expected ; or was it really so late ? 
 They looked at their watches, were duly shock- 
 ed, and took their leave. 
 
 Then Edith came back, glowing with pleas- 
 ure, half-shyly, half-proudly leading in her tall 
 handsome Captain. His brother shook hands 
 with him, and Mrs. Shaw welcomed him in her 
 gentle kindly way, which had always some- 
 thing plaintive in it, arising from the long 
 habit of considering herself a victim to an un- 
 congenial marriage. Now that, the General 
 being gone, she had every* good of life, with as 
 
 few drawbacks as possible, she had been rather 
 perplexed to find an anxiety, if not a sorrow. 
 She had, however, of late settled upon her 
 own health as a source of apprehension ; she 
 had anervous little cough whenever she thought 
 about it ; and some complaisant doctor ordered 
 her just what she desired — a winter in Italy. 
 Mrs. Shaw had a3 strong wishes as most people, 
 but she never liked to do any thing from the 
 open and acknowledged motive of her own 
 good will and pleasure; she preferred being 
 compelled to gratify herself by some other per- 
 son's command or desire. She really did per- 
 suade herself that she was submitting to some 
 hard external necessity ; and thus she was able 
 to moan and complain in her soft manner, all 
 the time she was in reality doing just what she 
 liked. 
 
 It was in this way she began to speak of her 
 own journey to Captain Lennox, who assented, 
 as in duty bound, to all his future mother-in- 
 law said, while his eyes sought Edith, who was 
 busying herself in re-arranging the tea-table, 
 and ordering up all sorts of good things, in 
 spite of his assurances that he had dined within 
 the last two hours. 
 
 Mr. Henry Lennox stood leaning against the 
 chimney-piece, amused with the family scene. 
 He was close by his handsome brother ; he was 
 the plain one in a singularly good-looking fam- 
 ily ; but his face was intelligent, keen, and mo- 
 bile; and now and then Margaret wondered 
 what it was that he could be thinking about 
 while he kept silence, but was evidently ob- 
 serving- with an interest that was slightly sar- 
 castic, all that Edith and she were doing. The 
 sarcastic feeling was called out by Mrs. Shaw's 
 conversation with his brother ; it was separate 
 from the interest which' was excited by what 
 he saw. He thought it a pretty sight to see 
 the two cousins so busy in their little arrange- 
 ments about the table. Edith chose to do 
 most herself She was in a humor to enjoy 
 showing her lover how well she could behave 
 as a soldier's wife. She found out that the 
 water in the urn was cold, and ordered up the 
 great kitchen tea-kettle; the onty consequence 
 of which was that when she met it at the door, 
 and tried to carry it in, it was too heavy for 
 her, and she came in pouting, with a black 
 mark on her muslin gown, and a little round 
 white hand indented by the handle, which she 
 took to show to Captain Lennox, just like a 
 hurt child, and, of course, the remedy was the 
 same in both cases. Margaret's quickly ad- 
 justed spirit-lamp was the most efficacious con- 
 trivance, though not so like the gipsy-encamp- 
 ment which Edith, in some of her moods, chose 
 to consider the nearest resemblance to a bar- 
 rack-life. 
 
 After this evening all was bustle till the 
 wedding was over. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Margaret was once more in her morning 
 dress, traveling quietly home with her father, 
 who had come up to assist at the wedding. 
 Her mother had been detained at home by a 
 multitude of half-reasons, none of which any 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 9 
 
 body fully understood, except Mr. Hale, who 
 was perfectly aware that all his arguments in 
 favor of a gray-satin gown, which was midway 
 between oldness and newness, had proved un- 
 availing ; and that, as he had not the money to 
 equip his wife afresh, from top to toe, she would 
 not show herself at her only sister's only child's 
 wedding. If Mrs. Shaw had guessed at the real 
 reason why Mrs. Hale did not accompany her 
 husband, she would have showered down gowns 
 upon her ; but it was nearly twenty years since 
 Mrs. Shaw had been the poor, pretty, Miss Be- 
 resford, and she had really forgotten all griev- 
 ances except that of the unhappiness arising 
 from disparity of age in married life, on which 
 she could descant by the half-hour. Dearest 
 Maria had married the man of her heart, only 
 eight years older than herself, with the sweet- 
 est temper, and that blue-black hair one so sel- 
 dom sees. Mr. Hale was one of the most de- 
 lightful preachers she had ever heard, and a 
 perfect model of a parish priest. Perhaps it 
 was not quite a logical deduction from all these 
 premises, but it was still Mrs. Shaw's charac- 
 teristic conclusion, as she thought over her sis- 
 ter's lot : " Married for love, what can dearest 
 Maria have to wish for in this world?" Mrs. 
 Hale, if she spoke truth, might have answered 
 with a ready-made list, " a silver-gray glac6 
 silk, a white chip bonnet, oh ! dozens of things 
 for the wedding, and hundreds of things for the 
 house." 
 
 Margaret only knew that her mother had not 
 found it convenient to come, and sue was not 
 sorry to think that their meeting and greeting 
 would take place at Helstone parsonage, rather 
 than, in the confusion of the last two or three 
 days, in the house in Harley Street, where she 
 herself had had to play the part of Figaro, and 
 was wanted every where at one and the same 
 time. Her mind and body ached now with the 
 recollection of all she had done and said within 
 the last forty-eight hours. The farewells so 
 hurriedly taken, among all the other good- 
 bys, of those she had lived with so long, op- 
 pressed her now with a sad regret for the times 
 that were no more ; it did not signify what those 
 times had been, they were gone never to return. 
 Margaret's heart felt more heavy than she could 
 ever have thought it possible in going to her 
 own dear home, the place and the life she had 
 longed for for years — at that time of all times 
 for yearning and longing, just before the sharp 
 senses lose their outlines in sleep. She took her 
 mind away with a wrench from the recollection 
 of the past, to the bright serene contemplation 
 of the hopeful future. Her eyes began to see, 
 not visions of what had been, but the sight ac- 
 tually before her ; her dear father leaning back 
 asleep in the railway carriage. His blue-black 
 hair was gray now, and lay thinly over his 
 brows. The hones of his face were plainly to 
 be seen — too plainly for beauty, if his features 
 had been less finely out ; as it was, they had a 
 grace if not a comeliness of their own. The 
 face was in repose ; but it was rather rest after 
 weariness, than the serene calm of the counte- 
 nance of one who led a placid, contented life. 
 Margaret was painfully struck by the worn, 
 anxious expression; and she went back over 
 the open and avowed circumstances of her fa- 
 ther's life, to find the cause for the lines that 
 
 spoke so plainly of habitual distress and de- 
 pression. 
 
 "Poor Frederick!" thought she, sighing. 
 " Oh! if Frederick had but been a clergyman, 
 instead of going into the navy, and being lost 
 to us all I I wish I knew all about it. I never 
 understood it from aunt Shaw ; I only knew he 
 could not come back to England because of that 
 terrible affair. Poor dear papal how sad he 
 looks! I am so glad I am going home, to be at 
 hand to comfort him and mamma." 
 
 She was ready with a bright smile, in which 
 there was not a trace of fatigue, to greet hei\ 
 father when he awakened. He smiled hack 
 again, but faintly, as if it were an unusual ex- 
 ertion. His face returned into its lines of ha- 
 bitual anxiety. He had a trick of half-opening 
 his mouth as if to speak, which constantly un- 
 settled- the form of the lips, and gave the face 
 an undecided expression. But he had the same 
 large, soft eyes as his daughter — eyes which 
 moved slowly and almost grandly round in 
 their orbits, and were well vailed by their trans- 
 parent white eyelids. Margaret was more like 
 him than like her mother. Sometimes people 
 wondered that parents so handsome should 
 have a daughter who was so far from regularly 
 beautiful ; not beautiful at all, was occasionally 
 said. Her mouth was wide ; no rosebud that 
 could only open just enough to let out a yes 
 and no, and " an't please you, sir." But the 
 wide mouth was one soft curve of rich red lips ; 
 and the skin, if not white and fair, was of an 
 ivory smoothness and delicacy. If the look on 
 her face was in general too dignified and re- 
 served for one so young, now, talking to her 
 father, it was bright as the morning — full of 
 dimples, and glances that spoke of childish 
 gladness, and boundless hope in the future. 
 
 It was the latter part of July when Margaret 
 returned home. The forest trees were all one 
 dark, full, dusky green; the fern below them 
 caught all the slanting sunbeams ; the weather 
 was sultry and broodingly still. Margaret used 
 to tramp along hy her father's side, crushing 
 down the fern with a cruel glee, as she felt it 
 yield under her light foot, and send up the fra- 
 grance peculiar to it — out on the broad com- 
 mons into the warm scented light, seeing mul- 
 titudes of wild, free, living creatures, reveling 
 in the sunshine, and the herbs and flowers it 
 called forth. This life — at least these walks — 
 realized all Margaret's anticipations. She took 
 a pride in her forest. Its people were her 
 people. She made hearty friends with them; 
 learned and delighted in using their peculiar 
 words; took up her freedom among them; 
 nursed their babies ; talked or read with slow 
 distinctness to their old people ; carried dainty 
 messes to their sick; resolved before long to 
 teach at the school, wjfere her father went 
 
 some cottage in the green shade of the forest. : 
 Her out-of-doors life was perfect. Her in-doors 
 life had its drawbacks. With the healthy 
 shame of a child she blamed herself for her 
 keenness of sight, in perceiving that all was 
 not as it Bhould be there. Her mother — her 
 mother always so kind and tender toward her 
 — seemed now and then so much discontented 
 
10 
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 ■with. their situation; thought that the bishop 
 strangely neglected his episcopal duties, in not 
 giving Mr. Hale a better living; and almost 
 reproached her husband because he could not 
 bring himself to say that he wished to leave the 
 parish, and undertake the charge of a larger. He 
 would sigh aloud as he answered, that if he could 
 do what he ought in little Helstone, he should 
 be thankful ; but every day he was more over- 
 powered ; the world became more bewildering. 
 At each repeated urgency of his wife, that lie 
 would put himself in the way of seeking some 
 preferment, Margaret saw that her father shrank 
 more and more; and she strove at such times 
 to reconcile her mother to Helstone. Mrs. Hale 
 said that the near neighborhood of so many 
 trees affected her health ; and Margaret would 
 try to tempt her forth on to the beautiful, broad, 
 upland, sun-streaked, cloud-shadowed common ; 
 for she was sure that her mother had accus- 
 tomed herself too much to an in-doors life, sel- 
 dom extending her walks beyond the church, 
 the school, and the neighboring cottage. This 
 did good for a time ; but when the autumn drew 
 on, and the weather became more changeable, 
 her mother's idea of the unhealthiness of the 
 place increased ; and she repined even more 
 frequently that her husband, who was more 
 learned than Mr. Hume, a better parish priest 
 than Mr. Houldsworth, should not have met 
 with the preferment that these two former 
 neighbors of theirs had done. 
 
 This- marring of the peace of home, by long 
 hours of discontent, was what Margaret was 
 unprepared for. She knew, and had rather 
 reveled in the idea, that she should have to 
 give up many luxuries, which had only been 
 troubles and trammels to her freedom in Har- 
 ley Street. Her keen enjoyment of every 
 sensuous pleasure, was balanced finely, if not 
 overbalanced, by her conscious pride in being 
 able to do without them all, if need were. But 
 the cloud never comes in that quarter of the 
 horizon for which we watch for it. There had 
 been slight complaints and passing regrets on 
 her mother's part, over some trifle connected 
 with Helstone, and her father's position there, 
 when Margaret had been spending her holidays 
 at home before ; but in the general happiness 
 of the recollection of those times, she had for- 
 gotten the small details which were not so 
 pleasant. 
 
 In the latter half of September, the autum- 
 nal rains and storms came on, and Margaret 
 was obliged to remain more in the house than 
 she had hitherto done. Helstone was at some 
 distance from any neighbors of their own stand- 
 ard of cultivation. 
 
 " It is undoubtedly one of the most out-of- 
 the-way places in England," said Mrs. Hale, in 
 one of her plaintive moods. " I can't help re- 
 gretting constantly that'papa has really no one 
 to associate with here ; he is bo thrown away ; 
 seeing no one but farmers and laborers from 
 week's end to week's end. If we only lived at 
 the other side of the parish it would be some- 
 thing ; there we should be almost within walk- 
 ing distance of the Stansfields; certainly the 
 Gormans would be within a walk." 
 
 "Gormans," said Margaret, "Are those the 
 Gormans who made their fortunes in trade at 
 Southampton? Oh! I am glad we don't visit 
 
 them. I don't like shoppy people. I think we 
 are far better off, knowing only cottagers and 
 laborers, and people without pretense." 
 
 "You must not be so fastidious, Margaret, 
 dear I" said her mother, secretly thinking of a 
 young and handsome Mr. Gorman whom she 
 had once met at Mr. Hume's. 
 
 " No ! I call mine a very comprehensive 
 taste; I like all people whose occupations have 
 to do with land ; I like soldiers and sailors, and 
 the three learned professions, as they call them. 
 I am sure you don't want me to admire butch- 
 er's and bakers, and candlestick makers, do you 
 mamma?" 
 
 " But the Gormans were neither butchers 
 nor bakers, but very respectable coach-build- 
 ers." 
 
 "Very well. Coach-building is a trade all 
 the same, and I think a much more useless one 
 than that of butchers or bakers. Oh ! how 
 tired I used to be of the drives every day in 
 Aunt Shaw's carriage, and how I longed to 
 walkl" 
 
 And walk Margaret did, in spite of the 
 weather. She was so happy out of doors, at 
 her father's side, that she almost danced; and 
 with the soft violence of the west wind behind 
 her, as she crossed some heath, she seemed to 
 be borne onward, as lightly and easily as the 
 fallen leaf that was wafted along by the au- 
 tumnal breeze. But the evenings were rather 
 difficult to fill up agreeably. Immediately 
 after tea her father withdrew into his small 
 library, and she and her mother were left 
 alone. Mrs. Hale had never cared much for 
 books, and had discouraged her husband, very 
 early in their married life, in his desire of read- 
 ing aloud to her, while she worked. At one 
 time they had tried backgammon as a resource ; 
 but as Mr. Hale grew to take an increasing in- 
 terest in hi3 school and his parishioners, he 
 found that the interruptions which arose out 
 of these duties were regarded as hardships by 
 his wife, not to be accepted as the natural con- 
 ditions of his profession, but to be regretted 
 and struggled against by her as they severally 
 arose. So he withdrew, while the children 
 were yet young, into his library, to spend his 
 evenings (if he were at home), in reading the 
 speculative and metaphysical books which 
 were his delight. 
 
 "When Margaret had been here before, she 
 had brought down with her a great box of 
 books, recommended by masters or governess, 
 and had found the summer's day all too short, 
 to get through the reading she had to'do before 
 her return to town. Now there were only the 
 well-bound little-read English Classics, whieh 
 were weeded out of her father's library to 
 fill up the small book-shelves in the drawing- 
 room. Thomson's Seasons, Hayley's Cowper, 
 Middleton's Cicero, were by far the lightest, 
 newest, and most amusing. The book-shelves 
 did not afford much resource. Margaret told her 
 mother every particular of her London life, to 
 all of which Mrs. Hale listened with interest, 
 sometimes amused and questioning, at others a 
 little inclined to compare her sister's circum- 
 stances of ease and comfort with the narrower 
 means at Helstone vicarage. On such evenings 
 Margaret was apt to stop talking rather abrupt- 
 ly, and listen to the drip-drip of the rain upon 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 11 
 
 the leads of the little bow-window. Once or 
 twice Margaret found herself mechanically 
 counting the repetition of the monotonous 
 sound, while she wondered if she might ven- 
 ture to put a question on a subject very near 
 to her heart, and ask where Frederick was 
 now ; what he was doing ; how long it was 
 since they had heard from him. But a con- 
 sciousness that her mother's delicate health, 
 and positive dislike to Helstone, all dated from 
 the time of the mutiny in which Frederick had 
 been engaged — the full account of which Mar- 
 garet had never heard, and which now seemed 
 doomed to be buried in sad oblivion — made her 
 pause and turn away from the subject each 
 time she approached it. When she was with 
 her mother, her father seemed the best person 
 to apply to for information; and when with 
 Mr. Hale, she thought that she could speak 
 more easily to her mother. Probably there 
 was nothing much to be heard that was new. 
 In one of the letters she had received before 
 leaving Harley Street, her father had told her 
 that they had heard from Frederick ; he was 
 still at Rio, and very well in health, and sent 
 his best love to her ; which was dry bones, but 
 not the living intelligence she longed for. Fred- 
 erick was always spoken of, in the rare times 
 when his name was mentioned, as " Poor Fred- 
 erick." His room was kept exactly as he had 
 left it; and was regularly dusted and put into 
 order by Dixon, Mrs. Hale's maid, who touched 
 no other part of the household work, but al- 
 ways remembered the day when Bhe had been 
 engaged by Lady Beresford as lady's maid to 
 Sir John's wards, the pretty Miss Beresfords, 
 the belles of Rutlandshire. Dixon had always 
 considered* Mr. Hale as the blight which had 
 fallen upon her young lady's prospects in life. 
 If Miss Beresford had not been in such a hurry 
 to marry a poor country clergyman, there was 
 no knowing what she might not have become. 
 But Dixon was too loyal to desert her in her 
 affliction and downfall (alias her married life). 
 "She remained with her, and was devoted to her 
 interests: always considering herself as the 
 good and protecting fairy, whose duty it was 
 to baffle the malignant giani, Mr. Hale. Master 
 Frederick had been her favorite and pride ; and. 
 it was with a little softening of her dignified 
 look and manner, that she went in weekly to 
 arrange the chamber as carefully as if he might 
 be coming home that very evening. 
 
 Margaret could not help believing that there 
 had been some late intelligence of Frederick, 
 unknown to her mother, which was making 
 her father anxious and uneasy. Mrs. Hale did 
 not seem to perceive any alteration in her hus- 
 band's looks or ways. His spirits were always 
 tender and gentle, readily affected by any 
 small piece of intelligence concerning the wel- 
 fare of others. He would bfe depressed for 
 many days after witnessing a death-bed, or 
 hearing of any crime. But now Margaret 
 noticed an absence of mind, as if his thoughts 
 were pre-ocoupied by some subject, the oppres- 
 sion of which could not be relieved by any 
 daily action, such as comforting the survivors, 
 or teaching at the school in hope of lessening 
 the evils in the generation to come. Mr. Hale 
 did not go out among his parishioners as much 
 as usual ; he was more shut up in his study ; 
 
 was anxious for the village postman, whose 
 summons to the household was a rap on the 
 back-kitchen window shutter — a signal which 
 at one time had often to be repeated before any 
 one was sufficiently alive to the hour of the 
 day to understand what it was, and attend to 
 him. Now Mr. Hale loitered about the garden 
 if the morning was fine ; and if not, stood dreami- 
 ly by the study window until the postman had 
 called, or gone down the lane, giving a half- 
 respectful, half-confidential shake of the head 
 to the parson, who watched him away beyond 
 the sweetbriar hedge, and past the great arbutus 
 before he turned into the room to begin his 
 day's work, with all the signs of a heavy heart 
 and an occupied mind. 
 
 But Margaret was at an age when any ap- 
 prehension not absolutely based on a knowledge 
 of facts is easily banished for a time by a bright 
 sunny day, or some happy outward circum- 
 stance. And when the brilliant fourteen fine 
 days of October came on, her cares were all 
 blown away as lightly as thistle-down, and she 
 thought of nothing but the glories of the forest 
 The fern-harvest was over ; and now that the 
 rain was gone, many a deep glade was acces- 
 sible, into which Margaret had only peeped in 
 July and August weather. She had learnt 
 drawing with Edith ; and she had sufficiently 
 regretted, during the gloom of the bad weather, 
 her idle reveling in the beauty of the woodlands 
 while it had yet been fine, to make her determ- 
 ined to sketch what she could before winter 
 fairly set in. Accordingly, she was busy pre- 
 paring her board one morning, when Sarah, the 
 housemaid, threw wide open the drawing-room 
 door, and announced, " Mr. Henry Lennox," 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 " Ma. Henkt Lennox" Margaret had been 
 thinking of him only a moment before, and re- 
 membering his inquiry into her probable occu- 
 pations at home. It was parler du soleil et 
 Ton en voit les rayons; and the brightness of 
 the sun came over Margaret's face as she put 
 down her board, and went forward to shake 
 hands with him. "Tell mamma, Sarah," said 
 she. " Mamma and I want to ask you so many 
 questions about Edith ; I am so much obliged 
 to yflgfror coming." 
 
 " Did not I Bay that I should ?" asked he, in a 
 lower tone than that in which she had spoken. 
 " But I heard of you so far away in the High- 
 lands that I never thought Hampshire could 
 come in." 
 
 "Oh!" said he, more lightly, "our young 
 couple were playing such foolish pranks, run- 
 ning all sorts of risks, climbing this mountain, 
 sailing on that lake, that I really thought they 
 needed a mentor to take care of them. And 
 indeed they did ; they were quite beyond my 
 uncle's management, and kept the old gentle- 
 man in a panic for sixteen hours out of the 
 twenty-four. Indeed, when I once saw how 
 unfit they were to be trusted alone, I thought 
 it my duty not to leave them till I had seen 
 them safely embarked at Plymouth." 
 
 " Have you been at Plymouth ? Oh ! Edith 
 never named that. To be sure, she has written 
 
12 
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 in such a hurry lately. Did they really sail 
 on Tuesday t" 
 
 " Really sailed, and relieved me from my re- 
 sponsibilities. Edith gave me all sorts of mes- 
 sages for you. I believe I have a little dimin- 
 utive note somewhere; yes, here it is." 
 
 "Oh! thank you," exclaimed Margaret; and 
 then half wishing to read it alone and un- 
 matched, she made the excuse of going to tell 
 her mother again (Sarah surely had made some 
 mistake) that Mr. Lennox was there. 
 
 "When she had left the room, he began in 
 his scrutinizing way to look about him. The 
 little drawing-room was looking its best in the 
 streaming light of the morning sun. The mid- 
 dle window in the bow was opened, and clus- 
 tering roses and the scarlet honeysuckle came 
 peeping round the corner; the small lawn was 
 gorgeous with verbenas and geraniums of all 
 bright colors. But the very brightness outside 
 made the colors within seem poor and faded. 
 The carpet was far from new ; the chintz had 
 been often washed; the -whole apartment was 
 smaller and shabbier than he had expected, as 
 background and frame-work for Margaret, her- 
 self so queenly. He took up one of the books 
 lying on the table; it was the Paradiso of 
 Dante, in the proper old Italian binding of 
 white vellum and gold; by it lay a dictionary, 
 and some words copied out in Margaret's hand- 
 writing. They were a dull list of words, but 
 somehow he liked looking at them. Ho put 
 them down with a sigh. 
 
 " The living is evidently as small as she said. 
 It seems strange, for the Beresfords belong to 
 a good family." 
 
 Margaret meanwhile had found her mother. 
 It was one of Mrs. Hale's fitful days, when 
 every thing was a difficulty and a hardship ; 
 and Mr. Lennox's appearance took this shape, 
 although secretly she felt complimented by his 
 thinking it worth while to call. 
 
 "It is most unfortunate 1 We are dining 
 early to-daj*, and having nothing but cold meat, 
 in order that the servants may get on with their 
 ironing; and yet, of course, we must ask him to 
 dinner — Edith's brother-in-law and all. And 
 your papa is in such low spirits this morning 
 about something — I don't know what. I went 
 into the study just now, and he had his face on 
 the table, covering it with his hands. I told 
 him I was sure Helstone air did not agree with 
 him any more than with me, and he sufflenly 
 lifted up his head, and begged me not to speak 
 a word more against Helstone, he could not 
 bear it; if there was one place he loved on 
 earth it was Helstone. But I am 6ure, for all 
 that, it is the damp and relaxing air." 
 
 Margaret felt as if a thin cold cloud had come 
 between her and the sun. She had listened 
 patiently, in hopes that it might be some re- 
 lief to her mother to unburden hersejf ; but now 
 it .was time to draw her back to Mr. Lennox. 
 
 " Papa likes Mr. Lennox ; they got on to- 
 gether famously at the wedding Dreakfast. I 
 dare say his coming will do papa good. And 
 never mind the dinner, dear mamma. Cold 
 meat will do capitally for a lunch, which is the 
 light in which Mr. Lennox will most likely look 
 upon a two o'clock dinner." 
 
 " But what are we to do with him till then? 
 It is only half-past ten now." 
 
 " I'll ask him to go out sketching with me. 
 I know he draws, and that will take him out 
 of your way, mamma. Only do come in now; 
 he will think it so strange if you don't." 
 
 Mrs. Hale took off her black silk apron, and 
 smoothed her face. She looked a very pretty 
 lady-like woman as she greeted Mr. Lennox 
 with the cordiality due to one who was almost 
 a relation. He evidently expected to be asked 
 to spend the day, and accepted the invitation 
 with a glad readiness that made Mrs. Hale wish 
 she could add something to the cold beef. He 
 was pleased with every thing ; delighted with 
 Margaret's idea of going out sketching togeth- 
 er; -would not have Mr. Hale disturbed for the 
 world, with the prospect of so soon meeting him 
 at dinner. Margaret brought out her drawing 
 materials for him to choose from ; and after 
 the paper and brushes had been duly selected, 
 the two set out in the merriest spirits in the 
 world. 
 
 " Now, please, just stop here for a minute or 
 two," said Margaret " These are the cottages 
 that haunted mo so during the rainy fortnight, 
 reproaching me for not having sketched them." 
 
 " Before they tumbled down and were no 
 more seen. Truly, if they are to be sketched — 
 and they are very picturesque — we had better 
 not put it off till next year. But where shall 
 we sit?" 
 
 " Oh ! You might have come straight from 
 chambers in the Temple, instead of having been 
 two months in the Highlands 1 Look at this 
 beautiful trunk of a tree, which the woodcut- 
 ters have left just in the right place for the 
 light. I will put my plaid over it, and it will 
 be a regular forest throne." 
 
 "With your feet in that puddle <or a regal 
 footstool! Stay, I will move, and then you 
 can come nearer this way. Who lives in these 
 cottages?" 
 
 " They were built by squatters fifty or sixty 
 years ago. One is uninhabited ; the foresters 
 are going to take it down, as soon as the old 
 man who lives in the other is dead, poor old 
 fellow! Look — there he is — I must go and 
 speak to him. He is so deaf you will near all 
 our secrets." 
 
 The old man stood bareheaded in the sun, 
 leaning on his stick at the front of his cottage. 
 His stiff features relaxed into a slow smile as 
 Margaret went up and spoke to him. Mr. Len- 
 nox hastily introduced the twb figures into his 
 sketch, and finished up the landscape with a 
 subordinate reference to them, as Margaret per- 
 ceived, when the time came for getting up, 
 putting away water, and scraps of paper, and 
 exhibiting to each other their sketches. She 
 laughed and blushed : Mr. Lennox watched her 
 countenance. 
 
 " Now, I call that treacherous," said she. "I 
 little thought yen were making old Isaac and 
 me into subjects, when you told me to ask him 
 the history of these cottages." 
 
 " It was irresistible. You can't know how 
 strong a temptation it was. I hardly dare tell 
 you how much I shall like this sketch." 
 
 He was not quite sure if she heard this latter 
 sentence before she went to the brook to wasli 
 her pallet. She came back rather flushed, but 
 looking perfectly innocent and unconscious. 
 He was glad of it, for the speech had slipped 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 13 
 
 from him unawares — a rare thing in the ease 
 of a man who premeditated his actions so much 
 as Henry Lennox. 
 
 The aspect of home -was all right and bright 
 when they reached it. The clouds on her 
 mother's brow had cleared off under the pro- 
 pitious influence of a brace of carp, most oppor- 
 tunely presented by a neighbor. Mr. Hale had 
 returned from his morning's round, and was 
 awaiting his visitor just outside the wicket gate 
 that led into the garden. He looked a com- 
 plete gentleman in his rather threadbare coat 
 and well-worn hat. Margaret was proud of 
 her father ; she had always a fresh and tender 
 pride in seeing how favorably he impressed 
 every stranger ; still her quick eye sought over 
 his face and found there traces of some unusual 
 disturbance, which was only put aside, not 
 cleared away. 
 
 Mr. Hale asked to look at their sketches. 
 
 " I think you have made the tints on the 
 thatch too dark, have you not?" as he returned 
 Margaret's to her, and. held out his hand for 
 Mr. Lennox's, which was withheld from him 
 one moment, no more. 
 
 "No, papa! I don't think I have. The 
 house-leek and stone-crop have grown so much 
 darker in the rain. Is it not like, papa V said 
 she, peeping over his shoulder, as he looked at 
 the figures in Mr. Lennox's drawing. 
 
 " Yes, very like. Your figure and way of 
 holding yourself is capital. And it is just poor 
 old Isaac's stiff way of stooping his long rheu- 
 matic back. What is this hanging from the 
 branch of the tree ? Not a bird's nest, surely." 
 
 " Oh no ! that is my bonnet. I never can 
 draw with my bonnet on ; it makes my head 
 so hot. I wonder if I could manage" figures. 
 There are so many people about here whom I 
 should like to sketch." 
 
 " I should say that a likeness you very much 
 wish to take you would always succeed in," 
 said Mr. Lennox. " I have great faith in the 
 power of will. I think myself I have succeeded 
 pretty well in yours." ~ Mr. Hale had preceded 
 them into the house, while Margaret was linger- 
 ing to pluck some roses, with which to adorn 
 her morning gown for dinner. 
 
 "A regular London girl would understand 
 the implied meaning of that speech," thought 
 Mr. Lennox. "She would be up to looking 
 through every speech that a young man made 
 her for the arriere-pensee of a compliment. But 
 I don't believe, Margaret — Stay!" exclaimed 
 he, "let me help you;" and he gathered for 
 her some velvety cramoisy roses that were 
 above her reach, and then dividing the spoil, 
 he placed two in his button-hole, and sent 
 her in, pleased and happy, to arrange her 
 flowers. 
 
 The conversation at dinner flowed on quietly 
 and agreeably. There were plenty of questions 
 to be aBked on both sides — the latest intelli- 
 gence which each could give of Mrs. Shaw's 
 movements in Italy to be exchanged; and in 
 the interest of what was said, the unpretending 
 simplicity of the parsonage-ways — above all, 
 in the neighborhood of Margaret, Mr. Lennox 
 forgot the little feeling of disappointment with 
 which he had at first perceived that Margaret 
 had spoken but, the simple truth when she had 
 described her father's living as very small. 
 
 " Margaret, my child, you might have gath- 
 ered us some pears for our dessert," said Mr. 
 Hale, as the hospitable luxury of a freshly- 
 decanted bottle of wine was placed on the 
 table. 
 
 Mrs. Hale was hurried. It seemed as if des- 
 serts were impromptu and unusual things at 
 the parsonage; whereas, if Mr. Hale would only 
 have looked behind him, he would -have Been 
 biscuits, and marmalade, and what not, all ar- 
 ranged in formal order on the side-board. But 
 the idea of pears had taken possession of Mr. 
 Hale's mind, and was not to be got rid of. 
 
 " There are a few brown beurres against the 
 south wall which are worth all foreign fruits 
 and preserves. Run, Margaret, and gather us 
 some." 
 
 " I propose that we adjourn into the garden, 
 and eat them there," said Mr. Lennox. " No- 
 thing is so delicious as to set one's teeth into 
 the crisp, juicy fruit, warm and scented by the 
 sun. The worst is, the wasps are impudent 
 enough to dispute it with one, even at the very 
 crisis and summit of enjoyment." 
 
 He rose, as if to follow Margaret, who had 
 disappeared through the window: he only 
 awaited Mrs. Hale's permission. She would 
 rather have wound up the dinner in the pro- 
 per way, and with all the ceremonies which 
 had gone on so smoothly hitherto, especially as 
 she and Dixon had got out the finger-glasses 
 from the store-room on purpose to be as cor- 
 rect as became General Shaw's widow's sister ; 
 but as Mr. Hale got up directly, and prepared 
 to accompany his guest, Bhe could only submit. 
 
 " I shall arm myself with a knife," said Mr. 
 Hale : " the days of eating fruit so primitively 
 as you describe are over with me. I must pare 
 it and quarter it before I can enjoy it." 
 
 Margaret made a plate for the pears out of a 
 beet-root leaf, which threw up their brown gold 
 color admirably. Mr. Lennox looked more at 
 her than at the pears ; but her father, inclined 
 to cull fastidiously the very zest and perfection 
 of the hour he had stolen from his anxiety, 
 chose daintily the ripest fruit, and sat down 
 on the garden bench to enjoy it at his leisure. 
 Margaret and Mr. Lennox strolled along the 
 little terrace-walk under the south wall, where 
 the bees still hummed and worked busily in 
 their hives. 
 
 "What a perfect life you seem to live here! 
 I havjfcalways felt rather contemptuously to- 
 ward the poets before, with their wishes, 'Mine 
 be a cot beside a hill,' and that sort of thing ; but 
 now I aiHafraid that the truth is, I have been 
 nothing better than a Cockney. Just now I feel 
 as if twenty years' hard study of law would be 
 amply rewarded by one year of such an exqui- 
 site serene life as this— such skies!" looking tip 
 — " such crimson and amber foliage, so perfect- 
 ly motionless as that !" pointing to some of the 
 great forest trees which shut in the garden as 
 if it were a nest. 
 
 " You must please to remember that our skies 
 are not always as deep a blue as they are now. 
 We have rain, and our leaves do fall, and get 
 sodden; though I think Helstone is about as 
 perfect a place as any in the world. Recollect 
 how you rather scorned my description of it 
 one evening in Harley Street; 'a village in a 
 tale.'" 
 
14 
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 "Scorned, Margaret ! That is rather a hard 
 word." 
 
 "Perhaps it is. Only I know I should have 
 liked to have talked to you of what I was very 
 full at the time, and you — what must I call it 
 then? — spoke disrespectfully of Helstone as a 
 mere village in a tale." 
 
 " I will never do 60 again," said he, warmly. 
 They turned the corner of the walk. 
 
 " I could almost wish, Margaret — " he 
 stopped and hesitated. It was so unusual for 
 the fluent lawyer to hesitate that Margaret 
 looked up at him in a little state of question- 
 ing wonder; but in an instant — from what 
 about him she could not tell — she wished her- 
 self back with her mother — her father — any 
 where away from him, for she was sure he was 
 going to say something to which she should not 
 know what to reply. In another moment the 
 strong pride that was in her came to conquer 
 her sudden agitation, which she hoped he had 
 not perceived. Of course she could answer, 
 and answer the right thing; and it was poor 
 and despicable of her to shrink from hearing 
 any speech, as if she had not power to put an 
 end to it with her high maidenly dignity. 
 
 "Margaret," said he, taking her by surprise, 
 and getting sudden possession of her hand, so 
 that she was forced to stand still and listen, 
 despising herself for the fluttering at her heart 
 all the time; "Margaret, I wish you did Dot 
 like Helstone so much — did not seem so per- 
 fectly calm and happy here. I have been hop- 
 ing for these three months past to find you re- 
 gretting London — and London friends, a little 
 — enough to make you listen more kindly " (for 
 she was quietly but firmly striving to extricate 
 her hand from his grasp) " to one who has not 
 much to offer, it is true — nothing but prospects 
 in the future — but who does love you, Mar- 
 garet, almost in spite of himself. Margaret, 
 have I startled you too much ? Speak 1" For 
 he saw her lips quivering almost as if she were 
 going to cry. She made a strong effort to be 
 calm; she would not speak till she had suc- 
 ceeded in mastering her voice, and then she 
 said: 
 
 " I was startled. I did not know that you 
 cared for me in that way. I have always 
 thought of you as a friend; and, please, I 
 would rather go on thinking of you so. I don't 
 like to be spoken to as you have been doing. 
 I can not answer you as you want me to do, 
 and yet I should feel so sorry if I vexed you." 
 
 " Margaret," said he, looking into her eyes, 
 which met his with their open, straflfht look, 
 expressive of the utmost good faith and reluc- 
 tance to give pain, " Do you " — -he was going to 
 say — "love any one else?" But it seemed as 
 if this question would be an insult to the pure 
 serenity of those eyes. " Forgive me ! I have 
 been too abrupt. I am punished. Only let me 
 hope. Give me the poor comfort of telling 
 me you have never seen any one whom you 
 could — " Again a pause. He could not end 
 his sentence. Margaret reproached herself 
 acutely as the cause of his distress. 
 
 "Ah! if you had but never got this fancy 
 into your head! It was such a pleasure to 
 think of you as a friend." 
 
 " But I may hope, may I not, Margaret, that 
 some time you will think of me as a lover? 
 
 Not yet, I sec — there is no hurry — but some 
 time — " 
 
 She was silent for a minute or two, trying to 
 discover the truth as it was in her own heart, , 
 before replying ; then she said : 
 
 " I have never thought of — you, but as a 
 friend. I like to think of you so; but I am 
 sure I could never think of you as any thing 
 else. Pray, let us both forget that all this" 
 (" disagreeable," she was going to say, but stop- 
 ped short) " conversation has taken place." 
 
 He paused before he replied. Then, in his 
 habitual coldness of tone, he answered : 
 
 "Of course, as your feelings are so decided, 
 and as this conversation has been so evidently 
 unpleasant to you, it had better not be remem- 
 bered. That is all very fine in theory, that plan 
 of forgetting whatever is painful, but it will be 
 somewhat difficult for me, at least, to carry it 
 into execution." 
 
 " You are vexed," said she, sadly; " yet how 
 can I help it?" 
 
 She looked so truly grieved as she said this, 
 that he struggled for a moment with his real 
 disappointment, and then answered more cheer- 
 fully, but still with a little hardness in his 
 tone: 
 
 " You should make allowances for the morti- 
 fication, not only of a lover, Margaret, but of a 
 man not giyen to romance in general — prudent, 
 worldly, as some people call me — who has been 
 carried out of his usual habits by the force of a 
 passion — well, we will say no more of that; 
 but in the one outlet which he has formed for 
 the deeper and better feelings of his nature, he 
 meets with rejection and repulse. I shall have 
 to console myself with scorning my own folly. 
 A straggling barrister to think of matrimony!" 
 
 Margaret could not answer this. The whole 
 tone of it annoyed her. It seemed to touch on 
 and call out all the points of difference which 
 had often repelled li£r in him ; while yet he 
 was the pleasantest man, the most sympathiz- 
 ing friend, the person of all others who under- 
 stood her best in Harley Street. She felt a tinge 
 of contempt mingle itself with her pain at hav- 
 ing refused him. Her beautiful lip curled in 
 a slight disdain. It was well that, having made 
 the round of the garden, they came suddenly 
 upon Mr. Hale, whose whereabouts had been 
 quite forgotten by them. He had not yet fin- 
 ished the pear, which he had delicately peeled 
 in one long strip of silver-paper thinness, and 
 which he was enjoying in a deliberate manner. 
 It was like the story of the eastern king, who 
 dipped his head into a basin of water, at the 
 magician's command, and ere he instantly took 
 it out went through the experience of a lifetime. 
 Margaret felt stunned, and unable to recover her 
 self-possession enough to join in the trivial con- 
 versation that ensued between her father and 
 Mr. Lennox. She was grave, and little disposed 
 to speak ; full of wonder when Mr. Lennox would 
 go, and allow her to relax into thought on the 
 events of the last quarter of an hour. He was 
 almost as anxious to take his departure as she 
 was for him to leave ; but a few minutes light 
 and careless talking, carried on at whatever ef- 
 fort, was a sacrifice which he owed to his mor- 
 tified vanity, or his self-respect. He glanced 
 from time to time at her sad and pensive face. 
 
 "I am not so indifferent to her as she be- 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 15 
 
 lieves," thought he to himself. "I do not give 
 tip hope." 
 
 Before a quarter of an hour was over, he had 
 fallen into a way of conversing with quiet sar- 
 casm ; speaking of life in London and life in the 
 country, as if he were conscious of his sec- 
 ond mocking self, and afraid of his own satire. 
 Mr. Hale was puzzled. His visitor was a differ- 
 ent man to what he had seen him before at the 
 wedding-breakfast, and at dinner to day; a 
 lighter, cleverer, more worldly man, and, as 
 such, dissonant to Mr. Hale. It was a relief to 
 all three when Mr. Lennox said that he must 
 go directly if he meant to catch the five o'clock 
 train. They proceeded to the house to find Mrs. 
 Hale, and wish her good-by. At the last mo- 
 ment, Henry Lennox's real self broke through 
 the erust. 
 
 " Margaret, don't despise me; I have a heart, 
 notwithstanding all this good-for-nothing way 
 of talking. As a proof of it, I believe I love 
 you more than ever — if I do not hate you — for 
 the disdain with which you have listened to me 
 during this last half-hour. Good-by, Margaret 
 — Margaret!" 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 He was gone. The house was shut up for the 
 evening. No more deep blue skies or crimson 
 and amber tints. Margaret went up to dress 
 for the early tea, finding Dixon in a pretty 
 temper from the interruption which a, visitor 
 had naturally occasioned on » busy day. She 
 showed it by brushing away viciously at Mar- 
 garet's hair, under pretense of being in a great 
 hurry to go to Mrs. Hale. Yet, after all, Mar- 
 garet had to wait a long time in the drawing- 
 room before her mother came down. She sat 
 by herself at the fire, with unlighted candles 
 on the table behind her, thinking over the 
 day, the happy walk, happy sketching, cheer- 
 ful pleasant dinner, and the uncomfortable, 
 miserable walk in the garden. 
 
 How different men were to women! Here 
 was she disturbed and unhappy, because her 
 instinct had made any thing but a refusal im- 
 possible ; while he, not many minutes after he 
 had met with a rejection of what ought to have 
 been the deepest, holiest proposal of his life, 
 could speak as if briefs, success, and all its 
 superficial consequences of a good house, Clevel- 
 and agreeable society, were the sole avowed 
 objects of his desires. Oh dear 1 how she could 
 have loved him if he had but been different, 
 with a difference which she felt, on reflection, 
 to be one that went low — deep down. Then 
 she took it into her head that, after all, his 
 lightness might be but assumed, to cover a bit- 
 terness of disappointment which would have 
 been stamped on her own heart if she had 
 loved and been rejected. 
 
 Her mother came into the room before this 
 whirl of thoughts was adjusted into any thing 
 like order. Margaret had to shake off the re- 
 collections of what had been done and said 
 through the day, and turn a sympathizing 
 listener to the account of how Dixon had com- 
 plained that the ironing-blanket had been burnt 
 again ; and how Susan Lightfoot had been seen 
 
 with artificial flowers in her bonnet, thereby 
 giving evidence of a vain and giddy character. 
 Mr. Hale sipped his tea in abstracted silence ; 
 Margaret had the responses all to herself. She 
 wondered how her father and mother could be 
 so forgetful, so regardless of their companion 
 through the day, as never to mention his name. 
 She forgot that he had not made them an offer. 
 
 After tea Mr. Hale got up, and stood with 
 his elbow on the chimney-piece, leaning his 
 head on his hand, musing over something, 
 and from time to time sighing deeply. Mrs. 
 Hale went out to consult with Dixon about 
 some winter clothing for the poor. Margaret 
 was preparing her mother's worsted work, and 
 rather shrinking from the thought of the long 
 evening, and wishing that bed-time were come 
 that she might go over the events of the day 
 again. 
 
 "Margaret!" said Mr. Hale, at last, in a sort 
 of sudden desperate way, that made her start. 
 " Is that tapeStry thing of immediate conse- 
 quence? I mean, can you lea\e it and come 
 into my study? I want to speak to you about 
 something very serious to us all." 
 
 "Very serious to us all." Mr. Lennox had 
 never had the opportunity of having any 
 private conversation with her father after her 
 refusal, or else that would indeed be a very 
 serious affair. In the first place, Margaret felt 
 guilty and ashamed of having grown so much 
 into a woman as to be thought of in marriage ; 
 and secondly, she did not know if her father 
 might not be displeased that -she had taken 
 upon herself to decline Mr. Lennox's proposal. 
 But she soon felt it was not about any thing, 
 which, having only lately and suddenly occur- 
 red, could have given rise to any complicated 
 thoughts, that her father wished to speak to 
 her. He made her take a chair by him; he 
 stirred the fire, snuffed the candles, and sighed 
 once or twice before he could make up his 
 mind to say — and it came out with ajerk after 
 all — "Margaret! I am going to leave Hel- 
 stone." 
 
 " Leave Helstone, papa ! But why ?" 
 
 Mr. Hale did not answer for a minute or two. 
 He played with some papers on the table in a 
 nervous and confused manner, opening his lips 
 to speak several times, but closing them again 
 without having the courage to utter a word. 
 Margaret could not bear the sight of the sus- 
 pense, which was even more distressing to her 
 father than to herself. 
 
 " But why, dear papa ? Do tell me I" 
 
 He looked up at her suddenly, and then said 
 with a slow and enforced calmness : 
 
 " Because I must no longer be a minister in 
 the Church of England." 
 
 Margaret bad imagined nothing less than 
 that some of the preferments which her mother 
 so much desired had befallen her father at last 
 — something that would force him to leave 
 beautiful, beloved Helstone, and perhaps com- 
 pel him to go and live in some of the stately 
 and silent Closes which Margaret had seen 
 from time to time in cathedral towns. They 
 were grand and imposing places, but if, to go 
 there, it was necessary to leave Helstone as a. 
 home forever, that would have been a sad, 
 long, lingering pain. But nothing to the shock 
 she received from Mr. Hale's last speech. What 
 
16 
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 could he mean ? It was all the -worse for being 
 so mysterious. The aspect of piteous distress 
 on his face, almost as if imploring a merciful 
 and kind judgment from his child, gave her a 
 sudden sickening. Could he have become im- 
 plicated in any thing Frederick had done? 
 Frederick was an outlaw. Had her father, 
 out of a natural love for his son, connived at 
 any — 
 
 "Oh! what is it? do speak, papa! tell me 
 all ! Why can you no longer be a clergyman? 
 Surely, if the bishop were told all we know 
 about Frederick, and the hard, unjust — " 
 
 " It is nothing about Frederick ; the bishop 
 would have nothing to do with that. It is all 
 myself. Margaret, I will tell you about it I 
 will answer any questions this once, but after 
 to-night let us never speak of it again. I can 
 meet the consequences of my painful, miserable 
 doubts ; but it is an effort beyond me to speak 
 of what has caused me 60 much suffering." 
 
 "Doubts, papa! Doubts ae to religion?" 
 asked Margaret, more shocked than ever. 
 
 "No! not doubts as to religion; not the 
 slightest injury to that." 
 
 He paused. Margaret sighed, as if standing 
 on the verge of some new horror. He began 
 again, speaking rapidly, as if to get over a set task. 
 
 " You could not understand it all, if I told 
 you — my anxiety, for years past, to know 
 whether I had any right to hold my living — 
 my efforts to quench my smouldering doubts 
 by the authority of the Church. Oh! Mar- 
 garet, how I love the holy Church from which 
 I am to be shut out!" He could not go on for 
 a moment or two. Margaret could not tell 
 what to say ; it seemed to her as terribly mys- 
 terious as if her father were about to turn Mo- 
 hammedan. 
 
 "I have been reading to-day of the two 
 thousand who were ejected from their church- 
 es" — continued Mr. Hale, smiling faintly — 
 "trying to steal some of their bravery ; but it 
 is of no use — no use — I can not help feeling it 
 acutely." 
 
 " But, papa, have you well considered ? Oh ! 
 it seems so terrible, so shocking," said Mar- 
 garet, suddenly bursting into tears. The one 
 staid foundation of her home, of her idea of 
 her beloved father, seemed reeling and rocking. 
 What could she say? What was to be done? 
 The sight of her distress made Mr. Hale nerve 
 himself, in order to try and comfort her. He 
 swallowed down the dry choking sobs which 
 had been heaving up from his heart hitherto, 
 and going to his book-ease he took down a 
 volume, which he had often been reading late- 
 ly, and from which he thought he had derived 
 strength to enter upon the course in which he 
 was now embarked. 
 
 "Listen, dear Margaret," said he, putting 
 one arm round her waist. She took his hand 
 in hers and grasped it tight, but she could not 
 lift up her head ; nor indeed could she attend 
 to what he read, so great was her internal 
 agitation. 
 
 "This is the soliloquy of one who was once 
 a clergyman in a country parish, like me; it 
 was written by a Mr. Oldfield, minister of 
 Carsington, in Derbyshire, a hundred and sixty 
 years ago, or more. His trials are over. He 
 fought the good fight." These last two sen- 
 
 tences he spoke low, as if to himself. Then he 
 read aloud — 
 
 "When thou canst no longer continue in 
 thy work without dishonor to God, discredit 
 ■to religion, foregoing thy integrity, wounding 
 conscience, spoiling thy peace, and hazarding 
 the loss of thy salvation ; in a word, when the 
 conditions upon which thou must continue (if 
 thou wilt continue) in thy employments are 
 sinful, and unwarranted by the Word of God, 
 thou mayest, yea, thou must believe that God 
 will turn thy very silence, suspension, depriva- 
 tion, and laying aside, to His glory, and the 
 advancement of the Gospel's interest. When 
 God will not use thee in one kind, yet He will 
 in another. A soul, that desires to serve and 
 honor Him shall never want opportunity to do 
 it; nor must thou so limit the Holy One of 
 Israel, as to think He hath but one way in 
 which he can glorify Himself by thee. He can 
 do it by thy silence as well as by thy preach- 
 ing; thy laying aside as well as thy continu- 
 ance in thy work. It is not pretense of doing 
 God the greatest service, or performing the 
 weightiest duty, that will excuse the least sin, 
 though that sin capacitated or gave us the op- 
 portunity for doing that duty. Thou wilt have 
 little thanks, my sou! ! if, when thou art 
 charged with corrupting God's worship, falsify- 
 ing thy vows, thou pretendest a necessity for 
 it in order to a continuance in the ministry." 
 
 As he read this, and glanced at much more 
 which he did not read, he gained resolution for 
 himself, and felt as if he too could be brave 
 and firm in doing what he believed to be right ; 
 but as he ceased he heard Margaret's low con- 
 vulsive sob ; and his courage sank down under 
 the keen sense of suffering. 
 
 "Margaret, dear!" saidhe, drawing her closer, 
 " think of the early martyrs ; think of the thou- 
 sands who have suffered." 
 
 "But, father," said she, suddenly lifting up 
 her flushed, tear-wet face, " the early martyrs 
 suffered for the truth, while you — oh! dear, 
 dear papa!" 
 
 " I suffer for conscience' sake my child," said 
 he, with a dignity that was only tremulous 
 from the acute sensitiveness of his character ; 
 ' ' I must do what my conscience bids. I have 
 borne long with self-reproach that would have 
 roused any mind less torpid and cowardly than 
 mine." He shook his head as he went on. 
 " Your poor mother's fond wish, gratified at 
 last in the mocking way in which over-fond 
 wishes are too often fulfilled — Sodom apples as 
 they are — has brought on this crisis, for which 
 I ought to be, and I hope I am thankful. It 
 is not a month since the bishop offered me an- 
 other living ; if I had accepted it, I should have 
 had to make a fresh declaration of conformity 
 to the Liturgy at my -institution. Margaret, 
 I tried to do it; I tried to content myself 
 with simply refusing the additional preferment, 
 and stopping quietly here — strangling my con- 
 science now, as I had strained it before. God 
 forgive me." 
 
 He rose and walked up and down the room, 
 speaking low words of self-reproach and hu- 
 miliation, of which Margaret was thankful to 
 hear but few. At last he said, 
 
 "Margaret, I return to the old sad burden: 
 we must leave Helstone." 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 17 
 
 "Yes! I see. But when?" 
 
 " I have written to the bishop — I dare say I 
 have told you so, but I forget things justno-ws*" 
 said Mr. Hale, collapsing into his depressed 
 manner as soon as he came to talk of hard 
 matter-of-fact details, "informing him of my 
 intention to resign this vicarage. He has been 
 most kind ; he has used arguments and expos- 
 tulations, all in vain — in vain. They are but 
 what I have tried upon myself, without avail. 
 I shall have to take my deed of resignation, 
 and wait upon the bishop myself, to bid him 
 farewell. That will be a trial. But worse, 
 far worse, will be the parting from my dear 
 people. There is a curate appointed to read 
 prayers, a Mr. Brown. He will come to stay 
 with us to-morrow. Next Sunday I preach my 
 farewell sermon." 
 
 Was it to be so sudden then? thought Mar- 
 garet; and yet perhaps it was as well. Linger- 
 ing would only add stings to the pain ; it was 
 better to be stunned into numbness by hearing 
 of all these arrangements, which seemed to be 
 nearly completed before she had been told. 
 "What does mamma say?" asked she, with a 
 deep sigh. 
 
 To her surprise, her father began to walk 
 about again before he answered. At length he 
 stopped and replied: 
 
 "•Margaret, I am a poor coward after all. I 
 can not bear to give pain. I know so well your 
 mother's married life has not been all she hoped 
 — all she had a right to expect — and this will 
 be such a blow to her, that I have never had 
 the heart, the power to tell her. She must be 
 told though, now," said he, looking wistfully at 
 his daughter. Margaret was almost overpow- 
 ered with the idea that her mother knew no- 
 thing of it all, and yet the affair was so far ad- 
 vanced ! 
 
 "Yes, indeed she must," said Margaret. 
 "Perhaps, after all, she may not — Oh yes I 
 she will, she must be shocked" — as the force 
 of the blow returned upon her herself in trying 
 to realize how another would take it. "Where 
 are we to go to ?" said she at last, struck with 
 a fresh wonder as to their future plans, if plans 
 indeed her father had. 
 
 "To Milton-Northern," he answered, with a 
 dull indifference, for he had perceived that, al- 
 though his daughter's love had made her cling 
 to him, and for a moment strive to soothe him 
 with her love, yet the keenness of the pain was 
 as fresh as ever in her mind. 
 
 " Milton-Northern I The manufacturing town 
 in Darkshire?" 
 
 " Yes," said he, in the same despondent, in- 
 different way. 
 
 "Why there, papa?" asked she. 
 
 " Because there I can earn bread for my fam- 
 ily. Because I know no one there, and no one 
 knows Helstone, or can ever talk to me about 
 it." 
 
 " Bread for your family! I thought you and 
 mamma ha<l " — and then she stopped, checking 
 her natural interest as to their future life, as 
 she saw the gathering gloom on her father's 
 brow. But he, with his quick intuitive sym- 
 pathy, read in her face as in a mirror the reflec- 
 tions of his own moody depression, and turned 
 it off with an effort. 
 
 " You shaE be told all, Margaret Only help 
 B 
 
 me to tell your mother. I think I could do any 
 thing but that: the idea of her distress turns 
 me sick with dread. If I tell you all, perhaps 
 you could break it to her to-morrow. I am go- 
 ing out for the day, to hid farmer Dobson and 
 the poor people on Bracy Common good-by. 
 Would you dislike breaking it to her very 
 much, Margaret?" 
 
 Margaret did dislike it, did shrink from it 
 more than from any thing she had ever had to 
 do in her life before. She could not speak, all 
 at once. Her father said, " You dislike it very 
 much, don't you, Margaret?" Then she con- 
 quered herself, and said, with a bright strong 
 look on her face : 
 
 "It is a painful thing, but it must be done, 
 and I will do it as well as ever I can. You 
 must have many painful things to do." 
 
 Mr. Hale shook his head despondingly : he 
 pressed her hand in token of gratitude. Mar- 
 garet was nearly upset again into a burst of 
 crying. To turn her thoughts, she said: "Now 
 tell me, papa, what our plans are. You and 
 mamma have some money independent of the 
 income from the living, have not you? Aunt 
 Shaw has, I know." 
 
 "Yes, I suppose we have about a hundred 
 and seventy pounds a year of our own. Seven- 
 ty of that has always gone to Frederick, since 
 he has been abroad. I don't know if he wants 
 it all," he continued in a hesitating manner. 
 " He must have some pay for serving with the 
 Spanish army." 
 
 "Frederick must not suffer," said Margaret, 
 decidedly ; " in a foreign country ; so unjustly 
 treated by his own. A hundred is left. Could 
 not you, and I, and mamma live on a hundred 
 a year in some very cheap — very quiet part of 
 England! Oh 1 I think we could/ 
 
 "No!" said Mr. Hale. "That would not 
 answer. I must do something. I must make 
 myself busy to keep off morbid thoughts. Be- 
 sides, in a countryparish I should be so pain- 
 fully reminded of Helstone, and my duties here. 
 I could not bear it, Margaret. And a hundred 
 a year would go a very little way after the 
 necessary wants of housekeeping are seen after, 
 toward providing your mother with all the com- 
 forts she has been accustomed to, and ought to 
 have. No: we must go to Milton. That is 
 settled. I can always decide better by myself, 
 and not influenced by those whom I love," said 
 he, as a half apology for having arranged so 
 much before he had told any one of his family 
 of his intentions. " I can not stand objections. 
 They make me so undecided." 
 
 Margaret resolved to keep silence. After all 
 what did it signify where they went, compared 
 to the one terrible change? 
 
 Mr. Hale went on: "A few months ago, 
 when my misery of doubt became more then I 
 could bear, without speaking, I wrote to Mr. 
 Bell — you remember Mr. Bell, Margaret ?" 
 
 " No ; I never saw him, I think. But I know 
 who he is. Frederick's godfather — your old 
 tutor at Oxford, don't you mean?" 
 
 " Yes. He is a fellow of Plymouth college 
 there. He is a native of Milton-Northern, I be- 
 lieve. At any rate he has property there, which 
 has very much increased in value since Milton 
 has become such a large manufacturing toijn. 
 Well ; I had reason to suspect — to imagine — I 
 
18 
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 had better say nothing about it, too. But I felt 
 sure of sympathy from Mr. Bell. I don't know 
 that he gave me much strength. He has lived 
 an easy life in his college all his days. But he 
 has been as kind as can be. And it is owing to 
 him we are going to Milton." 
 
 "How?" said Margaret. 
 
 " Why, he has tenants, and houses, and mills 
 there; so, though he dislikes the place — too 
 bustling for one of his habits — he is obliged to 
 keep up some sort of connection ; and he tells 
 me that he hears there is a good opening for a 
 private tutor there." 
 
 "A private tutor I" said Margaret, looking 
 scornful: "What in the world do manufactur- 
 ers want to do with the classics, or literature, 
 or the accomplishments of a gentleman i" 
 
 " Oh," said her father, " some of them really 
 seem to be fine fellows, conscious of their own 
 deficiencies, which is more than many a man 
 at Oxford is. Some want resolutely to learn, 
 though they have come to man's estate. Some 
 want their children to be better instructed 
 than they themselves have been. At any rate, 
 there is an opening, as I have said, for a private 
 tutor : Mr. Bell has recommended me to a Mr. 
 Thornton, a tenant of his and a very intelligent 
 man, as far as I can judge from his letters. 
 And in Milton, Margaret, I shall find a busy 
 life, if not a happy one, and people and scenes 
 so different that I shall never be reminded of 
 Helstone." 
 
 There was the secret motive, as Margaret 
 knew from her own feelings. It would be dif- 
 ferent. Discordant as it was — with almost a 
 detestation for all she had ever heard of the 
 north of England, the manufacturers, the peo- 
 ple, the wild and bleak country — there was yet 
 this one recommendation — it would be differ- 
 ent from Helstone, and could never remind them 
 of that beloved place. 
 
 " When do we go i" asked Margaret, after a 
 short silence. 
 
 " I do not know exactly. I wanted to talk 
 it over with you. You see, your mother 
 knows nothing about it yet;; but I think in a 
 fortnight — after my deed of resignation is sent 
 in, I shall have no right to remain." 
 
 Margaret was almost stunned. 
 
 "In a fortnight!" 
 
 " No — no, not exactly to a day. Nothing is 
 fixed," said her father, with anxious hesitation, 
 as he noticed the filmy sorrow that came over 
 her eyes and the sudden change in her complex- 
 ion. But she recovered herself immediately. 
 
 " Yes, papa, it had better be fixed soon and 
 decidedly, as you say. Only mamma to know 
 nothing about it I It is that that is the great 
 perplexity." 
 
 " Poor Maria !" replied Mr. Hale tenderly ; 
 " Poor, poor Maria ! Oh, if I were not married 
 — if I were but myself in the world, how easy 
 it would be ! As it is — Margaret, I dare not 
 tell her I" 
 
 "No," said Margaret sadly, "I will do it. 
 Give me till to-morrow evening to choose my 
 time. Oh, papa!" cried she with sudden pas- 
 sionate entreaty, " say — tell me it is a night- 
 mare — a horrid dream — not the real waking 
 truth ! You can not mean that you are really 
 go^ng to leave the Church — to give up Hel- 
 stone — to be forever separate from me, from 
 
 mamma — led away by some delusion — some 
 temptation! You do not really mean it!" 
 
 Mr. Hale sat in rigid stillness while she 
 6poke. Then he looked her in the face, and 
 said ina slow, hoarse, measured way — "I do 
 mean it, Margaret. You must not deceive 
 yourself into doubting the reality of my words, 
 my fixed intention and resolve." He looked at 
 her in the same steady, stony manner for some 
 moments after he had done speaking. She, 
 too, gazed back with pleading eyes before she 
 would believe that it was irrevocable. Then 
 she arose and went, without another word or 
 look, toward the door. As her fingers were on 
 the handle, he called her back. He was stand- 
 ing by the fireplace, shrunk and stooping; but 
 as she came near he drew himself up to his 
 full height, and placing his hands on her head, 
 he said, solemnly : 
 
 "The blessing of God be upon thee, my 
 child." 
 
 "And may He restore you to His Church,'' 
 responded she, out of the fullness of her heart. 
 The next moment she feared lest this answer 
 to his blessing might be irreverent, wrong — 
 might hurt him as coming from his daughter, 
 and she threw her arms round his neck. He 
 held her to him for a minute or two. She 
 heard him murmur to himself, "The martyrs 
 and confessors have had even more pain' to 
 bear — I will not shrink." 
 
 They were startled by hearing Mrs. Hale 
 inquiring for her daughter. They started asun- 
 der in the full consciousness of all that was be- 
 fore them. Mr. Hale hurriedly said — "Go, 
 Margaret, go. I shall be out all to-morrow. 
 Before night you will have told your mother." 
 
 "Yes," she replied. And she returned to 
 the drawing-room in a stunned and dizzy state. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Margaret made a good listener to all her 
 mother's little plans for adding some small 
 comforts to the lot of the poorer parishioners. 
 She could not help listening, though each new 
 project was a stab to her heart. By the time 
 the frost had set in they should be far away 
 from Helstone ; old Simon's rheumatism might 
 be bad and his eyesight worse ; there would be 
 no one to go and read to him, and comfort him 
 with little porringers of broth and good red 
 flannel : or if there was, it would be a stranger, 
 and the old man would wateh in vain for her. 
 Mary Domville's little crippled boy would crawl 
 in vain to the door and look for her coming 
 through the forest. These poor friends would 
 never understand why she had forsaken them ; 
 and there were many others besides: "Papa 
 has always spent the income he derived from 
 his living in the parish. I am, perhaps, en- 
 croaching upon the next dues, but the winter 
 is likely to be severe, and our poor old people 
 must be helped." 
 
 " Oh, mamma, let us do all we can," said 
 Margaret eagerly, not seeing the prudential 
 side of the question, only grasping at the idea 
 that they were rendering such help for the last 
 time ; " we may not be here long." 
 
 "Do you feel ill, my darling?" asked Mrs. 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 19 
 
 Hale, anxiously, misunderstanding Margaret's 
 hint of the uncertainty of their stay at Hel- 
 stone. " You look pale and tired. It is this 
 soft, damp, unhealthy air." 
 
 "No — no, mamma, it is not that: it is de- 
 licious air. It smells of the freshest, purest fra- 
 grance, after the smokiness of Harley Street. 
 But I am tired : it surely must be near bed- 
 time." 
 
 " Not far off — it is half-past nine. You had 
 better go to bed at once, dear. Ask Dixon for 
 some gruel. I -will come and see you as soon 
 as you are in bed. I am afraid you have taken 
 eold ; or the bad air from some of the stagnant 
 ponds — " 
 
 " Oh, mamma," said Margaret, faintly smiling 
 as she kissed her mother, " I am quite well — 
 don't alarm yourself about me; I am only 
 tired." 
 
 Margaret went up-stairs. To soothe her moth- 
 er's anxiety she submitted to a basin of gruel. 
 She was lying languidly in bed when Mrs. Hale 
 came up to make some last inquiries and to kiss 
 her before going to her own room for the night. 
 But the instant she heard her mother's door 
 locked, she sprang out of bed, and throwing 
 her dressing-gown on, she began to pace up and 
 down the room, until the creaking of one of the 
 old boards reminded her that she must make 
 no noise. She went and curled herself up on 
 the window-seat in the small, deeply recessed 
 window. That morning when she had looked 
 out, her heart had danced at seeing the bright 
 clear lights on the church tower, which foretold 
 a fine and sunny day. This evening — sixteen 
 hours at most had past by — she sat down, too 
 full of sorrow to cry, but with a dull, cold pain, 
 which seemed to have pressed the youth and 
 buoyancy out of her heart, never to return. 
 Mr. Henry Lennox's visit — his offer — was like 
 a dream, a thing beside her actual life. The 
 hard reality was, that her father had so admit- 
 ted tempting doubts into his mind as to become 
 a schismatic — an outcast ; all the changes con- 
 sequent upon this grouped themselves around 
 that one great blighting fact. 
 
 She looked out upon the dark-gray lines of 
 the church tower, square and straight in the 
 centre of the view, cutting against the deep 
 blue transparent depths beyond, into which 
 she gazed, and felt that she might gaze forever, 
 seeing at every moment some further distance, 
 and yet no sign of God ! It seemed to her at 
 the moment as if the earth was more' utterly 
 desolate than if girt in by an iron dome, behind 
 which there might be the ineffaceable peace 
 and glory of the Almighty : those never-ending 
 depths of space, in their still serenity, were 
 more mocking to her than any material bounds 
 could be — shutting in the cries of earth's suffer- 
 ers, which now might ascend into that infinite 
 splendor of vastness and be lost — lost forever, 
 before they reached His throne. In this mood 
 her father came in unheard. The moonlight 
 was strong enough to let him see his daughter 
 in her unusual place and attitude. He came to 
 her and touched "her shoulder before she was 
 aware that he was there. 
 
 " Margaret, I heard you were up. I could 
 not help coming in to ask you to pray with 
 me — to say the Lord's Prayer; that will do 
 good to both of us." 
 
 Mr. Hale and Margaret knelt by the window- 
 seat — he looking up, she bowed down in hum- 
 ble shame. God was there, close around them, 
 hearing her father's whispered words. Her 
 father might be a heretic ; but had not she, in 
 her despairing doubts not five minutes before, 
 shown herself a far more utter skeptic ? She 
 spoke not a word, but stole to bed after her 
 father had left her, like a child ashamed of its 
 fault. If the world was full of perplexing pro- 
 blems she would trust, and only ask to see the 
 one step needful for the hour. Mr. Lennox— r 
 his visit, his proposal — the remembrance of 
 which had been so rudely pushed aside by the 
 subsequent events of the day — haunted her 
 dreams that night. He was climbing up some 
 tree of fabulous height to reach the branch 
 whereon was Blung her bonnet : he was falling, 
 and she was struggling to save him, but held 
 back by some invisible powerful hand. He was 
 dead. And yet, with a shifting of the scene, 
 she was once more in the Harley Street draw- 
 ing-room, talking to him as of old, and still with 
 a consciousness all the time that she had seen 
 him killed by that terrible fall. 
 
 Miserable, unresting night 1 111 preparation 
 for the coming day ! She awoke with a start, 
 unrefreshed, and conscious of some reality worse 
 even than her feverish dreams. It all came 
 back upon her ; not merely the sorrow, but the 
 terrible discord in the sorrow. Where, to what 
 distance apart, had her father wandered, led 
 by doubts which were to her temptations of the 
 Evil One? She longed to ask, and yet would 
 not have heard for all the world. 
 
 The fine crisp morning made her mother feel 
 particularly well and happy at breakfast-time. 
 She talked on, planning village kindnesses, un- 
 heeding the silence of her husband and the mo- 
 nosyllabic answers of Margaret. Before the 
 things were cleared away, Mr. Hale got up ; he 
 leaned one hand on the table, as if to support 
 himself: 
 
 " I shall not be at home till evening. I am 
 going to Bracy Common, and will ask Farmer 
 Dobson to give me something for dinner. I 
 shall be back to tea at seven." 
 
 He did not look at either of them, but Mar- 
 garet knew what he meant. By seven the an- 
 nouncement must be made to her mother. Mr. 
 Hale would have delayed making it till half- 
 past six, but Margaret was of different stuff. 
 She could not bear the impending weight on 
 her mind all the day long ; better get the worst 
 over ; the day would be too short to comfort 
 her mother. But while she stood by the win- 
 dow, thinking how to begin, and waiting for 
 the servant to have left the room, her mother 
 had gone up-stairs to put on her things to go to 
 the school. She came down ready equipped, in 
 a brisker mood than usual. 
 
 " Mother, come round the garden with me 
 this morning; just one turn,' said Margaret, 
 putting her arm round Mrs. Hale's waist. 
 
 They passed through the open window. Mrs. 
 Hale spoke — said something — Margaret could 
 not tell what. Her eye caught on a bee enter- 
 ing a deep-belled flower ; when that bee flew 
 forth with his spoil she would begin — that 
 should be the sign. Out he came. 
 
 "Mamma ! Papa is going to leave Helstone I" 
 she blurted forth. " He is going to leave the 
 
20 
 
 I NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 Church, and live in Milton-Northern." There 
 were the three hard facts, hardly spoken. 
 
 " What makes you say so ?" asked Mrs. Hale, 
 in a surprised incredulous voice. " Who has 
 been telling you such nonsense ?" 
 
 "Papa himself," said Margaret, longing to 
 say something gentle and consoling, but liter- 
 ally not knowing how. They were close to a 
 garden-bench. Mrs. Hale sat down, and began 
 to cry. 
 
 " I don't understand you," she said. " Either 
 you have made some great mistake, or I don't 
 quite understand you." 
 
 " No, mother, I have made no mistake. Papa 
 has written to the bishop, saying that he has 
 sueh doubts that he can not conscientiously 
 remain a priest of the Church of England, and 
 that he mu6t give up Helstone. He has also 
 consulted Mr. Bell, Frederick's godfather, you 
 know, mamma ; and it is arranged that we go 
 to live in Milton-Northern." Mrs. Hale looked 
 up in Margaret's face all the time she was speak- 
 ing these words: the shadow on her counte- 
 nance told that she, at least, believed in the 
 truth of what she said. 
 
 " I don't think it can be true," said Mrs. Hale, 
 at length. "He would surely have told me 
 before it came to this." 
 
 It came strongly upon Margaret's mind that 
 her mother ought to have been told : that what- 
 ever her faults of discontent and repining might 
 have been, it was an error in her father to have 
 left her to learn his change of opinion, and his 
 approaching change of life from her better-in- 
 formed child. Margaret sat down by her moth- 
 er, and took her unresisting head on her breast, 
 bending her own soft cheeks down caressingly 
 to touch her face. 
 
 " Dear, darling mamma ! we were so afraid 
 of giving you pain. Papa felt so acutely — you 
 know you are not strong, and there must have 
 been such terrible suspense to go through." 
 
 "When did he tell you, Margaret?" 
 
 " Yesterday, only yesterday," replied Mar- 
 garet, detecting the jealousy which prompted 
 the inquiry. "Poor papa!" — trying to divert 
 her mother's thoughts into compassionate sym- 
 pathy for all her father had gone through. Sirs. 
 Hale raised her head. 
 
 " What does he mean by having doubts ?" she 
 asked. "Surely, he does not mean that he 
 thinks differently— that he knows better than 
 the Church." 
 
 Margaret shook her head, and the tears came 
 into her eyes, as her mother touched the bare 
 nerve of her own regret. 
 
 " Can't the bishop set him right?" asked Mrs. 
 Hale, half impatiently. 
 
 "I'm afraid not," said Margaret "But I 
 did not aBk. I could not bear to hear what he 
 might answer. It is all settled at any rate. 
 He is going to leave Helstone in a fortnight. I 
 am not sure if he did not say he had sent in his 
 deed of resignation." 
 
 " In a fortnight!" exclaimed Mrs. Hale. "I 
 do think this is very strange — not at all right. 
 I call it vory unfeeling," said she, beginning to 
 take relief in tears. " He has doubts, you say, 
 and gives up his living, and all without con- 
 sulting me. I dare say if he had told mo his 
 doubts at the first I could have nipped them in 
 the bud." 
 
 Mistaken a8 Margaret felt her father's con- 
 duct to have been, she could not bear to hear 
 it blamed by her mother. She knew that his , 
 very reserve had originated in a tenderness for 
 her, that might be cowardly, but was not an-' 
 feeling. 
 
 "I almost hoped you might have been glad 
 to leave Helstone, mamma," said she, after a 
 pause. "You have never been well in this 
 air, you know." 
 
 " You can't think the smoky air of a manu- 
 facturing town, all chimneys and dirt like Mil- 
 ton-Northern, would be better than this air, 
 which is pure and sweet, if it is too soft and re- 
 laxing. Fancy living in the middle of factor- 
 ies, and factory people I Though, of course, if 
 your father leaves the Church, we shall not be 
 admitted into society any where. It will be 
 such a disgrace to us! Poor dear Sir John! 
 It is well he is not alive to see what your 
 father has come to! Every day after dinner, 
 when I was a girl, living with your aunt Shaw, 
 at Beresford Court, Sir John used to give for 
 the first toast — ' Church and King, and down 
 with the Rump.' " 
 
 Margaret was glad that her mother's thoughts 
 were turned away from the fact of her hus- 
 band's silence to her on the point which must 
 have been 60 near his heart. Next to the 
 serious vital anxiety as to the nature of her 
 father's doubts, this was the one circumstance 
 of the case that gave Margaret the most pain. 
 
 "You know, we have very little society 
 here, mamma. The Gormans, who are our 
 nearest neighbors (to call society — and we 
 hardly ever see them), have been in trade just 
 as much as these Milton-Northern people." 
 
 "Yes," said Mrs. Hale, almost indignantly, 
 "but, at any rate, the Gormans made carriages 
 for half the gentry of the county, and were 
 brought into some kind of intercourse with 
 them; but these factory people, who on earth 
 wears cotton that can afford linen?" 
 
 "Well, mamma, I give up the cotton spin- 
 ners; I am not standing up for them, anymore 
 than for any other trades-people. Only we 
 shall have little enough to do with them." 
 
 " Why on earth has your father fixed on 
 Milton-Northern to live in ?" 
 
 "Partly," said Margaret, sighing, "because 
 it is so very different from Helstone — partly 
 because Mr. Bell says there is an opening there 
 for a private tutor." 
 
 " Private tutor in Milton ! Why can't he go 
 to Oxford, and be a tutor to gentlemen ?" 
 
 "You forget, mamma! He is leaving the 
 Church on account of his opinions — his doubts 
 would do him no good at Oxford." 
 
 Mrs. Hale was silent for some time, quietly 
 crying. At last she said — 
 
 " And the furniture — how in the world are 
 we to manage the removal ? I never removed 
 in my life, and only a fortnight to think about 
 it." 
 
 Margaret was inexpressibly relieved to find 
 that her mother's anxiety and distress was 
 lowered to this point, so insignificant to her, 
 and on which she could do so much to help. 
 She planned and promised, and led her mother 
 on to arrange fully as much as could be fixed 
 before they knew somewhat more definitively 
 what Mr. Hale intended to do. All through 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 21 
 
 the day Margaret never left her mother ; bend- 
 ing her whole soul to sympathize in all the 
 various turns her feelings took ; toward even- 
 ing especially, aB she became more and more 
 anxious that her father should find a soothing 
 welcome home awaiting him after his return 
 from his day of fatigue and distress. She dwelt 
 upon what he must have borne in secret for 
 long ; her mother only replied coldly that he 
 ought to have told her, and then that at any 
 rate he would have had an adviser to give him 
 counsel; and Margaret turned faint at heart 
 when she heard her father's step in the hall. 
 She dared not go to meet him, and tell him 
 what she had done all day, for fear of her 
 mother's jealous annoyance. She heard him 
 linger as if awaiting her, or some sign of her ; 
 and she dared not stir ; she saw by her mother's 
 twitching lips, and changing color that she too 
 was aware that her husband had returned. 
 Presently he opened the room door, and stood 
 there uncertain whether to come in. His face 
 was gray and pale; he had a timid, fearful 
 look in his eyes; something almost pitiful to 
 see in a man's face ; but that look of despond- 
 ent uncertainty, of mental and bodily langor, 
 touched his wife's heart. She went to him, 
 and threw herself on his breast, crying out — 
 
 "Oh! Richard, Richard, you should have 
 told me sooner !" 
 
 And then, in tears, Margaret left her, as she 
 rushed up stairs to throw herself on her bed, 
 and hide her face in the pillows to stifle the 
 hysteric sobs that would force their way at 
 last, after the rigid self-control of the whole day. 
 
 How long she lay thus she could not tell. 
 She heard no noise, though the housemaid 
 came in to arrange the room. The affrighted 
 girl strode out again on tip toe, and went and 
 told Mrs. Dixon that Miss Hale was crying as 
 if her heart would break; she was sure she 
 would make herself deadly ill if she went on 
 at that rate. In consequence of this Margaret 
 felt herself touched, and started up into a sit- 
 ting posture ; she saw the accustomed room, 
 the figure of Dixon in shadow, as the latter 
 stood holding the candle a little behind her, 
 for fear of the effect on Miss Hale's startled 
 eyes, swollen and blinded as they were. 
 
 " Oh, Dixon I I did not hear you come into 
 the room!" said Margaret, resuming her trem- 
 bling self-restraint " Is it very late J" continued 
 she, lifting herself languidly off the bed, yet 
 letting her feet touch the ground without fair- 
 ly standing down, as she shaded her wet ruf- 
 fled hair off her face, and tried to look as 
 though nothing were the matter ; as if she had 
 only been asleep. 
 
 " I hardly can tell what time it is," replied 
 Dixon, in an aggrieved tone of voice. " Since 
 your mamma told me this terrible news, when 
 I dressed her for tea, I have lost all count of 
 time. I am sure I don't know What is to be- 
 come of us all. When Charlotte told me just 
 now you were sobbing, Miss Hale, I thought, 
 no wonder, poor thing ! And master thinking 
 of turning Disinter at his time of life, when, 
 if it is not to be said he's done well in the 
 Church, he's not, done badly after all. I had a 
 cousin, miss, #ho turned Methodist preacher 
 after he was fifty years of age, and a tailor 
 all his life ; but then he had never been able 
 
 to make a pair of trowsers to fit, for as long as 
 he had been in the trade, so it was no wonder ; 
 but for master! as I said to missus,- 'What 
 would poor Sir John have said ? he never liked 
 your marrying Mr. Hale, but if he could have 
 known it would have come to this, he would 
 have sworn worse oaths than ever, if that was 
 possible 1' " 
 
 Dixon had been so much accustomed to 
 comment upon Mr. Hale's proceedings to her 
 mistress (who listened to her, or not, as she 
 was in the humor), that she never noticed Mar- 
 garet's flashing eye and dilating nostril. To 
 hear her father talked of in this way by a ser- 
 vant to her face 1 
 
 " Dixon," she said, in the low tone she al- 
 ways used when much excited, which had a 
 sound in it as of some distant turmoil, or threat- 
 ening storm breaking far away. " Dixon ! you 
 forget to whom you are speaking." She stood 
 upright and firm on her feet now, confronting 
 the waiting-maid, and fixing her with her 
 steady discerning eye. "I am Mr. Hale's 
 daughter. Go! Tou have made a strange 
 mistake, and one that I am sure your own 
 good feeling will make you sorry for when 
 you think about it." 
 
 Dixon hung irresolutely about the room for 
 a minute or two. Margaret repeated, "You 
 may leave me, Dixon. I wish you to go." 
 Dixon did not know whether to resent these 
 decided words or to cry; either course would 
 have done with her mistress; but, as Bhe said 
 to herself, " Miss Margaret has a touch of the 
 old gentleman about her, as well as poor Master 
 Frederick ; I wonder where they get it from !" 
 and she who would have resented such words 
 from any one less haughty and determined in 
 manner, was subdued enough to say, in a half 
 humble, half injured tone — 
 
 " Mayn't I unfasten your gown, miss, and do 
 your hair ?" 
 
 " No ! not to-night, thank you.'' And Mar- 
 garet gravely lighted her out of the room, 
 and bolted the door. From henceforth Dixon 
 obeyed and admired Margaret. She said it 
 was because she was so like poor Master Fred- 
 erick ; but the truth was, that Dixon, as do 
 many others, liked to feel herself ruled by a 
 powerful and decided nature. 
 
 Margaret needed all Dixon's help in action, 
 and silence in words ; for, for some time, the 
 latter thought it her duty to show her Bense of 
 affront in saying as little as possible to her 
 young lady ; so the energy came out in doing 
 rather than in speaking. A fortnight was a 
 very short time to make arrangements for so 
 serious a removal; as Dixon said, "Any one 
 but a gentleman — indeed almost, any other 
 gentleman — " but catching u, look at Mar- 
 garet's straight, stern brow just here, she 
 coughed the remainder of the sentence away, 
 and meekly took the hoarhound drop that Mar- 
 garet offered her, to stop the " little tickling at 
 my chest, miss." But almost any one but Mr. 
 Hale would have had practical knowledge 
 enough to know that in so short a time it would 
 be difficult to fix on any house in Milton-North- 
 ern, or ifideed elsewhere, to which they could 
 remove the furniture that had of necessity to be 
 taken out of Helstone vicarage. 
 
 Mrs. Hale, overpowered by all the troubles 
 
22 
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 and necessities for immediate household deci- 
 sions that seemed to come upon her at once, 
 became really ill, and Margaret almost felt it 
 as, a relief when her mother fairly took to her 
 bed, and left the management of affairs to her. 
 Dixon, true to her post of body-guard, attended 
 most faithfully to her mistress, and only emerged 
 from Mrs. Hale's bed-room to shake her head, 
 and murmur to herself in a manner ■which 
 Margaret did not choose to hear. For the 
 one thing clear and straight before her, was the 
 necessity for leaving Helstone. Mr. Hale's suc- 
 cessor in the living was appointed ; and, at any 
 rate, after her father's decision, there must be 
 no lingering now, for his sake, as well as for 
 every other consideration. For he came home 
 every evening more and more depressed after 
 the necessary leave-taking which he had re- 
 solved to have with every individual parishion- 
 er. Margaret, inexperienced as she was in all 
 the necessary matter-of-fact business to be got 
 through, did not know to whom to apply for 
 advice. The cook and Charlotte worked away 
 with willing arms and stout hearts at all the 
 moving and packing ; and as far as that went, 
 Margaret's admirable sense enabled her to see 
 what was best, and ^o direct how it should be 
 done. But where were they to go to? In a 
 week they must be gone. Straight to Milton, 
 or where? So many arrangements depended 
 on this decision that Margaret resolved to ask 
 her father one evening, in spite of his evident 
 fatigue and low spirits. He answered — 
 
 " My dear! I have really had too much to 
 think about to settle this. What does your 
 mother say ? What does she wish ? Poor 
 Maria!" 
 
 He met with an echo even louder than his 
 sigh. Dixon had just come into the room for 
 another cup of tea for Mrs. Hale, and catching 
 Mr. Hale's last words, and protected by his 
 presence from Margaret's upbraiding eyes, made 
 bold to say, " My poor mistress 1" 
 
 "You don't think her worse to-day?" said 
 Mr. Hale, turning hastily. 
 
 " I am sure I can't say, sir. It is not for me 
 to judge. The illness seems so much more on 
 the mind than on the body." 
 
 Mr. Hale looked infinitely distressed. 
 
 " You had' better take mamma her tea while 
 it is hot, Dixon," said Margaret, in a tone of 
 quiet authority. 
 
 " Oh! I beg your pardon, miss! My thoughts 
 was otherwise occupied in thinking of my poor 
 — of Mrs. Hale." 
 
 " Papal" said Margaret, " it is this suspense 
 that is bad for you both. Of course, mamma 
 must feel your change of opinions: we can't 
 help that," she continued, softly; "but now 
 the course is clear, at least to a certain point. 
 And I think, papa, that I could get mamma to 
 help me in planning if you could tell me what 
 to plan for. Sh6 has never expressed any wish 
 in any way, and only thinks of what can't be 
 helped. Are we to go straight to Milton? 
 Have you taken a house there?" 
 
 " No," he replied. " I suppose we must go 
 into lodgings, and look about for a house." 
 
 " And pack up the furniture so that it can 
 be left at the railway station till we have met 
 with one?" 
 
 " I suppose so. Do what you think best. 
 
 Only remember we shall have much less money 
 to 6pend." 
 
 They had never had much superfluity, as 
 Margaret knew. She felt that it was a great 
 weight suddenly thrown upon her shoulders. 
 Four months ago all the decisions she needed 
 to make were what dress she would wear for 
 dinner, and to help Edith to make out the lists 
 of who should take down whom in the dinner 
 parties at home. Nor was the household in 
 which she lived one that called for much de- 
 cision. Except in the one grand case of Cap- 
 tain Lennox's offer, every thing went on with 
 the regularity of clockwork. Once a year there 
 was a long discussion between her aunt and 
 Edith as to whether they should go to the Isle 
 of Wight, abroad, or to Scotland ; but at such 
 times Margaret herself was secure of drifting, 
 without any exertion of her own, into the quiet 
 harbor of home. Now, since that day when 
 Mr. Lennox came, and startled her into » de- 
 cision, every day brought some question, mo- 
 mentous to her, and to those whom she loved, 
 to be settled. 
 
 Her father went up after tea to sit with his 
 wife. Margaret remained alone in the draw- 
 ing-room. Suddenly she took a candle and 
 went into her father's study for a great atlas, 
 and lugging it back into the drawing-room, she 
 began to pore over the map of England. She 
 was ready to look up brightly when her father 
 came down stairs. 
 
 " Papa, I have hit upon such a beautiful plan. 
 Look here, in Darkshire, hardly the breadth 
 of my finger from Milton, is Heston, which I 
 have often heard of from people living in the 
 north as such a pleasant little bathing-place. 
 Now, don't you think we could get mamma 
 there with Dixon, while you and I go and look 
 at houses, and get one all ready for her in Mil- 
 ton? She would get a breath of sea air to set 
 her up for the winter, and be spared all the 
 fatigue, and Dixon would enjoy taking care of 
 her." 
 
 "Is Dixon to go with us!" asked Mr. Hale, 
 in a kind of helpless dismay. 
 
 "Oh, yes!" said Margaret. "Dixon quite 
 intends it, and I don't know what mamma 
 would do without her." 
 
 " But we shall have to put up with a very 
 different way of living, I am afraid. Every 
 thing is so much dearer in a town. I doubt 
 if Dixon can make herself comfortable. To tell 
 you the truth, Margaret, I sometimes feel as if 
 that woman gave herself airs." 
 
 " To be sure she does, papa,'' replied Marga- 
 ret; "and if she has to put up with a different 
 style of living, we shall have to put up with 
 her airs, which will be worse. But she really 
 loves us all, and would be miserable to leave 
 us, I am sure, especially in this change ; so, for 
 mamma's sake, and for the sake of her faithful- 
 ness, I do think she must go." 
 
 " Very well, my dear. Go on. I am re- 
 signed. How far is Heston from Milton ? The 
 breadth of one of your fingers does not give me 
 a very clear idea of distance." 
 
 "Well, then, I suppose it is thirty miles ; that 
 is not much!" 
 
 "Not in distance, but in — Never mind! 
 If you really think it will do your mother good, 
 let it be fixed so." 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 23 
 
 This was a great step. Now Margaret could 
 work, and act, and plan in good earnest. And 
 now Mrs. Hale could rouse herself from her 
 languor, and forget her real suffering in think- 
 ing of the pleasure and the delight of going to 
 the sea-side. Her only regret was that Mr. 
 Hale could not be with her all the fortnight 
 she was to be there, as he had been for a whole 
 fortnight once, when they were engaged, and 
 she was staying with Sir John and Lady Beres- 
 ford at Torquay. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 The last day came, the house was full of 
 packing-cases, which were being carted off at 
 the front door to the nearest railway statioa 
 Even the pretty lawn at the side of the house 
 was made unsightly and untidy by the straw 
 that had been wafted upon it through the open 
 door and windows. The rooms had a strange 
 echoing sound in them — and the light came 
 harshly and strongly in through the uncurtain- 
 ed windows — seeming already unfamiliar and 
 strange. Mrs. Hale's dressing-room was left 
 untouched to the last; and there she and Dixon 
 were packing up clothes, and interrupting each 
 other every now and then to exclaim at, and 
 turn over with fond regard, some forgotten 
 treasure in the shape of some relic of the chil- 
 dren while they were yet little. They did not 
 make much progress with their work. Down- 
 stairs, Margaret stood calm and collected, ready 
 to counsel or advise the men who had been 
 called in to help the cook and Charlotte. These 
 two last, crying between whiles, wondered how 
 the young lady could keep up so this last day, 
 
 ' and settled it between them that she was not 
 likely to care much for Helstone, having been 
 so long in London. There she stood, very pale 
 and quiet, with her large grave eyes observing 
 
 ^ every thing — up to every present circumstance 
 however small. They could not understand 
 how her heart was aching all the time, with a 
 heavy pressure that no sighs could lift off or 
 relieve, and how constant exertion for her per- 
 ceptive faculties was the only way to keep her- 
 self from crying out with pain. Moreover, if 
 she gave way, who was to act? Her father was 
 examining papers, books, registers, what not, in 
 the vestry with the clerk ; and when he came 
 in there were his own books to pack up, which 
 no one but himself could do to his satisfaction. 
 Besides, was Margaret one to give way before 
 strange men, or even household friends like the 
 cook and Charlotte I Not she. But at last the 
 four packei's went into the kitchen to their tea ; 
 and Margaret moved stiffly and slowly away 
 from the place in the hall where she had been 
 standing so long, out through the bare echoing 
 drawing-room into the twilight of an early No- 
 vember evening. There was a filmy vail of 
 soft dull mist obscuring, but not hiding, all ob- 
 jects, giving them a lilac hue, for the sun had 
 not yet fully Bet; a robin was singing — perhaps, 
 Margaret thought, the very robin that her fa- 
 ther had so often talked of as his winter pet, 
 and for which he had made, with his own hands, 
 a kind of robin-house by his study window. 
 The leaves were more gorgeous than ever ; the 
 
 first touch of frost would lay them all low on 
 the ground. Already one or two kept con- 
 stantly floating down, amber and golden in the 
 low slanting sun-rays. 
 
 Margaret went along the walk under the 
 pear-tree wall She had never been along it 
 since she paced it at Henry Lennox's side. 
 Here, at this bed of thyme he began to speak 
 of what she must not think of now. Her eyes 
 were on that late-blowing rose as she was try- 
 ing to speak ; and she had caught the ide'a of 
 the vivid beauty of the feathery leaves of the 
 carrots in the very middle of his last sentence. 
 Only a fortnight ago I And all so changed 1 
 Where was he now ? In London — going through 
 the old round ; dining with the old Harley Street 
 set, or with gayer young friends of his own. 
 Even now, while she walked sadly through that 
 damp and drear garden in the dusk, with every 
 thing falling and fading, and turning to decay 
 around her, he might be gladly putting away 
 his law-books after a day of satisfactory toil, 
 and freshening himself up, as he had told her 
 he often did, by a run in the Temple Gardens, 
 taking in the while thegrand inarticulate mighty 
 roar of tens of thousands of busy men, nigh at 
 hand, but not seen, and catching, ever at his 
 quick turns, glimpses of the lights of the city 
 coming up out of the depths of the river. He 
 had often spoken to Margaret of these hasty 
 walks, snatched in the intervals between study 
 and dinner. At his best times and in his best 
 moods had he spoken of them ; and the thought 
 of them had struck upon her fancy. Here 
 there was no sound. The robin had gone away 
 into the vast stillness of night. Now and then 
 a cottage door in the distance was opened and 
 shut, as if to admit the tired laborer to his 
 home; but that sounded very far away. A 
 stealthy, creeping, cranching sound among the 
 crisp fallen leaves of the forest beyond the gar- 
 den seemed almost close at hand. Margaret 
 knew it was some poacher. Sitting up in her 
 bedroom this past autumn, with the light of 
 her candle extinguished, and purely reveling 
 in the solemn beauty of the heavens and the 
 earth, she had many a time seen the light noise- 
 less leap of the poachers over the garden-fence, 
 their quick tramp across the dewy moonlit 
 lawn, their disappearance in the black still 
 shadow beyond. The wild adventurous free- 
 dom of their life had taken her fancy ; she felt 
 inclined to wish them success ; she had no fear 
 of them. But to-night she was afraid, she^i 
 knew not why. She heard Charlotte shutting 
 the windows, and fastening up for the night, 
 unconscious that any one had gone out into the 
 garden. A small branch — it might be of rotten 
 wood, or it might be broken by force — came 
 heavily down in the nearest part of the forest ; 
 Margaret ran, swift as Camilla, down to the 
 window, and rapped at it with a hurried trem- 
 ulousness which startled Charlotte within. 
 
 "Let me in! Let me in! It is only me, 
 Charlotte !" Her heart did not still its flutter- 
 ing till she was safe in the drawing-room, with 
 the windows fastened and bolted, and the fa- 
 miliar walls hemming herround, and shutting 
 her in. She had sat down upon a packing-case ; 
 cheerless, chill was the dreary and dismantled 
 room — no fire, nor other light, but Charlotte's 
 long unsnuffed candle. Charlotte looked at 
 
24 
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 Margaret with surprise ; and Margaret, feeling 
 it rather than seeing it, rose up. 
 
 " I was afraid you were shutting me out 
 altogether, Charlotte," said she, half-smiling. 
 " And then you would never have heard me 
 in the kitchen, and the doors into the lane and 
 churchyard are locked long ago." 
 
 " Oh, miss, I should have been sure to have 
 missed you soon. The men would have wanted 
 3'ou to tell them how to go on. And I have 
 puf tea in master's study, as being the most 
 comfortable room, so to speak." 
 
 "Thank you, Charlotte. You are a kind 
 girl. I shall be sorry to leave you. You must 
 try and write to me, if I can ever give you any 
 little help or good advice. I shall always be 
 glad to get a letter from Helstone, you know. 
 I shall be sure and send you my address when 
 I know it." 
 
 The study was all ready for tea. There was 
 a good blazing fire, and unlighted candles on the 
 table. Margaret sat down on the rug, partly 
 to warm herself, for the dampness of the even- 
 ing hung about her dre6s, and over-fatigue had 
 made her chilly. She kept herself balanced by 
 clasping her hands together round her knees ; 
 her head drooped a little toward her chest ; the 
 attitude was one of despondency, whatever her 
 frame of mind might be. But when she heard 
 her father's step on the gravel outside, she 
 started up, and hastily shaking her heavy black 
 hair back, and wiping a few tears away that 
 had come on her cheeks she knew not how, she 
 went out to open the door for him. He showed 
 far more depression than she did. She could 
 hardly get him to talk, although she tried to 
 speak on subjects that would interest him, at 
 the cost of an effort every time which she 
 thought would be her last. 
 
 "Have you been a very long walk to-day?" 
 asked she, on seeing his refusal to touch food 
 of any kind. 
 
 " As far as Fordham Beeches. I went to see 
 Widow Maltby; she is sadly grieved at not 
 having wished you good-by. She says little 
 Susan has kept watch down the lane for days 
 past. Nay, Margaret, what is the matter, 
 dear ?" The thought of the little child watch- 
 ing for her, and continually disappointed — from 
 no forgetfulness on her part, but from sheer in- 
 ability to leave home — was the last drop in 
 poor Margaret's cup, and she was sobbing away 
 as if her heart would break. Mr. Hale was 
 distressingly perplexed. He rose, and walked 
 nervously up and down the room. Margaret 
 tried to check herself, but would not speak 
 until she could do so with firmness. She heard 
 him talking, as if to himself. 
 
 " I can not bear it. I can not bear to see the 
 sufferings of others. I think I could go through 
 my own with patience. Oh, is there no going 
 back?" 
 
 "No, father," said Margaret, looking straight 
 at him, and speaking low and steadily. " It is 
 bad to believe you in error. It would be in- 
 finitely worse to have known you a hypocrite." 
 She dropped her voice at the last few words, 
 as if entertaining the idea of hypocrisy for a 
 moment in connection with her father savored 
 of irreverence. 
 
 "Besides," she went on, "it is only that I 
 am tired to-night ; don't think that I am suffer- 
 
 ing from what you have done, dear papa. We 
 can't either of us talk about it to-night, I be- 
 lieve," said she, finding that tears and sobs 
 would come in spite of herself " I had better 
 go and take mamma up this cup of tea. She 
 had hers very early, when I was too busy to go 
 to her, and I am sure she will be glad of an- 
 other now." 
 
 Railroad time inexorably wrenched them 
 away from lovely, beloved Helstone, the next 
 morning. They were gone; they had seen the 
 last of the long low parsonage home, half-cov- 
 ered with China-roses and pyracanthus — more 
 homelike than ever in the morning sun that 
 glittered on its windows, each belonging to 
 some well-loved room. Almost before they 
 had settled themselves into the car, sent from 
 Southampton to fetch them to the station, they 
 were gone away to return no more. A sting 
 at Margaret's heart made her strive to look out 
 to catch the last glimpse of the old church 
 tower where she knew it might be seen above 
 a wave of the forest trees ; but her father re- 
 membered this too, and she silently acknowl- 
 edged his greater right to the one window from 
 which it could be seen. She leant back and 
 shut her eyes, and the tears welled forth, and 
 hung glittering for an instant on the shadowing 
 eyelashes before rolling slowly down her cheeks, 
 and dropping, unheeded, on her dress. 
 
 They were to stop in London all night at 
 some quiet hotel. Poor Mrs. Hale had cried 
 in her way nearly all day long ; and Dixon 
 showed her sorrow by extreme crossness, and a 
 continual irritable attempt to keep her petti- 
 coats from even touching the unconscious Mr. 
 Hale, whom she regarded as the origin of all 
 this suffering. 
 
 They went through the well-known streets, 
 past houses which they had often visited, past 
 shops in which she had lounged, impatient, by 
 her aunt's side, while that lady was making some 
 important and interminable decision — nay, ab- 
 solutely past acquaintances in the streets ; for 
 though the morning had been of an incalcula- 
 ble length to them, and they felt as if it ought 
 long ago to have closed in for the repose of 
 darkness, it was the very busiest time of a Lon- 
 don afternoon in November when they arrived 
 there. It was long since Mrs. Hale had been 
 in London; and she roused up, almost like a 
 child, to look about her at the different streets, 
 and to gaze after and exclaim at the shops and 
 carriages. 
 
 " Oh, there's Harrison's, where I bought so 
 many of my wedding-things. Dear ! how al- 
 tered! They've got immense plate-glass win- 
 dows, larger than Crawford's in Southampton. 
 Oh, and there, I declare — no, it is not — yes, it 
 is — Margaret, we have just passed Mr. Henry 
 Lennox. Where can he be going, among all 
 these shops ?" 
 
 Margaret started forward, and as quickly 
 fell back, half-smiling at herself for the sudden 
 motion. They were a hundred yards away by 
 this time — but he seemed like a relic of Hel- 
 stone — he was associated with a bright morn- 
 ing, an eventful day, and she should have liked 
 to have seen him, without his seeing her — with- 
 out the chance of their speaking. 
 
 The evening, without employment, passed 
 in a room high up in a hotel, was long and 
 
HORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 25 
 
 heavy. Mr. Hale went out to his bookseller's, 
 and to call on a friend or two. Every one they 
 saw, either in the house or out in the streets, 
 appeared hurrying to some appointment, ex- 
 pected by, or expecting, somebody. They alone 
 .seemed strange, and friendless, and desolate. 
 /Yet within a mile Margaret knew of house 
 j after house, where she for her own sake, and 
 her mother for her aunt Shaw's, would be wel- 
 1 corned if they came in gladness, or even in 
 j peace of mind. If they came sorrowing, and 
 j wanting sympathy in a complicated trouble 
 I like the present, then they would be felt as a 
 [shadow in all these houses of intimate acquaint- 
 ances, not friends. London life is too whirling 
 and full to admit of even an hour of that deep 
 | silence of feeling which the friends of Job 
 > showed, when " they sat with him on the 
 ground seven days and seven nights, and none 
 j spake a word unto him ; for they saw that his 
 I grief was very great." 
 
 CHAPTER VH 
 
 The next afternoon, about twenty miles from 
 Milton-Northern, they entered on the little 
 branch railway that led to Heston. Heston 
 itself was one long straggling street, running 
 parallel to the sea-shore. It had a character 
 of its own, as different from the little bathing- 
 places in the south of England as they again 
 from those of the Continent. To use a Scotch 
 word, every thing looked more "purpose-like." 
 The country carts had more iron, and less wood 
 and leather about the horse-gear ; the people 
 in the streets, although on pleasure bent, had 
 yet a busy mind. The colors looked grayer — 
 more enduring, not so gay and pretty. There 
 were no smock-frocks, even among the country 
 folk ; they retarded motion, and were apt to 
 catch on machinery, and so the habit of wear- 
 ing them had died out. In such towns in the 
 south of England, Margaret had seen the shop- 
 men, when not employed in their business, 
 lounging a little at their doors, enjoying the 
 fresh air, and the look up and down the street. 
 Here, if they had any leisure from customers, 
 they made themselves business in the shop — 
 even, Margaret fancied, to the unnecessary un- 
 rolling and re-rolling of ribbons. All these 
 differences struck upon her mind, as she and 
 her mother went out next morning to look for 
 lodgings. 
 
 Their two nights at hotels had cost more 
 than Mr. Hale had anticipated, and they were 
 glad to take the first clean, cheerful rooms they 
 met with that were at liberty to receive them. 
 There, for the first time for many days, did Mar- 
 garet feel at rest. There was a dreaminess in 
 the rest, too, which made it still more perfect 
 and luxurious to repose in. The distant sea, 
 lapping the sandy shore with measured sound ; 
 the nearer cries of the donkey-boys; the un- 
 usual scenes moving before her like pictures, 
 which she cared not in her laziness to have 
 fully explained before they passed away; the 
 stroll down to the beach to breathe the sea-air, 
 soft and warm on that sandy shore even to the 
 end of November; the great long misty sea-line 
 touching the tender-colored sky ; the white sail 
 
 of a distant boat turning silver in some pale 
 sunbeam : it seemed as if she could dream her 
 life away in such luxury of pensiveness in 
 which she made her present all in all, from not 
 daring to think of the past, or wishing to con- 
 template the future. 
 
 But the future must be met, however stern 
 and iron it be. One evening it was arranged 
 that Margaret and her father should go the 
 next day to Milton-Northern, and look out for 
 a house. Mr. Hale had received several letters 
 from Mr. Bell, and one or two from Mr. Thorn- 
 ton, and he was anxious to ascertain at once a 
 good many particulars respecting his position 
 and chances of sucoess there, which he could 
 only do by an interview with the latter gentle- 
 man. Margaret knew that they ought to be 
 removing ; DUt she had a repugnance to the 
 idea of a manufacturing town, and believed 
 that her mother was receiving benefit from 
 Heston air, so she would willingly have defer- 
 red the expedition to Milton. 
 
 For many miles before they reached Milton, 
 they saw a deep lead-colored cloud hanging 
 over the horizon in the direction in which it 
 lay. It was all the darker from contrast with 
 the pale gray-blue of the wintry sky; for in 
 Heston there had been the earliest signs of frost. 
 Nearer to the town the air had a faint taste and 
 smell of smoke ; perhaps, after all, more a loss 
 of the fragrance of grass and herbage than any 
 positive taste or smell. Quick they were whirled 
 over long, straight, hopeless streets of regular- 
 ly-built houses, all small and of brick. Here l > 
 and there a great oblong many-windowed fac- 
 tory stood up like a hen among her chickens, 
 puffing out black " tmparliamentary " smoke, 
 and sufficiently accounting for the cloud which 
 Margaret had taken to foretell rain. As they 
 drove through the larger and wider streets, 
 from the station to the hotel, they had to stop 
 constantly ; great loaded lurries blocked up the 
 not ovej£wide thoroughfares. Margaret had 
 now and then been into the city in her drives 
 with her aunt. But Jhere the heavy lumber- 
 ing.jvehicles seemeivarious in their purposes 
 and intent; here every^van, levery wagon and 
 truck, bore cotton] either in the raw shape in 
 bags, or the woven shape in bales of calico. 
 People thronged the footpaths, most of them 
 well dressed as regarded the material, but with 
 a slovenly looseness about them which struck 
 Margaret as different from the shabby, thread- 
 bare smartness of a similar class in loridbn. 
 " " New Street," said Mr. Hale. '[This, I be- 
 lieve, is the principal street in Milton. Bell 
 has often spoken to me about it. It was the 
 opening of this street from a lane into a great 
 thoroughfare, thirty years ago, which has caused 
 his property to rise so much in value. Mr. 
 Thornton's mill must be somewhere not very 
 far off, for he is Mr. Bell's tenant. But I fancy 
 he dates from his warehouse." 
 
 " Where is our hotel, papa?" 
 
 " Close to the end of this street, I believe. 
 Shall we have lunch before or after we have 
 looked at the houses we marked in the Milton 
 Times?" 
 
 " Oh, let us get our work done first." 
 
 " Very well. Then I will only see if there 
 is any note or letter for me from Mr. Thornton, 
 who said he would let me know any thing he 
 
26 
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 might hear about these houses, and then -we 
 will set off. We will keep the cab ; it will be 
 safer than losing ourselves, and being too late 
 for the train this afternoon." 
 
 There were no letters awaiting him. They 
 set out on their house-hunting. Thirty pounds 
 a year was all they could afford to give, but in 
 Hampshire they could have met with a roomy 
 house and pleasant garden for the money. Here, 
 even the necessary accommodation of two sit- 
 ting-rooms and four bed-rooms seemed unat- 
 tainable. They went through their list, reject- 
 ing each as they visited it. Then they looked 
 at each other in dismay. 
 
 " We must go back to the second, I think. 
 That one — in Crampton, don't they call the 
 suburb? There were three sitting-rooms; don't 
 you remember how we laughed at the number 
 compared with the three bedrooms? But I 
 have planned it all. The front room down- 
 stairs is to be your study and our dining-room 
 (poor papa ! ), for, you know, we settled mamma 
 is to have as cheerful a sitting-room as we can 
 get; and that front room up-stairs, with the 
 atrocious blue and pink paper and heavy cor- 
 nice, had really a pretty view over the plain, 
 with a great bend of river, or canal, or what- 
 ever it is, down below. Then I could have the 
 little bedroom behind, in that projection at the 
 head of the first flight of stairs — over the 
 kitchen, you know — and you and mamma the 
 room behind the drawing-room, and that closet 
 in the roof will make you a splendid dressing- 
 room." 
 
 " But Dixon, and the girl we are to have to 
 help ?" 
 
 " Oh, wait a minute. I am overpowered by 
 the discovery of my own genius for manage- 
 ment. Dixon is to have — let me see, I had it 
 once — the back sitting-room. I think she will 
 like that. She grumbles so much about the 
 stairs at Heston ; and the girl is to have that 
 sloping attic over your room and mamma's. 
 Won't that do?" 
 
 " I dare say it will. But the papers ! What 
 taste ! And the overloading such a house with 
 color and such heavy cornices!" 
 
 " Never mind, papa. Surely, you can charm 
 the landlord into re-paperiDg one or two of the 
 rooms — the drawing-room and your bedroom 
 — for mamma will come most in contact with 
 them ; and your bookshelves will hide a great 
 deal of that gaudy pattern in the dining- 
 room." 
 
 "Then you think it the best? If so, I had 
 better go at once and call on this Mr. Donkin, 
 to whom the advertisement refers me. I will 
 take you back to the hotel, where you can or- 
 der lunch, and rest, and by the time it is ready 
 I shall be with you. I hope I shall be able to 
 get new papers." 
 
 Margaret hoped so too, though she said 
 nothing. She had never come fairly in contact 
 with the taste that loves ornament, however 
 bad, more than the plainnesB and simplicity 
 which are of themselves the framework of ele- 
 gance. 
 
 Her father took her through the entrance 
 of the hotel, and leaving her at the foot of the 
 staircase, went to the address of the landlord 
 of the house they had fixed upon. Just as Mar- 
 garet had her hand on the door of their sitting- 
 
 room, she was followed by a quick-stepping 
 waiter. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, ma'am. The gentleman 
 was gone bo quickly, I had no time to tell him. 
 Mr. Thornton called almost directly after you 
 left ; and, as I understood from what the gen- 
 tleman said, you would be back in a hour, I 
 told him so, and he came again about five min- 
 utes ago, and said he would wait for Mr. Hale. 
 He is in your room now, ma'am." 
 
 " Thank you. My father will return soon, 
 and then you can tell him." 
 
 Margaret opened the door and went in with 
 the straight, fearless, dignified presence habitual 
 to her. She felt no awkwardness ; she had too 
 much the habits of society for that. Here was 
 a person come on business to her father ; and, 
 as he was one who had 6hown himself obliging, 
 she was disposed to treat him with a full meas- 
 ure of civility. Mr. Thornton was a good deal 
 more surprised and discomfited than Bhe. In- 
 stead of a quiet, middle-aged clergyman, a 
 young lady came forward with frank dignity — 
 a young lady of a different type to most of those 
 he was in the habit of seeing. Her dress was 
 very plain: a close straw bonnet of the best 
 material and shape, trimmed with white rib- 
 bon ; a dark silk gown without any trimming 
 or flounce; a large Indian shawl which hung 
 about her in long heavy folds, and which she 
 wore as an empress wears her drapery. He did 
 not understand who she was, as he caught the 
 simple, straight, unabashed look which showed 
 that his being there was of no concern to the 
 beautiful countenance, and called up no flush 
 of surprise to the pale ivory of the complexion. 
 He had heard that Mr. Hale had a. daughter, 
 but he had imagined that she was a little girl. 
 
 "Mr. Thornton, I believe!" said Margaret, 
 after a half-instant's pause, during which his 
 unready words would not come. " Will you 
 sit down. My father brought me to the door, 
 not a minute ago, but unfortunately he was 
 not told that you were here, and has gone 
 away on some business. But he will come 
 back almost directly. I am sorry you have 
 had the trouble of calling twice." 
 
 Mr. Thornton was in habits of authority 
 himself, but she seemed to assume some kind 
 of rule over him at once. He had been getting 
 impatient at the loss of his time on a market- 
 day, the moment before she appeared, yet now 
 he calmly took a seat at her bidding. 
 
 " Do you know where it is that Mr. Hale 
 has gone to ? Perhaps I might be able to find 
 him." 
 
 " He has gone to a Mr. Donkin's in Canute 
 Street. He is the landlord of the house my 
 father wishes to take in Crampton." 
 
 Mr. Thornton knew the house. He had seen 
 the advertisement, and been to look at it, in 
 compliance with a request of Mr. Bell's that 
 he would assist Mr. Hale to the best of his 
 power; and also instigated by his own interest 
 in the case of a clergyman who had given up 
 his living under circumstances such as those of 
 Mr. Hale. Mr. Thornton had thought that the 
 house in Crampton was really Just the thing ; 
 but now that he saw Margaret with her superb 
 ways of moving and looking, he began to feel 
 ashamed of having imagined that it would do 
 very well for the Hales in spite of a certain 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 27 
 
 vulgarityin it which had struck him at the 
 time of tils looking it over. 
 
 Margaret could not help her looks ; but the 
 short curled upper lip, the round, massive up- 
 turned chin, the manner of carrying her head, 
 her movements, juU.oi.a,sofLf6mmine defiance, 
 always gave strangers the impression of haughti- 
 ness. She was tired now, and would rather 
 have remained silent, and taken the rest her 
 father had planned for her ; but, of course, she 
 owe_d it to oejself.tp.be. a gentlewoman, and to 
 speak courteously from time to time to this 
 stranger; not overbrushed, nor overpolished, 
 it must be confessed, after his rough encounter 
 with Milton streets and crowds. She wished 
 that he would go, as he had once spoken of 
 doing, instead of sitting there, answering with 
 curt sentences all the remarks she made. She 
 had taken off her shawl, and hung it over the 
 back of her chair. She sat facing him and fac- 
 ing the light ; her full beauty met his eye ; her 
 round white flexile throat rising out of the full, 
 yet lithe figure ; her lips, moving so slightly as 
 she spoke, not breaking the cold serene look of 
 her face with any variation from the one lovely 
 haughty curve ; her eyes,, with their soft gloom, 
 meeting his with quiet maiden freedom. He 
 almost said to himself that he did not iike her 
 before their conversation ended ; he tried so to 
 compensate himself for the mortified feeling, 
 that while ieJooMd upon her with an admira- 
 tion he could not repress, she looked at him 
 • with proud indifference, taking him, he thought, 
 for"what, in his irritation, he told himself he 
 was — a great rough fellow, with not a grace 
 or a refinement about him. Her quiet coldness 
 of demeanor he interpreted into contemptuous- 
 ness, and resented it in his heart to the pitch 
 of almost inclining him to get up and go away, 
 and have nothing more to do with these Hales, 
 and their superciliousness. 
 
 Just as Margaret had exhausted her last sub- 
 ject of conversation — and yet conversation 
 that could hardly be called which consisted of 
 so few and such short speeches — her father 
 came in, and with his pleasant gentlemanly 
 courteousness of apology, reinstated his name 
 and family in Mr. Thornton's good opinion. 
 
 Mr. Hale and his visitor had a good deal to 
 say respecting their mutual friend, Mr. Bell; 
 and Margaret, glad that her part of entertain- 
 ing the visitor was over, went to the window 
 to try and make herself more familiar with the 
 6trange aspect of the street. She got so much 
 absorbed in watching what was going on out- 
 side that she hardly heard her father when he 
 spoke to her, and hehad to repeat whathe said — 
 
 "Margaret] the landlord will persist in ad- 
 miring that hideous paper, and I am afraid we 
 must let it remain." 
 
 "Oh dear! I am sorry!" she replied, and be- 
 gan to turn over in her mind the possibility 
 of hiding part of it at least, by some of her 
 sketches, but gave up the idea at last, as likely 
 oply to make bad worse. Her father,_ mean- 
 while, with his kindly country hospitality was 
 pressing Mr. Thornton to stay to luncheon 
 with them. It would have been very incon- 
 venient to him to do so, yet he felt that he 
 should have yielded, if Margaret by word or 
 look had seconded her father's invitation; he 
 was glad she did not, and yet he was irritated 
 
 at her for not doing it. She gave him a low, 
 grave bow when he left, and he felt more awk- ,. 
 ward and self-conscious in every limb than he 
 had ever done in all his life before. 
 
 "Well, Margaret, now to luncheon, as fast as 
 we can. Have you ordered it?" 
 
 "No, papa ; that man was here when I came 
 home, and I have never had an opportunity." 
 
 " Then we must take any thing we can get. 
 He must have been waiting a long time, I'm 
 afraid." 
 
 " It seemed exceedingly long to me. I was 
 just at the last gasp when you came in. He 
 never went on with any subject, but gave little, 
 short, abrupt answers." 
 
 " Very much to the point though, I should 
 think. He is a clear-headed fellow. He said 
 (did you hear?) that Crampton is on gravelly 
 soil, and by far the most healthy suburb in the 
 neighborhood of Milton." 
 
 when they returned to Heston, there was 
 the day's account to be given to Mrs. Hale, 
 who was full of questions, which they answered 
 in the intervals of tea-drinking. 
 
 " And what is your correspondent, Mr. Thorn- 
 ton, like ?" 
 
 "Ask Margaret," said her husband. "She 
 and he had a long attempt at conversation, 
 while I was away speaking to the landlord." 
 
 " Oh ! I hardly know what he is like," said 
 Margaret, lazily ; too tired to tax her powers 
 of description much. And then rousing her- 
 self, she said, "He is a tall, broad-shouldered 
 man, about — how old, papa?" 
 
 " I should guess about thirty." 
 
 " About thirty — with u face that is neither 
 exactly plain, nor yet handsome — nothing re- 
 markable — not quite a gentleman; but that 
 was hardly to be expected." 
 
 " Not vulgar or common though," put in her 
 father, rather jealous of any disparagement of • "< 
 the sole friend he had in Milton. 
 
 "Oh nol" said Margaret. ""With such an 
 expression of resolution and power,., no .face, 
 however plain in feature, could be either vul- 
 gar or common. I should not like to have to 
 bargain with him; he looks very inflexible. 
 Altogether a. man who seems made -for his 
 niche, mamma, sagacious, and strong as be- 
 comes a great tradesman." 
 
 "Don't call the Milton manufacturers trades- 
 men, Margaret," said her father. "They are 
 very different." 
 
 "Are they? I apply the word to all who 
 have something tangible to sell; but if you 
 think the term is not correct, papa, I won't 
 use it. But, oh mamma! speaking of vulgarity 
 and commonness, you must prepare yourself 
 for our drawing-room paper. Pink and blue 
 roses, with yellow leaves ! And such a heavy 
 cornice round the room!" 
 
 But when they removed to their new house 
 in Milton, the obnoxious papers were gone. 
 The landlord received their thanks very com- 
 
 Eosedly ; and let them think, if they liked, that 
 e had relented from his expressed determina- 
 tion not to repaper. There was no particular ^ 
 need to tell them that what he did not care \ 
 to do for a Reverend Mr. Hale, unknown in \ 
 Milton, he was only too glad to do at the one | 
 short sharp remonstrance of Mr. Thornton, the i 
 wealthy manufacturer. S 
 
28 
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 CHAPTER VIIL 
 
 It needed the pretty light papering of the 
 rooms to reconcile them to Milton. It needed 
 more — more that could not be had. The thick 
 yellow November fogs had come on ; and the 
 view of the plain in the valley made by the 
 sweeping bend of the river, was all Bhut out 
 when Mrs. Hale arrived at her new home. 
 
 Margaret and Dixon had been at work for 
 two days, unpacking and arranging, but every 
 thing inside the house still looked in disorder; 
 and outside a thick fog crept up to the very 
 windows, and was driven m to every open 
 door in choking white wreaths of unwholesome 
 mist. 
 
 " Oh, Margaret ! are we to live here ?" asked 
 Mrs. Hale in blank dismay. 
 
 Margaret's heart echoed the dreariness of 
 the tone in which this question was put. She 
 could scarcely command herself enough to say, 
 "Oh, the fogs in London are sometimes far 
 worse!" 
 
 " But then you knew that London itself, and 
 friends lay behind it. Here — well! we are 
 desolate. Oh Dixon, what a place this is!" 
 
 "Indeed, ma'am, I'm sure it will be your 
 death before long, and then I know who'll — 
 stay ! Miss Hale, that's far too heavy for you 
 to lift." 
 
 "Not at all, thank you, Dixon," replied Mar- 
 garet coldly. "The best thing we can do for 
 mamma is to get her room quite ready for her 
 to go to bed, while I go and bring her a cup 
 of coffee." , 
 
 Mr. Hale was equally out of spirits, and 
 equally came upon Margaret for sympathy. 
 
 "Margaret, I do believe this is an unhealthy 
 place. Only suppose that your mother's health 
 or yours should suffer. I wish I had gone into 
 some country place in Wales; this is really 
 terrible," said he, going up to the window. 
 
 There was no comfort to be given. They 
 were settled in Milton, and must endure smoke 
 and fogs for a season ; indeed, all other life 
 seemed shut out from them by as thick a fog 
 of circumstance. Only the day before Mr. 
 Hale had been reckoning up with dismay how 
 much their removal and fortnight at H est mi 
 had cost, and ho found it had absorbed nearly 
 all his little stock of ready money. No! here 
 they were, and here they must remain. 
 
 At night when Margaret realized this, she 
 felt inclined to sit down in a stupor of despair. 
 The heavy smoky air hung about her bedroom, 
 which occupied the long narrow projection at 
 the back of the house. The window placed at 
 the side of the oblong looked to the blank wall 
 of a similar projection, not above ten feet dis- 
 tant. It loomed through- .the fog like a great 
 barrier to hope. Inside the room every thing 
 was in confusion. All their efforts had been 
 directed to make her mother's room comfort- 
 able. Margaret sat down on a box, the direc- 
 tion card upon which struck her as having 
 been written at Helstone — beautiful, beloved 
 Helstone! She lost herself in dismal thought: 
 but at last she determined to take her mind 
 away from the present ; and suddenly remem- 
 bered that she had a letter from Edith which 
 she had only half road in the bustle of the 
 morning. It was to tell of their arrival at 
 
 Corfu ; their voyage along the Mediterranean — 
 their music, and dancing on board ship; the 
 gay new life opening upon her ; her house with 
 its trellised balcony, and its views over white 
 cliffs and deep blue sea. 
 
 Edith wrote fluently and well, if not graphic- 
 ally. She could hot only seize the salient and' 
 characteristic points of a scene, but she could 
 enumerate enough of indiscriminate particulars 
 for Margaret to make it out for herself. Cap- 
 tain Lennox and another lately married officer' 
 shared a villa, high up on the beautiful pre- 
 cipitous rocks overhanging the sea. Their days, 
 late as it was in the year, seemed spent in boat- 
 ing or land pic-nics ; all out-of-doors — pleasure- 
 seeking and glad, Edith's life seemed like the 
 deep vault of blue sky above her, free — utterly 
 free from fleck or cloud. Her husband had to 
 attend drill, and she, the most musical officer's 
 wife there, had to copy the new and popular 
 tunes out of the most recent English music, 
 for the benefit of the bandmaster; those'seem- 
 ed their most severe and arduous duties. She 
 expressed an affectionate hope that if the regi- 
 ment stopped another year at Corfu, Margaret 
 might come out and pay her a long visit. She 
 asked Margaret if she remembered the day 
 twelvemonth on which she, Edith, wrote — how 
 it rained all day long in Harley Street; and 
 how she would not put on her new gown to go 
 to a stupid dinner, and get it all wet and splash- 
 ed in going to the carriage ; and how at that 
 very dinner they had first met Captain Lennox. 
 
 Yes ! Margaret remembered it well. Edith 
 and Mrs. Shaw had gone to dinner. Margaret 
 had joined the party in the evening. The re- 
 collection of the plentiful luxury of all the ar- 
 rangements, the stately handsomeness of the 
 furniture, the size of the house, the peaceful 
 untroubled ease of the visitors — all came vivid- 
 ly before her in strange contrast to the present, 
 time. The smooth sea of that old life closed ., 
 up without a mark left to tell where they had \ 
 all been. The habitual dinners, the calls, the 
 shopping, the dancing evenings, were all going' 
 on, going on forever, though her Aunt Shaw 
 and Edith were no longer there ; and she, of 
 course, was even less missed. She doubted if 
 any one of that old set ever thought of her, ex- 
 cept Henry Lennox. He too, she knew, would 
 strive to forget her, because of the pain she 
 had caused him. She had heard him often 
 boast of his power of putting any disagreeable 
 thought far away from him. Then she pene- 
 trated further into what might have been. If 
 she had cared for him as a lover, and had' ac- 
 cepted him, and this change in her father's 
 opinions and consequent station had taken 
 place, she could not doubt but that it would 
 have been impatiently received by Mr. Lennox. 
 It was a bitter mortification to her in one 
 sense ; but she could bear it patiently, because 
 she knew her father's purity of purpose, and 
 that strengthened her to endure his error?, 
 grave and serious though in her estimation 
 they were. But the fact of the world esteem- 
 ing her father degraded, in its rough whole- 
 sale judgment, would have oppressed and ir- 
 ritated Mr. Lennox. As she realized what 
 might have been, she grew to be thankful for 
 what was. They were at the lowest now; 
 they could not be worse. Edith's astonish- 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 29 
 
 ment and her Aunt Shaw's dismay would have 
 to be met bravely, when their letters came. 
 So Margaret rose up, and began slowly to un- 
 dress herself, feeling the full luxury of acting 
 leisurely, late as it was, after all the past hurry 
 of the day. She fell asleep, hoping for some 
 brightness, either internal or external. But if 
 she had known how long it would be before 
 the brightness came, her heart would have 
 sunk low down. The time of the year was 
 most unpropitious to health as well as to spir- 
 its. Her mother caught a severe cold, and 
 Dixon herself was evidently not well, although 
 Margaret could not insult her more than by 
 trying to save her, or by taking any care of 
 her. They could hear of no girl to assist her ; 
 all were at work in the factories; at least 
 those who applied were well scolded by Dixon 
 for thinking that such as they could ever be 
 trusted to work in a gentleman's house. . So 
 they had to keep a charwoman in almost con- 
 stant employ. Margaret longed to send for 
 Charlotte; but besides the objection of her be- 
 ing a better servant than they could now afford 
 to keep, the distance was too great. 
 
 Mr. Hale met with several pupils, recom- 
 mended to him by Mr. Bell, or by the more 
 immediate influence of Mr. Thornton. They 
 were mostly of the age when many boys would 
 be still at school, but, according to the preva- 
 lent and apparently well-founded notions of 
 Milton, to make a lad into a good tradesman 
 he must be caught young, and acclimated to 
 the life of the mill, or office, or warehouse. If 
 he were sent to even the Scotch universities 
 he came back unsettled for commercial pur- 
 suits ; how much more so if he went to Oxford 
 or Cambridge, where he could not be entered 
 till he was eighteen ? So most of the manufac- 
 turers placed their sons in sucking situations 
 at fourteen or fifteen years of age; unsparingly 
 cutting away all off-snoots in the direction of 
 literature or high mental cultivation, in hopes 
 of throwing all the strength and vigor of the 
 plant into commerce. Still there were some 
 wiser parents ; and some young men, who had 
 sense enough to perceive their own deficiencies, 
 and strive to remedy them. Way, there were 
 a few no longer youths, but men in the prime 
 of life, who had the stern wisdom to acknowl- 
 edge their own ignorance, and to learn late 
 what they should have learnt early. Mr. 
 Thornton was perhaps the oldest of Mr. Hale's 
 pupils. He was certainly the favorite. Mr. 
 Hale got into the habit of quoting his opinions 
 so frequently, and with such regard, that it be- 
 came a little domestic joke to wonder what 
 time during the hour appointed for instruction 
 could be given to absolute learning, so much of 
 it appeared to have been spent in conversation. 
 Margaret rather encouraged this light merry 
 way of viewing her father's acquaintance with 
 Mr. Thornton, because she.felt.Mat her mother 
 was inclined to look upon this new friendship 
 of her husband's with jealous eyes. As long as 
 his "time had™ been solely occupied with his 
 .' books and his parishioners, as at Helstone, she 
 j had appeared to care little if she saw much of 
 \ him or not ; but now that he looked eagerly 
 forward to each renewal of his intercourse with 
 Mr. Thornton, she seemed hurt and annoyed, 
 as if he were slighting her companionship for 
 
 the first time. Mr. Hale's overpraise had the 
 usual effect of overpraise" upon his auditors ; 
 they were a little inclined to rebel " against 
 Aristides being always called" the Just. """ 
 
 After a quiet life in a country parsonage for 
 more than twenty years, there was something 
 dazzling to Mr. Hale in the energy which con- 
 quered immense difficulties with ease ; the 
 power of the mafihinejcy of Milton, the power 
 of the men of Milton, impressed him with a 
 sense of grandeur, which he yielded to with- 
 out caring to inquire into the details of its ex- 
 ercise. But Margaret went less abroad, among 
 machinery and men; saw less of power in its 
 public effect, and, as it happened, she was 
 thrown with one or two of those who, in all 
 measures affecting masses of people, must be 
 acute sufferers for the good of many. The 
 question always is,, has every thing been done 
 to make the suffering of these exceptions as, 
 small as possible? "Oi*, in the triumph of the ' 
 crowded procession, have the helpless been 
 trampled on, instead of being gently lifted 
 aside out of the roadway of the conqueror, 
 whom they have no power to accompany on . 
 his march? 4 
 
 It so happened that it fell to Margaret's 
 share to have to look out for a servant to as- 
 sist Dixon, who had at first undertaken to find 
 just the person she wanted to do all the rough 
 work of the house. But Dixon's ideas of help- 
 ful girls were founded on the recollection of 
 tidy elder scholars at Helstone school, who 
 were only too proud to be allowed to come to 
 the parsonage on a busy day, and treated Mrs. ' 
 Dixon with all the respect, and a good deal 
 more of fright, than they paid to Mr. and Mint 
 Hale. Dixon was not unconscious of this a\mg- 
 reverence which was given to her ; nor did STou 
 dislike it ; it flattered her much as Louisi we 
 Fourteenth was flattered by his courtiers i each 
 ing their eyes from the dazzling light well." 
 presence. But nothing short of her £.e him, 
 love for Mrs. Hale could have made her : is not 
 the rough independent way in which 
 Milton girls who made application for scornful 
 vant's place replied to her inquiries res] 
 their qualifications. They even went the ', men, 
 of questioning her back again ; having douujr 
 and fears of their own as to the solvency of a""** 
 family who lived in a house of thirty pounds 
 a-year, and yet gave themselves airs, and kept 
 two servants, one of them so very high and 
 mighty. Mr. Hale was no longer looked upon 
 as vicar of Helstone, but as a man who only 
 spent at a certain rate. Margaret was weary 
 and impatient of the accounts which Dixon 
 perpetually brought to Mrs. Hale of the be-^ 
 havior of these would-be servants, Mot but i 
 what Margaret was repelled by the rough un- * 
 courteous manners of these people; not buti 
 what she shrunk with fastidious pride from 
 their hail-fellow accost, and severely resented 
 their unconcealed curiosity as to the means andf 
 position of any family who lived in Milton, and 
 yet were not engaged in trade of some kind.. 
 But the more Margaret felt impertinence, thej 
 more likely she was to be silent on the subject ; , 
 and, at any rate, if she took upon herself to. 
 make inquiry for a servant, she could spare her 
 mother the recital of all her disappointments 
 and fancied or real insults. 
 
30 
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 Margaret accordingly went up and down to 
 butchers and grocers, seeking for a nonpareil 
 of a girl ; and lowering her hopes and expecta- 
 tions every week, as she found the difficulty of 
 meeting with any one in a manufacturing town 
 who did not prefer the better wages and greater 
 independence of working in a mill. It was 
 something of a trial to Margaret to go out by 
 herself in this busy bustling place. Mrs. Shaw's 
 ideas of propriety and her own helpless depend- 
 ence on others, had always made her insist that 
 a footman should accompany Edith and Mar- 
 garet if they went beyond Harley Street or the 
 immediate neighborhood. The limits by which 
 this rule of her aunt's had circumscribed Mar- 
 garet's independence had been silently rebelled 
 against at the time: and she had doubly en- 
 joyed the free walks and rambles of her forest 
 life, from the contrast which they presented. 
 She went along there with a bounding fearless 
 step, that occasionally broke out into a run, 
 if she were in a hurry, and occasionally was 
 stilled into perfect repose, as she stood listening 
 to, or watching any of the wild creatures who 
 sang in the leafy courts, or glanced out with 
 their keen bright eyes from the low brushwood 
 or tangled furze. It was a trial to come down 
 from such motion or such stillness, only guided 
 by her own sweet will, to the even and decor- 
 ous pace necessary in streets. But she could 
 have laughed at herself for minding this change, 
 if it had not been accompanied by what was a 
 more serious annoyance. 
 
 The side of the town on which Crampton lay 
 was especially a thoroughfare for the factory 
 people. In the back streets around them there 
 cqure many mills, out of which poured streams 
 " j ien and women two or three times a day. 
 place l Margaret had learnt the times of their in- 
 or yo. and egress she was very unfortunate in 
 some lt itly falling in with them. They came 
 terribl g along, with bold fearless faces, and 
 Ther< n ghs and jests, particularly aimed at all 
 were setho appeared to be above them in rank 
 and fogs )n . The tones of their unrestrained 
 seemed rand their carelessness of all common 
 of circu street politeness, frightened Margaret 
 Hale ha a t first. The girls, with their rough 
 muc'not unfriendly freedom, would comment on 
 "her dress, even touch her shawl or gown to as- 
 certain the exact material; nay, once or twice, 
 6he was asked questions relative to some article 
 which they particularly admired. There was 
 such a simple reliance on her womanly sym- 
 ' ' ' with their love of dress, and on her kind' 
 
 liness, that she gladly replied to these inquiries 
 as soon as she understood them; and half- 
 smiled back at their remarks. She did not 
 mind meeting any number of girls, loud-spoken 
 and boisterous though they might be. But she 
 alternately dreaded and fired up against the 
 workmen, who commented not on her dress, but 
 on her looks, in the same open, fearless manner. 
 She, who had hitherto felt that even the most 
 refined remark on her personal appearance was 
 an impertinence, had to endure undisguised 
 admiration from these outspoken men. But 
 the very outspokenness marked their innocence 
 of any intention to hurt her delicacy, as she 
 would have perceived if she Jiad been less 
 frightened by the disorderly tumult. Out of 
 her fright came a flash of indignation which 
 
 made her face scarlet, and her dark eyes gather 
 flame, as she heard some of their speeches. 
 Yet there were other sayings of theirs, which, 
 when she reached the quiet safety of home, 
 amused her even while they irritated her. 
 
 For instance, one day, after she had passed 
 a number of meA, several of whom had paid 
 her the not unusual compliment of wishing 
 she was their sweetheart, one of the lingerers 
 added, "Your bonny face, my lass, makes the 
 day look brighter." And another day, as she 
 was unconsciously smiling at some passing 
 thought, she was addressed by a poorly-dressed, 
 middle-aged workman, with "You may well 
 smile, my lass; many a one would smile to 
 have such a bonny face." This man looked so 
 care-worn that Margaret could not help giving 
 him an answering smile, glad to think that her 
 looks, such as they were, should have had the 
 power to call up a pleasant thought. He 
 seemed to understand her acknowledging glance, 
 and a silent recognition was established be- 
 tween them whenever the chances of the day 
 brought them across each other's paths. They 
 had never exchanged a word; nothing had 
 been said but that first compliment; yet some- 
 how Margaret looked upon this man with more 
 interest than upon any one else in Milton. Once 
 or twice, on Sundays, she saw him walking 
 with a girl, evidently his daughter, and, if 
 possible, still more unhealthy than he was him- 
 self. 
 
 One day Margaret and her father had been 
 as far as the fields that lay around the town; 
 it was early spring, and she had gathered some 
 of the hedge and ditch flowers, dog-violets, 
 lesser celandines, and the like, with an un- 
 spoken lament in her heart for the sweet pro- 
 fusion of the South. Her father had left her 
 to go into Milton on some business ; and on the 
 road home she met her humble friends. The 
 girl looked wistfully at the flowers, and, act- 
 ing on a sudden impulse, Margaret offered them 
 to her. Her pale blue eyes lightened up as 
 6he took them, and her father spoke for her. 
 
 " Thank yo, Miss. Betsy '11 think a deal o' 
 them flowers ; that hoo will ; and I Bhall think 
 a deal o' yor kindness. Yo're not of this coun- 
 try, I reckon?" 
 
 " No," said Margaret, half sighing. " I come 
 from the South — from Hampshire," she con- 
 tinued, a little afraid of wounding his conscious- 
 ness of ignorance if she used a name which he 
 did not understand. 
 
 "That's beyond London, I reckon? And I 
 come fra' Burnley-ways, and forty mile to th' 
 north. And yet, yo see, North and South has 
 both met and made kind o' friends in this big 
 smoky place." 
 
 Margaret had slackened her pace to walk 
 alongside of the man and his daughter, whose 
 steps were regulated by the feebleness of the 
 latter. She now spoke to the girl, and there 
 was a sound of tender pity in the tone of her 
 voice as she did so that went right to the heart 
 of the father. 
 
 " I am afraid you are not very strong." 
 
 " No," said the girl, " nor never will be." 
 
 "Spring is coming," said Margaret, as if to 
 suggest pleasant hopeful thoughts. 
 
 " Spring nor summer will do me good," said 
 the girl quietly. 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 31 
 
 Margaret looked up at the man, almost ex- 
 pecting some contradiction from him, or at least 
 some remark that would modify his daughter's 
 utter hopelessness. But, instead, he added—* 
 
 "I'm afeared hoo speaks truth. I'm afeared 
 hoo's too far gone in a waste." 
 
 " I shall have a spring wljere I'm borne to, 
 and flowers, and amaranths, and shining robes 
 besides." 
 
 "Poor lass, poor lass I" Said her father in a 
 low tone. "I'm none so sure o' that; but it's 
 a comfort to thee, poor lass, poor lass ! Poor 
 father! it'll be soon> 
 
 Margaret was shocked by his words — shocked 
 but not repelled; rather attracted and inter- 
 ested. 
 
 "Where do you live? I think we must be 
 neighbors, we meet so often on this road." 
 
 " We put up at nine, Frances Street, second 
 turn to th' left at after yo've past th' Goulden 
 Dragon." 
 
 " And your name ? I must not forget that." 
 
 " I'm none ashamed of my name. It's Nicho- 
 las Higgins. Hoo's called Bessy Higgins. What- 
 ten yo' asking for?" 
 
 Margaret was surprised at this last question, 
 for at Helstone it would have been an under- 
 stood thing, after the inquiries she had made, 
 that she intended to come and call upon any 
 
 Eoor neighbor whose name and habitation she 
 ad asked for. 
 
 " I thought — I meant to come and see you." 
 She suddenly felt rather shy of offering the 
 visit, without having any reason to give for 
 her wish to make it, beyond a kindly interest 
 in a stranger. It seemed all at once to take 
 the shape of an impertinence on her part ; she 
 read this meaning too in the man's eyes. 
 
 " I'm none so fond of having strange folk in 
 my house." But then relenting, as he saw her 
 heightened color, he added, " Yo're a foreigner, 
 as one may say, and maybe don't know many 
 folk here, and yo've given my wench here flow- 
 ers out of yo'r own hand ; yo may come if yo 
 like." 
 
 Margaret was half-amused, half-nettled at 
 this answer. She was not sure if she would 
 go where permission was given so like a favor 
 conferred. But when they came to the town 
 into Frances Street, the girl stopped a minute, 
 and said, 
 
 " Yo'U not forget yo're to come and see us." 
 
 "Ay, ay," said the father, impatiently, "hoo'U 
 come. Hoo's a bit set up now, because hoo 
 thinks I might ha' spoken more civilly; but 
 hoo'll think better on it, and come. I can read 
 her proud bonny face like a book. Come along, 
 Bess ; there's the mill bell ringing." 
 
 Margaret went home, wondering at her new 
 friends, and smiling at the man's insight into 
 what had been passing in her mind. From that 
 day Milton became a brighter place to her. It 
 was not the long, bleak sunny days of spring, 
 nor yet was it that time was reconciling her to 
 the town of her habitation. It was that in it 
 she had found a human interest. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 The day after this meeting with Higgins and 
 his daughter, Mr. Hale came up-stairs into the 
 
 little drawing-room at an unusual hour. He 
 went up to different objects in the room, as if 
 examining them, but Margaret saw that it was 
 merely a nervous trick — a way of putting off 
 something he wished, yet feared to say. Out 
 it came at last — 
 
 "My dear ! I've asked Mr. Thornton to come 
 to tea to-night." 
 
 Mrs. Hale was leaning back in her easy chair, 
 with her eyes shut, and an expression of pain 
 on her face which had become habitual to her 
 of late. But she roused up into querulousness 
 at this speech of her husband's. 
 
 " Mr. Thornton I — and to-night ! What in the 
 world does the man want to come here for ? 
 And Dixon is washing my muslins and laces, 
 and there is no soft water with these horrid 
 east winds, which I suppose we shall have all 
 the year round in Milton." 
 
 " The wind is veering round, my dear," said 
 Mr. Hale, looking out at the smoke, which 
 drifted right from the east, only he did not yet 
 understand the points of the compass, and 
 rather arranged them ad libitum, according to 
 circumstances. 
 
 " Don't tell me!" said Mrs. Hale, shuddering 
 up, and wrapping her shawl about her still 
 more closely. " But, east or west wind, I sup- 
 pose this man comes." 
 
 " Oh, mamma, that shows you never saw Mr. 
 Thornton. He looks like a person who would 
 enjoy battling with every adverse thing he 
 could meet with — enemies, winds, or circum- 
 stances. The more it rains and blows, the more 
 certain we are to have him. But I will go and 
 help Dixon. I am getting to be a famous clear- 
 starcher. And he won't want any amusement 
 beyond talking to papa. Papa, I am really long- 
 ing to see the Pythias to your Damon. You 
 I know never saw him but once, and then we 
 were so puzzled to know what to say to each 
 other that we did not get on particularly well." 
 
 " I don't know that you would ever like him, 
 or think him agreeable, Margaret. He is not 
 a lady's man." 
 
 Margaret wreathed her throat in a scornful 
 curve. 
 
 " I don't particularly admire ladies' men, 
 papa. But Mr. Thornton comes here as your 
 friend — as one who has appreciated you — ■" 
 
 " The only person in Milton," said Mrs. Hale. 
 
 " So we will give him a welcome, and some 
 coeoa-nut cakes. Dixon will be flattered if we 
 ask her to make some ; and I will undertake to 
 iron your caps, mamma." 
 
 Many a time that morning did Margaret 
 wish Mr. Thornton far enough away. She had 
 planned other employments for herself: a letter 
 to Edith, a good piece of Dante, a visit to the 
 Higginses. But, instead, she ironed away, lis- 
 tening to Dixon's complaints, and only hoping 
 that by an excess of sympathy she might pre- 
 vent her from carrying the recital of her sor- 
 rows to Mrs. Hale. Every now and then Mar- 
 garet had to remind herself of her father's re- 
 gard for Mr. Thornton to subdue the irritation 
 of weariness that was stealing over her, and 
 bringing on one of the* bad headaches to which 
 she had lately become liable. She could hard- 
 ly speak when she sat down at last, and told 
 her mother that she was no longer Peggy the 
 laundry-maid, but Margaret Hale, the lady. 
 
32 
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 She meant this speech for a little joke, and was 
 vexed enough with her busy tongue when she 
 found her mother taking it seriously. 
 
 " Yes I if any one had told me, when I was 
 Miss Beresford, and one of the belles of the 
 county, that a child of mine would have to 
 stand half a day, in a little poky kitchen, work- 
 ing away like any servant, that we might pre- 
 pare properly for the reception of a tradesman, 
 and that this tradesman should be the only — " 
 
 " Oh, mamma !" said Margaret, lifting herself 
 up, "don't punish me eo for a careless speech. 
 I don't mind ironing, or any kind of work, for 
 you and papa. I am myself a born and bred 
 lady through it all, even though it comes to 
 scouring a floor, or washing dishes. I am tired 
 now, just for a littlo while ; but in half an hour 
 I shall be ready to do the same over again. 
 And as to Mr. Thornton's being in trade, why 
 he can't help that now, poor fellow. I don't 
 suppose his education would fit him for much 
 else." Margaret lifted herself slowly up, and 
 went to her own room; for just now she could 
 not bear much more. 
 
 In Mr. Thornton's house, at this very same 
 time a similar, yet different, scene was going 
 on. A large-boned lady, long past middle age, 
 sat at work in a grim handsoniely-furnished 
 dining-room. Her features, like her frame, 
 were strong and massive, rather than heavy. 
 Her face moved slowly from one decided ex- 
 pression to another equally decided. There 
 was no great variety in her countenance ; but 
 those who looked at it once, generally looked 
 at it again ; even the passers-by in the street, 
 half-turned their heads to gaze an instant longer 
 at the firm, severe, dignified woman, who never 
 gave way in street-courtesy, or paused in her 
 straight onward course to the clearly defined 
 end which she proposed to herself. 
 
 She was handsomely dressed in stout black 
 silk, of which not a thread was worn or dis- 
 colored. She was mending a large, long table- 
 cloth of the finest texture, holding it up against 
 the light occasionally to discover thin places, 
 which required her delicate care. There was 
 not a boot about in the room, with the excep- 
 tion of Matthew Henry's Bible Commentaries, 
 six volumes of which lay in the centre of the 
 massive side-board, flanked by a tea-urn on 
 one side, a lamp on the other. In some remote 
 apartment, there was exercise upon the piano 
 going on. Some one was practicing up a mor- 
 geau de salon, playing it very rapidly, every 
 third note, on an average, being either indis- 
 tinct or wholly missed out, and the loud chords 
 at the end being half of them false, but not the 
 less satisfactory to the performer. Mrs. Thorn- 
 ton heard a step, like her own in its decisive 
 character, pass the dining-room door. 
 
 " John ! Is that you I" 
 
 Her son opened the door, and showed him- 
 self. 
 
 "What has brought you home so early? I 
 thought you were going to tea, with that friend 
 of Mr. Bell's ; that Mr. Hale." 
 
 "So I am, mother. I am come home to 
 dress I" 
 
 " Dress I humph! When I was a girl, young 
 men were satisfied with dressing once in a day. 
 Why should you dress to go and take a cup of 
 tea with an old parson?" 
 
 " Mr. Hale is a gentleman, and his wife and 
 daughter are ladies." 
 
 , " Wife and daughter ! Do they teach too ? 
 What do they do? Tou have never mentioned 
 them?" 
 
 "No! mother, because I have never seen 
 Mrs. Hale ; I have only seen Miss Hale for half 
 an hour." 
 
 " Take care you don't get caught by a penni- 
 less girl, John." 
 
 "I am not easily caught, mother, as I think 
 you know. But I must not have Miss Hale 
 spoken of in that way, which, you know, is 
 offensive to me. I never was aware of any 
 young lady trying to catch me yet, nor do I 
 believe that any one has ever given themselves 
 that useless trouble." 
 
 Mrs. Thornton did not choose to yield the 
 point to her son ; or else she had, in general, 
 pride enough for her sex 
 
 " Well I I only say, take care. Perhaps our 
 Milton girls have too much spirit and good feel- 
 ing to go angling after husbands ; but this Miss 
 Hale comes out of the aristocratic counties, 
 where, if all tales be true, rich husbands are 
 reckoned prizes." 
 
 Mr. Thornton's brow contracted, and he came 
 a step forward into the room. 
 
 " Mother " (with a short scornful laugh), 
 " you will make me confess. The only time I 
 saw Miss Hale, she treated me with a haughty 
 civility which had a strong flavor of contempt 
 in it. She held herself aloof from me as if she 
 had been a queen, and I her humble, unwashed 
 vassal. Be easy, mother." 
 
 "No! I am not easy, nor content either. 
 What business had she, a renegade clergyman's 
 daughter, to turn up her nose at you ! I would 
 dress for none of them — a saucy set ! if I were 
 you." As he was leaving the room he said: 
 
 " Ml - . Hale is good, and gentle, and learned. 
 He is not saucy. As for Mrs. Hale, I will tell 
 you what she is like to-night, if you care to 
 hear." He shut the door, and was gone. 
 
 " Despise my son ! treat him as her vassal, in- 
 deed! Humph! I should like to know where 
 she could find such another! Boy and man, 
 he's the noblest, stoutest heart I ever knew. I 
 don't care if I am his mother ; I can see what's 
 what, and not be blind. I know what Fanny 
 is ; and I know what John is. Despise him ! I 
 hate her!" 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Me. Thornton left the house without coming 
 into the dining-room again. He was rather 
 late, and walked rapidly out to Crampton. He 
 was anxious not to slight his new friend by any 
 disrespectful unpunctuality. The church-clock 
 struck half-past seven as he 
 
 he stood at the door 
 
 awaiting Dixon's slow movements; always 
 doubly tardy when she had to degrade herself 
 by answering the door-belL He was ushered 
 into the little drawing-room, and kindly greeted 
 by Mr. Hale, who led him up to his wife, whose 
 pale face and shawl-draped figure made a silent 
 excuse for the cold languor of her greeting. 
 Margaret was lighting the lamp when he en- 
 tered, for the darkness was coming on. The 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 lamp threw <• pretty light into the centre of 
 the dusky room, from which, with country 
 habits, they did not exclude the night-skies, 
 and the outer darkness of air. Somehow, that 
 room contrasted itself with the one he had 
 lately left; handsome, ponderous, with no sign 
 of feminine habitation, except in the one spot 
 where his mother sate, and no convenience for 
 any other employment than eating and drink- 
 ing. To be sure, it was a dining-room; his 
 mother preferred to- sit in it ; and her will was 
 a household law. But the drawing-room was* 
 not like this. It was twice — twenty times as 
 fine; not one quarter as comfortable. Hero 
 were no mirrors, not even a scrap of glass to 
 reflect the light, and answer the same purpose 
 as water in a landscape; no gilding, a warm, 
 sober breadth of coloring, well relieved by the 
 dear old Helstone chintz-eurtains and chair- 
 covers. An open davenport stood in the win- 
 dow opposite the door ; in the other there was 
 a stand, with a tall white china vase, from 
 which drooped wreaths of English ivj% pale- 
 green birch, and copper-colored beech-leavea. 
 Pretty baskets of work stood about in different 
 places ; and books not cared for on account of 
 their bindings (solely) lay on one table, as if 
 just put down. Behind the door was another 
 tablo, decked out for tea, with a white table- 
 cloth, on which flourished the cocoa-nut cakes, 
 and a basket piled with oranges and ruddy 
 American apples, heaped on leaves. 
 
 It appeared to Mr. Thornton that all these 
 graceful cares were habitual to the family; 
 and especially of a piece with Margaret. She 
 stood by the tea-table in a light-colored muslin 
 gown, which had a good deal of pink about it. 
 She looked as if she was not attending to the 
 conversation, but solely busy with the tea-cups, 
 among which her round ivory hands moved 
 with pretty, noiseless daintiness. She had a 
 bracelet on one taper arm, which would fall 
 down over her round wrist. Mr. Thornton 
 watched the re-placing of this troublesome 
 ornament with far more attention than he 
 listened to her father. It seemed as if it fasci- 
 nated him to see her push it up impatiently, 
 until it tightened her soft flesh ; and then to 
 mark the loosening — the fall. He could almost 
 have exclaimed — " There it goesagain I" There 
 was so little left to be done after he arrived at 
 the preparation for tea, that he . was almost 
 sorry that the' obligation of eating and drink- 
 ing came so soon to prevent his watching Mar- 
 garet. She handed him his cup of tea with 
 the proud air of an unwilling slave ; but her 
 eye caught the moment when he was ready 
 for another cup ; and he almost longed to ask 
 "her to do for him what he saw her compelled 
 to do for her father, who took her little finger 
 and thumb in his -masculine hand, and made 
 them 6erve as sugar-tongs. Mr. Thornton saw 
 her beautiful eyes lifted to her father, full of 
 light, half-laughter and half -love, as this bit 
 of pantomime went on between the two, unob- 
 served, as they fancied, by any. Margaret's 
 head still ached, as the paleness of her complex- 
 ion and her silence might have testified ; but she 
 was resolved to throw herself into the breach, 
 if there was any long untoward pause, rather 
 than that her father's friend, pupil, and guest 
 should have cause to think himself in anyway , 
 C 
 
 neglected. But the conversation went on ; and 
 Margaret drew into a corner, near her mother, 
 with her work, after the tea-things were taken 
 away; and felt that she might let her thoughts 
 roam, without fear of being suddenly wanted 
 to fill up a gap. 
 
 Mr. Ihornton and Mr. Hale were both ab- 
 sorbed in the continuation of some subject 
 which had been started at their last meeting. 
 Margaret was recalled to a sense of the pre- 
 sent by some trivial, low-spoken remark of her 
 mother's ; and on suddenly looking up from 
 her work, her eye was caught by the difference 
 of outward appearance between her father and 
 Mr. Thornton, as betokening such distinctly 
 opposite natures. Her father was of slight 
 figure, which made him appear taller than he 
 really was, when not contrasted, as at this 
 time, with the tall, massive frame of another. 
 The lines in her father's face were soft and 
 waving, with a frequent undulating kind of 
 trembling movement passing over them, show- 
 ing every fluctuating emotion ; the eyelids were 
 large and arched, giving to the eyes a peculiar 
 languid beauty which was almost feminine. 
 The brows were finely arehed, but were, by the 
 very size of the dreamy lids, raised to a con- 
 siderable distance from the eyes. Now, in Mr. 
 Thornton's face the straight brows fell low over 
 the clear, deep-set earnest eyes, which, without 
 being unpleasantly sharp, seemed intent enough 
 to penetrate into the very heart and core of 
 what he was looking at. The lines in the face 
 were few but firm, as if they were carved in 
 marble, and lay principally about; the lips, 
 which were slightly compressed"T>ver a set of 
 teeth so faultless and beautiful as to give the 
 effect of sudden sun-light when the rare bright 
 smile, coming in an instant and shining out of 
 the eyes, changed the whole look from the 
 severe and resolved expression of a man ready 
 to do and dare every thing, to the keen honest '. 
 enjoyment of the moment, which is seldom j 
 shown so fearlessly and instantaneously except 
 by children. Margaret liked this smile; it' 
 was the first thing she had admired in this 
 new friend of her father's ; and the opposition 
 of character, shown in all these details of ap- 
 pearance she had just been noticing, seemed to 
 explain the attraction they evidently felt to- 
 ward each other. 
 
 She rearranged her mother's worsted-work, 
 and fell back into her own thoughts — as com- 
 pletely forgotten by Mr. Thornton.as if she had 
 not been in the room, so thoroughly was he oc- 
 cupied in explaining to Mr. Hale the magnifi- 
 cent power, yet delicate adjustment of the 
 might of the steam-hammer, which was recall- 
 ing to Mr. Hale some of the wonderful stories 
 of subservient genii in the Arabian Nights — 
 one moment stretching from earth to sky and ; 
 filling all the width of the horizon, at the ijpxt I 
 obediently compressed into a vase small enough , 
 to be borne in the hand of a child. 
 
 " And this imagination of power, this prac- 
 tical realization of a gigantic thought, came i 
 out of one man's brain in our good town. That / 
 very man has it within him to mount step by 
 step on each wonder he achieves to higher 
 marvels still. And I'll be bound to say, we 
 have many among us who, if he were gone, 
 could spring into the breach and carry on the 
 
34 
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 war which compels, and shall compel, all ma- 
 terial power to yield to science." 
 
 " Your boast reminds me of the old lines — 
 ' I've a hundred captains in England,' he said, 
 ' As good as ever was he.' " 
 
 (At her father's quotation Margaret looked 
 suddenly up with inquiring wonder in her eyes. 
 How in the world had they got from cog-wheels 
 to Chevy Chase ?) 
 
 " It is no boast of mine,'' replied Mi'. Thorn- 
 ton; "it is plain matter-of-fact. I won't deny 
 that I am proud of belonging to a town — or 
 perhaps I should rather say a district — the ne- 
 cessities of which give birth to such grandeur 
 of conception. I would rather be a man toil- 
 ing, suffering — nay, failing and successless — 
 here, than lead a dull prosperous life in the old 
 worn grooves of what you call more aristocrat- 
 ic society down in the South, with their slow 
 days of careless ease. One may be clogged 
 with honey and unable to rise and fly." 
 
 "You are mistaken," said Margaret, roused 
 by the aspersion on her beloved South to a 
 fond vehemence of defense that brought the 
 color into her cheeks and the aDgry tears into 
 her eyes. " You do not know any thing about 
 the South. If there is less adventure or less 
 progress — I suppose I must not say less excite- 
 ment — from the gambling spirit of trade, which 
 seems requisite to force out these wonderful in- 
 ventions, there is less suffering also. I see men 
 here going about in the streets who look ground 
 down by some pinching sorrow, or care- — who 
 are not only sufferers but haters. Now, in the 
 South we have our poor, but there is not that 
 terrible expression in their countenances of a 
 sullen sense of injustice which I see here. You 
 do not know the South, Mr. Thornton," Bhe 
 concluded, collapsing into a determined silence, 
 and angry with herself for having said 60 
 much. 
 
 " And may I say you do not know the North?" 
 asked he, with an inexpressible gentleness in 
 his tone, as he saw that he had really hurt her. 
 She continued resolutely silent ; yearning after 
 the lovely haunts she had left far away in 
 Hampshire, with a passionate longing that 
 made her feel her voice would be unsteady 
 and trembling if she spoke. 
 
 "At any rate, llr. Thornton," said Mrs. Hale, 
 "You will allow that Milton is a much more 
 smoky, dirty town than you will ever meet 
 with in the South." 
 
 " I am afraid I must give up its cleanliness," 
 said Mr. Thornton, with the quick gleaming 
 smile. " But we are bidden by parliament to 
 burn our own smoke; so I suppose, like good 
 little children, we shall do as we are bid — some 
 time." 
 
 " But I think you told me you had altered 
 your chimneys so as to consume the smoke, 
 did you not i" asked Mr. Hale. 
 
 " Mine were altered by my own will, before 
 parliament meddled with the affair. It was an 
 immediate outlay, but it repays me in the sav- 
 ing of eoal. I am not sure whether I should 
 have done it, if I had waited until the act was 
 passed. At any rate, I should have waited to 
 be informed against and fined, and given all 
 the trouble in yielding that I legally could. 
 But all laws which depend for their enforce- 
 ment upon informers and fines, become inert 
 
 from the odiousness of the machinery. I doubt 
 if there has been a chimney in Milton inform- 
 ed against for five years past, although some 
 are constantly Bending out one-third of their 
 coal in what is called here unparliamentary 
 smoke." 
 
 "I only know it is impossible to keep the 
 muslin blinds clean here above a week to- 
 gether; and at Helstone we have had them 
 up for a month or more, and they have not 
 looked dirty at the end of that time. And as 
 for hands — Margaret, how many times did you 
 Bay you had washed your hands this morning 
 before twelve o'clock? Three times, was it 
 not?" 
 
 " Yes, mamma." 
 
 "You seem to have a strong objection to 
 acts of parliament and all legislation affecting 
 your mode of management down here at Mil- 
 ton," said Mr. Hale. 
 
 " Yes, I have ; and many others have as well. 
 And with justice, I think. The whole machin- 
 ery — I don't mean the wood and iron machin- 
 ery now — of the cotton trade is so new that it 
 is no wonder if it does not work well in every 
 part all at once. Seventy years ago what was 
 it? And now what is it not? Eaw, crude ma- 
 terials came together; men of the same level, 
 as regarded education and station, took sud- 
 denly the different positions of masters and 
 men, owing to the mother-wit, as regarded 
 opportunities and probabilities, which distin- 
 guished some, and made them far-seeing as to 
 what great future lay concealed in that rude 
 model of Sir Eichard Arkwright's. The rapid 
 development of what might be called a new- 
 trade gave those early masters enormous power 
 of wealth and command. I don't mean merely 
 over the workmen ; I mean over purchasers — 
 over the whole world's market. Why,, I may 
 give you, as an instance, an advertisement, in- 
 serted not fifty years ago in a Milton paper, 
 that so-and-so (one of the half-dozen calico- 
 printers of the time) would close his warehouse 
 at noon each day ; therefore, that all purchasers 
 must come before that hour. Fancy a man dic- 
 tating in this manner the time when he would 
 sell and when he would not sell. Now, I believe 
 if a good customer chose to come at midnight, 
 I should get up, and stand hat in hand to re- 
 ceive his orders." 
 
 Margaret's lip curled, but somehow she was 
 compelled to listen; she could no longer ab- 
 stract herself in her own thoughts. 
 
 " I only name such things to show what al- 
 most unlimited power the manufacturers had 
 about the beginning of this century. The men 
 were rendered dizzy by it. Because a man was 
 successful in his ventures, there was no reason 
 that in all other things his mind should be well- 
 balanced. On the contrary, his sense of justice, 
 and his simplicity, were often utterly smother- 
 ed under the glut of wealth that came down 
 upon him ; and they tell strange tales of the 
 wild extravagance of living indulged in on gala- 
 days by those early cotton-lords. There can 
 be no doubt, too, of the tyranny they exer- 
 cised over their work-people. You know the 
 proverb, Mr. Hale, 'Set a beggar on horseback, 
 and he'll ride to the devil' — well, some of 
 these early manufacturers did ride to the devil 
 in a magnificent style — crushing human bone 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 35 
 
 and flesh tinder their horses' hoofs without re- 
 morse. But by-and-by came a reaction ; there 
 "were more factories, more masters; more men 
 were wanted. The power of masters and men 
 became more evenly balanced; and now the 
 battle is pretty fairly waged between us. We 
 will hardly submit to the decision of an umpire, 
 much less to the interference of a meddler with 
 only a smattering of the knowledge of the real 
 facts of the case, even though that meddler be 
 called the High Court of Parliament." 
 
 " Is there any necessity for calling it a battle 
 between the two classes'?" asked Mr. Hale. " I 
 know from your using the term it is one which 
 gives a true idea of the real state of things to 
 your mind." 
 
 " It is true ; and I believe it to be as much 
 a necessity as that prudent wisdom and good 
 conduct are always opposed to, and doing bat- 
 tle with ignorance and improvidence. It is 
 one of the great beauties of our system that a 
 working-man may raise himself into the power 
 and position of a master by his own exertions 
 and Dehavior; that, in fact, every one who 
 rules himself to decency and sobriety of con- 
 duct, and attention to his duties, comes over 
 to our ranks ; it may not be always as a mas- 
 ter, but as an overlooker, a cashier, a book- 
 keeper, a clerk, one on the side of authority 
 and order." 
 
 " You consider all who are unsuccessful in 
 raising themselves in the world, from whatever 
 cause, as your enemies, then, if I understand 
 you rightly," said Margaret, in a clear cold 
 voice. 
 
 " As their own enemies, certainly," said he, 
 quickly, not a little piqued by the haughty 
 disapproval her form of expression and tone 
 of speaking implied. But, in a moment, his 
 straightforward honesty made him feel that his 
 words were but a poor and quibbling answer 
 to what she had said, and, be she as scornful as 
 she liked, it was a duty he owed to himself to 
 explain, as truly as he could, what he did mean. 
 Yet it was very difficult to separate her inter- 
 pretation, and keep it distinct from his mean- 
 ing. He could have illustrated what he wanted 
 to say the best by telling them something of 
 his own life ; but was it not too personal a sub- 
 ject to speak about to strangers? Still it was 
 the simple straightforward way of explaining 
 his meaning ; so, putting aside the touch of shy- 
 ness that brought a momentary flush of color 
 into his dark cheek, he said: 
 
 " I am not speaking without book. Sixteen 
 years ago my father died under very miserable 
 circumstances. I was taken from school, and 
 had to become a man (as well as I could) in a 
 few days. I had such a mother as few are 
 blest with ; a woman of strong power, and firm 
 resolve. We went into a small country town, 
 where living was cheaper than in Milton, and 
 where I got employment in a draper's shop (a 
 capital place, by the way, for obtaining a knowl- 
 . edge of goods). Week by week, our income 
 came to fifteen shillings, out of which three 
 people had to be kept. My mother managed 
 so that I put by three out of these fifteen shil- 
 lings regularly. This made the beginning ; this 
 taught me self-denial. Now that I am able to 
 afford my mother such comforts as her age 
 rather than her own wish requires, I thank her 
 
 silently on each occasion for the early training 
 she gave me. Now when I feel that in my own 
 case it is no good luck, nor merit, nor talent — 
 but simply the habits of life which taught me 
 to despise indulgences not thoroughly earned 
 — indeed, never to think twice about them — f* 
 believe that this suffering, which Miss Hale 
 says is impressed on the countenances of the j 
 people of Milton, is but the natural punishment; 
 of dishonestly-enjoyed pleasure at some former) 
 period of their lives. I do not look on self-, 
 indulgent sensual people as worthy of my ha-1 
 tred ; I simply look upon them with contempt] 
 for their poorness of character." 
 
 " But you have had the rudiments of a good 
 education," remarked Mr. Hale. "The quick 
 zest with which you are now reading Homer, 
 shows me that you do not come to it as an un- 
 known book; you have read it before, and are 
 only recalling your old knowledge." 
 
 "That is true — I had blundered along it at 
 school ; I dare say, I was even considered a 
 pretty fair classic in those days, though my 
 Latin and Greek have slipt away from me since. 
 But I ask you what preparation they were for 
 such a life as I had to lead ? None at all. Ut- 
 terly none at all. On the point of education, 
 any man who can read and write starts fair 
 with me in the amount of really useful knowl- 
 edge that I had at that time." 
 
 " Well ! I don't agree with you. But there 
 I am perhaps somewhat of a pedant. Did not 
 the recollection of the heroic simplicity of the 
 Homeric life nerve you up?" 
 
 "Not one bit I" exclaimed Mr. Thornton, 
 laughing. " I was too busy to think about any 
 dead people, with the living pressing alongside ! 
 of me, neck to neck, in the struggle for bread. 
 Now that I have my mother safe in the quiet 
 peace which becomes her age, and duly rewards 
 her former exertions, I can turn to all that old ' 
 narration and thoroughly enjoy it." 
 
 " I dare say my remark came" from the pro- 
 fessional feeling of there being nothing like 
 leather," replied Mr. Hale. 
 
 When Mr. Thornton rose up to go away, 
 after shaking hands with Mr. and Mrs. Hale, 
 he made an advance to Margaret to wish her 
 good-by in a similar manner. It was the 
 frank familiar custom of the place ; but Marga- 
 ret was not prepared for it. She simply bowed 
 her farewell; although the instant she saw the' 
 hand, half put out, quickly drawn back, she 
 was sorry she had not been aware of the inten- 
 tion. Mr. Thornton, however, knew nothing 
 of her sorrow, and, drawing himself up to his 
 full height, walked off, muttering as he left the 
 house — 
 
 "A more proud, disagreeable girl I never 
 saw. Even her great beauty is blotted out of 
 one's memory by her scornful ways." 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 "Maegaeet!" said Mr. Hale, as he returned 
 from showing his guest down-stairs; "I eould 
 not help watching your face with some anxiety 
 when Mr. Thornton made his confession of hav- 
 ing been a shop-boy. I knew it all along from 
 Mr. Bell ; so I was aware of what was coming; 
 
36 
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 but I half expected to see you get up and leave 
 the room." 
 
 " Oh, papa ! you don't mean that you thought 
 me so silly ? I really liked that account of him- 
 self better than any thing else he said. Every 
 thing else revolted me from its hardness ; but 
 he spoke about himself so simply — -with so little 
 of the pretense that makes the vulgarity of shop- 
 people, and with such tender respect for his 
 mother, that I was less likely to leave the room 
 then than -when he was boasting about Milton, 
 as if there was not such another place in the 
 world ; or quietly professing to despise people 
 for careless, wasteful improvidence, without 
 ever seeming to think it his duty to try to 
 make them different — to give them any thing 
 of the training which his mother gave him, and 
 to which he evidently owes his position, what- 
 ever that may be. No 1 his statement of having 
 been a shop-boy was the thing I liked best of 
 all." 
 
 "I am surprised at you, Margaret," said her 
 mother. ''You who were always accusing 
 people of being shoppy at Helstone 1 I don't 
 think, Mr. Hale, you have done quite right in 
 introducing such a person to us without telling 
 us what he had been. I really was very much 
 afraid of showing him how much shocked I was 
 at some parts of what he said. His father ' dy- 
 ing in miserable circumstances.' Why, it might 
 have been in the workhouse!" 
 
 -," I am not sure if it was not worse than 
 being in the workhouse," replied her husband. 
 " I heard a good deal of his previous life from 
 Mr. Bell before he came here; and as he told 
 you a part, I will fill up what he left out. His 
 father speculated wildly, failed, and then killed 
 himself, because he could not bear the disgrace. 
 All his previous friends shrunk from the dis- 
 closures that had to be made of his dishonest 
 gambling — wild, hopeless struggles, made with 
 other people's money, to regain his own moder- 
 ate portion of wealth. No one came forward 
 to help the mother and this boy. There was 
 another child, I believe, a girl ; too young to 
 earn monej', but of course she had to be kept. 
 At least, no friend came forward immediately, 
 and Mrs. Thornton is not one, I fancy, to wait 
 till tardy kindness comes to find her out. So 
 they left Milton. I knew he had gone into a 
 shop, and that his earnings, with some fragment 
 of property secured to his mother, had been 
 made to keep them for a long time. Mr. Bell 
 said they absolutely lived upon water-porridge 
 for years — how, he did not know ; but long after 
 the creditors had given up hope of any payment 
 of old Mr. Thornton' b debts (if, indeed, they ever 
 had hoped at all about it after his suicide), 
 this young man returned to Milton, and went 
 quietly round to each creditor, paying him the 
 first installment of the money owing to him. 
 No noise — no gathering together of creditors — 
 it was done very silently and quietly, but all 
 was paid at last ; helped on materially by the 
 circumstance of one of the creditors, a crabbed 
 old fellow (Mr. Bell says), taking in Mr. Thorn- 
 ton as a kind of partner." 
 
 " That really is fine," said Margaret. " What 
 a pitv such a nature should be tainted by his 
 position as a Milton manufacturer." 
 " How lainted?" asked her father. 
 " Oh, papa, by that testing every thing by 
 
 the standard of wealth. When he spoke of the 
 mechanical powers, he evidently looked upon 
 them only as new ways of extending trade and 
 making money. And the poor men around him 
 — they were poor because they were vicious — 
 out of the pale of his sympathies because they 
 had not his iron nature, and the capabilities 
 that it gives him for being rich." 
 
 " Not vicious ; he never said that. Improv- 
 ident and self-indulgent were his words." 
 
 Margaret was collecting her mother's work- 
 ing materials, and preparing to go to bed. Just 
 as she was leaving the room, she hesitated — 
 she was inclined to make an acknowledgment 
 which she thought would please her father, hut 
 which to be full and true must include a little 
 annoyance. However, out it came. 
 
 " Papa, I do think Mr. Thornton a very re- 
 markable man; but personally I don't like him 
 at all." 
 
 "And I do !" said her father, laughing. "Per- 
 sonally, as you call it, and all. I don't set him 
 up for a hero, or any thing of that kind. But 
 good-night, child. Tour mother looks sadly 
 tired to-night, Margaret." 
 
 Margaret had noticed her mother's jaded ap- 
 pearance 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 differ- 
 ent, deprived of all revivifying principle as it 
 seemed to be here ; the domestic worries pressed 
 so very closely, and in so new and Eordid 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 Eigns 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 Mar- 
 garet 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 reunite 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 <o 
 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 like- 
 ly, absorbed Margaret's time and thoughts for 
 several davs. One afternoon she met Bessy 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 37 
 
 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 furjier and fur- 
 ther off, my heart sinks, and I'm nooetter; 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, 
 j ' 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 
 j about me, and mock me with its length of hours 
 and minutes, and endless bits o' time — oh, weneh! 
 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 another's, I reek- 
 on. Only I fretted again it, and they didn't." 
 
 " But what was it? You know, I'm a stran- 
 ger here, so perhaps I'm not so quick at under- 
 standing 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 the 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 long- 
 ing as she met Margaret's soft and friendly gaze. 
 
 " Iha' hone 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'U 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 shrank, out of sym- 
 pathy 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 (knock- 
 ing down the fire-irpns, 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 car- 
 ing for!" gasped Bessy, at last. Margaret did 
 not speak, but held the water to her lips. Bes- 
 sy 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 impatiend 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 notic- 
 ing him. 
 
 " Now, HI 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 golden gates and preeious stones. But if 
 it amuses her I let it abe, 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. Aid 
 my wench here thought a deal about it, and 
 flushed up many a time, when hoo little knew 
 as I wa» 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 yo', 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 un- 
 done all the things that lie in disorder close at 
 its hand — why, I say, leave a' this talk about 
 religion alone, and set tqjvork on what you) 
 see and know. That's my"greed. 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 color came into her 
 cheek, and the feverish flame into her eye. 
 
3S 
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 " But you will be there, father I you shall ! Oh ! 
 my heart I" She put her hand to it, and be- 
 came 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 quick- 
 ness of love, and even the round-eyed 6ister 
 moved with laborious gentleness at Margaret's 
 "hush!" Presently the spasm that foreshad- 
 owed death had passed away, and Bessy roused 
 herself and said — 
 
 " I'll go to bed — it's best place ; but," catch- 
 ing at Margaret's gown, "j'o'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 up-stairs; but as Mar- 
 garet 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 al- 
 most 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. "Every 
 body else has had their turn at this great dif- 
 ficulty. Now let me try. I may be the Cin- 
 derella to put on the slipper after all." 
 
 Margaret could hardly smile at this little 
 jdffre, so oppressed was she by her visit to the 
 Higginses. 
 
 " What would you do, papa? How would 
 you Bet 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 skillful." 
 
 "What do you mean, Mi-. 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. Hole. 
 
 "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 un- 
 common person," her mother added. "Per- 
 haps she may have a relation who might suit 
 ue, 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. Thorn- 
 ton 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 
 eo openly. I am sure, at any rate, she would 
 
 not like Btrangers to know any thing about 
 it." 
 
 "Take notice that is not my kind of haughti- 
 ness, papa, if I have any at all ; which I don't 
 agree to, th ough you're always ace usingme 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 tojjnow 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 house- 
 hold affairs; and then she recollected that her 
 mother must not be left to have the whole 
 weight of entertaining her visitor. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Me. 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 sol- 
 emn occasions, when she paid morning or even- 
 ing visits. She had had horses for three da}"S 
 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 question- 
 ed 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 he wanting her to call 
 on Fann3''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." 
 
 "( Ih! 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 wens 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 hard- 
 ship 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 con- 
 tempt for a weak character; and Fanny was 
 weak in the very points in which her mother 
 and brother were strong. Mrs. Thornton was 
 
tfOKTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 39 
 
 not a woman much given to reasoning; her 
 quick judgment and firm resolution served her 
 in good stead of any long arguments and dis- 
 cussions with herself; she felt instinctively 
 that nothing could strengthen Fanny to en- 
 dure hardships patiently, or face difficulties 
 bravely ; and though she winced as she made 
 this acknowledgment _tq Jierself .jkhput ier 
 daughter, it only gave her a kind of pitying 
 tenderness of manner toward her; much of 
 the same description of demeanor 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 daring- 
 ness.with. which mother and son spoke out un- 
 palatable truths, the one to the other, showed 
 aj'.eJiafl.oe oa 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 sought 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 dearl I shall have horses to the 
 carriage to-day, to go and call on these Hales. 
 Should not you go and see nurse ? It is in the 
 same direction, and she is always so glad to see 
 you. You could go on there while I am at 
 Mrs. Hale's." 
 
 '• Oh ! mamma, it is such a long way, and I 
 am so tired." 
 
 ""With what!" asked Mrs. Thornton, her 
 brow slightly contracting. 
 
 " I don't know — the^wcather, I think. It is 
 so relaxing. Could not 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 fti, just be- 
 fore 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 am 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 sug- 
 gest 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 gp," said he author- 1 
 
 itatively. "It will do you good, instead of 
 harm. You will oblige me by going, without 
 my saying any thing more about it." 
 
 He went abruptly out of the room after say- 
 ing 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 fass 
 about?" 
 
 " Fanny, don't speak so of jour 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. Thorn- 
 ton more favorably toward " 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 for- 
 gotten all about it in the pleasant excitement 
 of seeing the effect of a new bonnet in the look- 
 ing-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 criticis- 
 ing 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 alto- 
 gether 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 afterward observed to Dixon, 
 " of that old English point which has not been 
 madeftor this eeventy years, and which cannot 
 be bought. It must have been an heir-loom, 
 and shows that she has ancestors." , So jjhe 
 owner of the ancestral laee 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 other- 
 wise bounded. And presently, Margaret, rack- 
 ing her brain to talk to Fanny, heard her mo- 
 ther and Mrs. Thornton plunge into the inter- 
 minable subject of servants. 
 
 " I suppose you are not musical," said Fanny, 
 " as I see no piano." 
 
 "I am fond of hearing good music; I can 
 not play well myself; and papa and mamma 
 don't care much about it ; so we sold our old 
 piano when we came here." 
 
40 
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 "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 expe- 
 rience. But she must know of those days." 
 Margaret's manner had an extra tinge of cold- 
 ness 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 indiscrim- 
 inately. But one is sure to hear the newest 
 music there. I always have a large order to 
 give to Johnson the day after a concert." 
 
 " Do you like new music simply for its new- 
 ness, 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 1" 
 
 "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." 
 
 "But somehow," said Fanny, lowering her 
 voice, "mamma has never been to London her- 
 self, 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 an- 
 swer 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 show- 
 ing that she was offended. 
 
 Mrs. Thornton went on after a. moment's 
 pause : 
 
 " Do you know any thing of Milton, Miss 
 Hale? Have you seen any of our factories? 
 our magnificent warehouses?" 
 
 "No I" said Margaret. "I have not seen 
 any thing 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 be- 
 fore now if I had cared. But I really do not 
 find much pleasure in going over manufacto- 
 ries." 
 
 "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 coun- 
 try, from the character and progress of its pe- 
 culiar 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 admis- 
 sion to print-works, or reed-making, or the 
 more simple operations of spinning carried on 
 in my son's mill. Every improvement of ma- 
 chinery is, I believe, to be seen there, in its 
 highest perfection." 
 
 " I am so glad you don't like mills and man- 
 ufactories, and all those kind of things," said 
 Fanny, in a half-whisper, as she arose to accom- 
 pany her mother, who was taking leave &{ 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." 
 
 " I don't want to form any friendship with 
 Miss Hale, mamma," said Fanny, pouting. " I 
 thought I was doing my duty by talking to her, 
 and trying to amuse her." 
 
 " Well I at any rate, John must be satisfied 
 now." 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 Makgaret flew up-stairs as soon as their vis- 
 itors were gone, and put on her bonnet and 
 shawl, to run and inquire how Bess}- Higgins 
 was, and sit with her as long as she could be- 
 fore dinner. As 6he went along the crowded 
 narrow streets, she felt how much of interest 
 they had gained by the simple fact of her hav- 
 ing learnt to care for a dweller in them. 
 
 Mary Higgins, the slatternly younger sister, 
 had endeavored as well as she could to tidy up 
 the house for the expected visit. There had 
 been rough-stoning done in the middle of the 
 floor, while the flags under the chairs and table 
 and round the walls retained their dark un- 
 washed appearance. Although the day was 
 hot, there burnt a large fire in the grate, mak- 
 ing the whole place feel like an oven ; Marga- 
 ret did not understand that the lavishness of 
 coals was a sign of hospitable welcome to her 
 on Mary's part, *and thought that perhaps the 
 oppressive heat was necessary for Bess}'. Bessy 
 herself lay on a squab, or short sofa, placed 
 under the window. She was very much more 
 feeble than on the previous day, and tired with 
 raising herself at every step to look out and see 
 if it was Margaret coming. And now that Mar- 
 garet was there, and had taken a chair by her, 
 Bessy lay back silent, and content to look at 
 Margaret's face, and touch her articles of dress, 
 with a childish admiration of their fineness of 
 texture. 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 n 
 
 " I never knew why folk in the Bible cared 
 for soft raiment afore. But it must be nice to 
 go dressed as yo' do. It's different fro' com- 
 mon. Most fine folk tire my eyes out wi' their 
 colors; but somehow yours rest me. Where 
 did ye get this frock?" 
 
 " In London," said Margaret, much amused. 
 
 " London ! Have yo' been in London ?" 
 
 "Yes! I lived there for some years. But my 
 home was in a forest ; in the country." 
 
 " Tell me about it," said Bessy. " I like to 
 hear speak of the country, and trees, and such 
 like things." She leant 4>ack, <md shut her 
 eyes, and crossed her hands over her breast, 
 lying at perfect rest, as if to receive all the 
 ideas Margaret could suggest. 
 
 Margaret had never spoken of Helstone since 
 she left it, except just naming the place inci- 
 dentally. She saw it in dreams more vivid 
 than life, and as she fell away to slumber at 
 nights her memory wandered in all its pleasant 
 places. But her heart was opened to this girl : 
 " Oh, Bessy, I loved the home we have left so 
 dearly I I wish you could see it. I can not tell 
 you half its beauty. There are great trees stand- 
 ing all about it, with their branches stretching 
 long and level, and making a deep shade of rest 
 even at noonday. And yet, though every leaf 
 may seem still, there is a continual rushing 
 sound of movement all around — not close at 
 hand. Then sometimes the turf is as soft and 
 fine as velvet; and sometimes quite lush with 
 the perpetual moisture of a little, hidden, tink- 
 ling brook near at hand. And then in other 
 parts there are billowy ferns — whole stretches 
 of fern ; some in the green shadow ; some with 
 long streaks of golden sunlight lying on them 
 —just like the sea." 
 
 " I have never seen the sea," murmured Bes- 
 sy. " But go on." 
 
 " Then, here and there, there are wide com- 
 mons, high up as if above the very tops of the 
 trees — " 
 
 " I am glad of that. I felt smothered like 
 down below. When I have gone for an out, I 
 have always wanted to get high up and see far 
 away, and take a deep breath o' fullness in that 
 air. I get smothered enough in Milton, and I 
 think the sound yo' speak of among the trees, 
 going on forever and ever, would send me 
 dazed ; it's that made my head ache so in the 
 mill. Now on these commons I reckon there 
 is but little noise '!" 
 
 "No," said Margaret; "nothing but here 
 and there a lark high in the air. Sometimes I 
 used to hear a farmer speaking sharp and loud 
 to his servants ; but it was so far away that it 
 only reminded me pleasantly that other people 
 were hard at work in some distant place while 
 I just sat on the heather and did nothing." 
 
 "I used to think once that if I could have a 
 day of doing nothing, to resf'Tne — a day in 
 some quiet place like that yo' speak on — it 
 would maybe set me up. But now I've had 
 many days o' idleness, and I'm just as weary o' 
 them as I was o' my work. Sometimes I'm so 
 tired out I think I can not enjoy heaven with- 
 out a piece of rest first. I'm rather afeard o' 
 going straight there without getting a good 
 sleep in the grave to set me up." 
 
 " Don't be afraid, Bessy," said Margaret, lay- 
 ing her hand on the girl's ; "God can give you 
 
 more perfect rest than even idleness on earth, 
 or the dead sleep of the grave can do." 
 
 Bessy moved uneasily; then she said: 
 
 " I wish father would not speak as he does. 
 He means well, as I telled yo' yesterday, and 
 tell yo' again and again. But yo' see, though 
 I don't believe him a bit by day, yet by night 
 — when I'm in a fever, half-asleep and half- 
 awake — it comes back upon me — oh! so bad! 
 And I think, if this should be th' end of all, 
 and if all I've been born for is just to work my ; 
 heart and my life away, and to sicken i' this . 
 dree place, wi' them mill-noises in my ears for- 
 ever, until I could scream out for them to stop, j 
 and let me have a little piece o' quiet — and > 
 wi' the fluff filling my lungs, until I thirst to j 
 death for one long deep breath o' the clear air ' 
 yo' 6peak on — and my mother gone, and I never i 
 able to tell her again how I loved her, and o' 
 all my troubles — I thinklf this life is th' end, 
 and that there's no God to wipe away all tears ; 
 from all eyes — yo' wench, yo' !" said she, sit- i 
 ting up, and clutching violently, almost fiercely, 
 at Margaret's hand, "I could go mad, and kill 
 yo', I could." She fell back completely worn 
 out with her passion. Margaret knelt down 
 by her. 
 
 " Bessy — we have a Father in heaven." 
 
 " I know it! I know it!" moaned she, turn- 
 ing her head uneasily from side to side. "I 
 am very wicked. I have spoken very wicked- 
 ly. Oh ! don't be frightened by me and never 
 come again. I would not harm a hair of your 
 head. And," opening her eyes, and looking 
 earnestly at Margaret, "I believe, perhaps, 
 more than yo' do o' what's to come. I read 
 the Book o' Revelations until I know it off by 
 heart, and I never doubt when I'm waking, 
 and in my senses, of all the glory I'm to come 
 to." 
 
 " Don't let us talk of what fancies come into 
 your head when you are feverish. I would 
 rather hear something about what you used to 
 do when you were well." 
 
 " I think I was well when mother died, but 
 I have never been rightly strong sin' somewhere 
 about that time. I began to work in a carding- 
 room soon after, and the fluff got into my lungs, 
 and poisoned me." 
 
 "Fluff?" said Margaret, inquiringly. _!, 
 
 " Fluff," repeated Bessy. " Little bits, as fly •■■; 
 off fro' the cotton, when they're carding it, and 
 fill the air till it looks all fine white dust. 
 They say it winds round the lungs, and tightens 
 them up. Anyhow, there's many a one as 
 works iw carding-room, who falls into a waste, 
 coughing and spitting blood, because they're 
 just poisoned by the fluff." 
 
 " But can't it be helped?" asked Margaret. 
 
 " I duuho. Some folk have a great wheel 
 at one end o' their carding-rooms to make a 
 draught, and carry off th' dust; but that wheel 
 costs a deal o' money — five or six hundred 
 pound, maybe, and brings in no profit; so it's 
 but a few of th' masters as will put 'em up ; 
 and I've heerd tell o' men who did not like 
 working in places where there was a wheel, 
 because they said as how it made 'em hungry, 
 at after they'd been long used to swallowing 
 fluff, to go without it, and that their wage 
 ought to be raised if they were to work in sueh 
 places. So between masters and men th' wheels 
 
42 
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 fall through. I know I wish there'd been a 
 wheel in our place, though." 
 
 " Did not your father know about it?" asked 
 Margaret. 
 
 " Yes ! And he were sorry. But our factory 
 were a good one on the whole ; and a steady, 
 likely set o' people ; and father was afeard of 
 letting me go to u strange place, for tho' yo' 
 would na think it now, many a one then used 
 to call me a gradely lass enough. And I did 
 na' like to be reckoned nesh and soft, and Mary's 
 schooling were to be kept up, mother said, and 
 father he were always liking to buy books, and 
 go to lectures o' one kind or another — all which 
 took money — so I just worked on till I shall 
 ne'er get the whirr out o' my ears, or the fluff 
 out o' my throat i' this world. That's all." 
 
 " How old are you '<" asked Margaret. 
 
 " Nineteen, come July." 
 
 " And I too am nineteen.'' She thought, 
 more sorrowfully than Bessy did, of the con- 
 trast between them. She could not speak for 
 a moment or two for the emotion she was try- 
 ing to keep down. 
 
 "About Mary," said Bessy. "I wanted to 
 ask yo' to be a friend to her. She's seventeen, 
 but she's th' last on us. And I don't want her 
 to go to th' mill, and yet I dunno what she's 
 fit for." 
 
 "She could not do" — Margaret glanced jin- 
 consciously at the uncleaned corners of the 
 room — "She could hardly undertake a serv- 
 ant's place, could she ? "We have an old faith- 
 ful servant, almost a friend, who wants help, 
 but who is very particular; and it would not 
 be right, to plague her with giving her any as- 
 sistance that would really be an annoyance and 
 an irritation." 
 
 " No, I see. I reckon yo're right. Our Mary 
 is a good wench ; but who has she had to teach 
 her what to do about a house? No mother, and 
 me at the mill till I were good for nothing but 
 scolding her for doiDg badly what I did not 
 know how to do a bit. But I wish she could 
 ha' lived wi' yo', for all that." 
 
 "But even though she may not be exactly 
 fitted to come and live with us as a servant — 
 and I don't know about that — I will always 
 try and be a friend to her for your sake, Bessy. 
 And now I must go. I will come again as soon 
 as I can ; but if it should not be to-morrow, or 
 the next day, or even a week or a fortnight 
 hence, don't think I've forgotten you. I may 
 be busy." 
 
 " I'll know yo' won't forget me again. I'll 
 not mistrust yo' no more. But, remapber, in a 
 week or a fortnight I may be dead and buried!" 
 
 "I'll come as soon as I can, Bessy," said Mar- 
 garet, squeezing her hand tight. " But you'll 
 let me know if you are worse." 
 
 "Ay, that will I," said Bessy, returning the 
 pressure. 
 
 From that day forward Mrs. Hale became 
 more and more of a suffering invalid. It was 
 now drawing near to the anniversary of Edith's 
 marriage, and, looking back upon the year's 
 accumulated heap of troubles, Margaret won- 
 dered how they had been borne. If she could 
 have anticipated them, how she would have 
 shrunk away and hid herself from the coming 
 time! And yet day by day had, of itself and 
 by itself, been very endurable, small, keen, 
 
 bright little spots of positive enjoyment hav- 
 ing come sparkliDg into the very middle of 
 sorrows. A year ago — or when she first went 
 to Helstone, and first became silentlj' conscious 
 of the querulousness in her mother's temper, 
 she would have groaned bitterly over the idea 
 of a long illness to be borne in a strange, deso- 
 late, noisy, busy place, with diminished com- 
 forts on every side of the home life. But with 
 the increase of serious and just ground of com- 
 plaint, a, new kind of patience had sprung up 
 m her mother's mind. She was gentle and 
 quiet in intense bodily Buffering, almost in pro- 
 portion as she had been restless and depressed 
 when there had been no real cause for grief. 
 Mr. Hale was in exactly that stage of appre- 
 hension which, in men of his stamp, takes the 
 shape of willful blindness. He was more irri- 
 tated than Margaret had ever known him at his 
 daughter's expressed anxiety. 
 
 "Indeed, Margaret, you are growing fanci- 
 ful ! God knows I should be the first to take 
 the alarm if j'our mother were really ill; we 
 always saw when she had her headaches at 
 Helstone, even without her telling us. She 
 looks quite pale and white when she is ill; 
 and now she has a bright healthy color in her 
 cheeks, just as she used to have when I first 
 knew her." 
 
 " But, papa," said Margaret, with hesitation, 
 "do you know, I think that is the flush of pain." 
 
 "Nonsense, Margaret. I tell 3'ou, you are 
 too fanciful. You are the person not well, I 
 think. Send for the doctor to-morrow for your- 
 self; and then, if it will make your mind easier, 
 he can see your mother." 
 
 "Thank you, dear papa. It will make me 
 happier indeed." And she went up to him to 
 kiss him. But he pushed her away — gently 
 enough, but still as if she had suggested un- 
 pleasant ideas, which he should be glad to get 
 rid of as readily as he could of her pretence. 
 He walked uneasily up and down the room. 
 
 "Poor Maria!" said he, half soliloquizing, 
 " I wish one could do right without sacrificing 
 others. I shall hate this town, and myself too, 
 if she — Pray, Margaret, does your mother often 
 talk to you of the old places : of Helstone, I 
 mean ?" 
 
 "No, papa," said Margaret, sadly. 
 
 "Then, 3011 see, she can't be fretting after 
 them, eh? It has alwaj's been a comfort to 
 me to think that j-our mother was so simple 
 and open that I knew every little grievance she 
 had. She never would conceal any thing seri- 
 ously affecting her health from me : would she, 
 eh, Margaret? I am quite sure she would not. 
 So don't let me hear of these foolish morbid 
 ideas. Come, give me a kiss, and run off to 
 bed." 
 
 But she heard him pacing about (racooning, 
 as she and Edith used to call it) long after her 
 slow and languid undressing was finished — long 
 after 6he began to listen as she lay in bed. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 It was a comfort to Margaret about this 
 time to find that her mother drew more tender- 
 ly and intimately toward her than she had 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 43 
 
 ever done since the days of her childhood. 
 She took her to her heart as a confidential 
 friend — the post Margaret had always longed 
 to fill, and had envied Dixon for being prefer- 
 red to. Margaret took pains to respond to 
 every call made upon her for sympathy — and 
 they were many — even when they bore re- 
 lation to trifles, which she would no more have 
 noticed or regarded herself than the elephant 
 would perceive the little pin at his feet, which 
 yet he lifts carefully up at the bidding of his 
 keeper. All unconsciously Margaret drew near 
 to a reward. 
 
 One evening, Mr. Hale being absent, her 
 mother began to talk to her about her brother 
 Frederick, the very subject on which Margaret 
 had longed to ask questions, and almost the 
 only one on which her timidity overcame her 
 natural openness. The more she wanted to 
 hear about him, the less likely she was to 
 speak. 
 
 "Oh, Margaret, it was so windy last night! 
 It came howling down the chimney in our 
 room ! I could not sleep. I never can when 
 there is such a terrible wind. I got into a 
 wakeful habit when poor Frederick was at 
 sea; and now, even if I don't waken all at 
 once, I dream of him in some stormy sea, with 
 great, clear, glass-green walls of waves on 
 either side his ship, but far higher than her 
 very masts', curling over her with that cruel, 
 terrible white foam, like some gigantic crested 
 serpent. It is an old dream, but it always 
 comes back on windy nights, till I am thankful 
 to waken, sitting straight and stiff up in bed 
 with my terror. Poor Frederick! He is on 
 land now, so wind can do him no harm. 
 Though I did think it might shake down some 
 of those tall chimneys." 
 
 "Where is Frederick now, mamma? Our 
 letters are directed to the care of Messrs. Bar- 
 bour, at Cadiz, I know ; but where is he him- 
 self?" 
 
 "I can't remember the name of the place, 
 but he is not called Hale ; you must remember 
 that, Margaret. Notice the F. D. in every 
 corner of the letters. He has taken the name 
 of Dickinson. I wanted him to have been 
 called Beresford, to which he had a kind of 
 right, but your father thought he had better 
 not. He might be recognized, you know, if he 
 were called by my name." 
 
 "Mamma," said Margaret, "I was at Aunt 
 Shaw's when it all happened ; and I suppose I 
 was not old enough to be told plainly about it. 
 But I should like to know now, if I may — if it 
 does not give you too much pain to speak about 
 it." 
 
 " Pain ! No," replied Mrs. Hale, her cheek 
 flushing. "Yet it is pain to think that per- 
 haps I may never see my darling boy again. 
 Or else he did right, Margaret. They may say 
 what they like, but I have his own letters to 
 show, and I'll believe him, though he is my 
 son, sooner than any court-martial on earth. 
 Go to my little japan cabinet, dear, and in the 
 second left-hand drawer you will find a packet 
 of letters." 
 
 > Margaret went. There were the yellow, sea- 
 stained letters, with the peculiar fragrance 
 which ocean letters have. Margaret carried 
 them back to her mother, who untied the 
 
 silken string with trembling fingers, and, ex- 
 amining their dates, she gave them to Margaret 
 to read, making her hurried, anxious remarks 
 on their contents almost before her daughter 
 could have understood what they were. 
 
 " You see, Margaret, how from the very first 
 he disliked Captain Eeid. He was second lieu- 
 tenant in the ship — the Orion — in which Fred- 
 erick sailed the very first time. Poor little fel- 
 low, how well he looked in his midshipman's 
 dress, with his dirk in his hand, cutting open 
 all the newspapers with it as if it were a paper- 
 knife. But this Mr. Beid, as he was then, 
 seemed to take a dislike to Frederick from the 
 very beginning. And then — stay! these are 
 the letters he wrote on board the Kussell. 
 When he was appointed to her, and found his 
 old enemy Captain Reid in command, he did 
 mean to bear all his tyranny patiently. Look! 
 this is the letter. Just read it, Margaret. 
 Where is it he says — Stop — ' My father may re- 
 ly upon me that I will bear with all proper pa- 
 tience every thing that one officer and gentle- 
 man can take from another. But, from my 
 former knowlege of my present captain, I con- 
 fess I look forward with apprehension to a 
 long course of tyranny on board the Russell.' 
 You see, he promises to bear patiently, and I 
 am sure he did, for he was the sweetest-temper- 
 ed boy, when he was not vexed, that could 
 possibly be. Is that the letter in which he 
 speaks of Captain Reid's impatience with the 
 men, for not going through the ship's manoeu- 
 vres as quickly as the Avenger? You see, he 
 says that they had many new hands on board 
 the Russell, while the Avenger had been nearly 
 three years on the station, with nothing to do 
 but to keep slavers off, and work her men, till 
 they ran up and down the rigging like rats or 
 monkeys." 
 
 Margaret slowly read the letter, half illegible 
 through the fading of the ink. It might be — 
 it probably was — a statement of Captain Reid's 
 imperiousness in trifles, very much exaggerated 
 by the narrator, who had written it while fresh 
 and warm from the scene of altercation. Some 
 sailors being aloft in the main-topsail rigging, 
 the captain had ordered them to race down, 
 threatening the hindmost with the cat-of-nine- 
 tails. He who was the furthest on the spar, 
 feeling the impossibility of passing his compan- 
 ions, and yet passionately dreading the disgrace 
 of the flogging, threw himself desperately down 
 to catch a rope considerably lower, failed, and 
 fell senseless on deck. He only survived for a 
 few hours afterward, and the indignation of the 
 ship's crew was at boiling point when young 
 Hale wrote. 
 
 " But we did not receive this letter till long, 
 long after we heard of the mutiny. Poor Fred ! 
 I dare say it was a comfort to him to write it, 
 even though he could not have known how to 
 send it, poor fellow! And then we saw a re- 
 port in the papers— that's to say, long before 
 Fred's letter reached us — of an atrocious mutiny 
 having broken outon board the Russell, and that 
 the mutineers had remained in possession of the 
 ship which had gone off, it was supposed, to be 
 a pirate ; and that Captain Reid was sent adrift 
 in a boat with some men — officers or something 
 — whose names were all given, for they were 
 picked up by a West-Indian steamer. Oh, Mar- 
 
44 
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 garet! how your father and I turned sick over 
 that list, when there was no name of Frederick 
 Hale. We thought it must be some mistake ; 
 for poor Fred was such a fine fellow, only 
 perhaps rather too passionate, and we hoped 
 that the name of Carr, which was in the list, 
 was a misprint for that of Hale — newspapers 
 are so careless. And toward post-time the next 
 day, papa set off to walk to Southampton to 
 get the papers; and I could not stop at home, 
 so I went to meet him. He was very late — 
 much later than I thought he would have been ; 
 and I sat down under the hedge to wait for him. 
 He came at last, his arms hanging loose down, 
 his head sunk, and walking heavily along, as if 
 every step was a labor and a trouble. Marga- 
 ret, I see him now." 
 
 " Don't go on, mamma. I can understand it 
 all," said Margaret, leaning up caressingly 
 against her mother's side, and kissing her 
 hand. 
 
 " No, you can't, Margaret. No one can who 
 did not see him then. I could hardly lift my- 
 self lip to go and meet him, every thing seemed 
 so to reel around me all at once. And when I 
 got to him he did not speak, or seem surprised 
 to sec me there, more than three miles from 
 home, beside the Oldham beech-tree; but be 
 put my arm in his, and kept stroking my hand, 
 as if he wanted to soothe me to be very quiet 
 under «ome great heavy blow; and when I 
 trembled so all over that I could not speak, he 
 took me in his arms, and stooped down his 
 head on mine, and began to shake and to cry 
 in a strange muffled, groaning voice, till I, for 
 very fright, stood quite still, and only begged 
 him to tell me what he had heard. And then, 
 with his hand jerking, as if some one else 
 moved it against his will, he gave me a wicked 
 newspaper to read, calling our Frederick a 
 'traitor of the blackest dye,' 'a base, ungrate- 
 ful disgrace to his profession.' Oh I I can not 
 tell what bad words they did not use. 1 took 
 the paper in my hands as soon as I had read it 
 — I tore it up to little bits. — I tore it — oh ! I 
 believe, Margaret, I tore it with my teeth. I 
 did not cry. I could not. My cheeks were as 
 hot as fire, and my very eyes burnt in my 
 head. I saw your father looking grave at me. 
 I said it was a lie, and so it was. Months after, 
 this letter came, and you see what provocation 
 Frederick had. It was not for himself, or his 
 own injuries, he rebelled ; but lie would speak 
 his mind to Captain Riid, and so it went on 
 from bad to worse ; and, you see, most of the 
 sailors stuck by Frederick. 
 
 "I think, Margaret," she continued, after a 
 pause, in h weak, trembling, exhausted voice, 
 "I am glad of it — I am prouder of Frederick 
 standing up against injustice, than if he had 
 been simply a good officer." 
 
 " I am sure I am," said Margaret, in a firm, 
 decided tone. " Loyalty and obedience to wis- 
 dom and justice are fine ; but it is still finer to 
 defy arbitrary power unjustly and cruelly used 
 — not on behalf of ourselves, but on behalf of 
 others more helpless." 
 
 " For all that, I wish I could see Frederick 
 oneo more — just once. He was my first baby, 
 Margaret." Mrs. Hale spoke wistfully, and al- 
 most as if apologizing for the yearning, craving 
 wish, as though it wero a depreciation of her 
 
 remaining child. But such an idea never cross- 
 ed Margaret's mind. She was thinking how 
 her mother's desire could be fulfilled. 
 
 "It is six or seven years ago — would they 
 still prosecute him, mother? If he came and 
 stood his trial, what would be the punishment? 
 Surely he might bring evidence of his great 
 provocation." 
 
 " It would do no good," replied Mrs. Hale. 
 " Some of the sailors who accompanied Freder- 
 ick were taken, and there was a court-martial 
 held on them on board the Amieia ; I believed 
 all they said in their defense, poor fellows, be- 
 cause it just agreed with Frederick's story — but 
 it was of no use — " And for the first time during 
 the conversation Mrs. Hale began to cry ; yet 
 something possessed Margaret to force the in- 
 formation she foresaw yet dreaded from her 
 mother. 
 
 " What happened to them, mamma?" asked 
 she. 
 
 "They were hung at the yard-arm," said 
 Mrs. Hale, solemnly. "And the worst was 
 that the court, in condemning them to death, 
 said they had suffered themselves to be led 
 astray from their duty by their superior offi- 
 cers." 
 
 They were silent for a long time. 
 
 " And Frederick was in South America for 
 several years, was he not?" 
 
 " Yes. And now lie is in Spain. At Cadiz, 
 or somewhere near it. If he comes to England 
 he will be hung. I shall never see his face 
 again — for if he comes to England he will be 
 hung." 
 
 There was no comfort to be given. Mrs. Hale 
 turned her face to the wall, and lay perfectly 
 still in her mother's despair. Nothing could 
 be said to console her. She took her hand out 
 of Margaret's with a little impatient movement, 
 as if she would fain be left alone with the 
 recollection of her son. When Mr. Hale came 
 in, Margaret went out, oppressed with gloom, 
 and seeing no promise of brightness on any side 
 of the horizon. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 " Margaret," said her father, the next day, 
 "we must return Mrs. Thornton's call. Tour 
 mother is not very well, and thinks she can 
 not walk so far ; ' but you and I will go this aft- 
 ernoon." 
 
 As they went, Mr. Hale began about his wife's 
 health, with a kind of vailed anxiety, which 
 Margaret was glad to see awakened at last. 
 
 " Did you consult the doctor, Margaret ? Did 
 you send for him?" 
 
 "No, papa; you spoke of his coming to see 
 me. Now, I was well. But if I only knew of 
 some good doctor, I would go this afternoon, 
 and ask him to come, for I am sure mamma is 
 seriously indisposed." 
 
 She put the truth thus plainly and strongly 
 because her father had so completely shut his 
 mind against the idea when she had last named 
 her fears. But now the ease was changed. He 
 answered in a despondent tone: 
 
 " Do you think she has any hidden complaint ? 
 Do you think she is really very ill ? Has Dixon 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 45 
 
 said any thing ? Oh, Margaret! I am haunted 
 by the fear that our coming to Milton has killed 
 her. My poor Maria 1" 
 
 " Oh, papal don't imagine such things," said 
 Margaret, shocked. "She is not well, that is 
 all. Many a one is not well for a time; and 
 with good advice gets better and stronger than 
 ever." 
 
 "But has Dixon said any thing «,bout her!" 
 
 "No! You know Dixon enjoys making a 
 mystery out of trifles ; and she has been a little 
 mysterious about mamma's health, which has 
 alarmed me rather, that is all. Without any 
 reason, I dare say. You know, papa, you said 
 the other day I was getting fanciful." 
 
 " I hope and trust you are. But don't think 
 of what I said then. I like you to be fanciful 
 about your mother's health. Don't be afraid 
 of telling me your fancies. I like to hear them, 
 though, I dare say, I spoke as if I was annoyed. 
 But we will ask Mrs. Thornton if she can tell 
 us of a good doctor. "We won't throw away 
 our money on any but some one first-rate. Stay, 
 we turn up this street." 
 
 The street did not look as if it could contain 
 any house large enough for Mrs. Thornton's 
 habitation. Her son's presence never gave any 
 impression as to the kind of house he lived in ; 
 but, unconsciously, Margaret had imagined that 
 tall, massive, handsomely-dressed Mrs. Thorn- 
 ton must live in a house of the same character 
 as herself. Now Marlborough Street consisted 
 of long rows of small houses, with a blank wall 
 here and there ; at least that was all they could 
 see from the point at which they entered it. 
 
 " He told me he lived in Marlborough Street, 
 I'm sure," said Mr. Hale, with a much perplexed 
 air. 
 
 " Perhaps it is one of the economies he still 
 practices, to live in a very small house. But 
 here are plenty of people about ; let me ask." 
 
 She accordingly inquired of a passer-by, and 
 was informed that Mr. Thornton lived close to 
 the mill, and had the factory lodge-door pointed 
 out to her,' at the end of the long dead wall they 
 had noticed. 
 
 The lodge-door was like a common garden- 
 door ; on one side of it were great closed gates 
 for the ingress and egress of lurries and wagons. 
 The lodge-keeper admitted them into a great 
 oblong yard, on one side of which were offices 
 for the transaction of business; on the opposite, 
 an immense many-windowed mill, whence pro- 
 ceeded the continual clack of machinery and 
 the long groaning roar of the Bteam-engine, 
 enough to deafen those who lived within the 
 inelosure. Opposite to the wall, along which 
 the street ran, on one of the narrow sides of the 
 oblong, was a handsome stone-coped house — 
 blackened, to be sure, by the smoke, but with 
 paint, windows, and steps kept scrupulously 
 clean. It was evidently a house which had 
 been built some fifty or sixty years. The stone 
 facings — the long, narrow windows, and the 
 number of them— the flights of steps up to the 
 front door, ascending from either side, and 
 guarded by railing — all witnessed to its age. 
 Margaret only wondered why people who could 
 afford to live in so good a house, and keep it 
 in such perfect order, did not prefer a much 
 smaller dwelling in the country, or even some 
 suburb ; not in the continual whirl and din of 
 
 the factor}'. Her unaccustomed ears eould 
 hardly catch her father's voice as they stood 
 on the steps awaiting the opening of the door. 
 The yard, too, with the great doors in the dead 
 wall as a boundary, was but a dismal look-out 
 for the sitting-rooms of the house — as Margaret 
 found when they had mounted the old-fashioned 
 stairs, and been ushered into the drawing-room, 
 the three windows of which went over the front 
 door and the room on the right-hand side of the 
 entrance. There was no one in the drawing- 
 room. It seemed as though no one had been in 
 it since the day when the furniture was bagged 
 up with as much care as if the house was to be 
 overwhelmed with lava, and discovered a thou* 
 sand years hence. The walls were pink and 
 gold; the pattern on the carpet represented 
 bunches of flowers on a light ground, but it 
 was carefully covered up in the centre by a. 
 linen drugget, glazed and colorless. The win- 
 dow-curtains were lace; each chair and sofa 
 had its own particular vail of netting, or knit- 
 ting. Great alabaster groups occupied every 
 flat surface, safe from dust under their glass 
 shades. In the middle of the room, right under 
 the bagged-up chandelier, was a large circular 
 table, with smartly-bound books arranged at 
 regular intervals round- the circumference of its 
 polished surface, like gayly-colored spokes of a 
 wheel. Every thing reflected light, nothing, 
 absorbed it. The whole room had a painfully ' 
 spotted, spangled, speckled look about it, which 
 impressed Margaret so unpleasantly that she\ 
 was hardly conscious of the peculiar cleanliness ', 
 required to keep every thing so white and pure ■ 
 in such an atmosphere, or of the trouble that : 
 must be willingly expended to secure that ef- 
 fect of icy, snowy discomfort. Wherever she : 
 looked there was evidence of care and labor, ! 
 but not care and labor to procure ease, to help . 
 on habits of tranquil home employment ; solely ' 
 to ornament, and then to preserve ornament 
 from dirt or destruction. 
 
 They had leisure to observe, and to speak to 
 each other in low voices, before Mrs. Thornton 
 appeared. They were talking of what all the 
 world might hear ; but it is a common effect 
 of such a room as this to make people speak low, 
 as if unwilling to awaken the unused echoes. 
 
 At last Mrs. Thornton came in, rustling in 
 handsome black silk, as was her wont-; her 
 muslins' and laces rivaling, not excelling, the 
 pure whiteness of the muslins and netting of 
 the room. Margaret explained how it was that 
 her mother could not accompany them to re- 
 turn Mrs. Thornton's call ; but in her anxiety 
 not to bring back her father's fears too vividly, 
 she gave but a bungling account, ritid left the 
 impression on Mrs. Thornton's mind that Mrs. 
 Hale's was some temporary or fanciful fine- 
 ladyish indisposition, which might have been 
 put aside had there been a strong enough mo- 
 tive, or that if it was too severe to'allow her 
 to come out that day, the call might have been 
 deferred. Remembering, too, the horses to her 
 carriage, hired for her own visit to the Hales, 
 and how Fanny had been ordered to go by Mr. 
 Thornton, in order to pay every respect to 
 them, Mrs. Thornton drew up slightly offend- 
 ed, and gave Margaret no sympathy — indeed, 
 hardly any credit for the statement of her 
 mother's indisposition. , -'-., 
 
46 
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 "How is Mr. Thornton?" asked Mr. Hale. 
 " I was afraid he was not well, from his hurried 
 note yesterday." 
 
 "My son is rarely ill; and when he is, he 
 never speaks about it, or makes it an excuse 
 for not doing any thing. He told me he could 
 not get leisure to read with you last night, sir. 
 He regretted it, I am sure; he values the hours 
 spent with you." 
 
 "I am 6ure they are equally agreeable to 
 me,'" said Mr. Hale. " It makes me feel young 
 again to see his enjoyment and appreciation of 
 all that is fine in classical literature." 
 
 " I have no doubt the classics are very de- 
 sirable for people who have leisure. But, I 
 confess, it was against my judgment that my 
 son renewed his study of them. The time and 
 place in which he lives seem to me to require 
 all his energy and attention. Classics may do 
 very well for men who loiter away their lives 
 in the country or in colleges; but the Milton 
 men ought to have their thoughts and powers 
 absorbed in the work of to-day. At least, that 
 is my opinion." This last clause she gave out 
 with '' the pride that apes humility." 
 
 " But, surely, if the mind is too long directed 
 to one object only, it will get stiff and rigid, 
 and unable to take in many interests," said 
 Margaret. 
 
 "I do not quite understand what you mean 
 by a mind getting stiff and rigid. Nor do I 
 admire those whirligig characters that are full 
 of this thing to-day, to be utterly forgetful of 
 it in their new interest to-morrow. Having 
 many Interests does not suit the life of a Milton 
 manufacturer. It is, or ought to be, enougli 
 for him to have one great desire, and to bring 
 all the purposes of his life to bear on the fulfill- 
 ment of that." 
 
 "And that is — ?" asked Mr. Hale. 
 Her sallow cheek flushed, and her e3'e light- 
 ened, as she answered : 
 
 "To hold and maintain a high, honorable 
 place among the merchants of his country — 
 the men of his town. Such a place my son has 
 earned for himself. Go where you will — I don't 
 say in England only, but in Europe — the name 
 of John Thornton, of Milton, is known and re- 
 spected among all men of business. Of course 
 it is unknown in the fashionable circles," she 
 continued, scornfully. " Idle gentlemen and 
 ladies are not likely to know much of a Milton 
 manufacturer, unless he gets into Parliament, 
 or marries a lord's daughter." 
 
 Both Mr. Hale and Margaret had an uneasy, 
 ludicrous consciousness that they had never 
 heard of this great name until Mr. Bell had 
 written them word that Mr. Thornton would 
 be a good friend to have in Milton. The proud 
 mother's world was not their world of Harley 
 Street gentilities on the one hand, or country 
 clergymen and Hampshire squires on the other. 
 Margaret's face, in spite of all her endeavors to 
 keep it simply listening in its expression, told 
 the sensitive Mrs. Thornton, this feeling of hers. 
 " You think you never heard of this wonder- 
 ful son of mine, Miss Hale. You think I'm an 
 old woman whose ideas are bounded by Milton, 
 and whose own crow is the whitest ever seen." 
 "No," said Margaret, with some spirit. " It 
 may be true that I was thinking I had hardly 
 heard Mr. Thornton's name before I came to 
 
 Milton. But since I have come here. 
 
 I have 
 
 heard enough to make me respect and ac "mre 
 him, and to feel how much justice and truth 
 there is in what you have said of him. 
 
 " Who spoke to you of him ?" asked Mrs. 
 Thornton, a little mollified, yet jealous lest any 
 one else's words should not have done him full 
 justice. 
 
 Margaret hesitated before she replied. She 
 did not like this authoritative questioning. Mr. 
 Hale came in, as he thought, to the rescue. 
 
 " It was what Mr. Thornton said himself, that 
 made us know the kind of man he was. Was it 
 not, Margaret?" 
 
 Mrs. Thornton drew herself up, and 6aid — 
 " My son is not the one to tell of his own do- 
 ings. May I again ask you, Miss Hale, from 
 whose account you formed your favorable opin- 
 ion of him? A mother is curious and greedy 
 of commendation of her children, you know." 
 
 Margaret replied, " It was as much from what 
 Mr. Thornton withheld of that which we had 
 been told of his previous life by Mr. Bell — it 
 was more that than what he said, that made us 
 all feel what reason you have to be proud of 
 him." 
 
 "Mr. Bell ! What can he know of John ? He, 
 living a lazy life in a drowsy college. But I'm 
 obliged to you, Miss Hale. Many a missy 
 young lady would have shrunk from giving an 
 old woman the pleasure of hearing that her son 
 was well spoken of." 
 
 " Why ?" asked Margaret, looking straight at 
 Mrs. Thornton, in bewilderment. 
 
 "Why! because I suppose they might have 
 consciences that told them how surely they 
 were making the old mother into an advocate 
 for them, in case they had any plans on the son's 
 heart." 
 
 She smiled a grim smile, for she had been 
 pleased by Margaret's frankness ; and perhaps 
 she felt that she had been asking questions too 
 much as if she had a right to catechise. Mar- 
 garet laughed outright at the notion presented 
 to her; laughed so merrily that it grated on 
 Mrs. Thornton's ear, as if the words that called 
 forth that laugh, must have been utterly and 
 entirely ludicrous. 
 
 Margaret stopped her merriment as soon as 
 she saw Mrs. Thornton's annoyed look. 
 
 "I beg your pardon, madam. But I really 
 am very much obliged to you for exonerating 
 mc from making any plans on Mr. Thornton's 
 heart." 
 
 " Young ladies have, before now," said Mrs. 
 Thornton, stiffly. 
 
 "I hope Miss Thornton is well," put in Mr. 
 Hale, desirous of changing the current qf the 
 conversation. 
 
 "She is as well as she ever is. She is not 
 strong," replied Mrs. Thornton, shortly. 
 
 "And Mr. Thornton ? I suppose I may hope 
 to see him on Thursday i" 
 
 " I can not answer for my son's engagements. 
 There is some uncomfortable work going on in 
 the town ; a threatening of a strike. If so, his 
 experience and judgment will make him much 
 consulted by his friends. But I should think 
 he could come on Thursday. At any rate, I 
 am sure he will let you know if he can not."' 
 
 "A strike!" asked Margaret. "What for? 
 What are they going to strike for?" 
 
NORTH AMD SOUTH. 
 
 47 
 
 "For the mastership and ownership of other 
 people's property," said Mrs. Thornton, with a 
 fierce snort. " That is what they always strike 
 for. If my son's work-people strike, I will only 
 say they are a pack of ungrateful hounds. But 
 I have no doubt they will." 
 
 " They are wanting higher wages, I suppose ?" 
 asked Mr. Hale. 
 
 "That is the face of the thing. But the truth 
 is, they want to be masters, and make the mas- 
 ters into slaves on their own ground. They 
 are always trying at it ; they always have it 
 in their minds; and every five or six years 
 there comes a struggle between masters and 
 men. They'll find themselves mistaken this 
 time, I fancy — a little out of their reckoning. 
 If they turn out, they mayn't find it so easy to 
 go in again. I believe the masters have a thing 
 or two in their heads which will teach the men 
 not to strike again in a hurry, if they try it 
 this time." 
 
 "Does it not make the town very rough?'' 
 asked Margaret. 
 
 " Of course it does. But surely you are not 
 a coward, are you? Milton is not the place for 
 cowards. I have known the time when I have 
 had to thread my way through a crowd of 
 white, angry men, all 6wearing they would 
 have Makinson's blood as soon as he ventured 
 to show his nose out of his factory; and he, 
 knowing nothing of it, some one had to go and 
 tell him, or he was a dead man ; and it needed 
 to be a woman — so I went. And when I had 
 got in, I could not get out. It was as much as 
 my life was worth. So I went up to the roof, 
 where there were stones piled ready to drop on 
 the heads of the crowd, if they tried to force 
 the factory doors. And I would have lifted 
 those heavy stones, and dropped them with as 
 good an aim as the best man there, but that I 
 fainted with the heat I had gone through. If 
 you live in Milton, you must learn to have a 
 brave heart, Miss Hale." 
 
 " I would do my best," said Margaret, rather 
 pale. " I do not know if I am brave or not till 
 I am tried; but I am afraid I should be a cow- 
 ard." 
 
 " South country people are often frightened 
 by what our Darkshire men and women only 
 call living and struggling. But when you've 
 been ten years among a people who are always 
 owing their betters a grudge, and only waiting 
 for an opportunity to pay it off, you'll know 
 whether you are a coward or not, take my word 
 for it." 
 
 Mr. Thornton came that evening to Mr. Hale's. 
 He was shown up into the drawing-room, where 
 Mr. Hale was reading aloud to his wife and 
 daughter. 
 
 "I am come partly to bring you a note from 
 my mother, and partly to' apologize for not 
 keeping to my time yesterday. The note con- 
 tains the address you asked for; Dr. Donald- 
 son." 
 
 "Thank you!" said Margaret, hastily, hold- 
 ing out her hand to take the note; for she did 
 not wish her mother to hear that they had 
 been making any inquiry about a doctor. She 
 was pleased that Mr. Thornton seemed imme- 
 diately to understand her feeling; he gave her 
 the note without another word of explanation. 
 
 Mr. Hale began to talk about the strike. Mr. 
 
 Thornton's face assumed a likeness to his moth- 
 er's worst expression, which immediately repel- 
 led the watching Margaret. 
 
 "Yes; the fools will have a strike. Let them. 
 It suits us well enough. But we gave them a 
 chance. They think trade is flourishing as it 
 was last year. We see the storm on the hori- 
 zon, and draw in our sails. But because we 
 don't explain our reasons, they won't believe 
 we're acting reasonably. We must give them 
 line and letter for the way we choose to spend 
 or save our money. Henderson tried a dodge 
 with his men, out at Ashley, and failed. He 
 rather wantedj a strike ; it would have suited 
 his book weHfenough. So when the men came 
 to ask for the five per cent, they are claiming, 
 he told 'em he'd think about it, and give them 
 his answer on the pay-day; knowing all the 
 while what his answer would be, of course, but 
 thinking he'd strengthen their conceit of their 
 own way. However, they were too deep for 
 him, and heard something about the bad pros- 
 pects of trade. So in they came on the Fri- 
 day, and drew back their claim, and now he's 
 oblfged to go on working. But we Milton 
 masters have to-day sent in our decision. We 
 won't advance a penny. We tell them we may 
 have to lower wages; but can't afford to raise. 
 So here we stand, waiting for their next at- 
 tack." 
 
 "And what will that be?" asked Mr. Hale. 
 "I conjecture, a simultaneous strike. You 
 will see Milton without smoke in a few days, I 
 imagine, Miss Hale." 
 
 "But why," asked she, "could 3 - ou not ex- 
 plain what good reason you have for expecting 
 a bad trade? I don't know if I use the right 
 words, but you will know what I mean." 
 
 " Do you give your servants reasons for your 
 expenditure, or your economy in the use of 
 your own money? We, the owners of capital, 
 have a right to choose what we will do with 
 it." 
 
 " A human right," said Margaret, very low. 
 " I beg your pardon, I did not hear what you 
 said." 
 
 " I would rather not repeat it," said she ; "it 
 related to a feeling which I do not think you | 
 would share." 
 
 "Won'tyoutryme?" pleadedhe; his thoughts 
 suddenly bent upon learning what she had said. 
 She was displeased with his pertinacity, but 
 did not choose to affix too much importance to 
 her words. 
 
 "I said, you had a human right. I meant 
 that there seemed no reason but religious ones, 
 why you should not do what you like with your 
 own." 
 
 ■ "I know we differ in our religious opinions; 
 but don't you give me credit for having some, 
 though not the same as yours?" 
 
 He was speaking in a subdued voice, as if 
 to her alone. She did not Wish to be so exclu- 
 sively addressed. She replied out in her usual 
 tone: 
 
 " I do not think that I have any occasion to 
 consider your special religious opinions in the 
 affair. All I meant to say is, that there is no 
 human law to prevent the employers from ut- 
 terly wasting or throwing away all their money, 
 if they choose ; but that there are passages in 
 the Bible which would rather imply — to me 
 
48 
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 at least — that they neglected their duty as 
 stewards if they did so. However, I know 60 
 little about strikes, and rate of wages, and cap- 
 ital, and labor, that I had better not talk to a 
 political economist like you." 
 
 "Nay, the more reason," said he eagerly. 
 "I shall only be too glad to explain to you all 
 that may seem anomalous or mysterious to a 
 stranger; especially at a time like this, when 
 our doings are sure to be canvassed by every 
 scribbler who can hold a pen." 
 
 " Thank 3'ou," she answered, coldly. " Of 
 course, I shall apply to my father in the first 
 instance for any information he can give me, 
 if 1 get puzzled with living here among this 
 strange society." 
 
 " You think it strange. Why V 
 
 " I don't know — I suppose because, on the 
 very face of it, I see two classes dependent on 
 each other in every possible way, yet each evi- 
 dently regarding the interests of the other as 
 opposed to their own; I never lived in a place 
 before where there were two sets of people al- 
 ways running each other down." 
 
 " Whom hare 3'ou heard running the masters 
 down ? I don't ask whom you have heard abus- 
 ing the men ; for I see you persist in misunder- 
 standing' what I said the other day. But whom 
 have you heard abusing the master*?" 
 
 Margaret reddened; then smiled as she said, 
 
 " I am not fond of being catechised. I refuse 
 to answer your question. Besides, it has no- 
 thing to do with the fact. You must take my 
 word for it, that I have heard some people, or, 
 it may be, only some one of the work-people 
 speak as though it were the interest of the em- 
 ployers to keep them from acquiring money 
 — that it would make them too independent if 
 they had a sum in the savings' bank." 
 
 "I dare say, it was that man Higgins who 
 told you all this," 6aid Mrs. Hale. Mr. Thorn- 
 ton did not appear to hear what Margaret evi- 
 dently did not wish him to know. But he 
 caught it, nevertheless. 
 
 " I heard, moreover, that it was considered to 
 the advantage of the masters to have ignorant 
 workmen — not hedge-lawyers, as Captain Len- 
 nox used to call those men in his company who 
 questioned and would know the reason for every 
 order." 
 
 This latter part of her sentence she addressed 
 rather to her father than to Mr. Thornton. Who 
 is Captain Lennox! asked Mr. Thornton of 
 himself, with a strange kind of displeasure, 
 that prevented him for the moment from re- 
 plying to her. Her father took up the conver- 
 sation. 
 
 " You never were fond of schools, Margaret, 
 or you would have seen and known, before this, 
 how much is being done for education in Mil- 
 ton." 
 
 "No!" said she, with sudden meekness. " I 
 know I do not care enough about schools. But 
 the knowledge and the ignorance of which I 
 was speaking, did not relate to reading and 
 writing— the teaching or information one can 
 give to a child. I am sure, that what was 
 meant was .ignorance of the wisdom that shall 
 guide men and women. I hardly know what 
 that is. But he— that is my informant — spoke 
 as if the masters would like their hands to be 
 merely tall, large children — living in the present 
 
 moment — with a blind unreasoning kind of 
 obedience." 
 
 " In short, Miss Hale, it is very evident that 
 your informant found a pretty ready listener 
 to all the slander he chose to utter against the 
 masters," said Mr. Thornton, in an offended 
 tone. 
 
 Margaret did not reply. She was displeased 
 at the personal character Mr. Thornton affixed 
 to what she had 6aid. 
 
 Mr. Hale spoke next: 
 
 "I must confess that, although I have not 
 become so intimately acquainted with any 
 workmen as Margaret has, I am very much 
 struck by the antagonism between the employer 
 and the employed on the very surface of things. 
 I even gather this impression from what you 
 yourself have from time to time said." 
 
 Mr. Thornton paused awhile before he spoke. 
 Margaret had just left the room, and he was 
 vexed at the state of feeling between himself 
 and her. However, the little annoyance, by 
 making him cooler and more thoughtful, gave 
 a greater dignity to what he said : 
 
 "My theory is, that my interests are identical 
 with those of my work-people, and vice ver E a. 
 Miss Hale, I know, does not like to hear men 
 called ' hands,' so I won't use that word, though 
 it comes most readily to my lips as the technical 
 term, whose origin, whatever it was, dates be- 
 fore my time. On some future day — in some 
 millennium — in Utopia, this unity may be 
 brought into practice — -just as I can fauey a 
 republic the most perfect form of government." 
 
 "We will read Plato's Republic as soon as 
 we have finished Homer." 
 
 "Well, in the Platonic year it may fall out 
 that we are all — men, women, and children — 
 fit for a republic: but give me a constitutional 
 monarchy in our present state of morals and 
 intelligence. In our infancy we require a wise 
 despotism to govern us. Indeed, long past 
 infancy, children and young people are the 
 happiest under the unfailing laws of a discreet, 
 firm authority. I agree with Miss Hale so far as 
 to consider our people in the condition of chil- 
 dren, while I deny that we. the masters, have any 
 thing to do with the making or keeping them 
 so. I maintain that despotism is the best kind 
 of government for them ; so that in the hours 
 in which I come in contact with them I must 
 necessarily be an autocrat. I will use my best 
 discretion — from no humbug or philanthropic 
 feeling, of which we have had rather too much 
 in the North — to make wise laws and come to 
 just decisions in the conduct of my business — 
 laws and decisions which shall work for my own 
 good in the first instance — for theirs in the 
 second: but I willneither be forced to give my 
 reasons, nor flinch from what I have once de- 
 clared to be my 'resolution. Let them turn 
 out ! I shall suffer as well as they : but at the 
 end they will find I have not bated nor altered 
 one jot." 
 
 Margaret had re-entered the room and was 
 sitting at her work; but she did not speak. 
 Mi-. Hale answered — 
 
 " I dare say I am talking in great ignorance ; 
 but from the little I know, I should sa}' that 
 the masses were already passing rapidly into 
 the troublesome stage which intervenes between 
 childhood and manhood in the life of the mul- 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 49 
 
 titude aa well as that of the individual. Now, 
 the error which many parents commit in the 
 treatment of the individual at this time is, 
 insisting on the same unreasoning obedienee as 
 when all he had to do in the way of duty was, 
 to obey the simple laws of ' Come when you're 
 called,' and 'Do as you're bid 1* But a wise pa- 
 rent humors the desire for independent action, 
 so as to become the friend and adviser when his 
 absolute rule shall cease. If I get wrong in my 
 reasoning, recollect it is you who adopted the 
 analogy." 
 
 " Very lately," said Margaret, " I heard a 
 story oi what happened in Nuremberg only 
 three or four years ago. A rich man there 
 lived alone in one of the immense mansions 
 whieh were formerly both dwellings and ware- 
 houses. It was reported that he had a child, 
 but no one knew of it fqr certain. For forty 
 years this rumor kept rising and falling — never 
 utterly dying away. After his death it was 
 found to be true. He had a son — an overgrown 
 man, with the unexercised intellect of a child, 
 whom he had kept shut up in that strange way, 
 in order to save him from temptation and error. 
 But, of course, when this great old child was 
 turned loose into the world, every bad counselor 
 had power over him. He did not know good 
 from evil. His father had made the blunder of 
 bringing him up in ignorance and taken it for 
 innocence ; and after fourteen months of riotous 
 living, the city authorities had to take charge 
 of him in order to save him from starvation. 
 He could not even use words effectively enough 
 to be a successful beggar." 
 
 " I used the comparison (suggested by Miss 
 Hale) of the position of the master to that of a 
 parent ; so I ought not to complain of your 
 turning the simile into a weapon against me. 
 But, Mr. Hale, when you were setting up 
 a wise parent as a model for us, you said 
 he humored his children in their desire for 
 independent action. Now certainly, the time 
 is not come for the hands to have any independ- 
 ent action during business hours ; I hardly 
 know what you would mean by it then. And 
 I say, that the masters would be trenching on 
 the mdependence of their hands in a way that 
 I, for one, should not feel justified in doing if 
 we interfered too much with the life they lead 
 out of the mills. Because they labor ten hours 
 a day for us, I do not see that we have any right 
 to impose leading-strings upon them for the rest 
 of their time. I value my own independence 
 so highly that I can fancy no degradation 
 greater than that of having another man per- 
 petually directing and adviBing and lecturing 
 me, or even planning too closely in any way 
 about my actions. He might be the wisest of 
 men or the most powerful — I should equally" 
 rebel and resent his interference. I imagine 
 this is a stronger feeling in the North of England 
 than in the South." 
 
 " I beg your pardon, but is not that because 
 there has been none of the equality of friend- 
 ship between the adviser and advised classes? 
 Because every man has had to stand in an 
 unchristian and isolated position, apart from 
 and jealous of his brother-man : constantly 
 afraid of his rights being trenched upon V 
 
 " I only state the fact. I am sorry to say I 
 have an appointment at eight o'clock, and I must 
 D 
 
 just take facts ia I find them to-night, without 
 trying to account for them; which, indeed, 
 would make no difference in determining how to 
 act as things stand — the facts must be granted." 
 
 "But," said Margaret in a low voice, "it 
 seems to me that it makes all the difference in 
 the world — " Her father made a sign to her to 
 be silent, and allow Mr. Thornton to finish what 
 he had to say. He was already standing up 
 and preparing to go. 
 
 " You must grant me this one point. Given 
 a strong feeling of independence in every Dark- 
 shire man, have I any right to obtrude my 
 views of the manner in which he shall act upon 
 another (hating it as I should do most vehement- 
 ly myself), merely because he has labor to sell 
 and I eapital to buy?" 
 
 "Not in the least," said Margaret, determined 
 just to say this one thing; "not in the least 
 beeause of your labor and capital positions, 
 whatever they arc, but because you are a man, 
 dealing with a set of men over whom you have, 
 whether you reject the use of it or not, immense 
 power, just because your lives and your welfare 
 are so constantly and intimately interwoven. 
 God has made us so that we must be mutually 
 dependent. We may ignore our own depend- 
 ence, or refuse to acknowledged at others 
 depend upon us in more respects than the 
 payment of weekly wages; but the thing 
 must be, nevertheless. Neither you nor any 
 other master can help yourselves. The most 
 proudly independent man depends on those 
 around him for their insensible influence on his 
 character — his life. And the most isolated of 
 all your Darkshire Egos has dependents cling- 
 ing to him on all sides ; he can not shake them 
 off, any more than the great rock he resembles 
 can shake off — ,r 
 
 "Pray don't go into similes, Margaret; you 
 have led us off once already," said her father, 
 smiling, yet uneasy at the thought that they 
 were detaining Mr. Thornton against his will, 
 which ( was a mistake ; for he rather liked it, as 
 long as Margaret would talk, although what 
 she said only irritated him. 
 
 " Just tell me, Miss Hale,- are you yourself 
 ever influenced — no, that is not a fair way of 
 putting it — but, if you are ever conscious of 
 being influenced by others, and not by circum- 
 stances, have those others been working direct- 
 ly or indirectly ? Have they been laboring to 
 exhort, to enjoin, to act rightly for the sake of 
 example, or have they been simple, true men, 
 taking up their duty, and doing it unflinchingly, 
 without a thought of how their actions were to 
 make this man industrious, that man saving? 
 Why, if I were a workman, I should be twenty 
 times more impressed by the knowledge that 
 my master was honest, punctual, quick, resolute 
 in all his doings (and hands are keener spies even 
 than valets), than by any amount of interference, 
 however kindly meant, with my ways of going- 
 on out of work-hours. I do not choose to 
 think too closely on what I am myself ; but, I 
 believe, I rely on the straight-forward honesty 
 of my hands, and the open nature of their 
 opposition, in contradistinction to the way in 
 which the turn-out will be managed in some 
 mills, just because they know I scorn to take a 
 single dishonorable advantage, or do an under- 
 hand thing myself. It goes further than a • 
 
50 
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 whole course of lectures on 'Honesty is the 
 Best Policy' — life diluted into words. No, no 1 
 What the master is, that will the men be, 
 without over-much taking thought on his part." 
 
 "That is a great admission," said Margaret, 
 laughing. " When I see men violent and obsti- 
 nate in pursuit of their rights, I may safely in- 
 fer that the master is the same; that he is 
 a little ignorant of that spirit which suffereth 
 long, and is kind, and seeketh not her own." 
 
 "You are just like all strangers who don't 
 understand the working of our system, Miss 
 Hale," said he, hastily. "You suppose that 
 our men are puppets of dough, ready to be 
 moulded into any amiable form we please. 
 You forget we have only to do with them 
 for less than a third of their lives; and you 
 seem not to perceive that the duties of a man- 
 ufacturer are far larger and wider than those 
 merely of an employer of labor: we have a 
 wide commercial character to maintain, which 
 makes us into the great pioneers of civiliza- 
 tion." 
 
 "It strikes me," saicLMr. Hale, smiling, "that 
 you might pioneer a little at home. They are 
 a rough, heathenish set of fellows, these Milton 
 men of yours." 
 
 "They are that," replied Mr. Thornton. 
 "Rose-water surgery will not do for them. 
 Cromwell would have made a capital mill- 
 owner, Miss Hale. I wish we had him to put 
 down this strike for us." 
 
 " Cromwell is no hero of mine," said she, 
 coldly. " But I am trying to reconcile your 
 admiration of despotism with your respect for 
 other men's independence of character." 
 
 He reddened at her tone. " I choose to be 
 the unquestioned and irresponsible master of 
 my hands during the hours that they labor for 
 me. But those hours past, our relation ceases ; 
 and then comes in the same respect for their in- 
 dependence that I myself exact." 
 
 He did not speak again for a minute, he was 
 too much vexed. But he shook it off, and bade 
 Mr. and Mrs. Hale good night. Then, drawing 
 near to Margaret, he said in a lower voice — 
 
 " I spoke hastily to you once this evening, 
 and, I am afraid, rather rudely. But you 
 know I am but an uncouth Milton manufactur- 
 er; will you forgive me?" 
 
 " Certainly," said she, smiling up in his face, 
 the expression of which was somewhat anxious 
 and oppressed, and hardly cleared away as he 
 met her sweet sunny countenance, out of which 
 all the north-wind effect of their discussion had 
 entirely vanished. But she did not put out 
 her hand to him, and again he felt the omission, 
 and set it down to pride. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 The next afternoon Dr. Donaldson came to 
 pay his first visit to Mrs. Hale. The mystery 
 that Margaret hoped their late habits of inti- 
 macy had broken through, was resumed. She 
 was excluded from the room, while Dixon was 
 admitted. Margaret was not a ready lover, 
 but where she loved she loved passionately, 
 and with no small degree of jealousy. 
 
 She went into her mother's bedroom, just 
 
 behind the drawing-room, and paced it up and 
 down, while awaiting the doctor's coming out, . 
 Every now and then she stopped to listen ; she 
 fancied she heard a moan. She clinched her 
 hands tight, and held her breath. She was sure 
 she heard a moan. Then all was still for a few 
 minutes more ; and then there was the moving 
 of chairs, the raised voices, all the little dis- 
 turbances of leave-taking. 
 
 When 6he heard the door open, she went 
 quickly out of the bedroom. 
 
 "My father is from home, Dr. Donaldson; 
 he has to attend a pupil at this hour. May I 
 trouble you to come into his room down-stairs !" 
 
 She saw, and triumphed over all the obsta- 
 cles which Dixon threw in her way ; assuming 
 her rightful position as daughter of the house 
 in something of the spirit of the Elder Brother, 
 which quelled the old servant's offkiousness 
 very effectually. Margaret's conscious assump- 
 tion of this unusual dignity of demeanor toward 
 Dixon, gave her an instant's amusement in the 
 midst of her anxiety. She knew, from the sur- 
 prised expression on Dixon's face, how ridicu- 
 lously grand she herself must be looking ; and 
 the idea carried her down stairs into the room ; 
 it gave her that length of oblivion from the 
 keen sharpness of the recollection of the actual 
 business in hand. Now, that came back, and 
 seemed to take away her breath. It was a mo- 
 ment or two before she eould utter a word. 
 
 But she spoke with an air of command, as 
 she asked : 
 
 "What is the matter with mamma? You 
 will oblige me by telling the simple truth." 
 Then, seeing a slight hesitation on the doctor's 
 part, she added — 
 
 " I am the only child she has — here, I mean. 
 My father is not sufficiently alarmed, I fear; 
 and, therefore, if there is any serious appre- 
 hension, it must be broken to him gently. I 
 can do this. I can nurse my mother. Pra}', 
 speak, sir; to see your face, and not be able to 
 read it, gives me a worse dread than I trust 
 any words of yours will justify." 
 
 " My dear young lady, your mother seems to 
 have a most attentive and efficient servant, who 
 is more like a friend — " 
 
 " I am her daughter, sir." 
 
 "But when I tell you she expressly desired 
 that you might not be told — " 
 
 " I am not good or patient enough to submit 
 to the prohibition. Besides, I am sure, you are 
 too wise — too experienced to have promised to 
 keep the secret." 
 
 " Well," said he, half smiling, though sadly 
 enough, "there you are right. I did not prom- 
 ise. In fact, I fear, the secret will soon enough 
 be known without my revealing it." 
 
 He paused. Margaret went very white, and 
 compressed her lips a little more. Otherwise 
 not a feature moved. With the quick insight 
 into character, without which no medical man 
 can rise to the eminence of Dr. Donaldson, he 
 saw that she would exact the full truth ; that 
 she would know if one iota was withheld ; and 
 that the withholding would be torture more 
 acute than the knowledge of it. He spoke two 
 short sentences in a low voice, watching her 
 all the time ; for the pupils of her eyes dilated 
 into a black horror, and the whiteness of her 
 complexion became livid. He ceased speaking. 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 51 
 
 He waited for that look to go off — for her gasp- 
 ing breath to come. Then she said : 
 
 "I thank you most truly, sir, for your confi- 
 dence. That dread has haunted me for many 
 weeks. It is a true, real agony. My poor, 
 poor mother!" her lips began-to quiver, and he 
 let her have the relief of tears, sure of her 
 power of self-control to check them. 
 
 A few tears — those were all she shed, before 
 she recollected the many questions she longed 
 to ask. ' 
 
 ""Will there be much suffering!" 
 He shook his head. " That we can not tell. 
 It depends on constitution; on a thousand 
 things. But the late discoveries of medical sci- 
 ence have given us large power of alleviation." 
 "My father 1" said Margaret, trembling all 
 over. 
 
 " I do not know Mr. Hale. I mean, it is diffi- 
 cult to give advice. But I should Bay, bear on, 
 with the knowledge you have forced me to give 
 you bo abruptly, till the fact which I could not 
 withhold has become in some degree familiar 
 to you, so that you may, without too great an 
 effort, be able to give what comfort you can to 
 your father. Before then — my visits, which, 
 of course, I shall repeat from time to time, al- 
 though I fear I can do nothing but alleviate — 
 u thousand little circumstances will have oc- 
 curred to awaken his alarm, to deepen it — so 
 that he will be all the better prepared. Nay, 
 my dear young lady — nay, my dear — I saw Mr. 
 Thornton, and I honor your father for the sac- 
 rifice he has made, however mistaken I believe 
 him to be. Well, this once, if it will please 
 you, my dear. Only remember, when I come 
 again, I come as a friend. And you must learn 
 to look upon me as such, because seeing each 
 other — getting to know each other at such 
 times as these, is worth years of morning calls." 
 Margaret could not speak for crying; but 
 she wrung his hand at parting. 
 
 " That's what I call a fine girl !" thought Dr. 
 Donaldson; when he was seated in his carriage, 
 and had time to examine his ringed hand, which 
 had slightly suffered from her pressure. " "Who 
 would have thought that little hand could have 
 given such a squeeze? But the bones were 
 well put together, and that gives immense pow- 
 er. What a queen she is! With her head 
 thrown back at first to force me into speaking 
 the truth; and then bent so eagerly forward 
 to listen. Poor thing! I must see she does 
 not overstrain herself. Though it's astonishing 
 how much those thorough-bred creatures can 
 do and suffer. That girl's game to the back- 
 bone. Another, who had gone that deadly 
 color, could never have come round without 
 either fainting or hysterics. But she would 
 not do either — not she! And the very force 
 of her will brought her round. Such a girl as 
 that would win my heart, if I were thirty years 
 younger. It's too late now. Ah ! here we are 
 at the Archers'." So out he jumped, with 
 thought, wisdom, experience, sympathy, all 
 prompt and ready to attend to the calls macfe 
 upon them by this family, just as if there were 
 none other in the world. 
 
 Meanwhile, Margaret had returned into her 
 
 father's study for a moment, to recover strength 
 
 before going up-stairs intohermother's presence. 
 
 " Oh, my God, my God ! but this is terrible. 
 
 How shall I bear it? Such a deadly disease I 
 no hope! Oh, mamma, mamma! I wish I had 
 never gone to Aunt Shaw's, and been all those 
 precious years away from you I Poor mamma ! 
 how much she must have "borne ! Oh, I pray 
 thee, my God, that her sufferings may not be 
 too acute, too dreadful. How shall I bear to 
 see them? How can I bear papa's agony ? He 
 must not be told yet ; not all at once. It would 
 kill him. But I won't lose another moment of 
 my own dear, precious mother." 
 
 She ran up-stairs. Dixon was not in the 
 room. Mrs. Hale lay back in an easy chair, 
 with a soft white shawl wrapped abound her, 
 and a becoming cap put on, in expectation of 
 the doctor's visit. Her face had a little, faint 
 color in it, and the very exhaustion after the 
 examination gave it a peaceful look. Margaret 
 was surprised to see her look so calm. 
 
 "Why, Margaret, how strange you look! 
 What is the matter?" And then, as the idea 
 stole into her mind of what was indeed the real 
 state of the case, she added, as if a little dis- 
 pleased: "You have not been seeing Dr. Don- 
 aldson, and asking him any questions — have 
 you, child?" Margaret did not reply — only 
 looked wistfully toward her. Mrs. Hale became 
 more displeased. He would not, surely, break 
 his word to me, and — " 
 
 " Oh yes, mamma, he did. I made him. It 
 was I — blame me." She knelt down by her 
 mother's side, and caught her hand — she would 
 not let it go, though Mrs. Hale tried to pull it 
 away. She kept kissing it, and the hot tears 
 she shed bathed it. 
 
 " Margaret, it was very wrong of you. You 
 know I did not wish you to know." But, as if 
 tired with the contest, she left her hand in Mar- 
 garet's clasp, and by-and-by she returned the 
 pressure faintly. That encouraged Margaret to 
 speak. 
 
 " Oh, mamma I let me be your nurse. I will 
 learn any thing Dixon can teach me. But you 
 know I am your child, and I do think I have a 
 right to do every thing for you." 
 
 " You don't know what you are asking," said 
 Mrs. Hale, with a shudder. 
 
 " Yes, I do. I know a great deal more than 
 you are aware of. Let me be your nurse. Let 
 me try, at any rate. No one has ever, shall- 
 ever try so hard as I will do. It will be such 
 a comfort, mamma." 
 
 "My poor child! Well, you shall try. Do 
 you know, Margaret, Dixon and I thought you 
 would quite shrink from me if you knew — " 
 
 "Dixon thought!" said Margaret, her lip curl-- 
 ing. "Dixon could not give me credit for 
 enough true love — for as much as herself! She 
 thought, I suppose, that I was one of those poor 
 sickly women who like to lie on rose leaves, and 
 be fanned all day. Don't let Dixon's fancies ' 
 come any more between you and me, mamma. 
 Don't, please 1 " implored she. 
 
 "Don't be angry with Dixon," said Mrs. Hale, 
 anxiously. Margaret recovered herself. 
 
 " No ! I won't. I will try and be humble, and 
 learn her ways, if you will only let me do all I 
 can for you. Let me be in the first place, mo- 
 ther — I am greedy of that. I used to fancy you 
 would forget me while I was away at Aunt 
 Shaw's, and cry myself to sleep at nights with 
 that notion in my head." 
 
62 
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 "And I used to think, how will Margaret 
 bear our makeshift poverty after the thorough 
 comfort and luxury in Harley Street, till I have 
 many a time been more ashamed of your seeing 
 our contrivances at Helstone than of any stran- 
 ger finding them out." 
 
 " Oh, mamma ! and I did so enjoy them. 
 They were so much more amusing than all the 
 jog-trot Harley Street ways. The wardrobe 
 shelf with handles, that served as a supper-tray 
 on grand occasions I And the old tea-chests 
 stuffed and covered for ottomans! I think what 
 you call the makeshift contrivances at dear 
 Helstone were a charming part of the life 
 there." 
 
 " I shall never see Helstone again, Margaret," 
 said Mrs. Hale, the tears welling up into her 
 eyes. Margaret could not reply. Mrs. Hale 
 went on. " "While I was there I was forever 
 wanting to leave it. Every place seemed pleas- 
 anter. And now I shall die far away from it. 
 I am rightly punished." 
 
 "You must not talk so," said Margaret, im- 
 patiently. " He said yeu might live for years. 
 Oh, mother ! we will have you back at Helstone 
 yet." 
 
 " No, never ! That I must take as a just pen- 
 ance. But, Margaret — Frederick!" 
 
 At the mention of that one word, she sudden- 
 ly cried out loud, as in some sharp agony. It 
 seemed as if the thought of him upset all her 
 composure, destroyed the calm, overcame the 
 exhaustion. Wild passionate cry succeeded to 
 cry — " Frederick 1 Frederick ! Gome to me. I 
 am dying. Little first-born child, come to me 
 once again I" 
 
 She was in violent hysterics. Margaret went 
 and called Dixon in terror. Dixon came in a 
 huff, and accused Margaret of having over-ex- 
 cited her mother. Margaret bore all meekly, 
 only trusting that her father might not return. 
 In spite of her alarm, which was even greater 
 than the occasion justified, she obeyed all Dix- 
 on's directions promptly and well, without a 
 word of self-justification. By so doing she molli- 
 fied her accuser. They put her mother to bed, 
 and Margaret sate by her till' she fell asleep, 
 and afterward sate by her till Dixon beckoned 
 her out of the room, and, with a sour face, as if 
 doing something against the grain, she bade her 
 drink a cup of coffee which she had prepared 
 for her in the drawing-room, and stood over her 
 in a commanding attitude as she did so. 
 
 " You should not have been bo curious, Miss, 
 and then you would not have needed to fret 
 before your time. It would have come soon 
 enough. And now, I suppose, you'll tell mas- 
 ter, and a pretty household I shall have of 
 you !" 
 
 "No, Dixon," said Margaret, sorrowfully, "I 
 will not tell papa. He could not bear it as I 
 can." And by way of proving how well she> 
 bore it, she burst into tears. 
 
 " Ay ! I knew how it would be. Now 
 you'll waken your mamma, just after she's 
 gone to sleep so quietly. Miss Margaret my 
 dear, I've had to keep it down this many a 
 week ; and though I don't pretend I can love 
 her as you do, yet I loved her better than any 
 other man, woman, or child — no one but Mas- 
 ter Frederick ever came near her in my mind. 
 Ever since Lady Beresford's maid first took me 
 
 in to see her dressed out in white\ crape, and 
 corn-ears, and scarlet poppies, and I ran a 
 needle down into my finger, and broke it in, 
 and she tore up her worked pocket handker- 
 chief after they'd cut it out, and came in to wet 
 the bandages again with lotion when she re- 
 turned from the ball, where she'd been the pret- 
 tiest young lady of all, I've never loved any 
 one like her. I little thought then that I should 
 live to see her brought so low. I don't mean 
 no reproach to nobody. Many a one calls you 
 pretty and handsome, and what not. Even in 
 this smoky place, enough to blind one's eyes, 
 the owls can see that. But you'll never be 
 like your mother for beauty — never ; not if you 
 live to be a hundred." 
 
 "Mamma is very pretty still. Poor mam- 
 mal" 
 
 " Now don't ye set off again, or I Bhall give 
 way at last" (whimpering). " You'll never 
 stand master's coming home, and questioning, 
 at this rate. Go out and take a walk, and come 
 in something-like. Many's the time I've long- 
 ed to walk it off— the thought of what was 
 the matter with her, and how it must all 
 end." 
 
 " Oh, Dixon !" said Margaret, " how often I've 
 been cross with you, not knowing what a terri- 
 ble secret you had to bear !" 
 
 "Bless you, child! I like to 6ee you show- 
 ing a bit of spirit. It's the good old Beresford 
 blood. Why, the last Sir John but two shot 
 his steward down there where he stood, for just 
 telling him that he'd racked the tenants, and 
 he'd racked the tenants till he could get no 
 more money off them than he could get skin off 
 a flint." 
 
 " Well, Dixon, I won't shoot you, and I'll try 
 not to be cross again." 
 
 " You never have. If I've said it at times, 
 it has always been to myself, just in private, Dy 
 way of making a little agreeable conversation, 
 for there's no one here fit to talk to. And when 
 you fire up, you're the very image of Master 
 Frederick. I could find in my heart to put 
 you in a passion any day, just to see his stormy 
 look coming like a great cloud over your face. 
 But now you go out, Miss. I'll watch over 
 missus ; and as for master, his books are com- 
 pany enough for him if he should come in." 
 
 "I will go," said Margaret. She hung about 
 Dixon for a minute or so, as if afraid and 
 irresolute ; then suddenly kissing her, she went 
 quickly out of the room. 
 
 "Bless her!" said Dixon. "She's as sweet 
 as a nut. There are' three people I love: it's 
 missus, Master Frederick, and her. Just them 
 three. That's alL The rest be hanged, for I 
 don't know what they're in the world for. 
 Master was born, I suppose, for to marry missus. 
 If I thought he loved her properly, I might get 
 to love him in time. But he should ha' made 
 a deal more on her, and not been always read- 
 ing, reading, thinking, thinking. Sec what it 
 has brought him to ! Many a one who never 
 reads nor thinks either, gets to be Rector, and 
 Dean, and what not; and I dare say master 
 might, if he'd just minded missus, and let the 
 weary reading and thinking alone. There she 
 goes (looking out of the window as she heard 
 the front door shut). "Poor young lady! her 
 clothes look shabby to what they did when she 
 
NORTH AND SOOTH. 
 
 63 
 
 came to Helstone a year ago. Then she had not 
 so much as a darned stocking or a cleaned pair 
 of gloves in all her wardrobe. And now — I" 
 
 CHAPTER XVtt 
 
 Makgaket went out heavily and unwillingly 
 enough. But the length of a street — yes, the 
 air of a Milton street — cheered her young blood 
 before 6he reached her first turning. Her step 
 grew lighter, her lip redder. She began to take 
 notice, instead of having her thoughts turned so 
 exclusively inward. She saw unusual loiterers 
 in the streets: men with their hands in their 
 pockets sauntering along; loud-laughing and 
 loud-spoken girls clustered together, apparently 
 exoited to high spirits, and a boisterous inde- 
 pendence of temper and behavior. The more 
 ill-looking of the men — the discreditable minor- 
 ity — hung about on the steps of the beer-houses 
 and gin-shops, smoking, and commenting pretty 
 freely on every passer-by. Margaret disliked 
 the prospect of the long walk though these 
 streets before she came to the fields which she 
 had planned to reach. Instead, she would go 
 and see Bessy Higgins. It would not be so re- 
 freshing as a quiet country walk, but still it 
 would perhapB be doing the kinder thing. 
 
 Nicholas Higgins was sitting by the fire 
 smoking, as she went in. Bessy was rocking 
 herself on the other side. 
 
 Nicholas took his pipe out of his mouth, and 
 standing up, pushed his chair toward Marga- 
 ret; he leant against the chimney-piece in a 
 lounging attitude, while she asked Bessy how 
 she was. 
 
 " Hoo's rather down i' th' mouth in regard to 
 spirits, but hoo's better in health. Hoo dosen't 
 like this strike, Hoo's a deal too much set on 
 peace and quietness at any price." 
 
 " This is th' third strike I've seen," said she, 
 sighing, as if that was answer and explanation 
 enough. 
 
 "Well, third time pays for all. See if we 
 don't dang th' master this time. See if they 
 don't come, and beg us to come back at our own 
 price. That's alL We've missed it aforetime, 
 I grant yo ; but this time we'n laid out plans 
 desperate deep." 
 
 "Why do you strike?" asked Margaret. 
 "Striking is leaving off work till you get your 
 own rate of wages, is it not? Tou must not 
 wonder at my ignorance ; where I come from I 
 never heard of a strike." 
 
 "I wish I were there,*' said Bessy, wearily. 
 "But it's not for me to get sick and tired o' 
 strikes. This is the last I'll see. Before it's 
 ended I shall be in the Great City — the Holy 
 Jerusalem." 
 
 " Hoo's so full of the life to come, hoo can not 
 think of the present. Now I, yo see, am bound 
 to do the best I can here. I think a bird i' 
 th' hand is worth two i' th' buBh. So them's 
 the different views we take on th* strike ques- 
 tion." 
 
 "But," said Margaret, "if the people struck, 
 as you call it, where I come from, as they are 
 mostly all field-laborers, the seed would not be 
 sown, the hay got in, the corn reaped." 
 
 "Well?" said he. He had resumed his pipe, 
 
 and put his " well" in the iormfii an interroga- 
 tion. 
 
 "Why," she went on, "what would become 
 of the farmers?" 
 
 He puffed away. "I reckon they'd have 
 either to give up their farms, or to give fair 
 rate of wage." 
 
 " Suppose they could not, or would not do 
 the last ; they could not give up their farms all 
 in a minute, however much they might wish 
 to do so ; but they would have no hay, nor corn 
 to sell that year ; and where would the mon- 
 ey come from to pay the laborer's wages the 
 next?" 
 
 Still puffing away. At last he said; 
 
 " I know nought of your ways down South. 
 I have heerd they're a pack of spiritless, down- 
 trodden men; welly clemmed to death; toe 
 much dazed wi' clemming to know when they're 
 put upon. Now it's not so here. We known 
 when we're put upon ; and we'n too much blood 
 in us to stand it. We just take our hands fro' 
 our looms, and say, ' Yo may clem us, but yo'll 
 not put upon us, my masters 1' And be danged 
 to 'em, they shan't this time!" 
 
 " I wish I lived down South," said Bessy. 
 
 "There's a deal to bear there," said Marga- 
 ret. " There are sorrows to bear every where. 
 There is very hard bodily labor to be gone 
 through, with very little food to give strength." 
 
 "But it's out of doors," said Bessy. "And 
 away from the eritUess, endless noise, and sick- 
 ening heat." 
 
 "It's sometimes in heaVyrain, and sometimes 
 in bitter cold. A young person can stand it; 
 but an old man gets racked with rheumatism, 
 and bent and withered before his time ; yet he 
 must just work on the same or else go to the 
 workhouse." 
 
 " I thought yo were so taken wi' the ways of 
 the South country." 
 
 " So I am," said Margaret, smiling a little, as 
 she found herself thus caught. "I only mean, 
 Bessy, there's good and bad in every thing in 
 this world ; and as you felt the bad up here, I 
 thought it was but fair you should know the 
 bad down there." 
 
 " And yo say they never strike down there t" 
 asked Nicholas, abruptly. 
 
 "No I" said Margaret; "I think they have 
 too much sense." 
 
 " An' I think," replied he, dashing the ashes 
 out of his pipe with so much vehemence that 
 it broke, " that it's not that they've too much 
 sense but that they've too little spirit." 
 
 "Oh father!" said Bessy, "what have ye 
 gained by striking? Think of that first strike 
 when mother died — how we all had to clem— 
 you the worst of all ; and yet many a one went 
 m every week at the same wage, till all were 
 gone in that there was work for; and some 
 went beggars all their lives at after." 
 
 " Ay," said he. ' ' That there strike was bad- 
 ly managed. Folk got into the management of 
 it who were either fools or not true men. Yo'll 
 see it'll be different this time." 
 
 "But all this time you've not told me what 
 you're striking for," said Margaret, again. 
 
 " Why, yo see, there's five or six masters Who 
 have set themselves again paying the wages 
 they've been paying these two years past, and 
 flourishing upon, and getting richer upon. 
 
54 
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 And now they come to us, and say -we're to take 
 less. And "we won't. We'll just clem to death 
 first ; and see who'll work for 'em then. They'll 
 have killed the goose that laid them the golden 
 eggs, I reckon." 
 
 "And so you plan dying, in order to be re- 
 venged upon them!" 
 
 "Ho," said he, "I dunnot. I just look for- 
 ward to the chance of dying at my post sooner 
 than yield. That's what folk call fine and 
 honorable in a soldier, and why not in a poor 
 weaver-chap ?" 
 
 "But," said Margaret, " a soldier dies in the 
 cause of the Nation — in the cause of others." 
 
 He laughed grimly. " My lass," said he, 
 " yo're but a young wench, but don't yo think 
 I can keep three people — that's Bessy, and 
 Mary, and me — on sixteen shilling a week? 
 Dun yo think it's for mysel' I'm striking work 
 at this time? It's just as much in the cause of 
 others as yon soldier, only m'appen, the cause he 
 dies for is just that of somebody he never clapt 
 eyes on, nor heerd on all his born days, while 
 I take up John Boucher's cause, as lives next 
 door but one, wi' a sickly wife, and eight chil- 
 der, none on 'em factory age ; and I don't take 
 up his cause only, though he's a poor good-for- 
 nought, as can only manage two looms at a 
 time, but I take up th' cause o' justice. Why 
 are we to have less wage now, I ask, than two 
 year ago ?" 
 
 "Don't ask me,'' said Margaret ; "I am very 
 ignorant. Ask some of your masters. Surely 
 they will give you a reason for it. It is not 
 merely an arbitrary decision of theirs, come to 
 without reason." 
 
 "Yo're just a foreigner, and nothing more," 
 said he, contemptuously. "Much yo know 
 about it. Ask th' masters! They'd tell us to 
 mind our own business, and they'd mind theirs. 
 Our business being, yo understand, to take the 
 bated wage, and be thankful ; and their busi- 
 ness to bate us down to clemming point, to swell 
 their profits. That's what it is." 
 
 " But," said Margaret, determined not to give 
 way, although she saw she was irritating him, 
 " the state of trade may be such as not to enable 
 them to give you the same remuneration." 
 
 "State o' trade 1 That's just a piece o' 
 masters' humbug. It is rate o' wages I was 
 talking of. Th' masters keep th' state o' trade 
 in their own hands ; and just walk it forward 
 like a black bug-a-boo, to frighten naughty 
 children with into being good. I'll tell yo it's 
 their part — their cue, as some folks call it — to 
 beat us down, to swell their fortunes; and it's 
 ours to stand up and fight hard — not for our- 
 selves alone, but for them round about us — for 
 justice and fair play. We help to make their 
 profits, and we ought to help spend 'em. It's 
 not that we want their brass so much this time, 
 as we've done many a time afore. "We'n getten 
 money laid by; and we're resolved to stand 
 and fall together ; not a man on us will go in 
 for less wage than th' Union says is our due. 
 So I say, 'hooray' for the strike, and let 
 Thornton, and Slickson, and Hamper, and their 
 set look to it!" 
 
 "Thornton!" said Margaret. "Mr. Thorn- 
 ton of Marlborough Street?" 
 
 "Ay ! Thornton o' Marlborough Mill, as we 
 call him." 
 
 "He is one of the masters you are striving 
 with, is he not? What sort of a master is 
 he?" _ 
 
 "Did yo ever see a bulldog? Set a bulldog 
 on hind legs, and dress him up in coat and 
 breeches, and yo'n just getten John Thornton." 
 
 "Bay," said Margaret, laughing, "I deny 
 that. Mr. Thornton is plain enough, but he's 
 not like a bulldog, with its short broad nose, 
 and snarling upper lip." 
 
 "No! not in look, I grant yo. But let John 
 Thornton get hold on a notion, and he'll stick 
 to it like a bulldog; yo might pull him away 
 wi' a pitchfork ere he'd leave go. He's worth 
 fighting wi', is John Thornton. As for Slickson, 
 I take it, some o' these days he'll wheedle his 
 men back wi' fair promises; that they'll just 
 get cheated out of as soon as they're in his 
 power again. He'll work his fines well out on 
 'em, I'll warrant. He's as slippery as an eel, he 
 is. He's like a cat — as sleek, and cunning, and 
 fierce. It'll never be an honest up and down 
 fight wi' him, as it will be wi' Thornton. Thorn- 
 ton is as dour as a door-nail ; an obstinate chap, 
 every inch on him— th' oud bulldog!" 
 
 " Poor Bessy !" said Margaret, turning round 
 to her. " You sigh over it all. You don't like 
 struggling and fighting as your father does, do 
 you?" 
 
 "No!" said she, heavily. "I'm sick on it. I 
 could have wished to have had other talk about 
 me in my latter days, than just the clashing and 
 clanging and clattering that has wearied a' my 
 life long, about work and wages, and masters, 
 and hands, and knobsticks." 
 
 "Pooh, wench! latter days be farred! Thou'rt 
 looking a sight better already for a little stir 
 and change. Beside, I shall be a deal here to 
 make it more lively for thee." 
 
 " Tobacco-smoke chokes me !" said she, queru- 
 lously. 
 
 " Then I'll never smoke no more i' th' house !" 
 he replied, tenderly. " But why didst thou not 
 tell me afore, thou foolish wench?" 
 
 She did not speak for a while, and then so 
 low that only Margaret heard her : 
 
 " I reckon he'll want a' the comfort he can get 
 out o' either pipe or drink afore he's done." 
 
 Her father went out of doors, evidently to 
 finish his pipe. 
 
 Bessy said passionately, 
 
 "Now am not I a fool — am not I, Miss? — 
 there, I knew I ought for to keep father at 
 home, and away fro' the folk that are always 
 ready for to tempt a man in time o' strike to go 
 drink — and there my tongue must needs quarrel 
 with this pipe o' his'n — and he'll go off, I know 
 he will— as often as he wants to smoke — and 
 nobody knows where it'll end. I wish I'd letten 
 myself be choked first." 
 
 " But does your father drink ?" asked Mar- 
 garet. 
 
 "No — not to say drink," replied she, still in 
 the same wild excited tone. " But what win 
 ye have? There are days wi' you, as wi' other 
 folk, I suppose, when yo get up and go through 
 th' hours, just longing for a bit of a change — a 
 bit of a fillip, as it were. I know I ha' gone 
 and bought a four-pounder out o' another 
 baker's shop to common on such days, just 
 because I sickened at the thought of going on 
 forever wi' the same sight in my eyes, and the 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 55 
 
 same sound in my ears, and the same taste i' 
 my mouth, and the same thought (or no thought, 
 for that matter) in my head, day after day, for- 
 ever. I've longed for to be a man to go 
 spreeing, even if it were only a tramp to some 
 new place in search o' work. And father — all 
 men — have it stronger in 'em than me to get 
 tired o' sameness and work forever. And what 
 is 'em to do ? It's little blame to them if they 
 do go into th' gin-shop for to make their blood 
 flow quicker, and more lively, and see things 
 they never see at no other time — pictures, and 
 looking-glass, and such like. But father never 
 was a drunkard, though maybe, he's got worse 
 for drink, now and then. Only yo see," and 
 now her voice took a mournful, pleading tone, 
 " at times o' strike there's much to knock a 
 man down, for all they start so hopefully ; and 
 where's the comfort to come fro' ? He'll get 
 angry and mad — they all do — and then they get 
 tired out wi' being angry and mad, and maybe 
 ha' done things in their passion they'd be glad 
 to forget. Bless yo'r sweet pitiful face ! but 
 yo dunnot know what a strike is yet." 
 
 " Come, Bessy," said Margaret, "I won't say 
 you're exaggerating, because I don't know 
 enough about it; but, perhaps, as you're not 
 well, you're only looking on one side, and there 
 is another and a brighter to be looked to." 
 
 " It's all well enough for yo to say so, who 
 have lived in pleasant green places all your 
 , life long, and never known want or care, or 
 wickedness either, for that ^natter." 
 
 " Take care," said Margaret, her cheek flush- 
 ing, and her eye lightening, " how you judge, 
 Bessy. I shall go home to my mother, who is 
 so ill — so ill, Bessy, that there's no outlet but 
 death for her out of the prison of her great 
 suffering ; and yet I must speak cheerfully to 
 my father, who has no notion of her real state, 
 and to whom the knowledge must come grad- 
 ually. The only person — the only one who 
 could sympathize with me and help me — whose 
 presence could comfort my mother more than 
 any other earthly thing — is falsely accused — 
 would run the risk" of death if he came to see 
 his dying mother. This I tell you — only you, 
 Bessy. You must not mention it. No other 
 person in Milton — hardly any other person in 
 England knows. Have I not care ! Do I not 
 know anxiety, though I go about well-dressed, 
 and have food enough ? Oh, Bessy, God is just, 
 and our lots are well portioned out by Him, 
 although none but He knows the bitterness of 
 our souls." 
 
 "I ask your pardon," replied Bessy, humbly. 
 " Sometimes, when I've thought o' my life, and 
 the little pleasure I've had in it, I've believed 
 that maybe I was one of those doomed to die 
 by the falling of a star from heaven : 'And the 
 name of the star is called wormwood ; and the 
 third part of the waters became wormwood ; 
 and men died of the waters, because they were 
 made bitter.' One can bear pain and sorrow 
 better if one thinks it has been prophesied long 
 before for one : somehow, then it seems as if my 
 pain was needed for the fulfillment ; otherways 
 it seems all sent for nothing." 
 
 "■ Nay, Bessy — think!" said Margaret. "God 
 does not willingly afiliet. Don't dwell so much 
 on the prophecies, but read the clearer parts 
 of the Bible." 
 
 " I dare say it would be wiser ; but where 
 would I hear such grand words of promise- 
 hear tell o' any thing so far different fro' this 
 dreary world, and this town above a', as in 
 Revelations ? Many's the time I have repeated 
 the verses in the seventh chapter to myself, 
 just for the sound. It's as good as an organ, 
 and as different from every day, too. No, I 
 can not give^up Revelations. It gives me more 
 comfort than any other book i' the Bible." 
 
 "Let me come and read you some of ray 
 favorite chapters." 
 
 " Ah," said she, greedily, " come. Father 
 will maybe hear yo. He's cleaved wi' my talk- 
 ing ; he says its all nought to do with the things 
 o' to-day, and that's his business." 
 
 " Where is your sister ?" 
 
 "Gone fustian-cutting. I were loath to let 
 her go ; but somehow we must live ; and th' 
 Union can't afford us much." 
 
 " Now I must go. You have done me good, 
 
 "I done you good!" 
 
 "Yes. I came here very sad, and rather too 
 apt to think my own cause for grief was the 
 only one in the world. And now I hear how 
 you have had to bear for years, and that makes 
 me stronger." 
 
 " Bless yo! I thought a' the good-doing was 
 on the side of gentlefolk. I shall get proud if 
 I think I can do good to yo." 
 
 " You won't do it if you think about it. But 
 you'll only puzzle yourself if you do, that's one 
 comfort." 
 
 " Yo're not like no one I ever seed. I dunno 
 what to make of yo." 
 
 " Nor I of myself. Good-by !" 
 
 Bessy stilled her rocking to gaze after her. 
 
 " I wonder if there are many folk like her 
 down South. She's like a breath of country 
 air, somehow. She freshens me up above a bit. 
 Who'd ha' thought that face — as bright and as 
 strong as the angel I dream of — could have 
 known the sorrow she speaks on. I wonder 
 how she'll sin. All on us muBt sin. I think a 
 deal on her, for sure. But father does the like, 
 I see. And Mary even. It's not often hoo's 
 stirred up to notice much." 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 On Margaret's return home she found two 
 letters on the table: one was a. note for her 
 mother, the other, which had come by the 
 post, was evidently from her Aunt Shaw — 
 covered with foreign post-marks — thin, silvery, 
 and rustling. She took up the other, and 
 was examining it, when her father came in 
 suddenly : 
 
 "So your mother is tired, and gone to bed 
 early! I'm afraid such a thundery day was 
 not the best in the world for the doctor to see 
 her. What did he say? Dixon tells me he 
 spoke to you about her." 
 
 Margaret hesitated. Her father's looks be- 
 came more grave and anxious: 
 
 " He does not think her seriously ill ?" 
 
 " Not, at present ; she needs care, he says ; he 
 was very kind, and said he would call again, 
 and see now his medicines worked." 
 
56 
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 "Only care — he did not recommend change 
 of air ? — he did not say this smoky town was 
 doing her any harm, did he, Margaret?" 
 
 "No! not a word," she replied, gravely. 
 "He was anxious, I think." 
 
 " Doctors have that anxious manner ; its pro- 
 fessional," said he. 
 
 Margaret saw, in her father's nervous ways, 
 that the first impression of possible danger was 
 made upon his mind, in spite of all his making 
 light of what she told him. He could not for- 
 get the subject — could not pass from it to other 
 things; he kept recurring to it through the 
 evening, with an unwillingness to receive even 
 the slightest unfavorable idea, which made 
 Margaret inexpressibly sad. 
 
 " This letter is from Aunt Shaw, papa. She 
 has got to Naples, and finds it too hot, so she 
 has taken apartments at Sorrento. But I don't 
 think she likes Italy." 
 
 "He did not say any thing about diet, did 
 he?" 
 
 "It was to be nourishing and digestible. 
 Mamma's appetite is pretty good, I think." 
 
 "Yes ! and that makes it all the more strange 
 he should have thought of speaking about diet." 
 
 "I asked him, papa." Anotherpause. Then 
 Margaret went on : "Aunt Shaw says she has 
 sent me some coral ornaments, papa; but," 
 added Margaret, half smiling, "she's afraid the 
 Milton Dissenters won't appreciate them. She 
 has got all her ideas of Dissenters from the 
 Quakers, has not she?" 
 
 " If ever you hear or notice that your 
 mother wishes for any thing, be sure you let 
 me know. I am so afraid she does not tell me 
 alwaj's what she would like. Pray, see after 
 that girl, Mrs. Thornton named. If we had a 
 good, efficient house-servant, Dixon could be 
 constantly with her, and I'd answer for it we'd 
 soon set her up among us, if care will do it. 
 She's been very much tired of late, with the 
 hot weather, and the difficulty of getting a 
 servant. A little rest will put her quite to 
 rights — eh, Margaret?" 
 
 " I hope so," said Margaret — but so sadly, 
 that her father took notice of it. ne pinched 
 her cheek. 
 
 " Come ; if you look so pale as this, I must 
 rouge you up a little. Take care of yourself, 
 child, or you'll be wanting the doctor next." 
 
 But he could not settle to any thing that 
 evening. He was continually going backward 
 and forward, on laborious tiptoe, to see if his 
 wife was still asleep. Margaret's heart ached 
 at his restlessness; his trying to stifle and 
 strangle the hideous fear that was looming 
 out of the dark places of his heart. 
 
 He came back at last, somewhat comforted. 
 
 "She's awake now, Margaret. She quite 
 smiled as she saw me standing by her. . Just 
 her old smile. And she says she feels refreshed, 
 and ready for tea. Where's the note for her ? 
 She wants to see it. I'll read it to her while 
 you make tea." 
 
 The note proved to be a formal invitation 
 from Mrs. Thornton, to Mr., Mrs., and Miss 
 Hale to dinner, on the twenty-first instant. 
 Margaret was surprised to find an acceptance 
 contemplated, after all she had learnt oLsad 
 probabilities during this day. But so it was. 
 The idea of her husband and daughter going to 
 
 this dinner had quite captivated Mrs. Hale's 
 fancy, even before Margaret had heard the con- 
 tents of the note. It was an event to diversify 
 the monotony of the invalid's life; and she 
 clung to the idea of their going with even fret- 
 ful pertinacity when Margaret objected. 
 
 "Nay, Margaret! if she wishes it, I'm sure 
 we'll both go willingly. She never would wish 
 it unless she felt herself really stronger — really 
 better than we thought she was, eh, Margaret?" 
 Baid Mr. Hale, anxiously, as Margaret prepared 
 to write the note of acceptance the next day. 
 
 " Eh ! Margaret ?" questioned he, with a 
 nervous motion of his hands. It seemed cruel 
 to refuse him the comfort that he craved for. 
 And besides, his passionate refusal to admit the 
 existence of fear, almost inspired Margaret her- 
 self with hope. 
 
 " I do think she is better since last night," 
 said she. "Her eyes look brighter, and her 
 complexion clearer." 
 
 " God bless you," said her father, earnestly. 
 "But is it true? Yesterday was so sultry 
 every one felt ill. It was a most unlucky day 
 for Mr. Donaldson to see her on." 
 
 So he went away to his day's duties, now in- 
 creased by the preparation of some lectures he 
 had promised to deliver to the working people 
 at a neighboring Lyceum. He had chosen Ec- 
 clesiastical Architecture as his subject, rather 
 more in accordance with his own taste and 
 knowledge than as falling in with the charac- 
 ter of the place or the desire for particular 
 kinds of information among those to whom he 
 was to lecture. And the institution itself, being 
 in debt, was only too glad to get a gratis course 
 from an educated and accomplished man like 
 Mr. Hale, let the subject be what it might. 
 
 "Well, mother," asked Mr. Thornton that 
 night, " who have accepted your invitations 
 for the twenty-first?" 
 
 "Fanny, where are the notes ? The Slicksons 
 accept, Collingbrooks accept, Stephenses accept, 
 Browns decline. Hales — father and daughter 
 come — mother too great an invalid — Macpher- 
 sons come, and Mr. Horsfall, and Mr. Young. 
 I was thinking of asking the Porters, as the 
 Browns can't come." 
 
 "Very good. Do you know, I am really 
 afraid Mrs. Hale is very far from well, from 
 what Mr. Donaldson says." 
 
 "It is strange of them to accept a dinner-in- 
 vitation if she's very ill," said Fanny. 
 
 "I did not say very ill," said her brother, 
 rather sharply. " I only said very far from 
 well. They may not know it either." And 
 then he suddenly remembered that, from what 
 Dr. Donaldson had told him, Margaret, at any 
 rate, must be awareof the exact state of the case. 
 
 " Very probably they are quite aware of 
 what you said yesterday, John — of the great 
 advantage it would be to them — to Mr. Hale, I 
 mean, to be introduced to 6uch people as the 
 Stephenses and the Collingbrooks." 
 
 "I am sure, that motive would not influence 
 them. No I I think I understand how it is." 
 
 "John!" said Fanny, laughing in her little, 
 weak, nervous way. "How you profess to 
 understand these Hales, and how you never 
 will allow that we can know any thing about 
 them. Are they really so very different to 
 most people one meets with ?" 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 57 
 
 She did not mean to vex him ; but if she had 
 intended it, she could not have done it more 
 thoroughly. He chafed in silence, however, 
 not deigning to reply to her question. 
 
 " They do not seem to me out of the com- 
 mon way," said Mrs. Thornton. " He appears 
 a worthy kind of man enough; rather too 
 simple for trade — so it's perhaps as well he 
 should have been a clergyman first, and now a 
 teacher. She's a bit of a fine lady with her 
 invalidism ; and as for the girl — she's the only 
 one who puzzles me when I think about her — 
 which I don't often do. She seems to have a 
 great notion of giving herself airs ; and I can't 
 make out why. I could almost fancy she 
 thinks herself too good for her company at 
 times. And yet they're not rich ; from all I 
 can hear they never have been." 
 
 "And she's not accomplished, mamma. She 
 can't play." 
 
 " Go on, Fanny. What else does sha want 
 to bring her up to your standard 8" 
 
 "Nay! John," said his mother, "that speech 
 of Fanny's did no harm. I myself heard Miss 
 Hale say she could not play. If you would let 
 us alone, we could perhaps like her, and see 
 her merits." 
 
 "I'm sure I never could!" murmured Fanny, 
 protected by her mother. Mr. Thornton heard, 
 but did not care to reply. He was walking 
 tip and down the dining-room, wishing that 
 his mother would order candles, and allow him 
 to set to work at either reading or writing, and 
 so put a stop to the conversation. But he 
 never thought of interfering in any of the 
 small domestic regulations that Mrs. Thornton 
 observed, in habitual remembrance of her old 
 economies. 
 
 "Mother," said he, stopping, and bravely 
 speaking out the truth, " I wish you would like 
 Miss Hale." 
 
 "Why?" asked she, startled by his earnest 
 yet tender manner. " You're never thinking 
 of marrying her ? — a girl without a penny." 
 
 " She would never have me," said he, with a 
 short laugh. 
 
 . " No, I don't think she would," answered his 
 mother. "She laughed in my face when I 
 praised her, for speaking out something Mr. 
 Bell had said in your favor. I liked the girl 
 for doing it so frankly, for it made me sure she 
 had no thought of you; and the next minute 
 she vexed me so by seeming to think — Well, 
 never mind ! Only you're right in saying she's 
 too good an opinion of herself to think of you. 
 The saucy jade ! I should like to know where 
 she'd find a better 1" 
 
 If these words hurt her son, the dusky light 
 prevented him from betraying any emotion. In 
 a minute he came up quite cheerfully to his 
 mother, and putting one hand lightly on her 
 shoulder, said : 
 
 "Well, as I'm just as much convinced of the 
 truth of what you have been saying as you can 
 be; and as I have no thought or expectation 
 of ever asking her to be my wife, you'll believe 
 me for the future that I'm quite disinterested 
 in speaking about her. I foresee trouble for 
 that girl — perhaps, want of motherly care — and 
 I only wish you to be ready to be a friend to 
 her in case she needs one. Now, Fanny," said 
 he, "I trust you have delicacy enough to un- 
 
 derstand that it is as great an injury to Miss 
 Hale as to me — in fact, she would think it a 
 greater — to suppose that I have any reason 
 more than I now give for begging you and 
 my mother to show her every kindly atten- 
 tion." 
 
 " I can not forgive her her pride/* said his 
 mother; " I will befriend her, if there is need, 
 for your asking, John. I would befriend 
 Jezebel herself if you asked me. But this girl, 
 who turns up her nose at us all — who turns up 
 her nose at you — " 
 
 " Nay, mother ; I have never yet put myself, 
 and I mean never to put myself, within reach 
 of her contempt." 
 
 " Contempt, indeed 1" — (One of Mrs. Thorn- 
 ton's expressive snorts.)— "Don't go on speak- 
 ing of Miss Hale, John, if I've to be kind to her. 
 When I'm with her, I don't know if I like or 
 dislike her most ; but when I think of her, and 
 hear you talk of her, I hate her. I can see she's 
 given herself airs to you as well as if you'd told 
 me out." 
 
 " And if she has," said he, and then he paused 
 for a moment; then went on: "I'm not a lad 
 to be cowed by a proud look from a woman, or 
 to care for her misunderstanding me, and my 
 position. I can laugh at it!" 
 
 "To be sure! and at her too, with her fine 
 notions, and haughty tosses I" 
 
 " I only wonder why you talk so much about 
 her, then," said Fanny. " I'm sure, I'm tired 
 enough of the subject." 
 
 " Well !" said her brother, with a shade of bit- 
 terness. "Suppose we find some more agree- 
 able subject. What do you say to a strike, by 
 way of something pleasant to talk about?" 
 
 " Have the hands actually turned out V asked 
 Mrs. Thornton, with vivid interest. 
 
 " Hamper's men are actually out. Mine are 
 working out their week, through fear of being 
 prosecuted for breach of contract. I would 
 have had every one of them up and punished 
 for it who left his work before his time was 
 out." 
 
 " The law expenses would have been more 
 than the hands themselves were worth — a set of 
 ungrateful naughts!" said his mother. 
 
 " To be sure. But I would have shown them 
 how I keep my word, and how I mean them to 
 keep theirs. They know me by this time. 
 Hickson's men are off — pretty certain he won't 
 spend money in getting them punished. We're 
 in for a turn-out, mother." 
 
 " I hope there are not many orders in hand ?" 
 
 " Of course there are. They know that well 
 enough. But they don't quite understand all, 
 though they think they do." ^ 
 
 " What do you mean, John?" 
 
 Candles had been brought, and Fanny had 
 taken up her interminable piece of worsted- 
 work, over which she was yawning; throwing 
 herself back in her chair from time to time to 
 gaze at vacancy, and think of nothing, at her 
 ease. 
 
 " Why," said he, " the Americans are getting 
 their yarns so into the general market, that our 
 only chance is producing them at a lower rate. 
 If we can't, we may shut up shop at once, and 
 hands and masters go alike*n tramp. Yet these 
 fools go back to the prices paid three years ago 
 — nay, some of their leaders quote Dobbinson's 
 
58 
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 prices now — though they know as well as we 
 do that, what with fines pressed out of their 
 wages as no honorable men would extort them, 
 and other ways which I for one would scorn to 
 use, the real rate of wage paid at Dohbinson's 
 is less than at ours. Upon my word, mother, 
 I wish the old combination-laws were in force. 
 It is too bad to find out that fools — ignorant, 
 wayward men like these — just by uniting their 
 weak silly heads, are to rule over the fortunes 
 of those who bring all the wisdom that knowl- 
 edge and experience, and often painful thought 
 and anxiety, can give. The next thing will be 
 — indeed we're all but come to it now — that we 
 shall have to go and ask — stand hat in hand — 
 and humbly ask the secretary of the Spinners' 
 Union to be so kind as to furnish us with labor 
 at their own price. That's what they want — 
 they, who have not the sense to see that, if we 
 don't get a fair share of the profits to compen- 
 sate us for our wear and tear here in England, 
 we can move off to some other country ; and 
 that, what with home and foreign competition, 
 we are none of us likely to make above a fair 
 share, and may be thankful enough if we can 
 get that in an average number of years." 
 
 "Can't you get hands from Ireland? I 
 wouldn't keep these fellows a day. I'd teach 
 them that I was master, and could employ what 
 servants I liked." 
 
 "Yes! to be sure I can; and I will, too, if 
 they go on long. It will be trouble and expense, 
 and I fear there will be some danger ; but I will 
 do it, rather than give in." 
 
 " If there is to be all this extra expense, I'm 
 sorry we're giving a dinner just now." 
 
 " So am I- — not because of the expense, but 
 because I shall have much to think about, and 
 many unexpected calls on my time. But we 
 must have had Mr. Horsfall, and he does not 
 stay in Milton long. And as for the others, we 
 owe them dinners, and its all one trouble." 
 
 He kept on with his restless walk, not speak- 
 ing any more, but drawing a deep breath from 
 time to time, as if endeavoring to throw off 
 some annoying thought. Fanny asked her 
 mother numerous small questions, all having 
 nothing to do with the subject which a wiser 
 person would have perceived was occupying 
 her attention. Consequently, she received many 
 short answers. She was not sorry when, at ten 
 o'clock, the servants filed in to prayers. These 
 her mother always read — first reading a chap- 
 ter. They were now working steadily through 
 the Old Testament. "When prayers were ended, 
 and his mother had wished him good-night, 
 with that long steady look of hers which con- 
 veyed no expression of the tenderness that was 
 in her heart, but yet had the intensity of a 
 blessing, Mr. Thornton continued his walk. All 
 his business plans had received a check, a Bud- 
 den pull-up, from this approaching turn-out. 
 The forethought of many anxious hours was 
 thrown away, utterly wasted by their insane 
 folly, which would injure themselves even more 
 than him, though no one could set any limit to 
 the mischief they were doing. And these were 
 the men who thought themselves fitted to direct 
 the masters in the disposal of their capital! 
 Hamper had said, only this very day, that if he 
 were ruined by the strike, he would start life 
 again, comforted by the conviction that those 
 
 who brought it on were in a worse predicament 
 than he himself — for he had head as well as 
 hands, while they had only hands ; and if they 
 drove away their market, they could not fol- 
 low it, nor turn to any thing else. But this 
 thought was no consolation to Mr. Thornton. 
 It might be that revenge gave him no pleasure ; 
 it might be that he valued the position he had 
 earned with the sweat of his brow, so much ; 
 that he keenly felt its being endangered by the 
 ignorance or folly of others — so keenly that he 
 had no thoughts to spare for what would be 
 the eonsequenees of their conduct to themselves. 
 He paced up and down, setting his teeth a little 
 now and then. At last it struck two. The 
 candles were flickering in their sockets. He 
 lighted his own, muttering to himself, 
 
 " Once for all, they shall know whom they 
 have got to deal with. I can give them a fort- 
 night—no more. If they don't see their mad- 
 ness before the end of that time, I must have 
 hands from Ireland. I believe it's Sliekson's 
 doing — confound him and his dodges! He 
 thought he was overstocked ; so he seemed to 
 yield at first, when the deputation came to him 
 — and, of course, he only confirmed them in 
 their foil}', as he meant to do. That's where it 
 spread from." 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 Mas. Hale was curiously amused and inter- 
 ested by the idea of the Thornton dinner party. 
 She kept wondering about the details, with 
 something of the simplicity of a little child, who 
 wants to have all its anticipated pleasures de- 
 scribed beforehand. But the monotonous life 
 led by invalids often makes them like children, , 
 inasmuch as they have neither of them any sense; 
 of proportion in events, and seem each to be-! 
 lieve that the walls and curtains which shut in 
 their world, and shut out every thing else, must, 
 of necessity be larger than any thing hidden 
 beyond. Besides, Mrs. Hale had had her vani- 
 ties as a girl ; had perhaps unduly felt their 
 mortification when she became a poor clergy- 
 man's wife — they had been smothered and kept 
 down ; but they were not extinct ; and she liked 
 to think of seeing Margaret dressed for a party, 
 and discussed what she should wear with an 
 unsettled anxiety that amused Margaret, who 
 had been more accustomed to society in her one 
 j'ear in Harley Street than her mother in five- 
 and-twenty years of Helstone. 
 
 " Then you think yon shall wear your white 
 silk. Are you sure it will fit? It's nearly a 
 year since Edith was married !" 
 
 " O yes, mamma ! Mrs. Murray made it, and 
 it's sure to be right ; it may be a straw's breadth 
 shorter or longer-waisted, according to my hav- 
 ing grown fat or thin. But I don't think I've 
 altered in the least." 
 
 " Hadn't you better let Dixon see it ? It may 
 have gone yellow with lying by." 
 
 "If you like, mamma. But if the worst 
 comes to the worst, I've a very nice pink gauze 
 which Aunt Shaw gave me, only two or three 
 months before Edith was married. That can't 
 have gone yellow." 
 
 " No! but it may have faded." 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 59 
 
 "■Well! then I've a green silk. I feel more 
 as if it was the embarrassment of riches." 
 
 " I wish I knew what you ought to wear," 
 said Mrs. Hale, nervously. 
 
 Margaret's manner changed instantly. " Shall 
 I go and put them on one after another, mam- 
 ma, and then you could see which you liked 
 best?" 
 
 " But — yes! perhaps that will be best." 
 
 So off Margaret went. She was very much 
 inclined to play some pranks when she was 
 dressed up at such an unusual hour ; to make 
 her rich white silk balloon out into a cheese, 
 to retreat backward from her mother as if she 
 were the queen ; but when she found that these 
 freaks of hers were regarded as interruptions to 
 the serious business, and as such annoyed her 
 mother, she became grave and sedate. What 
 had possessed the world (her world) to fidget 
 so about her dress she could not understand; 
 but that very afternoon, on naming her engage- 
 ment to Bessy Higgins (apropos of the servant 
 that Mrs. Thornton had promised to inquire 
 about), Bessy quite roused up at the intelligence. 
 
 " Dear ! and are you going to dine at Thorn- 
 ton's at Marlborough Mills?" 
 
 " Yes, Bessy. Why are you so surprised?" 
 
 " Oh, I dunno. But they visit wi' a' the first 
 folk in Milton." 
 
 " And you don't think we're quite the first 
 folk in Milton, eh, Bessy?" 
 
 Bessy's cheeks flushed a little at her thought 
 being thus easily read. 
 
 "Well," said she, "yo see, they thinken a 
 deal o' money here ; and I reckon yo've not 
 getten much." 
 
 " No," said Margaret, " that's very true. But 
 we are educated people, and have lived among 
 educated people. Is there any thing so won- 
 derful in our being asked out to dinner by a 
 man who owns himself inferior to my father by 
 coming to him to be instructed ? I don't mean 
 to blame Mr. Thornton. Few drapers' assist- 
 ants, as he was onee, could have made them- 
 selves what he is." 
 
 " But can yo give dinners back, in yo're 
 small house. Thornton's house is three times 
 as big." 
 
 " Well, I think we could manage to give Mr. 
 Thornton a dinner back, as you call it. Per- 
 haps not in such a large room, nor with so 
 many people. But I don't think we've thought 
 about it at all in that way." 
 
 " I never thought yo'd be dining with Thorn- 
 tons," repeated Bessy. " Why, the mayor his- 
 sel' dines there ; and the members of Parliament 
 and all." 
 
 " I think I could support the honor of meet- 
 ing the mayor of Milton." 
 
 "But them ladies dress so grand!" said Bes- 
 sy, with an anxious look at Margaret's print 
 gown, which her Milton eyes appraised at seven 
 pence a yard. 
 
 Margaret's face dimpled up into a merry 
 laugh. " Thank you, Bessy, for thinking so 
 kindly about my looking nice among all the 
 smart people. But I've plenty of grand gowns 
 — a week ago I should have said they were far 
 too grand for any thing I should ever want 
 again. But as I'm to dine at Mr. Thornton's, 
 and perhaps to meet the mayor, I shall put on 
 my very best gown, you may be sure." 
 
 "What win yo wear?" asked Bessy, some- 
 what relieved. 
 
 "White silk!" said Margaret. "A gown I 
 had for a cousin's wedding, a year ago." 
 
 " That'll do!" said Bessy, falling back in her 
 chair. " I should be loth to have yo looked 
 down upon." 
 
 " Oh ! I'll be fine enough, if that will save me 
 from being looked down upon in Milton." 
 
 " I wish I could see you dressed up," said 
 Bessy. " I reckon yo're not what folk would 
 ca' pretty ; yo've not red and white enough for 
 that. But dun yo know, I ha' dreamt of yo, 
 long afore ever I seed you." 
 
 " Nonsense, Bessy I" 
 
 "Ay, but I did. Yo'r very face — looking 
 wi' yo'r clear steadfast eyes out o' th' darkness, 
 wi' yo'r hair blown off from yo'r brow, and 
 going out like rays round yo'r forehead, which 
 was just as smooth and as straight as it is now 
 — and yo always came to give me strength, 
 which I seemed to gather out o' yo'r deep com- 
 forting eyes — and yo were drest in shining rai- 
 ment — just as yo'r going to be drest. So, yo 
 see, it was yo!" 
 
 " Nay, Bessy," said Margaret gently, " it was 
 but a dream." 
 
 " And why might na I dream a dream in my 
 afflietion as well as others. Did not many a 
 one i' the Bible? Ay, and see visions too! 
 Why, even my father thinks a deal o' dreams! 
 I tell yo again, I saw yo as plainly, coming 
 swiftly toward me, wi' yo'r hair blown back 
 wi' the very swiftness o' the motion, just like 
 the way it grows, a little standing off like ; and 
 the white shining dress on yo've getten to wear. 
 Let me come and see yo in it. I want to see 
 yo and touch yo as in very deed yo were in my 
 dream." 
 
 " My dear Bessy, it is quite a fancy of yours." 
 
 " Fancy or no fancy — yo've come, as I knew 
 yo would, when I saw yo'r movement in my 
 dream — and when yo're here about me, I reck- 
 on I feel easier in my mind, and comforted, just 
 as a fire comforts one on a dree day. Yo said 
 it were on th' twenty-first ; please God I'll come 
 and see yo." 
 
 " Oh Bessy ! you may come and welcome ; 
 but don't talk so — it really makeB me sorry. It 
 does indeed." 
 
 " Then I'll keep it to mysel', if I bite my 
 tongue out. Not but what it's true for all 
 that." 
 
 Margaret was silent. At last she said, 
 
 " Let us talk about it sometimes, if you think 
 it true. But not now. Tell me, has your fa- 
 ther turned out ?" 
 
 " Ay 1" said Bessy, heavily — in a manner very 
 different from that she had spoken in, but a 
 minute or two before. " He and many another 
 — all Hamper's men — and many a one besides. 
 Th' women are as bad as th' men in their sav- 
 ageness, this time. Food is high — and they 
 mun have food for their childer, I reckon. Sup- 
 pose Thorntons sent 'em their dinner out — th' 
 same money spent on potatoes and meal would 
 keep many a crying babby quiet, and hush up its 
 mother's heart for a bit!" 
 
 "Don't speak so!" said Margaret. "You'll 
 make me feel wicked and guilty in going to this 
 dinner." 
 
 " No I" said Bessy. " Some's pre-eleoted to 
 
60 
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 sumptuous feasts, and purple and fine linen — 
 maybe yo're one on 'em. Others toil and moil 
 all then - lives long — and the very dogs are not 
 pitiful in our days, as they were in the days of 
 Lazarus. But if yo ask me to cool yo'r tongue 
 wi' th' tip of my finger, I'll come across the 
 great gulf to yo' just for th' thought o' what 
 yo've been to me here." 
 
 "Bessy I you're very feverish! I can tell it 
 in the touch of your hand, as well as in what 
 you're saying. It won't be division enough in 
 that awful day that some of us have been beg- 
 gars here, and some of us have been rich — we 
 6hall not be judged by that poor accident, but 
 by our faithful following of Christ." 
 
 Margaret got up, and found some water: and 
 soaking her pocket handkerchief in it, she laid 
 the cool wetness on Bessy's forehead, and began 
 to chafe the stone-cold feet. Bessy shut her 
 eyes, and allowed herself to be soothed. At 
 last she said, 
 
 " Yo'd ha' been deaved out o' your five wits, 
 as well as me, if yo'd had one body after another 
 coming in to ask for father, and staying to tell 
 me each one their tale. Some spoke o' deadly 
 hatred, and made my blood run cold wi' the 
 terrible things they said o' th' masters — but 
 more, being women, kept plaining, plaining (wi' 
 the tears running down their cheeks, and never 
 wiped away nor heeded), of the price o' meat, 
 and how their childer could na sleep at nights 
 for th' hunger." 
 
 " And do they think the strike will mend 
 this?" asked Margaret. 
 
 " They say so," replied Bessy. "They do say 
 trade has been good for long, and the masters 
 has made no end o' money; how much father 
 doesn't know, but in course th' Union does' 
 and, as is natural, they want their share o' th 
 profits, now that food is getting dear ; and th' 
 Union says they'll not be doing their duty if 
 they don't make the masters give 'em their 
 share. But masters has getten th' upper hand 
 somehow; and I'm feared they'll keep it now 
 and ever more. It's like th' great battle o' Ar- 
 mageddon, the way they keep on, grinning and 
 fighting at each other, til] even while they fight, 
 they are picked off into the pit." , 
 
 Just then, Nicholas Higgins came in. He 
 caught his daughter's last words. 
 
 " Ay I and I'll fight on too ; and I'll get it this 
 time. It will not take long for to make 'em 
 give in, for they've getten a pretty lot of orders, 
 all under contract; and they'll soon find out 
 they'd better give us our five per cent., than 
 lose the profit they'll gain ; let alone the fine 
 for not fulfilling the contract. Aha, my mas- 
 ters I I know who'll win." 
 
 Margaret fancied from his manner that he 
 must have been drinking, not so much from 
 what he said, as from the excited way in which 
 he spoke ; and she was rather confirmed in this 
 idea by the evident anxiety Bessy showed to 
 hasten her departure. Bessy said to her— 
 
 "The twenty-firsts— that's Thursday week. I 
 may come and see yo dressed for Thornton's, I 
 reckon. "What time is yo'r dinner?" 
 
 Before Margaret could answer, Higgins broke 
 out, 
 
 " Thornton's! Ar" t' going to dine at Thorn- 
 ton's ? Ask him to give yo a bumper to the 
 success of his orders. By th' twenty-first> I 
 
 reckon, he'll be pottered in his brains how to 
 get them done in time. Tell him there's seven 
 hundred '11 come marching into Marlborough 
 Mills the morning after he gives the five per 
 cent., and will help him through his contract 
 in no time. You'll have 'em all there. My 
 master, Hamper. He's one o' th' oud-fashioned 
 sort. Ne'er meets a man bout an oath or a 
 curse; I should think he were going to die if 
 he spoke me civil ; but arter all, his bark's waur. 
 than his bite, and yo may tell him one o' his 
 turn-outs said so, if you like. Eh ! but yo'll 
 have a lot of prize millowners at Thornton's! 
 I should like to get speech o' them when they're 
 a bit inclined to sit still, after dinner, and could 
 na run for th' life on 'em. I'd tell 'em my mind. 
 I'd speak up again the hard way they're driv- 
 ing on us?" 
 
 " Good-by !" said Margaret, hastily. " Good- 
 by, Bessy! I shall look to see you on the 
 twenty-first, if you're well enough." 
 
 The medicines and treatment which Dr. Don- 
 aldson had ordered for Mrs. Hale did her so 
 much good at first that not only she herself, 
 but Margaret, began to hope that he might have 
 been mistaken, and that she could recover per- 
 manently. As for Mr. Hale, although he had 
 never had an idea of the serious nature of their 
 apprehensions, he triumphed over their fears 
 with an evident relief, which proved how much 
 his glimpse into the nature of them had affected 
 him. Only Dixon croaked forever into Marga- 
 ret's ear. However, Margaret defied the raven, 
 and would hope. 
 
 They needed this gleam of brightness in-doors, 
 for out-of-doors, even to their uninstructed eyes, 
 there was a gloomy, brooding appearance of 
 discontent. Mr. Hale had his own acquaint- 
 ances among the working-men, and was de- 
 pressed with their earnestly-told tales of suffer- 
 ing and long-endurance. They would have 
 scorned to speak of what they had to bear to 
 anyone who might, from his position, have un- 
 derstood it without their words. But here was 
 this man, from a distant county, who was per- 
 plexed by the workings of the system he was 
 thrown among, and each was eager to make 
 him a judge, and to bring witness of his own 
 causes for irritation. Then Mr. Hale brought 
 all his budget of grievances, and laid it before 
 Mr. Thornton, for him, with his experience as a 
 master, to arrange them, and explain their ori- 
 gin ; which he always did, on sound economical 
 principles, showing that as trade was conducted 
 there must always be a waxing and waning of 
 commercial prosperity ; and that in the waning 
 a certain number of masters, as well as of men, 
 must go down into ruin, and be no more seen 
 among the ranks of the happy and prosperous. 
 He spoke as if this consequence were so entirely 
 logical, that neither employers nor employed 
 had any right to complain if it became their 
 fate: the employer to turn aside from the race 
 he could no longer run, with a bitter sense of 
 incompetency and failure — wounded in the 
 struggle — trampled down by his fellows in their 
 haste to get rich — slighted where he once was 
 honored — humbly asking for instead of bestow- 
 ing employment with a lordl3' hand. Of course, 
 speaking so of the fate that, as a master, might 
 be his own in the fluctuations of commerce, he 
 was not likely to have more sympathy with 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 61 
 
 that of the workmen, who were passed by in 
 the swift merciless improvement or alteration ; 
 who would fain lie down and quietly die out 
 of the world that needed them not, but felt as 
 if they eould never rest in their graves for the 
 clinging cries of the beloved and helpless they 
 would leave behind ; who envied the power of 
 the wild bird, that can feed her young with her 
 very heart's blood. Margaret's whole soul rose 
 up against him as he reasoned in this way — as 
 if commerce were every thing, and humanity 
 nothing. She could hardly thank him for the 
 individual kindness which brought him that 
 very evening to offer her — for the delicacy 
 which made him understand that he must offer 
 her privately — every convenience for illness 
 that his own wealth or his mother's foresight 
 had caused them to accumulate in their house- 
 hold, and which, as he learnt from Dr. Donald- 
 son, Mrs. Hale might possibly require. His 
 presence, after the way he had spoken — his 
 bringing before her the doom which she was 
 vainly trying to persuade herself might yet be 
 averted from her mother — all conspired to set 
 Margaret's teeth on edge as she looked at him, 
 and listened to him. What business had he to 
 be the only person, except Dr. Ddnaldson and 
 Dixon, admitted to the awful secret which she 
 held shut up in the most dark and saered recess. 
 of her heart — not daring to look at it, unless 
 she invoked heavenly strength to bear the sight 
 —that some day soon she should cry aloud for 
 her mother, and no answer would come out of 
 the blank, dumb darkness? Yet he knew all. 
 She saw it in his pitying eyes. She heard it in 
 his grave and tremulous voice. How reconcile 
 those eyes, that voice, with the hard, reasoning, 
 dry, merciless way in which he laid down axioms 
 l of trade, and serenely followed them out to their 
 i_ full consequences ? The discord jarred upon her 
 inexpressibly. The more because of the gather- 
 ing woe of which she heard from Bessy. To be 
 sure, Nicholas Higgins, the father, spoke differ- 
 ently. He had been appointed a committee- 
 man, and said that he knew secrets of which the 
 exoteric knew nothing. He said this more ex- 
 pressly and particularly on the very day before 
 Mrs. Thornton's dinner party, when Margaret, 
 going in to speak to Bessy, found him arguing the 
 
 Eoint with Boucher, the neighbor of whom she 
 ad frequently heard mention, as by turns excit- 
 ing Higgins's compassion as an unskillful work- 
 man with a large family depending upon him for 
 support, and at other times enraging his more 
 energetic and sanguine neighbor by his want of 
 what the latter called spirits. It was very evi- 
 dent that Higgins was in a passion when Marga- 
 ret entered. Boucher stood with both hands on 
 the rather high mantle-piece, swaying himself a 
 little on the support his arms, thus placed, gave 
 him, and looking wildly into the fire, with a 
 kind of despair that irritated Higgins, even 
 while it went to his heart. Bessy was rock- 
 ing herself violently backward and forward as 
 was her wont (Margaret knew by this time), 
 when she was agitated. Her sister Mary was 
 tying on her bonnet (in great clumsy bows, as 
 suited her great clumsy fingers), to go to her 
 fustian-cutting, blubbering out loud the while, 
 and evidently longing to be away from a scene 
 that distressed her. 
 
 Margaret came in upon this scene. She 
 
 stood for a moment at the door — then, her 
 finger on her lips, she stole to a seat on the 
 squab near Bessy. Nieholas saw her come in, 
 and greeted her with a gruff but not unfriendly 
 nod. Mary hurried out of the house, catching 
 gladly at the open door, and crying out aloud 
 when she got away from her father's pres- 
 ence. It was only John Boucher that took no 
 notice whatever who came in and who went 
 out. 
 
 " It's no use, Higgins. Hoo can not live long 
 a' this'h. Hoo's just sinking away — not for 
 want o' meat hersel' — but because hoo can not 
 stand th' sight o' the little ones clemming. 
 Ay, clemming I Five shilling a week may do 
 well enough for thee, wi' but two mouths to 
 fill, and one on 'em a wench who can welly 
 earn her own meat. But it's clemming to us. 
 An' I tell thee plain — if hoo dies, as I'm 'feared 
 hoo will afore we've getten th' five per cent, 
 I'll fling th' money back i' th' masters' face, 
 and say, ' Be domned to yo ; be domned to th' 
 whole cruel world o' yo ; that could na leave 
 me the best wife that ever bore childer to a 
 imanl' An' look thee, lad, I'll hate thee, and 
 th' whole pack o' th' Union. Ay, an' chase yo 
 through heaven wi' my hatred — I will, lad 1 I 
 , will — if yo're leading me astray i' this matter. 
 Thou saidst, Nicholas, on "Wednesday sennight 
 — and it's now Tuesday, i' th' second week — • 
 that afore a fortnight we'd ha' the masters 
 coming a-begging to us to take back our work, 
 at our own wage — and time's nearly up — and 
 there's our lile Jack lying a-bed, too weak to 
 cry, but just every now and then sobbing up 
 his heart for want o' food — our lile Jack, I tell, 
 thee, lad ! Hoo's never looked up sin' he were 
 born, and hoo loves him as if he were her very- 
 life — as he is — for I reckon he'll ha' cost me 
 that precious price — our lile Jack, who waken- 
 ed me each morn wi' putting his sweet little 
 lips to my great rough fou' face, a-seeking a 
 smooth place to kiss — an' he lies clemming." 
 Here the deep sobs choked the poor man, and 
 Nicholas looked up, with eyes brimful of tears 
 to Margaret, before he could gain courage to 
 
 Hou'd up, man. Thy lile Jack shall na' 
 clem. I ha' got brass, and we'll go buy the 
 chap a sup o' milk an' a good four-pounderthis 
 very minute. What's mine's thine, sure enough, 
 i' thou'st i' want. Only, dunnot lose heart, 
 man 1" continued he, as he fumbled in a. tear 
 pot for what money he had. "I lay yo my 
 heart and soul we'll win for a' this : it's bjit 
 bearing on one more week, and yo just 6ee 
 th' way th' masters will come round, praying 
 on us to come back to our mills. An' th' Union 
 — that's to say, I — will take care yo've enough 
 for th' childer and the missus. So dunnot turn 
 faint-heart, and go to th' tyrants arseeking 
 work." 
 
 The man turned round at theBe words — turn- 
 ed round a face so white, and gaunt, and tear- 
 furrowed, and hopeless, that, its very calm 
 forced Margaret to weep. 
 
 " Yo know well that a worser tyrant than 
 e'er th' masters were says, ' Clem to death, and 
 see 'em a' clem to death, ere yo dare go again 
 th' Union.' Yo know it well, Nicholas, for a' 
 yo're one on 'em. You may be kind hearts/, 
 each separate ; but once banded together, yo've J 
 
62 
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 no more pity for a man than a wild hunger- 
 maddened wolf." 
 
 Nicholas had his hand on the look of the 
 <3oor — he stopped, and turned round on Boucher, 
 close following : 
 
 " So help me God I man alive — if I think not 
 I'm doing t>est for thee, and for all on us. If 
 I'm going wrong where I think I'm going right, 
 it's their sin who ha' left me where I am, in my 
 ignorance. I ha' thought till my brains aehed 
 — Beli' me, John, I have. An' I say again, 
 there's no help for us but having faith i' th' 
 Union. They'll win the day, see if they dun- 
 not!" 
 
 Not one word had Margaret or Bessy spoken. 
 They had hardly uttered the sighing that the 
 eyes of each called to the other to bring up 
 from the depths of her heart. At last Bessy 
 said — 
 
 " I never thought to hear father call on God 
 again. But you heard him say 'So help me 
 God!'" 
 
 " Yes !" said Margaret. " Let me bring you 
 what money I can spare — let me bring you a 
 little food for that poor man's children. Don't 
 let them know it comes from any one but your 
 father. It will be but little." 
 
 Bessy lay back without taking any notice 
 of what Margaret said. She did not cry — she 
 only quivered up her breath. 
 
 " My heart's drained dry o' tears,'' she said. 
 "Boucher's been in, these days past, telling me 
 of his fears and his troubles. He's but a weak 
 kind o' chap, I know, but he's a man for a' 
 that; and tho' I have been angry many a time 
 afore now wi' him an' his wife, as knew no 
 more nor him how to manage, yet, yo see, all 
 folk is not wise, yet God lets 'em live — ay, an' 
 gives 'em some one to love, and be loved by, 
 just as good as Solomon. An', if sorrow comes 
 to them they love, it hurts 'em as sore as e'er it 
 did Solomon. I can't make it out. Perhaps 
 it's as well such a one as Boucher has th' Union 
 to see after him. But I'd just like for to see th.' 
 men as make th' Union, and put 'em one by 
 one face to face wi' Boucher. I reckon if they 
 heard him they'd tell him (if I eotched 'em one 
 by one), he might go back and get what he 
 could for his work, even if it weren't so much 
 as they ordered." , 
 
 Margaret sat utterly silent How was she 
 ever to go away into comfort and forget that 
 man's voice, with the tone of unutterable agony 
 telling more by far than his words, of what he 
 had to suffer ? She took out her purse ; she 
 had not much in it of what she could call her 
 own, but what she had she put into Bessy's 
 hand without speaking. 
 
 " Thank yo. There's many on 'em gets no 
 more, and is not so bad off — least ways does 
 not show it as lie does. But father won't let 
 'em want, now he knows ; yo see, Boucher's 
 been pulled down wi' his childer — and her be- 
 ing so cranky, and a' they could pawn has gone 
 this last twelvemonth. To're not to think 
 we'd ha' letten 'em clem, for all we're a bit 
 pressed oursel' ; if neighbors does not see after 
 neighbors, I dunno who will." Bessy seemed 
 almost afraid lest Margaret should think they 
 had not the will, and, to a certain degree, the 
 power of helping one whom she evidently re- 
 garded as having a claim upon them. "Be- 
 
 sides," she went on, " father is sure and positive 
 the masters must give in within these next few 
 days — that they canna hould on much longer. 
 But I thank you all the same — I thank you for 
 mysel', as much as for Boucher, for it just 
 makes my heart warm to yo more and more." 
 
 Bessy 6eemed much quieter to-day, but fear- 
 fully languid and exhausted. As she finished 
 speaking, she looked so faint and weary that 
 Margaret became alarmed. 
 
 "It's nout," said Bessy. " It's not death yet. 
 I had a fearfu' night wi dreams — or 6omewhat 
 like dreams, for I were wide awake — and I'm 
 all in a swounding daze to day— only yon poor 
 chap made me alive again. No ! it's not death 
 yet, but death is not far off. Ay. Cover me 
 up, and I'll may be sleep if th' cough will let 
 me. Good-night — good afternoon, m'appen I 
 should say — but th' light is dim an' misty to- 
 day." 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 Margaret went home so painfully occupied 
 with what she had heard and seen that she 
 hardly knew how to rouse herself up to the 
 duties which awaited her; the necessity for 
 keeping up a constant flow of cheerful conver- 
 sation for her mother, who, now that she was 
 unable to go out, always looked to Margaret's 
 return from the shortest walk as bringing in 
 some news. 
 
 "And can your factory friend come on 
 Thursday to see you dressed ?" 
 
 "She was so ill I never thought of asking 
 her," said Margaret, dolefully. 
 
 "Dear! Every body is ill now, I think," 
 said Mrs. Hale, with a little of the jealousy 
 which one invalid is apt to feel of another. , 
 "But it must be very sad to be ill in one of 
 those little back streets." (Her kindly nature 
 prevailing, and the old Helstone habits of 
 thought returning.) " It's bad enough here. 
 What could you do for her, Margaret? Mr. 
 Thornton has sent me some of his old port 
 wine since you went out. Would a bottle of 
 that do her good, think you ?" 
 
 "No, mamma! I don't believe they are 
 very poor — at least, they don't speak as if 
 they were; and, at any rate, Bessy's illness is 
 consumption — she won't want wine. Perhaps 
 I might take her a little preserve, made of our 
 dear Helstone fruit. No ! there's another family 
 to whom I should like to give — Oh, mamma, 
 mamma I how am I to dress up in my finery, 
 and go off and away to smart parties, after the 
 sorrow I have seen to day?" exclaimed Mar- 
 garet, bursting the bounds she had preordained 
 for herself before she came in, and telling her 
 mother what she had seen and heard at Hig- 
 gins's cottage. 
 
 It distressed Mrs. Hale excessively. It made 
 her restlessly irritated till she could do some- 
 thing. She directed Margaret to pack up a 
 basket in the very drawing-room, to be sent 
 there and then to the family ; and was almost 
 angry with her for saying that it would not 
 signify if it did not go till morning, as she knew 
 Higgins had provided for their immediate 
 wants, and she herself had left money witli 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 63 
 
 Bessy. Mrs. Hale called her unfeeling for say- 
 ing this; and never gave herself breathing- 
 time till the basket was sent out of the house. 
 Then she said : 
 
 "After all, we may have been doing wrong. 
 It was only the last time Mr. Thornton was 
 here that he said, those were no true friends 
 who helped to prolong the struggle by assisting 
 the turn-outs. And this Boucher-man was a 
 turn-out, was he not?" 
 
 The question was referred to Mr. Hale by 
 his wife when he came up -stairs, fresh from 
 giving a lesson to Mr. Thornton, which had 
 ended in conversation, as was their wont. 
 Margaret did not care if their gifts had pro- 
 longed the strike ; she did not think far enough 
 for that in her present excited state. 
 
 Mr. Hale listened, and tried to be as calm as 
 a judge ; he recalled all that had seemed so 
 clear not half-an-hour before, as it came out of 
 Mr. Thornton's lips ; and then he made an un- 
 satisfactory compromise. His wife and daughter 
 had not only done quite right in this instance, 
 but he did not see for a moment how they 
 could have done otherwise. Nevertheless, as a 
 general rule, it was very true what Mr. Thorn- 
 ton said, that as the strike, if prolonged, must 
 end in the masters' bringing hands from a dis- 
 tance (if, indeed, the final result were not, as it 
 had often been before, the invention of some 
 machine which would diminish the need of 
 hands at all), why it was clear enough that the 
 kindest thing was to refuse all help which might 
 bolster them up in their folly. But, as to this 
 Boucher, he would go and see him the first 
 thing in the morning, and try and find out 
 what could be done for him. 
 
 Mr. Hale went the next morning, as he pro- 
 
 Eosed. He did not find Boucher at home, but 
 e had a long talk with his wife; propised to 
 ask for an Infirmary order for her ; and, seeing 
 the plenty provided by Mrs. Hale, and some- 
 what lavishly used by the children, who were 
 masters down-stairs in their father's absence, 
 he came back with a more consoling and cheer- 
 ful account than Margaret had dared to hope 
 for ; indeed, what she had said the night before 
 had prepared her father for so much worse a 
 state of things that, by a re-action of his im- 
 agination, he described all as better than it 
 really was. 
 
 " But I will go again, and see the man him- 
 self," said Mr. Hale. "I hardly know as yet 
 how to compare one of these houses with our 
 Helstone cottages, I see furniture here which 
 our laborers would never have thought of buy- 
 . ing, and food commonly used which they 
 ' would consider luxuries; yet for these very 
 families there seems no other resource, now 
 that their weekly wages are stopped, but the 
 pawn-shop. One had need to learn a different 
 ^language, and measure by a different standard, 
 up here in Milton." 
 
 Bessy, too, was rather better this day. Still 
 she was so weak that she seemed to have en- 
 tirely forgotten her wish to see Margaret dress- 
 ed — if, indeed, that had not been the feverish 
 desire of a half-delirious state. 
 
 Margaret could not help comparing this 
 strange dressing of hers to go where she did 
 not care to be — her heart heavy with various 
 anxieties — with the old, merry, girlish toilet's 
 
 that she and Edith had performed scarcely 
 more than a year ago. Her only pleasure now 
 in decking herself out was in thinking that her 
 mother would take delight in seeing her dress- 
 ed. She blushed when Dixon, throwing the 
 drawing-room door open, made an appeal for 
 admiration. 
 
 " Miss Hale looks well, ma'am — does not she ? 
 Mrs. Shaw's coral could not have come in better. 
 It just gives the right touch of color, ma'am. 
 Otherwise, Miss Margaret, you would have 
 been too pale." 
 
 Margaret's black hair was too thick to be 
 plaited ; it needed rather to be twisted round 
 and round, and have its fine silkiness compress- 
 ed into massive coils, that encircled her head 
 like a crown, and then were gathered into a 
 large spiral knot behind. She kept its weight 
 together by two large coral pins, like small 
 arrows for length. Her white silk sleeves 
 were looped up with strings of the same ma- 
 terial, and on her neck, just below the base of 
 her curved and milk-white throat, there lay 
 heavy coral beads. 
 
 " Oh, Margaret I how I should like to be 
 going with you to one of the old Barrington 
 assemblies — taking you as Lady Beresford used 
 to take me." 
 
 Margaret kissed her mother for this little 
 burst of maternal vanity ; but she could hardly 
 smile at it, she felt so much out of spirits. 
 
 "I would rather stay at home with you — 
 much rather, mamma." 
 
 "Nonsense, darling I Be sure you notice the 
 dinner well. I shall like to hear how they 
 manage these things in Milton. Particularly 
 the second course, dear. Look what they have 
 instead of game." 
 
 Mrs. Hale would have been more than in- 
 terested — she would have been astonished, if 
 she had seen the sumptuousness of the dinner- 
 table and its appointments. Margaret, with 
 her London-cultivated taste, felt the number 
 of delicacies to be oppressive ; one half of the 
 quantity would have been enough, and the ef- 
 fect lighter and more elegant. But it was one 
 of Mrs. Thornton's rigorous laws of hospitality, 
 that of each separate dainty enough should be 
 provided for all the guests to partake, if they 
 felt inclined. Careless to abstemiousness in 
 her daily habits, it was part of her pride to set 
 a feast before such of her guests as cared for 
 it. Her son shared this feeling. He had never 
 known — though he might have imagined, and 
 had the capability to relish — any kind of 
 society but that which depended on an ex- 
 change of superb meals : and even now, though 
 he was denying himself the personal expendi- 
 ture of an unnecessary sixpence, and had 
 more than once regretted that the invitations 
 for this dinner had been sent out, still, as it 
 was to be, he was glad to see the old magnifi- 
 cence of preparation. 
 
 Margaret and her father were the first to 
 arrive. Mr. Hale was anxiously punctual to 
 the time specified. There was no one up-stairs 
 in the drawing-room but Mrs. Thornton and 
 Fanny. Every cover was taken off, and the 
 apartment blazed forth in yellow silk damask 
 and a brilliantly-flowered carpet. Every corner 
 seemed filled up with ornament, until it became 
 a weariness to the eye, and presented a strange 
 
64 
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 contrast to the bald ugliness of the look-out 
 into the great mill-yard, where -wide folding 
 gates were thrown open for the admission of 
 carriages. The mill loomed high on the left- 
 hand side of the windows, casting a shadow 
 down from its many stories which darkened 
 the summer evening before its time. 
 
 "My son was engaged up to the last moment 
 on business. He will be here directly, Mr. 
 Hale. May I beg you to take a seat V 
 
 Mr. Hale was standing at one of the windows 
 as Mrs. Thornton spoke. He turned away, 
 saying— 
 
 "Don't you find such close neighborhood to 
 the mill rather unpleasant at times?" 
 
 She drew herself up : 
 
 " Never. I am not become so fine as to de- 
 sire to forget the source of my son's wealth and 
 power. Besides, there is not such another 
 factory in Milton. One room alone is two hun- 
 dred and twenty square yards." 
 
 "I meant that the smoke and the noise — the 
 constant going out and coming in of the work- 
 people, might be annoying!" 
 
 "I agree with you, Mr. Hale!" said Fanny. 
 " There is a continual smell of steam, and oily 
 machinery — and the noise is perfectly deafen- 
 ing." 
 
 " I have heard noise that was called music 
 far more deafening. The engine-room is at the 
 street-end of the factory ; we hardly hear it, 
 except in summer weather when all the win- 
 dows are open ; and as for the continual mur- 
 mur of the work-people, it disturbs me no more 
 than the humming of a hive of bees. If I think 
 of it at all, I connect it with my son, and feel 
 how all belongs to him, and that his is the head 
 that directs it. Just now there are no sounds 
 to come from the mill ; the hands have been 
 ungrateful enough to turn out, as perhaps you 
 have heard. But the very business (of which 
 I spoke, just now), had reference to the steps 
 he is going to take to make them learn their 
 place." The expression on her face, always 
 stern, deepened into dark anger, as she said 
 this. Nor did it clear away when Mr. Thorn- 
 ton entered the room ; for she saw in an in- 
 stant the weight of care and anxiety which he 
 could not shake off, although his guests re- 
 ceived from him a greeting that appeared both 
 cheerful and cordial. He shook hands with 
 Margaret. He knew it was the first time their 
 hands had met, though she was perfectly un- 
 conscious of the fact. He inquired after Mrs. 
 Hale, and heard Mr. Hale's sanguine hopeful 
 account ; and glancing at Margaret, to under- 
 stand how far she agreed with her father, he 
 saw that no dissenting shadow crossed her face. 
 And as he looked with this intention, he was 
 struck anew with her great beauty. He had 
 never seen her in such dress before; and yet 
 now it appeared as if such elegance of attire 
 was so befitting her noble figure and lofty 
 serenity of countenance, that she ought to go 
 always thus appareled. She was talking to 
 Fanny ; about what he could not hear ; but he 
 saw his sister's restless way of continually ^ar- 
 ranging some part of her gown, her wandering 
 eyes, now glancing here, now there, but with- 
 out any purpose in her observation; and he 
 contrasted them uneasily with the large soft 
 eyes that looked forth steadily at one object, 
 
 as if from out their light beamed some gentle 
 influence of repose: the curving lines of the 
 red lips, just parted in the interest of listening 
 to what her companion said — the head a little 
 bent forward, so as to make a long sweeping 
 line from the summit where the light caught 
 on the glossy raven hair, to the smooth ivory 
 tip of the shoulder ; the round white arms, and 
 taper hands, laid lightly across each other, but 
 perfectly motionless in their pretty attitude. 
 Mr. Thornton sighed as he took in all this with 
 one of his sudden comprehensive glances. And 
 then he turned his back to the young ladies, 
 and threw himself, with an effort, but with all 
 his heart and soul, into a conversation with Mr. 
 Hale. 
 
 More people came — more and more. Fanny 
 left Margaret's side, and helped her mother to 
 receive her guests. Mr. Thornton felt that in 
 this influx no one was speaking to Margaret, 
 and was restless under this apparent neglect 
 But he never went near her himself; he did not 
 look at her. Only he knew what she was do- 
 ing — or not doing — better than he knew the 
 movements of any one else in the room. Mar- 
 garet was so unconscious of herself, and so much 
 amused by watching other people, that she 
 never thought whether she was left unnoticed 
 or not. Somebody took her down to dinner ; 
 she did not catch the name ; nor did he seem 
 much inclined to talk to her. There was a very 
 animated conversation going on among the gen- 
 tlemen; the ladies, for the most part, were si- 
 lent, employing themselves in taking notes of 
 the dinner and criticising each other's dresses. 
 Margaret caught the clew to the general con- 
 versation, grew interested and listened atten- 
 tively. Mr. Horsfall, the stranger, whose visit 
 to the town was the original germ of the party, 
 was asking questions relative to the trade and 
 manufactures of the place ; and the rest of the 
 gentlemen- — all Milton men — were giving him 
 answers and explanations. Some dispute arose,' 
 which was warmly contested ; it was referred 
 to Mr. Thornton, who had hardly 6poken before; 
 but who now gave an opinion, the grounds of 
 which were so clearly stated that even the op- 
 ponents yielded. Margaret's attention was thus 
 called to h^r host ; his whole manner, as master 
 of the house, and entertainer of his friends, was 
 so straightforward, yet simple and modest, as 
 to be thoroughly dignified. Margaret thought 
 she had never seen him to so much advantage. 
 When he had come to their house, there had 
 been always something, either of over-eager- 
 ness or of that kind of vexed annoyance which 
 seemed ready to presuppose that he was un- 
 justly judged, and yet felt too proud to try 
 and make himself better understood. But now, 
 among his fellows, there was no uncertainty as to 
 his position. He was regarded by them as a man 
 of great force of character; of power in many 
 ways. There was no need to struggle for their 
 respect. He had it, and he knew it ; and the 
 security of this gave a fine grand quietness to 
 his voice and ways, which Margaret had missed 
 before. 
 
 He was not in the habit of talking to ladies; 
 and what he did say was a Hi tie formal. To 
 Margaret herself he hardly spoke at all. She 
 was surprised to think how much she enjoyed 
 this dinner. She knew enough now to under- 
 
$obth fND south. 
 
 st.aud many local interests— pay, even some of 
 the technical words employed by the eager 
 mill-owners. She silently took a very decided 
 part in the question they were discussing. At; 
 any rate, they talked in desperate earnest — not 
 in the used-up style that wearied her so in the 
 old London parties. She wondered that, with 
 all this dwelling on the manufactures and trade 
 of the place, no allusion was made to the strike 
 then pending. She did not yet know how 
 coolly such things were taken by the masters, 
 as having only one possible end. To be sure, 
 tlie men were cutting their own throats, as they 
 had done many a time before ; but if they would 
 be fools, and put themselves into the hands of 
 a rascally set of paid delegates, they must take 
 the consequence. One or two thought Thorn- 
 ton looked out of spirits ; and, of course, he must 
 lose by this turn-out. But it was an accident 
 that might happen to themselves any day; and 
 Thornton was as good to manage a strike as 
 any one; for he was as iron a chap as any in 
 Milton. The hands had mistaken their man in 
 trying that dodge on him. And they chuckled 
 inwardly at the idea of the workmen's discom- 
 fiture and defeat, in their attempt to alter one 
 iota of what Thornton had decreed. 
 
 It was rather dull for Margaret after dinner. 
 She was glad when the gentlemen came, not 
 merely because she caught her father's eye to 
 brighten her sleepiness up; but because she 
 could listen to something larger and grander 
 than the petty interests which the ladies had 
 been talking about. She liked the exultation 
 in the sense of power which these Milton men 
 had. It might be-rather rampant in its display, 
 and savor of boasting ; but still they_seemed,to 
 defy the old limits^af possibility m a_ kind.' of 
 fine intoxication, caused by the recollection of 
 what had been achieved, and what jet should 
 be. If in her cooler moments "she might not 
 approve of their spirit in all things, still there 
 was much to admire in their forgetfulngss. of 
 themselves andthe present, in their anticipated 
 triumphs oyer all inanimate matEer~at some 
 future time which none of them should live to 
 see. She was rather startled when Mr. Thorn 
 ton spoke to her, close at her elbow: 
 
 "I could see you were on our side in our 
 discussion at dinner, were you not, .Miss Hale?" 
 
 " Certainly. But then I know so little about 
 it. T was surprised, however, to find from what 
 Mr. Horsfall said, that there were others who 
 ' thought in so diametrically opposite a manner, 
 as the Mr. Morison he spoke about. He can 
 not be a gentleman — is he?" 
 
 "I am not quite the person to decide on an- 
 other's gentlemanliness, MiBS Hale. I mean, I 
 don't quite understand your application of the 
 wqrd. But I should say that this Morison is 
 no true man. I don't know who he is ; I mere- 
 ly judge him from Mr. Horsfall's account." 
 
 " I suspect my ' gentleman' includes your 
 ' true man.' " 
 
 " And a great deal more, you would imply. 
 I differ from you. A man is to me a higher and 
 a completer being than a gentleman." 
 
 " "What do you mean ?" asked Margaret. "We 
 must understand the words differently." 
 
 "I take it that 'gentleman' is a term, that 
 only describes a person in his relation to others ; 
 but when we speak of him as a ' man,' we cqn- 
 E 
 
 65 
 
 sider him not merely with regard to his fellow- 
 men, but in relation to himself — to life — to time 
 — to eternity. A castaway lonely as Robinson 
 Crusoe, a prisoner immured in a dungeon for 
 life ; nay, even a saint in Patmos, has his endur- 
 ance, his strength, his faith, best described by 
 being spoken of as ' a man.' I am rather weary 
 of this word ' gentlemanly,' which seems to me 
 to be often inappropriately used, and often too 
 with such exaggerated distortion of meaning, 
 while the full simplicity of the noun ' man,' and 
 the adjective 'manly' are unacknowledged — 
 that I am induced to class it with the cant of 
 the day." 
 
 Margaret thought a moment — but before she 
 could speak her slow conviction, he was called 
 away by some eager manufacturers, whose 
 speeches she could not hear, though she could 
 guess at their import by the short clear an- 
 swers Mr. Thornton gave, which came steady 
 and firm as the boom of a distant minute-gun. 
 They were evidently talking of the turn-out, 
 and suggesting what course had best be pur- 
 sued'. She heard Mr. Thornton say : 
 
 " That has been done." Then came a hurried 
 murmur, in which two or three joined. 
 
 " All those arrangements have been made." 
 
 Some doubts were implied, some difficulties 
 named by Mr. Slickson, who took hold of Mr. 
 Thornton's arm, the better to impress his words. 
 Mr. Thornton moved slightly away, lifted his 
 eyebrows a very little, and then replied : 
 
 " I take the risk. You need not join in it 
 unless you choose," Still some more fears were 
 urged. 
 
 " I am not afraid of any thing so dastardly 
 as incendiarism. We are open enemies; and 
 I, can protect myself from any violence that I 
 apprehend. And I will assuredly protect all 
 others who come to me for work. They know 
 my determination by this time as well and as 
 fully as you do." 
 
 Mr. Horsfall took him a little on one side, as 
 Margaret conjectured, to ask him some other 
 question about the strike ; but, in truth, it was 
 to inquire who she herself was — so quiet, so 
 stately, and so beautiful. 
 
 " A Milton lady?" asked he, as the name was 
 given. 
 
 "No! from the south of England — Hamp- 
 shire, I believe," was the cold, indifferent an- 
 swer. 
 
 Mrs. Slickson was catechising Fanny on the 
 same subject. 
 
 " Who is that fine distinguished-looking girl? 
 a sister of Mr. Horsfall's?" 
 
 " Oh, dear no 1 That is Mr. Hale, her father, 
 talking now to Mr. Stephens. He gives lessons; 
 that is to say, he reads with young men. My 
 brother John goes to him twice a week, and so 
 he begged of mamma to ask them here in hopes 
 of getting him known. I believe we have some 
 of their prospectuses, if you would like to have 
 one." 
 
 "Mr. Thomtonl Does he really find time 
 to read with a tutor in the midst of all his 
 business — and this abominable strike in hand 
 as well?" 
 
 Fanny was not sure, from Mrs. Sliekson's 
 manner, whether she ought to he proud or 
 ashamed of her brother's conduct; and, like all 
 people who try and take other people's " ought" 
 
66 
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 for the rale of their feelings, she was inclined 
 to "blush for any singularity of action. Her 
 6hame was interrupted by the dispersion of the 
 guests. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 Margaret and her father walked home. The 
 night was fine, the streets clean, and, with her 
 pi'etty white silk, like Leezie Lindsay's gown 
 o' green satin, in the ballad, kilted up to her 
 knee, she was off with her father, ready to 
 dance along with the excitement of the cool, 
 fresh night air. 
 
 "I rather think Thornton is not quite easy 
 in his mind about this strike. He seemed very 
 anxious to-night." 
 
 "I should wonder if he were not. But he 
 spoke with his usual coolness to the others when 
 they suggested different things, just before we 
 came away." 
 
 " So he did after dinner as well. It would 
 take a good deal to stir him from his cool man- 
 ner of speaking; but his face strikes me as 
 anxious." 
 
 "I should be if I were he. He must know 
 of the growing anger and hardly-smothered 
 (hatred of his work-people, who all look upon 
 /him as what the Bible calls a ' hard man' — not 
 / so much unjust as unfeeling ; clear in judgment, 
 / standing upon his ' rights ' as no human being 
 > ought to stand, considering what we and all our 
 petty rights are in the sight of the Almighty. 
 I am glad you think he looks anxious. When 
 I remember Boucher's half-mad words and ways, 
 I can not bear to think how coolly Mr. Thorn- 
 ton spoke." 
 
 " In the first place, I am not so convinced as 
 you are aljout that man Boucher's utter dis- 
 tress ; for the moment he was badly off, I don't 
 doubt, Bnt there is always a mysterious supply 
 of money from these Unions ; and from what 
 you said, it was evident the man was of a pas- 
 sionate, demonstrative nature, and gave strong 
 expression to all he felt." 
 
 "Oh, papa!" 
 
 "Well! I only want you to do justice to 
 Mr. Thornton, who is, I suspect, of an exactly 
 opposite nature — a man who is far too proud to 
 show his feelings. Just the character I should 
 have thought beforehand you would have ad- 
 mired, Margaret." 
 
 "Sol do — so I should ; but I don't feel quite 
 so sure as you do of the existence of those feel- 
 ings. He is a man of great strength of charac- 
 ter — of unusual intellect, considering the few 
 advantages he has had." 
 
 " Not so few. He has led a practical life 
 from a very early age ; has been called upon to 
 exercise judgment and self-control. All that 
 develops one part of the intellect. To be sure, 
 he needs some of the knowledge of the past, 
 which gives the truest basis for conjecture as to 
 the future; but he knows this need — he per- 
 ceives it, and that is something. You are 
 quite prejudiced against Mr. Thornton, Mar- 
 garet." 
 
 "He is the first specimen of a manufacturer 
 — of a person engaged in trade — that I had 
 ever the opportunity of studying, papa. He is 
 
 my first olive: let me make a face while I 
 swallow it. I know he is good of his kind, and 
 by-and-by I shall like the kind. I rather think 
 I am already beginning to do so. I was very 
 much interested by what the gentlemen were 
 talking about, although I did not understand 
 half of it. I was quite sorry when Miss Thorn- 
 ton came to take me to the other end of the 
 room, saying she was sure I should be uncom- 
 fortable at being the only lady among so many 
 gentlemen. I had never thought about it, I 
 was so busy listening; and the ladies were so 
 dull, papa — oh, so dull 1 Yet I think it was 
 clever too. It reminded me of our old game of 
 having each so many nouns to introduce into a 
 sentence." 
 
 "What do you mean, child?" asked Mr. 
 Hale. 
 
 " Why, they took nouns that were signs of 
 things which gave evidence of wealth — house- 
 keepers, under-gardeners, extent of glass, valua- 
 ble lace, diamonds, and all such things; and 
 each one formed her speech so as to bring 
 them all in, in the prettiest accidental manner 
 possible." 
 
 " You will be as proud of your one servant 
 when you get her, if all is true about her that 
 Mrs. Thornton says." 
 
 " To be sure, I shall. I felt like a great hypo- 
 crite to-night, sitting there in my white silk 
 gown, with my idle hands before me, when I 
 remembered all the good, thorough house-work 
 they had done to-day. They took me for a finfe 
 lady, I'm sure." 
 
 " Even I was mistaken enough to think you 
 looked like a lady, my dear," said Mr. Hale, 
 quietly smiling. 
 
 But smiles were changed to white and trem- 
 bling looks when they saw Dixon's face, as she 
 opened the door. 
 
 " Oh, master ! — Oh, Miss Margaret ! Thank 
 God, you are come ! Dr. Donaldson is here. 
 The servant next door went for him, for the 
 charwoman is gone home. She's better now ; 
 but oh, sir I I thought she'd have died an hour 
 ago." 
 
 Mr. Hale caught Margaret's arm to steady 
 himself from falling. He looked at her face, 
 and saw an expression upon it of surprise and 
 extremest sorrow, but not the agony of terror 
 that contracted his own unprepared heart 
 She knew more than he did, and yet she listen- 
 ed with that hopeless expression of awed ap- 
 prehension. 
 
 " Oh ! I should not have left her — wicked 
 daughter that I am 1" moaned forth Margaret, 
 as she supported her trembling father's hasty 
 steps up-stairs. Dr. Donaldson met them on 
 the landing. 
 
 "She is better now," he whispered. ,: The 
 opiate has taken effect. The spasms were very 
 bad: no wonder they frightened your maid; 
 but she'll rally this time." 
 
 "This time! Let me go to her!" Half an 
 hour ago, Mr. Hale was a middle-aged man ; 
 now his sight was dim, his senses wavering, his 
 walk tottering, as if he were seventy years of 
 age. 
 
 Dr. Donaldson took his arm, and led him into 
 the bedroom. Margaret followed close. There 
 lay her mother, with an unmistakable look on 
 her face. She might be better now ; she was 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 67 
 
 sleeping, but Death had signed her for his own, 
 and it was clear that ere long he would return 
 to take possession. Mr. Hale looked at her for 
 some time without a word. Then he began to 
 shake all oyer, and, turning away from Dr. 
 Donaldson's anxious care, he groped to find the 
 door; he eould not see it, although several 
 candies, brought in their sudden affright, were 
 burning and flaring there. He staggered into 
 the drawing-room, and felt about for a chair. 
 Dr. Donaldson wheeled one to him, and placed 
 him in it. He felt his pulse. 
 
 " Speak to him, Miss Hale. We must rouse 
 him." 
 
 "Papa!" said Margaret, with a crying voice 
 that was wild with pain. "Papa! Speak to 
 me I" The speculation came again into his eyes, 
 and he made a great effort. 
 
 "Margaret, did you know of this? Oh, it 
 was cruel of you 1" 
 
 " No, sir, it was not croel 1" replied Dr. 
 Donaldson, with quick decision. "Miss Hale 
 acted under my directions. There may have 
 been a mistake, but it was not cruel. Your 
 wife will be a different creature to-morrow, I 
 trust. She has had spasms, as I anticipated, 
 though I did not tell Miss Hale of my appre- 
 hensions. She has taken the opiate I brought 
 with me ; she will have a good long sleep; and 
 to-morrow, that look which has alarmed you so 
 much will have passed away." 
 
 " But not the disease ?" 
 
 Dr. Donaldson glanced at Margaret. Her 
 bent head, her face raised with no appeal for a 
 temporary reprieve, showed that quick observer 
 of human nature that she thought it better that 
 the whole truth should be told. 
 
 "Not the disease. We can not touch the 
 disease, with all our poor vaunted skill. We 
 can oniy delay its progress — alleviate the pain 
 it causes. Be a man, sir — a Christian. Have 
 faith in the immortality of the soul, which no 
 pain, no mortal disease, can assail or touch!" 
 
 But all the reply he got was in the choked 
 words, "You have never been married, Dr. 
 Donaldson; you do not know what it is," and 
 in deep, manly sobs, which went through the 
 stillness of the night like heavy pulses of 
 agony. 
 
 Margaret knelt by him, caressing him with 
 tearful caresses. No. one, not even Dr. Donald- 
 son, knew how the time went by. Mr. Hale 
 was the first to dare to speak of the necessities 
 of the present moment. 
 
 "What must we do?" asked he. "Tell us 
 both. Margaret is my staff — my right hand." 
 
 Dr. Donaldson gave his clear, sensible direc- 
 tions. No fear for to-night — nay, even peace 
 for to-morrow, and for many days yet. But no 
 enduring hope of recovery. He advised Mr. 
 Hale to go to bed, and leave only one to watch 
 the slumber, which he hoped would be undis- 
 turbed. He promised to come again early in 
 the morning. And, with a warm and kindly 
 shake of the hand, he left them. 
 
 They spoke but few words ; they were too 
 much exhausted by their terror to do more 
 than decide upon the immediate course of ac- 
 tion. Mr. Hale was resolved to sit up through 
 the night, and all that Margaret could do was 
 to prevail upon him to rest on the drawing- 
 room sofa. Dixon stoutly and bluntly refused 
 
 to go to bed ; and, as for Margaret, it was sim- 
 ply impossible that she should leave her mother, 
 let all the doctors in the world speak of " hus- 
 banding resources," and "one watcher only 
 being required." So Dixon sat, and stared, 
 and winked, and drooped, and picked herself up 
 again with a jerk, and finally gave up the battle, 
 and fairly snored. Margaret had taken off her 
 gown and tossed it aside with a sort of impa- 
 tient disgust, and put on her dressing-gown. 
 She felt as if she never could sleep again ; as if 
 her whole senses were acutely vital, and all 
 endued with double keenness, for the purposes 
 of watching. Every sight and sound — nay, 
 even every thought, touched some nerve to the 
 very quick. For more than two hours she 
 heard her father's restless movements in the 
 next room. He came perpetually to the door 
 of her mother's chamber, pausing there to listen, 
 till she, not hearing his close unseen presence, 
 went and opened it to tell him how all went on, 
 in reply to the questions his baked lips could 
 hardly form. At last he, too, fell asleep, and 
 all the house was still. Margaret sate behind 
 the curtain thinking. Far away in time, far 
 away in space, seemed all the interests of past 
 days. Not more than thirty-six hours ago she' 
 cared for BesBy Higgins and her father, and her 
 heart was wrung for Boucher; now, that was 
 all like a dreaming, memory of some former life 
 -r-every thing that had passed out of doors 
 seemed dissevered from her mother, and there- 
 fore unreal. Even Harley Street appeared more 
 distinct; there she remembered, as if it were 
 yesterday, how she had pleased herself, with 
 tracing out her mother's features in her Aunt 
 Shaw's face — and how letters had come, making 
 her dwell on the thoughts of home with all the 
 longing of love. Helstone, itself, was in the 
 dim past. The dull gray days of the preceding 
 winter and spring, so uneventless and monoto- 
 nous, seemed more associated with what she 
 cared for now above all price. She would fain 
 have caught at the skirts of that departing time, 
 and prayed it to return, and give her back what 
 she had too little valued while it was yet in her 
 possession. What a vain show Life seemed! 
 How unsubstantial, and flickering, and flitting! 
 It was as if from some aerial belfry, high up 
 above the stir and jar of the earth, there was a 
 bell continually tolling, " All are shadows ! — all 
 are passing ! — all is past !" And when the morn- 
 ing dawned, cool and gray, like many a happier 
 morning before — when Margaret looked one by 
 one at the sleepers, it seemed as if the terrible 
 night were unreal as a dream ; it, too, was a 
 shadow. It, too, was past. 
 
 Mrs. Hale herself was not aware when she 
 awoke how ill she had been the night before. 
 She was rather surprised at Dr. Donaldson's 
 early visit, and perplexed by the anxious faces 
 of husband and child. She consented to remain 
 in bed that day, saying she certainly was tired ; 
 but the next she insisted on getting up ; and Dr. 
 Donaldson gave his consent to her returning 
 into the drawing-room. She was restless and 
 uncomfortable in every position, and before 
 night she became very feverish. Mr. Hale was 
 utterly listless, and incapable of deciding on any 
 thing. 
 
 " What can we do to spare mamma such an- 
 other night i" asked Margaret on the third day. 
 
68 
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 b' 
 
 " It is, to a certain degree, the reaction after 
 the powerful opiates I have been obliged to use. 
 It is more painful for you to see than for her to 
 bear, I believe. -But, I think, if we could get 
 a water-bed it might be a good thing. Not but 
 what she will be better to-morrow; pretty much 
 like herself as she was before this attack. Still, 
 I should like her to have a water-bed. Mrs. 
 Thornton has one, I know. I'll try and call 
 there this afternoon. Stay," said he, his eye 
 catching on Margaret's face, blanched with 
 watching in a sick-room, " I'm not sure if I can 
 go ; I've a long round to take. It would do 
 ou no harm to have a brisk walk to Marl- 
 orough Street, and ask Mrs. Thornton if she 
 can spare it." 
 
 " Certainly," said Margaret. " I could go 
 while mamma is asleep this afternoon. I am 
 sure Mrs. Thornton would lend it to us." 
 
 Dr. Donaldson's experience told them rightly. 
 Mrs. Hale seemed to shake off the consequences 
 of her attack, and looked brighter and better 
 this afternoon than Margaret had ever hoped 
 to see her again. Her daughter left her after 
 dinner, sitting in her easy chair, with her hand 
 lying in her husband's, who looked more worn 
 and suffering than she by far. Still, he could 
 smile now — rather slowly, rather faintly, it is 
 true ; but a day or two before, Margaret never 
 thought to see him smile again. 
 
 It was about two miles from their house in 
 Crampton Crescent to Marlborough Street. It 
 was too hot to walk very quickly. An August 
 sun beat straight down into the street at three 
 o'clock in the afternoon. Margaret went along 
 without noticing any thing very different from 
 usual in the first mile and a half of her journey ; 
 she was absorbed in her own thoughts, and had 
 learnt by this time to thread her way through 
 the irregular stream of human beings that 
 flowed through Milton streets. But, by-and-by, 
 she was struck with an unusual heaving among 
 the mass of people in the crowded road on which 
 she was entering. They did not appear to be 
 moving on so much as talking, and listening, 
 and buzzing with excitement, without much 
 stirring from the spot where they might happen 
 to be. Still, as they made way for her, and, 
 rapt up in the purpose of her errand, and the 
 necessities that suggested it, she was less quick 
 of observation than she might have been, if her 
 mind had been at ease, she had got into Marl- 
 borough Street before the full conviction forced 
 itself upon her that there was a restless oppres- 
 sive sense of irritation abroad among the peo- 
 ple ; a thunderous atmosphere, morally as well 
 as physically, around her. From every narrow 
 lane opening out on Marlborough Street came 
 up a low distant roar, as of myriads of fierce, 
 indignant voices. The inhabitants of each poor 
 squalid dwelling were gathered round the doors 
 and windows, if indeed they were not actually 
 standing in the middle of the narrow ways — 
 all with looks intent toward one point. Marl- 
 borough Street itself was the focus of all those 
 human eyes, that betrayed intensest interest of 
 various kinds; some fierce with anger, some 
 lowering with relentless threats, some dilated 
 with fear, or imploring entreaty ; and, as Mar- 
 garet reached the small side-entrance by the 
 folding doore, in the great dead wall of Marl- 
 borough mill-yard, and awaited the porter's 
 
 answer to the bell, she looked round and heard 
 the first long far-off roll of the tempest; saw 
 the first slow-surging wave of the dark crowd 
 come, with its threatening crest, tumble over, 
 and retreat, at the far end of the street, which 
 a moment ago seemed so full of repressed naise, 
 but which now was ominously still — all these- 
 circumstances forced themselves on Margaret's 
 notice, but did not sink down into her preoc- 
 cupied heart. She did not know what they 
 meant — what was their deep significance ; while 
 she did know, did feel the keen sharp pressure 
 of the knife that was soon to stab her through 
 and through, by leaving her motherless. She 
 was trying to realize that, in order that when it 
 came she might be ready to comfort her father. 
 
 The porter opened the door cautiously, not 
 nearly wide enough to admit her. 
 
 "It's you, is it, ma'am?" said he, drawing a 
 long breath, and widening the entrance, but 
 still not opening it fully. Margaret went in. 
 Ho hastily bolted it behind her. 
 
 "Th' folk are all coming up here, I reckon?" 
 asked he. 
 
 " I don't know. Something- unusual seemed 
 going on; but this street is quite empty I 
 think." 
 
 She went across the yard and up the steps 
 to the house-door. There was no near sound 
 — no steam-engine at work with beat and pant 
 — no click of machinery, or mingling and clash- 
 ing of many sharp voices ; but far away, the 
 ominous gathering roar, deep-clamoring. 
 
 CHAPTER XXH. 
 
 Mabgaeet was shown into the drawing-room. 
 It had returned into its normal state of bag and 
 covering. The windows were half open be- 
 cause of the heat, and the Venetian blinds cov- 
 ered the glass — so that a gray grim light, re- 
 flected from the pavement below, threw all the 
 shadows wrong, and combined with the green- 
 tinged upper light to make even Margaret's 
 own face, as she caught it in the mirrors, look 
 ghastly and wan. She sat and waited ; no one 
 came. Every now and then the wind seemed 
 to bear the distant multitudinous sound nearer ; 
 and yet there was no wind ! It died away into 
 profound stillness between whiles. 
 
 Fanny came in at last. 
 
 " Mamma will come directly, Miss Hale. She 
 desired me to apologize to you as it is. Perhaps 
 you know my brother has imported hands from 
 Ireland, and it has irritated the Milton people 
 excessively — as if he had not a right to get labor 
 where he could ; and the stupid wretches here 
 would not work for him; and now they've fright- 
 ened these poor Irish starvelings so with their 
 threats, that we daren't let them out. You may 
 see them huddled in that top room in the mill 
 — and they're to sleep there to keep them safe 
 from those brutes, who will neither work nor 
 let them work. And mamma is seeing about 
 their food, and John is speaking to them, for 
 some of the women are crying to go back. Ah ! 
 here's mamma!" 
 
 Mrs. Thornton came in, with a look of black 
 sternness on her face, which made Margaret feel 
 she had arrived at a bad time to trouble he^ 
 
NORTH AMD SOUTH. 
 
 with her request. However, it was only in com- 
 pliance with Mrs. Thornton's expressed desire 
 that she would ask for whatever they might 
 want in the progress of her mother's illness. Mrs. 
 Thornton's brow contracted, and her mouth 
 grew set, while Margaret spoke with gentle 
 'modesty of her mother's restlessness, and Dr. 
 Donaldson's wish that she should have the relief 
 of a water-bed. She ceased. Mrs. Thornton 
 did not reply immediately. Then she started 
 up and exclaimed — 
 
 "They're at the gates! Call John, Fanny — 
 call him in from the mill I They are at the 
 gates! They will batter them inl Call John, 
 I say!" 
 
 And simultaneously the gathering tramp — to 
 which she had been listening, instead of heed- 
 ing Margaret's words — was heard just right out- 
 side the wall, and an increasing din of angry 
 voices raged behind the wooden barrier, which 
 shook as if the unseen maddened crowd made 
 battering-rams of their bodies, and retreated a 
 short space only to come with more united 
 steady impetus against it, till their great beats 
 made the strong gates quiver, like reeds before 
 the wind. 
 
 The women gathered round the windows, fas- 
 cinated to look on the scene which terrified 
 them. Mrs. Thornton, the women-servants, 
 Margaret — all were there. Fanny had returned, 
 screaming upstairs as if pursued at every step, 
 and had thrown herself in hysterical sobbing 
 on the sofa. Mrs. Thornton watched for her 
 son, who was still in the milL He came out, 
 looked up at them — the pale cluster of faces — 
 and smiled good courage to them, before he 
 locked the factory-door. Then he called to one 
 of the women to come down and undo his own 
 door, which Fanny had fastened behind her in 
 her mad flight Mrs. Thornton herself went. 
 And the sound of his well-known and command- 
 ing voice seemed to have been like the taste of 
 blood to the infuriated multitude outside. Hith- 
 erto they had been voiceless, wordless, needing 
 all their breath for their hard laboring efforts 
 to break down the gates. But now, hearing 
 him speak inside, they set up such a fierce un- 
 earthly groan, that even Mrs. Thornton was 
 white with fear as she preceded him into the 
 room. He came in a little flushed, but his eyes 
 gleaming, as in answer to the trumpet-call of 
 danger, and with a proud look of defiance on 
 his face, that made him a noble, if not a hand- 
 some man. Margaret had always dreaded lest 
 her courage should fail her in any emergency, 
 and she should be proved to be, what she dread- 
 ed lest she was — a coward. But now, in this 
 real great time of reasonable fear and nearness 
 of terror, she forgot herself, and felt only an in- 
 tense sympathy — intense to painfullness — in the 
 interests of the moment. 
 Mr. Thornton came frankly forward: 
 " I am sorry, Miss Hale, you have visited us 
 at this unfortunate moment, when, I fear, you 
 may be involved in whatever risk we have to 
 bear. Mother I had not you better go into the 
 back rooms ? I'm not sure if they may not have 
 made their way from Pinner's lane into the 
 stable-yard ; but if not, you will be safer there 
 than here. Go, Jane!" continued he, address- 
 ing the upper servant. And she went, followed 
 by the others. 
 
 '* I stop here 1" said his mother. " Where you 
 are, there I stay." And indeed, retreat into 
 the back rooms was of no avail; the crowd had 
 surrounded the outbuildings at the rear, and 
 were sending forth their awful threatening roar 
 behind. The servants retreated into the gar- 
 rets, with many a cry and shriek. Mr. Thorn- 
 ton smiled scornfully as he heard them. He 
 glanced at Margaret, standing all by herself at 
 the window nearest to the factory. Her eyes 
 glittered, her color was deepened on cheek and 
 lip. As if she felt his look, she turned to him 
 and asked a question that had been for some 
 time in her mind : 
 
 " Where are the poor imported work-people i 
 In the factory there ?" 
 
 "Yes! I left them cowered up in a small 
 room, at the head of a back flight of stairs; 
 bidding them run all risks, and escape down 
 there, if they heard any attack made on the 
 mill-doors. But it is not them — it is me they 
 want." 
 
 "When can the soldiers be here?" asked his 
 mother, in a low but not unsteady voice. 
 
 He took out his watch with the same meas- 
 ured composure with which he did every thing. 
 He made some little calculation : 
 
 "Supposing Williams got straight off when 
 I told him, and had not to dodge about among 
 them — it must be twenty minutes yet." 
 
 "Twenty minutes!" said his mother, for the 
 first time showing her terror in the tones of her 
 voice. 
 
 " Shut down the windows instantly, mother," 
 exclaimed he : " the gates won't bear such 
 another shock. Shut down that window, Miss 
 Hale." 
 
 Margaret shut down her window, and then 
 went to assist Mrs. Thornton's trembling fin- 
 gers. 
 
 From some cause or other, there was a pause 
 of several minutes in the unseen street. Mrs. 
 Thornton looked with wild anxiety at her son's 
 countenance, as if to gain the interpretation of 
 the sudden stillness from him. His face was 
 set into rigid lines of contemptuous defiance ; 
 neither hope nor fear could be read there. 
 Fanny raised herself upj- 
 " Are they gone 8" asked she, in a whisper. 
 "Gone!" replied he. "Listen!" 
 She did listen ; they all could hear the one 
 great straining breath ; the crack of wood slowly 
 yielding ; the wrench of iron ; the mighty fall 
 of the ponderous gates. Fanny stood up totter- 
 ing — made a step or two toward her mother, 
 and fell forward into her arms in a fainting fit. 
 Mrs. Thornton lifted her up with a strength that 
 was as much that of the will as of the body, and 
 carried her away. 
 
 " Thank God !" said Mr. Thornton, as he 
 watched her out. " Had you not better go up 
 stairs, Miss Hale?" 
 
 Margaret's lips formed a " No!" — but he could 
 not hear her speak, for the tramp of innumera- 
 ble steps right under the very wall of the house, 
 and the fierce growl of low deep angry voices 
 that had a ferocious murmur of satisfaction in 
 them, more dreadful than their baffled eries not 
 many minutes before. 
 
 " Never mind 1" said he, thinking to encour- 
 age her. "I am very sorry you should have 
 been entrapped into all this alarm; but it can 
 
70 
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 not last long now ; a few minutes more and the 
 soldiers 'will be here." 
 
 "Oh, God!" criedMargaret, suddenly. "There 
 is Boucher. I know his face, though he is livid 
 with rage — he is fighting to get to the front — 
 look! look!" 
 
 " Who is Boucher 8" asked Mr. Thornton 
 coolly, and coming close to the window to dis- 
 cover the man in whom Margaret took such an 
 interest. As soon as they saw Mr. Thornton 
 they set up a yell — to call it not human is no- 
 thing — it was as the demoniac desire of some 
 terrible wild beast for the food that is withheld 
 from his ravening. Even he drew back for a 
 moment, dismayed at the intensity of hatred he 
 he had provoked. 
 
 "Let them yell I" said he. " In five minutes 
 more — I only hope my poor Irishmen are 
 not terrified out of their wits by such a fiend- 
 like noise. Keep up your courage for five min- 
 utes, Miss Hale." 
 
 "Don't be afraid for me," she said hastily. 
 "But what in five minutes? Can you do no- 
 thing to soothe these poor creatures? It is 
 awful to see them." 
 
 "The soldiers will be here directly, and that 
 will bring them to reason." 
 
 "To reason!" said Margaret, quickly. "What 
 kind of reason?" 
 
 "The only reason that does with men that 
 make themselves into wild beasts. By heaven ! 
 they've turned to the mill-door!" 
 
 "Mr. Thornton," said Margaret, shaking all 
 over with her passion, "go down this instant, 
 if you are not a coward. Go down, and face 
 them like a man. Save these poor strangers 
 whom you have decoyed here. Speak to your 
 workmen as if they were human beings. Speak 
 to them kindly. Don't let the soldiers come in 
 and cut down poor creatures who are driven 
 mad. I see one there who is. If you have 
 any courage or noble quality in you, go out 
 and speak to them, man to man." 
 
 He turned and looked at her while she spoke. 
 A dark cloud came over his face while he 
 listened. He set his teeth as he heard her 
 words. 
 
 " I will go. Perhaps I may ask you to ac- 
 company me down stairs, and bar the door be- 
 hind me ; my mother and sister will need that 
 protection." 
 
 " Oh ! Mr. Thornton ! I do not know — I 
 may be wrong — only—" 
 
 But he was gone; he was down-stairs in the 
 hall; he had unbarred the front door; all she 
 could do was to follow him quickly, and fasten 
 it behind him, and clamber up the stairs again 
 with a sick heart and a dizzy head. Again she 
 took her place by the farthest window. He 
 was on the steps below; she saw that by the 
 direction of a thousand angry eyes; but she 
 could neither see nor hear any thing save the 
 savage satisfaction of the rolling, angry mur- 
 mur. She threw the window wide open. Many 
 in the crowd were mere boys ; cruel and thought- 
 less — cruel because they were thoughtless ; some 
 were men, gaunt as wolves, and mad for prey. 
 She knew how it was ; they were like Boucher — 
 with starving children at home-— relying on ulti- 
 mate success in their efforts to get higher wages, 
 and enraged beyond measure at discovering 
 that Irishmen were to be brought in to rob their 
 
 little ones of bread. Margaret knew it all ; she 
 read it in Boucher's face, forlornly desperate, 
 and livid with rage. If Mr. Thornton would 
 but say something to them — let them hear his 
 voice only — it seemed as if it would be better 
 than this wild beating and raging against the 
 stony silence that vouchsafed them no word,' 
 even of anger or reproach. But perhaps he was 
 speaking now ; there was a momentary hush 
 of their noise, inarticulate as that of a troop of 
 animals. She tore her bonnet off; and bent 
 forward to hear. She could only see ; for if Mr. 
 Thornton had indeed made the attempt to speak, 
 the mometary instinct to listen to him was past 
 and gone, and the people were raging worse 
 than ever. He stood with his arms folded ; 
 still as a statue ; his face pale with repressed 
 excitement. They were trying to intimidate 
 him — to make him flinch ; each was urging the 
 other on to some immediate act of personal vio- 
 lence. Margaret felt intuitively that in an in- 
 stant all would be uproar ; the first touch would 
 cause an explosion, in which, among such hun- 
 dreds of infuriated men and reckless boys, even 
 Mr. Thornton's life would be unsafe — that in 
 another instant the stormy passions would have 
 passed their bounds, and swept away all bar- 
 riers of reason, or apprehension of consequence. 
 Even while she looked, she saw lads in the back- 
 ground stooping to take off their heavy wooden 
 clogs — the readiest missile they could find ; she 
 saw it was the spark to the gunpowder, and, 
 with a cry, which no one heard, she rushed 
 out of the room, down stairs — she had lifted the 
 great iron bar of the door with an imperious 
 force — had thrown the door open wide — and 
 was there, in face of that angry sea of men, her 
 eyes smiting them with flaming arrows of re- 
 proach. The clogs were arrested in the hands 
 that held them — the countenances, so fell not 
 a moment before, now looked irresolute, and as 
 if asking what this meant. For she stood be- 
 tween them and their enemy. She could not 
 speak, but held out her arms toward them till 
 she could recover breath. 
 
 "Oh, do not use violence! He is one man, 
 and you are many;" but her words died away, 
 for there was no tone in her voice ; it was but 
 a hoarse whisper. Mr. Thornton stood a little 
 on one side; lie had moved away from behind 
 her, as if jealous of any thing that should come 
 between him and danger. 
 
 " Go I" said she, once more (and now her voice 
 was like a cry). "The soldiers are sent for — 
 are coming. Go peaceably. Go away. You 
 shall have relief from your complaints, what- 
 ever they are." 
 
 "Shall them Irish blackguards be packed 
 back again?" asked one from out the crowd, 
 with fierce threatening in his voice. 
 
 "Never for your bidding!" exclaimed Mr. 
 Thornton. And instantly the storm broke. The 
 hootings rose and filled the air, but Margaret 
 did not hear then*. Her eye was on the group 
 of lads who had armed themselves with their 
 clogs some time before. She saw their gesture 
 — she knew its meaning — she read their aim. 
 Another moment, and Mr. Thornton might be 
 smitten down — he whom she had urged and 
 goaded to come to this perilous place. She 
 only thought how she could save him. She 
 threw her arms around him ; she made her body 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 71 
 
 into a shield from the fierce people beyond. 
 Still, with his arms folded, he shook her off. 
 
 "Go away, " said he, in his deep voice. " This 
 is no place for you." 
 
 "It is I" said she. "You did not see what I 
 saw." If she thought her sex would be a pro- 
 tection — if, with shrinking eyes she had turned 
 away from the terrible anger of these men, in 
 any hope that ere she looked again they would 
 have paused and reflected, and Blunk away, 
 and vanished — she was wrong. Their reckless 
 passion had carried them too far to stop — at 
 least had carried some of them too far ; for it 
 is always the savage lads, with their love of 
 cruel excitement, who head the riot — reckless 
 to what bloodshed it may lead. A clog whizzed 
 through the air. Margaret's fascinated eyes 
 watched its progress; it missed its aim, and 
 she turned sick with affright, but changed not 
 her position, only hid her face on Mr. Thorn- 
 ton's arm. Then she turned and spoke again : 
 
 "For God's sake! do not damage your cause 
 by this violence. You do not know what you 
 are doing." She strove to make her words dis- 
 tinct. 
 
 A sharp pebble flew by her, grazing forehead 
 and cheek, and drawing a blinding sheet of light 
 before her eyes. She lay like one dead on Mr. 
 Thornton's shoulder. Then he unfolded his 
 arms, and held her encircled in one for an in- 
 stant: 
 
 " You do well I" said he. "You come to oust 
 the innocent stranger. You fall — you hundreds 
 — on one man ; and when a, woman comes be- 
 fore you to ask yon for your own sakes to be 
 reasonable creatures, your cowardly wrath falls 
 upon her! You do well!" They were silent 
 while he spoke. They were watching, open- 
 eyed and open-mouthed, the thread of dark-red 
 blood which wakened them up from their trance 
 of passion. Those nearest the gate stole out 
 ashamed; there was a movement through all 
 the crowd — a retreating movement. Only one 
 voice cried out: 
 
 "Th' stone were meant for thee; but thou 
 wert sheltered behind a woman!" 
 
 Mr: Thornton quivered with rage. The blood- 
 flowing had made Margaret conscious — dimly, 
 vaguely conscious. He placed her gently on 
 the door-step, her head leaning against the frame. 
 
 " Can you rest there ?" he asked. But with- 
 out waiting for her answer, he went slowly 
 down the steps right into the middle of the 
 crowd. " Now kill me, if it is your brutal will. 
 There is no woman to shield me here. You 
 may beat me to death — you will never move 
 me from what I have determined upon — not 
 you!" He stood among them, with his arms 
 folded, in precisely the same attitude as he had 
 been in on the steps. 
 
 But the retrograde movement toward the 
 gate had begun — as unreasoningly, perhaps as 
 blindly, as the simultaneous anger. Or perhaps 
 the idea of the approach of the soldiers, and 
 the sight of that pale, upturned face, with closed 
 eyes, still and sad as marble, though the tears 
 welled out of the long entanglement .of eye- 
 lashes, and dropped down; and, heavier, slow- 
 er plash than even tears, came the drip of blood 
 from her wound. Even the most desperate — 
 Boucher himself — drew back, faltered away, 
 scowled, and finally went off, muttering curses 
 
 on the master, who stood in his unchanging at- 
 titude, looking after their retreat with denant 
 eyes. The moment that retreat had changed 
 into a flight (as It was sure from its very char- 
 acter to do), he darted up the steps to Margaret. 
 
 She tried to rise without his help. 
 
 " It is nothing," she said, with a sickly smile. 
 " The skin is grazed, and I was stunned at the 
 moment. Oh, I am so thankful they are gone !" 
 And she cried without restraint. 
 
 He could not sympathize with her. His an- 
 ger had not abated; it was rather rising the 
 more as his sense of immediate danger was 
 passing away. The distant clank of the soldiers 
 was heard ; just five minutes too late to make 
 this vanished mob feel the power of authority 
 and order. He hoped they would see the ta'oops, 
 and be quelled by the thought of their narrow 
 escape. While these thoughts crossed his mind, 
 Margaret clung to the door-post to steady her- 
 self: but a film came over her eyes — he was 
 only just in time to catch her. "Mother — moth- 
 er!" cried he. "Come down — they are gone, 
 and Miss Hale is hurt 1" He bore her into the 
 dining-room, and laid her on the sofa there; 
 laid her down softly, and looking on her pure 
 white face, the sense of what she was to him 
 came upon him so keenly that he 6poke it out 
 in his pain : 
 
 " Oh, my Margaret — my Margaret ! no one 
 can tell what you ai*e to me ! Dead — cold as 
 you lie there, you are the only woman I ever 
 loved! Oh, Margaret — Margaret!" 
 
 Inarticulately as he spoke, kneeling by her, 
 and rather moaning than saying the words, he 
 started up, ashamed of himself, as his mother 
 came in. She saw nothing but her son a little 
 paler, a little sterner than usual. 
 
 "Miss Hale is hurt, mother. A stone has 
 grazed her temple. She has lost a good deal 
 of blood, I am afraid." 
 
 "She looks very seriously hurt — I could al- 
 most fancy her dead," said Mrs~ Thornton, a 
 good deal alarmed. 
 
 "If is only a fainting-fit. She has spoken 
 to me since." But all the blood in his body 
 seemed to rush inward to his heart as he spoke, 
 and he absolutely trembled. 
 
 " Go and call Jane — she can find me the things 
 I want; and do you go to your Irish people, 
 who are, crying and shouting as if they were 
 mad with fright." 
 
 He went. He went away as if weights were 
 tied to every limb that bore him from her. He 
 called Jane ; he called his sister. She should 
 have all womanly care, all gentle tendance. 
 But every pulse beat in him as he remembered 
 how she had come down and placed herself in 
 foremost danger — could it be to save him! At 
 the time he had pushed her aside, and spoken 
 gruffly ; he had seen nothing but the unneces- 
 sary danger she had placed herself in. He went 
 to his Irish people, with every nerve in his body 
 thrilling at the thought of her, and found it 
 difficult to understand enough of what they 
 were saying to soothe and comfort away therr 
 fears. There, they declared, they would not 
 stop ; they claimed to be sent back. 
 
 And so he had to think, and talk, and reason. 
 
 Mrs. Thornton bathed Margaret's temples 
 with eau de Cologne. As the spirit touched 
 the wound, which till then neither Mrs. Thorn- 
 
72 
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 ton nor Jane had perceived, Margaret opened 
 her eyes; but it was evident she did not know 
 where she was, nor who they were. The dark 
 circles deepened, the lips quivered and con- 
 tracted, and she became insensible once more. 
 
 "She has had a terrible blow," said Mrs. 
 Thornton. "Is there any one who will go for 
 a doctor?" 
 
 " Not me, ma'am, if you please,' 7 said Jane, 
 shrinking back. "Them rabble may be all 
 about ; I don't think this cut is so deep, ma'am, 
 as it looks." 
 
 " I will not run the chance. She was hurt in 
 our house. If you are a coward, Jane, I am 
 not. I will go. 
 
 "Pray, ma'am, let me send one of the police. 
 There's ever so many come up, and soldiers 
 too." 
 
 "And yet you're afraid to go I I will not 
 have their time taken up with our errands. 
 They'll have enough to do to catch some of the 
 mob. Tou will not be afraid to stop in this 
 house," she asked contemptuously, "and go on 
 bathing Miss Hale's forehead, shall you? I 
 shall not be ten minutes away." 
 
 "Could not Hannah go, ma'am?" 
 
 "Why Hannah? Why any one but you? 
 No, Jane, if you don't go, I do." 
 
 Mrs. Thornton went first to the room in 
 which she had left Fanny stretched on the 
 bed. She started up as her mother entered. 
 
 "Oh, mamma, how you terrified me! I 
 thought you were a man that had got into the 
 house." 
 
 "Nonsense! The men are all gone away. 
 There are soldiers all round the place, seeking 
 for their work, now it is too late. Miss Hale 
 is lying on the dining-room sofa, badly hurt. 
 I am going for the doctor." 
 
 "Oh! don't, mamma! they'll murder you." 
 She clung to her mother's gown. Mrs. Thorn- 
 ton wrenched it away with no gentle hand. 
 
 "Find me some one else to go; but that girl 
 must not bleed to death." 
 
 "Bleed! oh, how horrid! How has she got 
 hurt?" 
 
 " I don't know — I havo no time to ask. Go 
 down to her, Fanny, and do try to make your- 
 self of use. Jane is with her; and I trust it 
 looks worse than it is. Jane has refused to 
 leave the house, cowardly woman! And I 
 won't put myself in the way of any more re- 
 fusals from my servants, so I am going myself." 
 
 "Oh, dear; dear!" said Fanny, crying, and 
 preparing to go down rather than be left alone, 
 with the thought of wounds and bloodshed in 
 the very house. 
 
 "Oh, Jane!" said she, creeping into the 
 dining-room, " what is the matter ? How white 
 she looks! How did she get hurt? Did they 
 throw stones into the drawing-room?" 
 
 Margaret did indeed look white and wan, 
 although her senses were beginning to return 
 to her. But the sickly daze of the swoon made 
 her still miserably faint. She was conscious 
 of movement around her, and of refreshment 
 from the eau de Cologne, and a craving for the 
 bathing to go on without intermission; but 
 when they stopped to talk, she could no more 
 have opened her eyes, or spoken to ask for more 
 bathing, than the people who lie in death-like 
 trance can move or utter sound to arrest the 
 
 awful preparations for their burial, while they 
 are yet fully aware not merely of the actions 
 of those around them, but of the idea that is 
 the motive of such action. 
 
 Jane paused in her bathing to reply to Miss 
 Thornton's question. 
 
 "She'd have been safe enough, miss, if she'd 
 staid in the drawing-room, or come up to us; 
 we were in the front garret, and could see it 
 all, out of harm's way." 
 
 " Where was she, then ?" said Fanny, draw- 
 ing nearer by slow degrees, as she became ac- 
 customed to the eight of Margaret's pale face. 
 
 "Just before the front door, with master," 
 said Jane, significantly. 
 
 " With John ! with my brother ! How did 
 she get there?" 
 
 " Nay, miss, that's not for me to say," an- 
 swered Jane, with a Blight toss of her head. 
 
 "Sarah did — " 
 
 "Sarah what?" said Fanny, with impatient 
 curiosity. 
 
 Jane resumed her bathing, as if what Sarah 
 did or said was not exactly the thing she liked 
 to repeat. 
 
 "Sarah what?" askedFanny, sharply. "Don't 
 speak in these half sentences, or I can't under- 
 stand you." 
 
 "Well, miss, since you will have it, Sarah, 
 you see, was in the best place for seeing, being 
 at the right-hand window; and she says, and 
 said at the very time, too, that she saw Miss 
 Hale with her arms about master's neck, hug- 
 ging him before all the people." 
 
 "I don't believe it," said Fanny. "I know 
 she cares for my brother; any one can see 
 that ; and I dare say she'd give her eyes if 
 he'd marry her — which he never will, I can 
 tell her. But I don't believe she'd be so bold 
 and forward as to put her arms round his neck." 
 
 "Poor young ladyl she's paid for it dearly 
 if she did. It's my belief that the blow has 
 given her such an ascendency of blood to the 
 head, as she'll never get the better from. She 
 looks like a corpse now. 
 
 "Oh, I wish mamma would come!" said 
 Fanny, wringing her hands. " I never was in 
 the room with a dead person before." 
 
 "Stay, miss! She's not dead: her eyelids 
 are quivering, and here's wet tears a-coming 
 down her cheeks. Speak to her, Miss Fanny !" 
 
 "Are you better now?" asked Fanny, in a 
 quavering voice. 
 
 No answer ; no sign of recognition ; but a 
 faint pink color returned to her lips, although 
 the rest of her face was ashen pale. 
 
 Mrs. Thornton came hurriedly in with the 
 nearest surgeon she could find. 
 
 "How is she? Are you better, my dear?" 
 as Margaret opened her filmy eyes, and gazed 
 dreamily at her. " Here is Mr. Lowe come to 
 see you." 
 
 Mrs. Thornton spoke loudly and distinctly, 
 as to a deaf person. Margaret tried to rise, 
 and drew her ruffled, luxuriant hair instinct- 
 ively over the cut. 
 
 " I am better now," said she, in a very low, 
 faint voice. " I was a little sick." 
 
 She let him take her hand and feel her pulse. 
 The bright color came for a moment into her 
 face, as he asked to examine the wound in her 
 forehead; and she glanced up at Jane, as if 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 73 
 
 shrinking from her inspection more than from 
 the doctor's. , 
 
 "It is not much, I think; I' am better now. 
 I must go home." 
 
 "Not until I have applied some strips of 
 plaster, and you have rested a little." 
 
 She sat down hastily, without another word, 
 and allowed it to be bound up. 
 
 "Now, if you please," said she, "I must go. 
 Mamma will not. see it, I think. It is under 
 the hair, is it not?" 
 
 " Quite ; no one could tell." 
 
 "But you must not go," said Mrs. Thornton, 
 impatiently. " You are not fit to go." 
 
 "I must," said Margaret, decidedly. "Think 
 of mamma. If they should hear — Besides, I 
 must go," said she, vehemently. "I Can not 
 stay here. May I ask for a cab ?" 
 
 "You are quite flushed and feverish," ob- 
 served Mr. Lowe. 
 
 "It is only with being here when I do so 
 Want to go. The air — getting away would do 
 me more good than any thing," pleaded she. 
 
 " I really believe it is as she says," Mr. Lowe 
 replied. " If her mother is so ill as you told 
 me on the way here, it may be very serious if 
 she hears of this riot, and does not see her 
 daughter back at the time she expects. The 
 injury is not deep. I will fetch a cab, if your 
 servants are still afraid to go out." 
 
 "Oh, thank you!" said. Margaret. "It will 
 do me more good than any thing. It is the air 
 of this room that makes me feel so miserable." 
 
 She leant back on the sofa, and closed her 
 eyes. Fanny beckoned her mother out of the 
 room, and told her something that made her 
 equally anxious with Margaret for the depart- 
 ure of the latter. Not that she fully believed 
 Fanny's statement ; but she credited enough to 
 make her manner to Margaret appear very 
 much constrained, at wishing her good-by. 
 
 Mr. Lowe returned in the cab. 
 
 " If you will allow me, I will see you home, 
 Miss Hale. The streets are not very quiet yet." 
 
 Margaret's thoughts were quite alive enough 
 to the present to make her desirous of getting 
 rid of both Mr. Lowe and the cab before she 
 reached Crampton Crescent, for fear of alarm- 
 ing her father and mother. Beyond that one 
 aim 'she would not look. That ugly dream of 
 insolent words spoken about herself could 
 never be forgotten — but could be put aside till 
 she was stronger — for, oh ! she was very weak ; 
 and her mind sought for some present fact to 
 steady itself upon, and keep itself from utterly 
 losing consciousness in another hideous, sickly 
 swoon. 
 
 CHAPTER XXTTL 
 
 Makgabet had not been gone five minutes 
 when Mr. Thornton came in, his face all 
 a-glow. 
 
 " I could not come sooner : the superintend- 
 ent would — Where is she?" He looked around 
 the dining-room, and then almost fiercely at 
 his mother, who was quietly re-arranging the 
 disturbed furniture, and did not instantly re- 
 ply. " Where is Miss Hale?" asked he again. 
 
 "Gone home," said she, rather shortly. 
 
 "Gone home!" 
 
 "Yes. She was a great deal better. In- 
 deed, I don't believe it was so very much of 
 a hurt ; only some people faint at the least 
 thing." 
 
 " I am sorry she is gone home," said he, walk- 
 ing uneasily about. " She could not have been 
 fit for it." 
 
 "She said she was; and Mr. Lowe said she 
 was. I went for him myself." 
 
 "Thank you, mother." He stopped, and 
 partly held out his hand to give her a grate- 
 ful shake. But she did not notice the move- 
 ment. 
 
 "What have vou done with your Irish pe8- 
 pie?" . 
 
 "Sent to the Dragon for a good meal for 
 them, poor wretches. And then, luckily, I 
 caught Father Grady, and I've asked him in 
 to speak to them, and dissuade them from go- 
 ing off in a body. How did Miss Hale go home? 
 I'm sure she could not walk." 
 
 "She had a cab. Every thing was done 
 properly, even to the paying. Let us talk of 
 something else. She has caused disturbance 
 enough." 
 
 " I don't know where I should have been but 
 for her." 
 
 "Are you become so helpless as to have to 
 be defended by a girl?" asked Mrs. Thornton, 
 scornfully. 
 
 He reddened. " Not many girls would have 
 taken the blows on herself which were meant 
 for me. Meant with right down good-will, 
 too." 
 
 " A girl in love will do a good deal," replied 
 Mrs. Thornton, shortly. 
 
 "Mother I" He made a step forward; stood 
 still ; heaved with passion. 
 
 She was a little startled at the evident force 
 he used to keep himself calm. She was not 
 sure of the nature of the emotions she had pro- 
 voked. It was only their violence that was 
 clear. Was it anger? His eyes glowed, his 
 figure was dilated, his breath came thick and., 
 fast. It was a mixture of joy, of anger, of 
 pride, of glad surprise, of panting doubt; but 
 she could not read it. Still it made her un- 
 easy, as the presence of all strong feeling, of 
 which the cause is not fully understood or sym- 
 pathized in, always does. She went to the 
 sideboard, opened a drawer, and took out a 
 duster which she kept there for any occasional 
 purpose. She had seen a drop of eau de Co- 
 logne on the polished arm of the sofa, and in- 
 stinctively sought to wipe it off. But she kept 
 her back turned to her son much longer than 
 was necessary ; and when she spoke, her voice 
 seemed unusual and constrained. 
 
 " You have taken some steps about the rioters, 
 I suppose? You don't apprehend any more 
 violence, do you? Where were the police? 
 Never at hand when they're wanted 1" 
 
 "On the contrary, I saw three or four of 
 them, when the gates gave way, struggling and ' 
 beating about in fine fashion ; and more came 
 running up just when the yard waB clearing. 
 I might have given some of the fellows in charge ' 
 then, if I had had my wits about me. But there 
 will be no difficulty: plenty of people can 
 identify them." 
 
 " But won't they come back to-night t" 
 
li 
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 "I'm going to see about a sufficient guard 
 for the premises. I have appointed to meet 
 Captain Hanbury in half an hour at the station." 
 
 "You must have some tea first." 
 
 "Tea! Yes, I suppose I must. It's half- 
 past six, and I may be out for some time. Don't 
 sit up for me, mother." 
 
 " You expect me to go to bed before I have 
 seen you 6afe, do you?" 
 
 "Well, perhaps not." He hesitated for a 
 moment. " But, if I have time, I shall go round 
 by Crampton, after I have arranged with the 
 police and seen Hamper and Clarkson." Their 
 eyes met ; they looked at each other intently 
 for a minute. Then she asked : 
 
 "Why are you going round by Crampton!" 
 
 "To ask after Miss Hale." 
 
 " I will send. Williams must take the water- 
 bed she came to ask for. He shall inquire how 
 she is." 
 
 " I must go myself." 
 
 "Not merely to ask how Miss Hale is?" 
 
 "No, not merely for that. I want to thank 
 her for the way in which she stood between me 
 and the mob." 
 
 "What made you go down at all? It was 
 putting your head into the lion's mouth I" 
 
 He glanced sharply at her ; saw that she did 
 not know what had passed between him and 
 Margaret in the drawing-room ; and replied by 
 another question : 
 
 "Shall you be afraid to be left without me 
 until I can get some of the police ; or had we 
 better send Williams for them now, and they 
 could be here by the time we have done tea? 
 There is no time to be lost. I must be off in a 
 quarter of an hour." 
 
 Mrs. Thornton left the room. Her servants 
 wondered at her directions, usually so sharply- 
 cut and decided, now confused and uncertain. 
 Mr. Thornton remained in the dining-room, try- 
 ing to think of the business he had to do at the 
 police-office, and in reality thinking of Mar- 
 garet. Every thing seemed dim and vague be- 
 yond — behind — besides the touch of her arms 
 round his neck — the soft clinging which made 
 the dark color come and go in his cheek as he 
 thought of it. 
 
 The tea would have been very silent, but for 
 Fanny's perpetual description of her own feel- 
 ings; how she had been alarmed — and then 
 thought they were gone— and then felt sick 
 and faint and trembling in every limb. 
 
 " There, that's enough," said her brother, ris- 
 ing from the table. "The reality was enough 
 for me." He was going to leave the room, when 
 his mother stopped him with her hand upon his 
 arm. 
 
 "You will come back here before you go to 
 the Hales ?" said she, in a low, anxious voice. 
 
 "I know what I know," said Fanny to her- 
 self. 
 
 " Why ? Will it be too late to disturb them?" 
 
 "John, come back to me for this one even- 
 ing. It will be late for Mrs. Hale. But that 
 is not it. To-morrow you will — Come back 
 to-night, John !" She had seldom pleaded with 
 her son at all — she was too proud for that ; but 
 she had never pleaded in vain. 
 
 " I will return straight here after I have done 
 my business. You will be sure to inquire after 
 them?— after her?" 
 
 Mrs. Thornton was by no means a talkative 
 companion to Fanny, nor yet was she a good 
 listener. But her eyeB and ears were keen to 
 see and to listen to all the details her son could 
 give, as to the steps he had taken to secure 
 himself and those whom he chose to employ 
 from any repetition of the day's outrages. He 
 clearly 6aw his object. Punishment and suffer- 
 ing were the natural consequences to those 
 who had taken part in the riot. All that was 
 necessary, in order that property should be 
 protected, and that the will of the proprietor 
 might cut to his end, clean and sharp as a sword. 
 
 "Mother I You know what I have got to 
 say to Miss Hale to-morrow ?" 
 
 The question came upon her suddenly, dur- 
 ing a pause in which she, at least, had forgot- 
 ten Margaret. 
 
 She looked up at him. 
 
 "Yes! I do. You can hardly do otherwise." 
 
 "Do otherwise I I don't understand you." 
 
 " I mean that, after allowing her feelings so to 
 overcome her, I consider you bound in honor — " 
 
 " Bound in honor," said he, scornfully. " I 
 am afraid honor has nothing to do with it. 
 'Her feelings overcome herl' What feelings 
 do you mean ?" 
 
 "Nay, John, there is no need to be angry. 
 Did she not rush down, and cling to you to 
 save you from danger?" 
 
 "She did!" 6aid he. "But, mother," con- 
 tinued he, stopping short in his walk right in 
 front of her, "I dare not hope. I never was 
 faint-hearted before ; but I can not believe such 
 a creature cares for me." 
 
 " Don't be foolish, John. Such a creature ! 
 Why she might be a duke's daughter, to hear 
 you speak. And what proof more would you 
 have, I wonder, of her caring for you? I can 
 believe she has had a struggle with her aris- 
 tocratic way of viewing things; but I like her 
 the better for seeing clearly at last. It is a 
 good deal for me to say," said Mrs. Thornton, 
 smiling slowly, while the tears stood in her 
 eyes; "for after to-night I stand second. It 
 was to have you to myself, all to myself, a few 
 houi-s longer, that I begged you not to go till 
 to-morrow !" 
 
 "Dearest mother I" (Still love is selfish, and 
 in an instant he reverted to his own hopes and 
 fears in a way that drew the cold creeping 
 shadow over Mrs. Thornton's heart.) " But I 
 know she does not care for me. I shall put 
 myself at her feet — I must ; if it were but one 
 chance in a thousand — or a million — I should 
 do it." 
 
 "Don't fear!" said his mother, crushing down 
 her own personal mortification at the little no- . 
 tice he had taken of the rare ebullition of her,/ 
 maternal feelings — of the pang of jealousy that 
 betrayed the intensity of her disregarded love. 
 "Don't be afraid," she said, coldly. "As far 
 as love may go, she may be worthy of you. It 
 must have taken a good deal to overcome her 
 pride. Don't be afraid, John," said she, kissing 
 him, as she wished him good night. And she 
 went slowly and majestically out of the room. 
 But when she got into her own, she locked the 
 door, and sate down to cry unwonted tears. 
 
 Margaret entered the room (where her father 
 and mother still sat, holding low conversation 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 15 
 
 together), looking very pale and white. She 
 came close up to them before she could trust 
 herself to speak. 
 
 "Mrs. Thornton will send the water-bed, 
 mamma." 
 
 "Dear, how tired you look! Is it very hot, 
 Margaret?" 
 
 "Very hot, and the streets are rather rough 
 with the strike." 
 
 Margaret's color came back vivid and bright 
 as ever ; but it faded away instantly. 
 
 "Here has been a message from Bessy Hig- 
 gins, asking you to go to her," said Mrs. Hale. 
 " But I'm sure you look too tired." 
 
 "YesI" said Margaret. " I am tired. I can 
 not go." 
 
 She was very silent and trembling while she 
 made tea. She was thankful to see her father 
 so much occupied with her mother as not to 
 notice her looks. Even after her mother went 
 to bed, he was not content to be absent from 
 her, but undertook to read her to sleep. Mar- 
 garet was alone. 
 
 " Now I will think of it — now I will remem- 
 ber it all. I could not before — I dare not." 
 She sat still in her chair, her hands clasped on 
 her knees, her lips compressed, her eyes fixed as 
 one who sees a vision. She drew a deep breath. 
 
 "I, who hate scenes — X, who have despised 
 people for showing emotion — who have thought 
 them wanting in self-control — I went down, and 
 mu9t needs throw myself into the me!6e, like a 
 romantic fool I Did I do any good? They 
 would have gone away without me, I dare 
 say." But this was overleaping the rational 
 conclusion, as in an instant her well-poised 
 judgment felt. "No, perhaps they would not. 
 I did some good. But what possessed me to 
 defend that man as if he were a helpless child I 
 Ah!" said she, clinching her hands together, 
 "it is no wonder those people thought I was in 
 love with him, after disgracing myself in that 
 way. I in love — and with him too !" Her pale 
 cheeks suddenly became one flame of fire ; and 
 she covered her face with her hands. When 
 she took them away her palms were wet with 
 scalding tears. 
 
 " Oh how low I am fallen that they should 
 say that of me ! I could not have been so brave 
 for any one else, just because he was so utterly 
 indifferent to me — if, indeed, I do not positively 
 dislike him. It made me the more anxious that 
 there should be fair play on each side ; and I 
 could see what fair play was. It was not fair," 
 said she, vehemently, "that he should stand 
 there sheltered, awaiting the soldiers, who 
 might cateh those poor maddened creatures as 
 in a trap — without an effort on his part to 
 bring them to reason. And it was worse than 
 unfair for them to set on him as they threaten- 
 ed. I would do it again, let who will say what 
 they like of me. If I saved one blow, one cruel, 
 angry action, that might otherwise have been 
 committed, I did a, woman's work. Let them 
 insult my maiden pride as they will — I walk 
 pure before God I" 
 
 She looked up, and a noble peace seemed to 
 descend and calm her face, till it was " stiller 
 than chiseled marble." 
 
 Dixon came in : 
 
 "If you please, Miss Margaret, here's the 
 water-bed from Mrs. Thornton's. It's too late 
 
 for to-night, I'm afraid, for missus is nearly 
 asleep ; but it will do nicely for to-morrow." 
 
 "Very," said Margaret. "You must send 
 our best thanks." 
 
 Dixon left the room for a moment. 
 
 " If you please, Miss Margaret, he says he's 
 to ask particular how you are. I think he must 
 mean missus ; but he says his last words were 
 to ask how Miss Hale was." 
 
 "Me!" said Margaret, drawing herself up. 
 " I am quite well. Tell him I am perfectly 
 well." But her complexion was as deadly 
 white as her handkerchief; and her head ached 
 intensely. 
 
 Mr. Hale now came in. He had left his sleep- 
 ing wife ; and wanted, as Margaret saw, to be 
 amused and interested by something that she 
 was to tell him. "With sweet patience did she 
 bear her pain, without a word of complaint;' 
 and rummaged up numberless small subjects 
 for conversation — all except the riot, and that 
 she never named once. It turned her sick to 
 think of it. 
 
 " Good-night, Margaret. I have every chance 
 of a good night myself, and you are looking 
 very pale with your watching. I shall call 
 Dixon if your mother needs any thing. Do you 
 go to bed, and sleep like a top; for I'm sure 
 you need it, poor child !" 
 
 " Good-night, papa." 
 
 She let her color go — the forced smile fade 
 away — the eyes grow dull with heavy pain. 
 She released her strong will from its laborious 
 task. Till morning she might feel ill and weary. 
 
 She lay down and never stirred. To mpve 
 hand or foot, or even so much as one finger, 
 would have been an exertion beyond the pow- 
 ers of either volition or motion. She was so 
 tired, so stunned, that she thought she never 
 slept at all; her feverish thoughts passed and 
 repassed the boundary between sleeping and 
 waking, and kept their own miserable identity. 
 She could not be alone, prostrate, powerless as 
 she was — a cloud of faces looked up at her,' 
 giving her no idea of fierce vivid anger, or of 
 personal danger, but a deep sense of shame that- _ 
 she should thus be the object of universal re- 
 gard — a sense of shame so acute that it seemed 
 as if she would fain have burrowed into the 
 earth to hide herself, and yet could not escape 
 out of that unwinking glare of many eyes. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 The next morning, Margaret dragged herself 
 up — thankful that the night was over — unre- 
 freshed, yet rested. All had gone well through 
 the house : her mother had only wakened once. 
 A little breeze was stirring in the hot air ; and 
 though there were no trees to show the playful 
 tossing movement caused by the wind among 
 the leaves, Margaret knew how, somewhere or 
 another, by wayside, in copses, or in thick green 
 woods, there was a pleasant, murmuring, dan- 
 cing sound — a rushing and falling noise, the 
 very thought of which was an echo of distant 
 gladness in her heart. 
 
 She sat at her work in Mrs. Hale's room,. 
 As soon as that forenoon slumber was overlie 
 would help her mother to dress. Aftej^nner, 
 
76 
 
 NORTH AND SOOTH. 
 
 she -would go and see Bessy Higgins. She would 
 banish all recollection of the Thornton family 
 — no need to think of them- till they absolutely 
 stood before her in flesh and blood. But, of 
 course, the effort not to think of them brought 
 them only the more strongly before her; and 
 the hot flush came over her pale face from time 
 to time, sweeping it into color, as a sunbeam 
 from between watery clouds comes swiftly mov- 
 ing over the sea. 
 
 Dixon opened the door very softly, and stole 
 on tiptoe up to Margaret, sitting by the shaded 
 window. 
 
 " Mr. Thornton, Miss Margaret. He is in the 
 drawing-room." 
 
 Margaret dropped her sewing. 
 
 " Did he ask for me ? Is not papa come in ?" 
 
 "He asked for you, miss; and master is 
 out." 
 
 "Very well, I will come," said Margaret, j 
 quietly. But she lingered strangely. 
 
 Mr. Thornton stood by one of the windows, 
 with his back to the door, apparently absorbed 
 in watching something in the street. But, in 
 truth, he was afraid of himself. His heart beat 
 thick at the thought of her coming. He could 
 not forget the touch of her arms around his 
 neck, impatiently felt as it had been at the 
 time ; but now the recollection of her clinging 
 defense of him seemed to thrill him through 
 and through — to melt away every resolution, 
 all power of self-control, as if it were wax be- 
 fore a fire. He dreaded lest he should go for- 
 ward to meet her with his arms held out in mute 
 entreaty that she would come and nestle there, 
 as she had done, all unheeded, the day before, 
 but never unheeded again. His heart throbbed 
 loud and quick. Strong man as he was, he 
 trembled at the anticipation of what he had to 
 say, and how it might be received. She might 
 droop, and flush, and fiutteT to his arms, as to 
 her natural home and resting-place. One mo- 
 ment he glowed with impatience at the thought 
 that she might do this — the next he feared a 
 passionate rejection, the very idea of which 
 withered up his future with so deadly a blight 
 that he refused to think of it He was startled 
 by the sense of the presence of some one else in 
 the room. He turned round. She had come in 
 so gently, that he had never heard her; the 
 street noises had been more distinct to his inat- 
 tentive ear than her slow movements in her soft 
 muslin gown. 
 
 She stood by the table, not offering to sit down. 
 Her eyelids were dropped half over her eyes ; 
 her teeth were shut, not compressed; her lips 
 were just parted over them, allowing the white 
 line to be seen between their curve. Her slow, 
 deep breathings dilated her thin and beautiful 
 nostrils; it was the only motion visible on her 
 countenance. The fine-grained skin, the oval 
 cheek, the rich outline of her mouth, its corners 
 deep set in dimples — were all wan and pale to- 
 day; the loss of their usual natural healthy 
 color being made more evident by the heavy 
 shadow of the dark hair, brought down upon the 
 temples to hide all sign of the blow she had re- 
 ceived. Her head, for all its drooping eyes, 
 was thrown a little back in the old proud atti- 
 - tude. Her long arms hung motionless by her 
 srd-es. Altogether she looked like some prisoner 
 falsely Recused of a crime that she loathed and 
 
 despised, and from which she was too indignant 
 to justify herself. 
 
 Mr. Thornton made a hasty step or two for- 
 ward ; recovered himself, and went with quiet 
 firmness to the door (which she had left open), 
 and shut it. Then he came back, and stood op- 
 posite to her for a moment, receiving the gen- 
 eral impression of her beautiful presence, before 
 he dared to disturb it, perhaps to repel it, by 
 what he had to say. 
 
 "Miss Hale, I was very ungrateful yester- 
 day—" 
 
 " You had nothing to be grateful for," said 
 she, raising her eyes, and looking full and 
 straight at him. " You mean, I suppose, that 
 you believe you ought to thank me for what I 
 did." In spite of herself — in defiance of her 
 anger- — the thick blushes came all over her face, 
 and burnt into her very eyes; which fell not 
 nevertheless from their grave and steady look. 
 "It was only a natural instinct, any woman 
 would have done just the same. We all feel 
 the sanctity of our sex as a high privilege when 
 we see danger. I ought rather," said she, hastily, 
 " to apologize to you for having said thought- 
 less words which sent you down into the dan- 
 ger." 
 
 "It was not your words ; it was th e truth 
 that they conveyed, pungently as it was ex- 
 pressed. But you shall not drive me off upon 
 that, and so escape the expression of my deep 
 gratitude, my — " he was on th« verge now ; he 
 would not speak in the haste of his hot passion ; 
 he would weigh each word. He would ; and 
 his will was triumphant. He stopped in mid 
 career. 
 
 " I do not try to escape from any thing," said 
 she. " I simply say, that you owe me no grati- 
 tude; and I may add, that any expression of it 
 will be painful to me, because I do not feel that 
 I deserve it. Still , if it will relieve you from 
 even a fancied obligation, speak on." 
 
 "I do not want to be relieved from any ob- 
 ligation," Baid he, goaded by her calm manner. 
 "Fancied, or not fancied — I question not my- 
 self to know which — I choose to believe I owe 
 my very life to you — ay — smile, and think it 
 an exaggeration if 3'ou will. I believe it, be- 
 cause it adds a value to that life to think — oh, 
 Miss Hale!" continued he, lowering his voice 
 to such a tender intensity of passion that she 
 shivered and trembled before him, " to think 
 circumstance so wrought, that whenever I ex- 
 ult in existence henceforward, I may say to my- 
 self, 'All this gladness in life, all honest pride 
 in doing my work in the world, all this keen 
 sense of being, I owe to her.' And it doubles 
 the gladness, it makeB the pride glow, it sharp- 
 ens the sense of existence till I hardly know if 
 it is pain or pleasure, to think that I owe it to 
 one — nay, you must, you shall hear" — said he, 
 stepping forward with stern determination — 
 "to one whom I love as I do not believe man 
 ever loved woman before." He held her hand 
 tight in his. He panted as he listened for what 
 should come. He threw the hand away with 
 indignation as he heard her icy tone ; for icy it 
 was, though the words came faltering out, as if 
 she knew not where to find them. 
 
 " Your way of speaking shocks me. It is 
 blasphemous. I can not help it if that is my 
 fisrt feeling. It might not be so, I dare say, if 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 11 
 
 I understood the kind of feeling you describe. 
 I do not want to vex you ; and besides, we must 
 speak gently, for mamma is asleep, but your 
 whole manner offends me — " 
 
 "How!" exclaimed he. "Offends you! I 
 am indeed most unfortunate." 
 
 " Yes !" said she, with recovered dignity. " I 
 do feel offended ; and I think justly. You seem 
 to think that my conduct of yesterday" — again 
 the deep carnation blush, but this time with 
 eyes kindling with .indignation rather than 
 shame — " was a personal act between you and 
 me ; and that you may come and thank me for 
 it, instead of perceiving, as a gentleman would 
 — yes! a gentleman," she repeated, in allusion 
 to their former conversation about that word, 
 " that any woman, worthy of the name of wo- 
 man, would come forward to shield with her 
 reverenced helplessness, a man in danger from 
 the violence of numbers." 
 
 " And the gentleman thus rescued is forbid- 
 den the relief of thanks I" he broke in contempt- 
 uously. "I am a man. I claim the right of 
 expressing my feelings." 
 
 " And I yielded to the right ; simply saying 
 that you gave me pain by .insisting upon it, 
 she replied proudly. " But you seem to have 
 imagined that I was not merely guided by wo- 
 manly instinct, but" — and here the passionate 
 tears (kept down for long, struggled with ve- 
 hemently) came up into her eyes, and choked 
 her voice — " but that I was prompted by some 
 particular feeling for you — you I Why, there 
 was not a man — not a poor desperate man in 
 all that crowd — for whom I had not more sym- 
 pathy — for whom I should not have done what 
 little I eould more heartily." 
 
 " You may speak on, Miss Hale. I am aware 
 of all these misplaced sympathies of yours. I 
 now believe that it was only your innate sense 
 of oppression — yes; I, though a master, may 
 be oppressed — that made you act so nobly as 
 you did. I know you despise me ; allow me to 
 say, it is because you do not understand me." 
 
 "I do not care to understand," she replied, 
 taking hold of the table to steady herself; for 
 she thought him cruel — as, indeed, he was — and 
 she was weak with her indignation. 
 
 -'No, I see you do not. You are unfair and 
 unjust." 
 
 Margaret compressed her lips. She would 
 not speak in answer to such accusations. But, 
 for all that — for all his savage words, he could 
 have thrown himself at her feet, and kissed the 
 hem of her garment. She did not speak ; she 
 did not move. The tears of wounded pride fell 
 hot and fast. He waited awhile, longing for 
 her to say something, even a taunt to which he 
 might reply. But she was silent. He took up 
 his hat. 
 
 " One word more. You look as if you thought 
 it tainted you to be loved by me. You can not 
 avoid it. Nay, I, if I would, can not cleanse 
 you from it. But I would not, if I could. I 
 have never loved any woman before ; my life 
 has been too busy, my thoughts too much ab- 
 sorbed with other things. Now I love, and I 
 will love. But do not be afraid of too much 
 expression on my part." 
 
 " I am not afraid," she replied, lifting herself 
 straight up. " No one yet has ever dared to be 
 impertinent to me, and no one ever shall. But, 
 
 Mr. Thornton, you have been very kind to my 
 father," said she, changing her whole tone and 
 bearing to a most womanly softness. " Don't 
 let us go on making each other angry. Pray 
 don't!" He took no notice of her words; he 
 occupied himself in smoothing the nap of his 
 hat with his coat-sleeve for half a minute or so ; 
 and then, rejecting her offered hand, and mak- 
 ing as if he did not see her grave look of regret, 
 he turned abruptly away, and left the room. 
 Margaret caught one glance at his face before 
 he went. 
 
 When he was gone, she thought she had seen 
 the gleam of washed tears in his eyes ; and that 
 turned her proud dislike into something differ- 
 ent and kinder, if nearly as painful — self-re- 
 proach for having caused such mortification to 
 any one. 
 
 " But how could I help it?" asked sheof her- 
 self. " I never liked him. I was civil ; but I 
 took no trouble to conceal my indifference. In- 
 deed, I never thought about myself or him, so 
 my manners must have shown the truth. All, 
 till yesterday, he might mistake. But that is 
 his fault, not mine. I would do it again, if need 
 were, though it does lead me into all this shame 
 and trouble." 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 Margaret began to wonder if all offers were 
 as unexpected beforehand — as distressing at the 
 time of their occurrence, as the two she had 
 had. An involuntary comparison between Mr. 
 Lennox and Mr. Thornton arose in her mind. 
 She had been sorry that an expression of any 
 other feeling than friendship had been lured 
 out by circumstances from Henry Lennox. That 
 regret was the predominant feeling on the first 
 occasion of her receiving a proposal. She had 
 not felt so stunned — so impressed as she did 
 now, when echoes of Mr. Thornton's voice yet 
 lingered about the room. In Lennox's case, he 
 seemed for a moment to have slid over the 
 boundary between friendship and love; and 
 the instant afterward to regret it nearly as 
 much as she did, although for different reasons. 
 In Mr. Thornton's case, as far as Margaret knew 
 of it, there was no intervening stage of friend- 
 ship. Their intercourse had been one contin- 
 ued series of opposition. Their opinions clash- 
 ed ; and indeed, she had never perceived that 
 he had cared for her opinions, as belonging to 
 her, the individual. As far as they defied his 
 rock-like power of character, his pasBion- 
 etrength, he seemed to throw them off from 
 him with contempt, until she felt the weariness 
 of the exertion of making useless protests ; and 
 now he had come, in this 6trange, wild, pas- 
 sionate way, to make known his love! For, 
 although at first it had struck her that his 
 offer was forced and goaded out of him by 
 sharp compassion for the exposure she had 
 made of herself — which he, like others, might 
 misunderstand — yet, even before he left the 
 room — and certainly, not five minutes after, 
 the clear conviction dawned upon her, shined 
 bright upon her, that he did love her; that he 
 had. loved her; that he would love her. And 
 she shrank and shuddered as under the fascina- 
 
78 
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 tion of some great power, repugnant to her 
 whole previous life. She crept away, and hid 
 from his idea. But it was of no use. To par- 
 ody a line out of Fairfax's Tasso — 
 
 His strong idea wandered through her thought. 
 
 She disliked him the more for having mastered 
 her inner will. How dared he say that he 
 would love her still, even though she shook 
 him off with contempt? She wished she had 
 spoken more — stronger. Sharp, decisive speech- 
 es came thronging into her mind, now that it 
 was too late to utter them. The deep impres- 
 sion made by the interview was like that of 
 a horror in a dream; that will not leave the 
 room, although we waken up, and rub our eyes, 
 and force a stiff, rigid smile upon our lips. It 
 is there — there, cowering and gibbering with 
 fixed, ghastly eyes in some corner of the cham- 
 ber, listening to hear if we dare to breathe of 
 its presence to any one. And we dare not; 
 poor cowards that we are I 
 
 And so she shuddered away from the threat 
 of his enduring love. What did he mean? 
 Had 6he not the power to daunt him? She 
 would see. It was mor;e daring than became 
 a man to threaten her so. Did he ground it 
 upon the miserable yesterday? If need were, 
 she would do the same to-morrow — by a crip- 
 pled beggar, willingly and gladly — but by him, 
 she would do it just as bravely, in spite of his 
 deductions, and the cold slime of women's im- 
 pertinence. She did it because it was light, 
 and simple, and true, to save where she could 
 save; even to try to save. "Fais ce que dois, 
 advienne que pourra." 
 
 Hitherto she had not stirred from where he 
 had left her; no outward circumstances had 
 roused her out of the trance of thought in which 
 she had been plunged by his last words, and 
 by the look of his deep, intent, passionate eyes, 
 as their flames had made her own fall before 
 them. She went to the window, and threw it 
 open, to dispel the oppression which hung 
 around her. Then she went and opened the 
 door, with a sort of impetuous wish to shake 
 off the recollection of the past hour, in the com- 
 pany of others, or in active exertion. But all 
 was profoundly hushed in the noonday stillness 
 of a house, where an invalid catches the unre- 
 freshing sleep that is denied to the night-hours. 
 Margaret would not be alone. "What should 
 she do ? "Go and see Bessy Higgins, of course," 
 thought she, as the recollection of the message 
 sent the night before flashed into her mind. 
 And away she went. 
 
 When she got there, she found Bessy lying 
 on the settle, moved close to the fire, though 
 the day was sultry and oppressive. She was 
 laid down quite flat, as if resting languidly 
 after some paroxysm of pain. Margaret felt 
 sure she ought to have the greater freedom of 
 breathing which a more sitting posture would 
 procure; and without a word she raised her 
 up, and so arranged the pillows, that Bessy 
 was more at ease, though very languid. 
 
 " I thought I should na' ha' seen yo again," 
 said she, at last, looking wistfully in Margaret's 
 face. 
 
 " I'm afraid you're much worse. But I could 
 not have come yesterday, my mother was so 
 ill — for many reasons," said Margaret, coloring. 
 
 "Yo'd m'appen think I went beyond my 
 place in sending Mary for yo. But the wran- 
 glin' and the loud voices had just torn me to 
 pieces, and I thought when father left, oh ! if I 
 could just hear her voice, reading me some 
 words o' peace and promise, I could die away 
 into the silence and rest o' God, just as a babby 
 is hushed up to sleep by its mother's lullaby." 
 
 " Shall I read you a chapter, no w ?" 
 
 "Ay, do I M'appen I sha'n't listen to th' 
 sense, at first ; it will seem far away — but when 
 yo come to words I like — to the comforting 
 texts — it will seem close in my ear, and going 
 through me, as it were." 
 
 Margaret began. Bessy tossed to and fro. 
 If by an effort she attended for a moment, it 
 seemed as though she were convulsed into 
 double restlessness the next. At last she burst 
 out: "Don't go on reading. It's no use. I'm 
 blaspheming all the time in my mind, wi' think- 
 ing angrily on what canna be helped. Yo'd 
 hear of th' riot, m'appen, yesterday, at Marl- 
 borough Mills? Thornton's factory, yo know." 
 
 "Your father was not there, was Tie?" said 
 Margaret, coloring deep. 
 
 " Not he. He'd ha' given his right hand if 
 it had never come to pass. It's that that's fret- 
 ting me. He's fairly knocked down in his mind 
 by it. It's no use telling him fools will always 
 break out o' bounds. Yo never saw a man so 
 downhearted as he is." 
 
 "But, why!" asked Margaret. "I don't un- 
 derstand." 
 
 " Why, yo see, he's a committee-man on this 
 special strike. Th' Union appointed him be- 
 cause — though I say it as should not say it — 
 he's reckoned a deep chap, and true to th' back- 
 bone. And he and t'other committee-men laid 
 their plans. They were to hou'd together 
 through thick and thin; what the major part 
 thought, t' others were to think, whether they 
 would or no. And above all, there was to be 
 no going again the law of the land. Folk would 
 go with them if they saw them striving and 
 starving wi' dumb patience ; but if there was 
 once any noise o' fighting and struggling — even 
 wi' knobsticks — all was up, as they knew by 
 th' experience of many, and many a time be- 
 fore. They would try and get speech o' th' 
 knobsticks, and coax 'em, and reason wi' 'em, 
 and m'appen warn 'em off — but whatever came, 
 Committee charged all members o' th' Union 
 to lie down and die, if need were, without 
 striking a blow ; and then they reckoned they 
 were sure o' carrying th' public with them. 
 And beside all that, Committee knew they were 
 right in their demand, and they did not want 
 to have right all mixed up wi' wrong, till folk 
 can't separate it, no more nor I can th' physic- 
 powder from th' jelly yo gave me to mix it in; 
 jelly is much the biggest, but powder tastes it 
 all through. Well, I've told yo at length about 
 this'n, but I'm tired out. Yo just think for 
 yo'rsel' what it mun be for father to have a' 
 his work undone, and by such a fool as Boucher, 
 who must needs go right again the orders of 
 Committee, and ruin th' strike, just as bad 
 as if he meant to be a Judas. Eh! but fa- 
 ther giv'd it him last night ! He went so far 
 as to say he'd go and tell police where they 
 might find th' ringleader o' th' riot ; he'd give 
 him up to th' null-owners to do what they 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 79 
 
 would wi' him. He'd show the world that th' 
 real leaders o' th' strike were not such as Bou- 
 cher, but steady, thoughtful men ; good hands, 
 and good citizens, who were friendly to law 
 and judgment, and would uphold order; who 
 only wanted their right wage, and would not 
 work, even though they starved, till they got 
 them ; but who would ne'er injure property or 
 life. For," dropping her voice, "they do say 
 that Boucher threw a stone at Thornton's sis- 
 ter, that welly killed her." 
 
 " That's not true," Baid Margaret. " It was 
 not Boucher that threw the stone" — she went 
 first red, then white. 
 
 " Yo'd be there then, were yo?" asked Bessy, 
 languidly; for, indeed, she had spoken with 
 many pauses, as if speech was unusually diffi- 
 cult to her. 
 
 "Yes. Never mind. Go on. Only it was 
 not Boucher that threw the stone. But what 
 did he answer to your father ?" 
 
 "He did na' speak words. He were all in 
 such a tremble wi' spent passion, I could na' 
 bear to look at him. I heard his breath coming 
 quick, and at one time I thought he were sob- 
 bing. But when father said he'd give him up 
 to police, he gave a great cry, and struck father 
 on th' face wi' his closed fist, and he off like 
 lightning. Father were stunned wi' the blow 
 at first, for all Boucher were weak wi' passion 
 and wi' clemming. He sat down a bit, and put 
 his hand afore his eyes ; and then made for th' 
 door. I dunno' where I got strength, but I 
 threw mysel' off th' settle, and clung to him. 
 'Father, father!' said I. 'Thou'lt never go 
 peach on that poor clemmed man. I'll never 
 leave go on thee, till thou sayst thou wunnot. 
 ' Dunnot be a fool,' says he, ' words come readier 
 than deeds to most men. I never thought o' 
 telling th' police on him; though by G — , he 
 deserves it, and I should na' ha' minded if some 
 one else had done the dirty work, and got him 
 clapped up. But, now he has strueken me, I 
 could do it less nor ever, for it would be getting 
 other men to take up my quarrel. But if ever 
 he gets well o'er this clemming, and is in good 
 condition, he and I will have an up and down 
 fight, purring an' a', and I'll see what I can do 
 for him.' And so father shook me off — for, in- 
 deed, I was low and faint enough, and his face 
 was all clay white, where it weren't bloody, and 
 turned me sick to look at. And I know not if 
 I slept or waked, or were in a dead swoon, 
 till Mary come in ; and I telled her to fetch yo 
 to me. And now dunnot talk to me, but just 
 read out th' chapter. I'm easier in my mind for 
 having spit it out; but I want some thoughts 
 of the world that's far away to take the weary 
 taste of it out o' my mouth. Read me — not a 
 sermon chapter, but a story chapter; they've 
 pictures in them, which I see when my eyes are 
 shut. Read about the New Heavens, and the 
 New Earth ; and m'appen I'll forget this." 
 
 Margaret read in her soft, low voice. Though 
 Bessy's eyes were shut, she was listening for 
 some time, for the moisture of tears gathered 
 heavy on her eyelashes. At last she slept, with 
 many starts, and muttered pleadings. Margaret 
 covered her up, and left her, for she had an un- 
 easy consciousness that she might be wanted 
 at home, and yet, until now, it seemed cruel to 
 leave the dying girl. 
 
 Mrs. Hale was in the drawing-room on her 
 daughter's return. It was Que of her better 
 days, and she was full of praises of the water- 
 bed. It had been more like the beds at Sir 
 John Beresford's than any thing she had slept 
 on since. She did not know how it was, but 
 people seemed to have lost the art of making 
 the same kind of beds as they used to do in her 
 youth. One would think it was easy enough ; 
 there was the same kind of feathers to be had, 
 and yet somehow, till this last night, she did 
 not know when she had had a good sound rest- 
 ing sleep. 
 
 Mr. Hale suggested that something of the 
 merits of the feather-beds of former days might 
 be attributed to the activity of youth, which 
 gave a relish to rest; but this idea was not 
 kindly received by his wife. 
 
 " No, indeed, Mr. Hale, it was those beds at 
 Sir John's. Now, Margaret, you're young 
 enough, and go about in the day ; are the beds 
 comfortable ? I appeal to you. Do they give 
 you a feeling of perfect repose when you lie 
 down upon them; or rather, don't you toss 
 about, and try in vain to find an easy position, 
 and waken in the morning as tired as when you 
 went to bed?" 
 
 Margaret laughed. "To tell the truth, mam- 
 ma, I've never thought about my bed at all, 
 what kind it is. I am so sleepy at night, that 
 if I only lie down any where, I nap off directly. 
 So I don't think I'm a competent witness. But 
 then, you know, I never had the opportunity 
 of trying Sir John Beresford's beds. I never 
 was at Oxenham." 
 
 "Were not you? Oh, nol to be sure. It 
 was poor darling Fred I took with me, I re- 
 member. I only went to Oxenham once after 
 I was married — to your Aunt Shaw's wedding ; 
 and poor little Fred was the baby then. And 
 I know Dixon did not like changing from lady's 
 maid to nurse, and I was afraid that if I took 
 her near her old home, and among her own 
 people, she might want to leave me. But poor 
 baby was taken ill at Oxenham, with his teeth- 
 ing; and, what with my being a great deal 
 with Anna just before her marriage, and not 
 being very strong myself, Dixon had more of 
 the charge of him than she ever had before ; 
 and it made her so fond of him, and she was so 
 proud when he would turn away from every 
 one and cling to her, that I don t believe she 
 ever thought of leaving me again ; though it 
 was very different from what she'd been ac- 
 customed to. Poor Fred ! Every body loved 
 him. He was born with the gift of winning 
 hearts. It makes me think very badly of Cap- 
 tain Reid when I know that he disliked my 
 own dear boy. I think it a certain proof he 
 had a bad heart. Ah I Your poor father, 
 Margaret. He has left the room. He can't 
 bear to hear Fred spoken of." 
 
 " I love to hear about him, mamma. Tell 
 me all you like; you never can tell me too 
 much. Tell me what he was like as a baby." 
 
 " Why I Margaret, you must not be hurt, but 
 he was much prettier than you were. I re- 
 member, when I first saw you in Dixon's arms, 
 I said, 'Dear, what an ugly little thing I' And 
 she said, ' It's not every s child that's like Master 
 Fred, bless him ! Dear I how well I remember 
 it. Then I could have had Fred in my arms 
 
80 
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 every minute of the day, and his cot -was close 
 by my bed ; and now, now — Margaret — I don't 
 know where my boy is, and sometimes I think 
 I shall never see him again." 
 
 Margaret sat down by her mother's sofa on 
 a little stool, and softly took hold of her hand, 
 oaressing it and kissing it, as if to comfort. 
 Mrs. Hale cried without restraint. At last, she 
 sat straight, stiff up on the sofa, and turning 
 round to her daughter, she said with tearful, al- 
 most solemn earnestness, "Margaret, if I can 
 get better — if God lets me have a chance of re- 
 covery, it must be through seeing my son Fred- 
 erick once more. It will waken up all the poor 
 springs of health left in me." 
 
 She paused, and seemed to try and gather 
 strength for something more yet to be said. Her 
 voice was choked as she went on ; was quaver- 
 ing as with the contemplation of some strange, 
 yet closely-present idea. 
 
 " And, Margaret, if I am to die — if I am one 
 of those appointed to die before many weeks 
 are over, I must see my child first. I can not 
 - think how it must be managed ; but I charge 
 you, Margaret, as you yourself hope for comfort 
 m your last illness, bring him to me that I may 
 bless him. Only for five minutes, Margaret. 
 There could be no danger in five minutes. Oh, 
 Margaret, let me see him before I die !" 
 
 Margaret did not think of any thing that 
 might be utterly unreasonable in this speech : we 
 do not look for reason or logic in the passionate 
 entreaties of those who are sick unto death ; we 
 are stuqg with the recollection of a thousand 
 slighted opportunities of fulfilling the wishes of 
 those who will soon pass away from among us : 
 and do they ask us for the future happiness of 
 our lives, we lay it at their feet, and will it away 
 from us. But this wish of Mrs. Hale's was 60 
 natural, so just, so right to both parties, that 
 Margaret felt as if, on Frederick's account as 
 well as on her mother's, she ought to overlook 
 all intermediate chances of danger, and pledge 
 herself to Jo every thing in her power for its 
 realization. The large pleading dilated eyes 
 were fixed upon her wistfully, steady in their 
 gaze, though the poor white lips quivered like 
 those of a child. Margaret gently rose up and 
 stood opposite to her frail mother ; so that she 
 might gather the secure fulfillment of her wish 
 from the calm steadiness of her daughter's 
 face. 
 
 " Mamma, I will write to-night, and tell Fred- 
 erick what you say. I am as sure that he will 
 come directly to us, as I am sure of my life. 
 Be easy, mamma, you shall see him as far as 
 any thing earthly can be promised." 
 
 "You will write to-night! Oh, Margaret! 
 the post goes out at five — you will write by it, 
 won't you ? I have so few hours left — I feel, 
 dear, ae if I should not recover, though some- 
 times your father over-persuades me into hop- 
 ing ; you will write directly, won't you ? Don't 
 lose a single post ; for just by that very post I 
 may miss him." 
 
 " But, mamma, papa is out." 
 
 "Papa is out! and what then? Do you 
 mean that he would deny me this last wish, 
 Margaret? Why, I should not be ill — be 
 dying — if he had not taken me away from 
 Helstone to this unhealthy, smoky, sunless 
 place." 
 
 " Oh, mamma I" said Margaret. 
 
 " Yes ; it is so, indeed. He knows it himBelf ; 
 he has said so many a time. He would do any 
 thing for me ; you don't mean he would refuse 
 me this last wish — prayer, if you will. And, 
 indeed, Margaret, the longing to see Frederick 
 stands between me and God. I can not pray till 
 I have this one thing ; indeed, I can not. Don't 
 lose time, dear, dear Margaret. Write by this 
 very next post. Then he may be here — here in 
 twenty-two days! For he is sure to come. 
 No cords or chains can keep him. In twenty- 
 two days I shall see my boy." She fell back, 
 and for a short time she took no notice of the 
 fact that Margaret sat motionless, her hand 
 shading her eyes. 
 
 " You are not writing !" said her mother at 
 last. " Bring me some pens and paper ; I will 
 try and write myself." She sat up, trembling 
 all over with feverish eagerness. Margaret took 
 her hand down and looked at her mother sad- 
 
 " Only wait till papa comes in. Let us ask 
 him how best to do it." 
 
 " You promised, Margaret, not a quarter of 
 an hour ago — you said he should come." 
 
 "And 60 he shall, mamma; don't cry, my 
 own dear mother. I'll write here, now — you 
 shall see me write — and it shall go by this very 
 post ; and if papa thinks fit, he can write again 
 when he comes in — it is only a day's delay. Oh, 
 mamma, don't cry so pitifully — it cuts me to 
 the heart." 
 
 Mrs. Hale could not stop her tears; they 
 eame hysterically ; and, in truth, she made no 
 effort to control them, but rather called up all 
 the pictures of the happy past, and the probable 
 future — painting the scene when she should lie 
 a corpse, with the son she had longed to see in 
 life weeping over her, and she unconscious of 
 his presence — till she was melted by self-pity 
 into a state of sobbing and exhaustion that made 
 Margaret's heart ache. But at last she was 
 calm, and greedily watched her daughter, as she 
 began her letter ; wrote it with swift, urgent en- 
 treaty; sealed it up hurriedly, for fear her 
 mother should ask to see it : and then, to make 
 security most sure, at Mrs. Hale's own bidding, 
 took it herself to the post-office. She was com- 
 ing home when her father overtook her. 
 
 "And where have you been, my pretty 
 maid 1" asked he. 
 
 "To the post-office — with a letter; a letter 
 to Frederick. Oh, papa, perhaps I have done 
 wrong ; but mamma was seized with such a pas- 
 sionate yearning to see him — she said it would 
 make her well again — and then she said that she 
 must 6ee him before she died — I can not tell 
 you how urgent she was. Did I do wrong ?" 
 
 Mr. Hale did not reply at first. Then he 
 said: 
 
 " You should have waited till I came in, Mar- 
 garet." 
 
 " I tried to persuade her — " and then she was 
 silent. 
 
 "I don't know," said Mr. Hale, after a pause. 
 " She ought to see him if she wishes it so much ; 
 for I believe it would do her much more good 
 than all the doctor's medicine — and perhaps 
 set her up altogether; but the danger to him, 
 I'm afraid, is very great." 
 
 " All these years since the mutiny, papa ?" 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 81 
 
 " Yes ; it is necessary, of course, for govern- 
 ment to take very stringent measures for the 
 repression of offenses against authority, more 
 particularly in the navy, where a commanding 
 officer needs to be surrounded in his men's eyes 
 with a vivid consciousness of all the power there 
 is at home to back him, and take up his cause, 
 and avenge any injuries offered to him, if need 
 be. Ah ! it's no matter to them how far their 
 authorities have tyrannized — galled hasty tem- 
 pers to madness — or if that can be any excuse 
 afterward, it is never allowed for in the first 
 instance ; they spare no expense, they send out 
 ships — they scour the seas to lay hold of the 
 offenders — the lapse of years does not wash out 
 the memory of the offense— it is a fresh and vi v- 
 id crime on the Admiralty books till it is blot- 
 ted out by blood." 
 
 " Oh, papa, what have I done? And yet it 
 seemed so right at the time. I'm sure Frederick 
 himself would run the risk." 
 
 " So he would ; so he should ! Nay, Marga- 
 ret, I'm glad it is done, though I durst not have 
 done it myself. I'm thankful it is as it is ; I 
 should have hesitated till perhaps it might have 
 been too late to do any good. Dear Margaret, 
 you have done what is right about it ; and the 
 end is beyond our control." 
 
 It was all very well ; but her father's ac- 
 count of the relentless manner in which mu- 
 tinies were punished made Margaret shiver 
 and creep. If she had decoyed her brother 
 home to blot out the memory of his error by 
 his blood! She saw her father's anxiety lay 
 deeper than the source of his latter cheering 
 words. She took his arm, and walked home 
 pensively and wearily by his side. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVL 
 
 When Mr. Thornton had left the house that 
 morning he was almost blinded by his baffled 
 passion. He was as dizzy as if Margaret, in- 
 stead of looking, and speaking, and moving 
 like a tender, graceful woman, had been a 
 sturdy fish- wife, and given him a sound blow 
 with her fists. He had positive bodily pain — 
 a violent headache, and a throbbing, intermit- 
 tent pulse. He could not bear the noise, the 
 garish light, the continued rumble and move- 
 ment of the street. He called himself a fool 
 for suffering so; and yet he could not, at the 
 moment, recollect the cause of his suffering, and 
 ,, whether it was adequate to the consequences 
 lit had produced. It would have been a relief 
 to him if he could have sat down and cried on 
 a door-ste,p by a little child who was raging 
 and Btorming, through his passionate tears, at 
 some injury he had received. He said to him- 
 self that he hated Margaret, but a wild, sharp 
 sensation of love cleft his dull thunderous feel- 
 ing like lightning, even as he, shaped the words 
 expressive of hatred. His greatest comfort 
 was in hugging his torment; and in feeling, as 
 he had indeed said to her, that though she 
 might despise him, contemn him, treat him with 
 her proud sovereign indifference, he did not 
 change one whit. She could not make him 
 change. He loved her, and would love her ; 
 and defy her, and this miserable bodily pain. 
 F 
 
 He stood still for a moment to make this 
 resolution firm and clear. There was an omni- 
 bus passing — going into the country ; the con- 
 ductor thought he was wishing for a place, and 
 stopped near the pavement. It was too much 
 trouble to apologize and explain ; so he mount- 
 ed upon it, and was borne away—past long 
 rows of houses — then past detached villas with 
 trim gardens, till they came to real country 
 hedge-rows, and, by-and-by, to a small country 
 town. Then every body got down ; and so did 
 Mr. Thornton, and because they walked away 
 he did so to. He went into the fields, walk- 
 ing briskly, because the Bharp motion relieved 
 his mind. He could remember all about it now ; 
 the pitiful figure he must have cut ; the absurd 
 way in which he had gone and done the very 
 thing he had so often agreed with himself in 
 thinking would be the most foolish thing in the 
 world; and had met with exactly the conse- 
 quences, which, in these wise moods, he had al- 
 ways foretold were certain to follow, if he ever 
 did make such a fool of himself. Was he be- 
 witched by those beautiful eyes, that soft, half- 
 open, sighing mouth which lay so close upon his 
 shoulder only yesterday ? He could not even 
 shake off the recollection that she had been 
 there ; that her arms had been round him, once 
 — if never again. He only caught glimpses of 
 her ; he did not understand her altogether. At 
 one time she was so brave, and at another so 
 timid ; now so tender, and then so haughty and 
 regal-proud. And then he thought over every 
 time he had ever seen her once again, by way 
 of finally forgetting her. He saw her in every 
 dress, in every mood, and did not know which 
 became her best. Even this morning, how mag- 
 nificent she had looked — her eyes flashing out 
 upon him at the idea that, because she had 
 shared his danger yesterday, she had cared for 
 him the least I 
 
 If Mr. Thornton was a fool in the morning, as 
 he assured himself at least twenty times he was, 
 he did not grow much wiser in the afternoon. 
 All that he gained, in return for his sixpenny 
 omnibus ride, was a more vivid conviction that 
 there never was, never could be, any one like 
 Margaret ; that she did not love him and never 
 would ; but that she — no I nor the whole world 
 — should never hinder him from loving her. 
 And so he returned to the little market-place, 
 and remounted the omnibus to return to Milton. 
 
 It was late in the afternoon when he was set 
 down, near his warehouse. The accustomed 
 places brought back the accustomed habits and 
 trains of thought. He knew how much he had 
 to do — more than his "usual work, owing to the 
 commotion of the day before. He had to see 
 his brother magistrates ; he had to complete the 
 arrangements, only half made in the morning, 
 for the comfort and safety of his newly-import- 
 ed Irish hands ; he had to secure them from all 
 chance of communication with the discontented 
 workpeople of Milton. Last of all, he had to 
 go home and encounter his mother. 
 
 Mrs. Thornton had sat in the dining-room all 
 day, every moment expecting the news of her 
 son's acceptance by Miss Hale. She had braced 
 herself up many and many a time, at some sud- 
 den noise in the house ; had caught up the half- 
 dropped work, and begun to ply her needle 
 diligently, though through dimmed spectaeleB, 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 and with au unsteady hand ; and many times 
 had the door opened, and some indifferent per- 
 son entered on some insignificant errand. Then 
 her rigid face unstiffened from its gray frost- 
 bound expression, and the features dropped 
 into the relaxed look of despondency, so unusual 
 to their sternness. She wrenched herself away 
 from the contemplation of all the dreary changes 
 that would be brought about to herself by her 
 son's marriage ; she forced her thoughts into the 
 accustomed household grooves. The newly- 
 married couple-to-be would need fresh house- 
 hold stocks of linen ; and Mrs. Thornton had 
 clothes-basket upon clothes-basket, full of table- 
 cloths and napkins, brought in, and began to 
 reckon up the store. There was some confusion 
 between what was hers, and consequently mark- 
 ed G. H. T. (for George and Hannah Thornton), 
 and what was her 6on's — bought with his mon- 
 ey, marked with his initials. Some of those 
 marked G. H. T. were Dutch damask of the old 
 kind, exquisitely fine; none were like them 
 now. Mrs. Thornton stood looking at them 
 long — they had been her pride when she was 
 first married. Then she knitted her brows, and 
 pinched and compressed her lips tight, and care- 
 fully unpicked the G. H. She went so far as 
 to search for the Turkey-red marking-thread to 
 put in the new initials ; but it was all used — 
 and she had no heart to send for any more just 
 yet. So she looked fixedly at vacancy ; a se- 
 ries of visions passing before her, in all of 
 which her son was the principal, the sole ob- 
 ject — her son, her pride, her property. Still he 
 did not come. Doubtless he was with Miss 
 Hale. The new love was displacing her already 
 from her place as first in his heart. A terrible 
 pain — a pang of vain jealousj' — shot through 
 her: she hardly knew if it was more physical 
 or mental ; but it forced her to sit down. In a 
 moment, she was up again as straight as ever — 
 a grim smile upon her face for the first time that 
 day, ready for the door opening, and the re- 
 joicing triumphant one, who should -never know 
 the sore regret his mother felt at his marriage. 
 In all this there was little thought enough of 
 the future daughter-in-law as an individual. 
 She was to be John's wife. To take Mrs. Thorn- 
 ton's place as mistress of the house was only one 
 of the rich consequences which decked out the 
 supreme glory ; all household plenty and com- 
 fort, all purple and fine linen, honor, love, obe- 
 dience, troops of friends, would all come as nat- 
 urally as jewels on a king's robe, and be as lit- 
 tle thought of for their separate value. To be 
 chosen by John would separate a kitchen-wench 
 from the rest of the world. And Miss Hale was 
 not so bad. If she had been a Milton lass, Mrs. 
 Thornton would have positively liked her. She 
 was pungent, and had taste, and spirit, and fla- 
 vor in her. True, she was sadly prejudiced, 
 and very ignorant; but that was to be expect- 
 ed from her southern breeding. A strange sort 
 of mortified comparison of Fanny with her, 
 went on in Mrs. Thornton's mind; and for once 
 she spoke harshly to her daughter; abused her 
 roundly; and then, as if by way of penance, 
 she took up Henry's Commentaries, and tried 
 to fix her attention on it, instead of pursuing 
 the employment she took pride and pleasure in, 
 and continuing her inspection of the table- 
 . ! in",n. 
 
 His step at last! She heard him, even while 
 she thought she was finishing a sentence ; while 
 her eye did pass over it, and her memory could 
 mechanically have repeated it word for word, 
 6he heard him come in at the hall-door. Her 
 quickened sense could interpret every sound of 
 motion: now he was at the hat-stand, now at 
 the very room-door. "Why did he pause? 
 Let her know the worst. 
 
 Yet her head was down over the book ; she 
 did not look up. He eame close to the table, and 
 stood still there, waiting till she should have 
 finished the paragraph which apparently ab- 
 sorbedher. By an effort she looked up. "'Well, 
 John?" 
 
 He knew what that little speech meant. But 
 he had steeled himself. He longed to reply 
 with a jest; the bitterness of his heart could 
 have uttered one, but his mother deserved bet- 
 ter of him. He came round behind her, so that 
 she could not see his looks, and, bending back 
 her gray, stony face, he kissed it, murmuring: 
 
 " No one loves me — no one cares for me 
 but you mother." 
 
 He turned away and stood leaning his head 
 against the mantle-piece, tears forcing them- 
 selves into his manly eyes. She stood up — she 
 tottered. For the first time in her life, the strong 
 woman tottered. She put her hands on his 
 shoulders ; she was a tall woman. She looked 
 into his face ; she made him look at her. 
 
 "Mother's love is given by God, John. It holds 
 fast forever and ever. A girl's love is like a 
 puff of smoke — it changes with every wind. 
 And she would not have you, my own lad, 
 would not she ?" She set her teeth; she show- 
 ed them like a dog for the whole length of her 
 mouth. He shook his head. 
 
 " I am not fit for her, mother ; I knew I was 
 not." 
 
 She ground out words between her closed 
 teeth. Ho could not hear what she said ; but 
 the look in her eyes interpreted it to be a curse 
 — if not as coarsely worded, as fell in intent as 
 ever was uttered. And yet her heart leapt up 
 high to know he was her own again. 
 
 "Mother !" said he, hurriedly, "I can not hear 
 a word against her. Spare me — spare mc! I 
 am very weak in my sore heart; I love her 
 yet; 1 love her more than ever." 
 
 "And I hate her," said Mrs. Thornton, in u 
 low, fierce voice. " I tried not to hate her when 
 she stood between you and me, because — I said 
 to myself— she will make him happy ; and I 
 would give my heart's blood to do that. But 
 now I hate her for your misery's sake. Yes, 
 John, it's no use hiding up your aching heart 
 from me. I am the mother that bore you, and 
 }-onr sorrow is my agony; and if you don't 
 hate her, I do." 
 
 " Then, mother, j-ou make me love her more. 
 She is unjustly treated by yon, and I must 
 make the balance even. But why do we talk 
 of love or hatred? She does not care for me, 
 and that is enough — too much. Let us never 
 name the subject again. It is the oxi\y thing 
 you can do for me in the matter. Let us never 
 name her." 
 
 " With all my heart. I only wish that she 
 and all belonging to her were swept back to 
 the place they came from." 
 
 He stood still, gazing into the fire for a min- 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 83 
 
 lite or two longer. Her dry dim eyes filled with 
 unwonted tears as she looked at him ; but she 
 seemed just as grim and quiet as usual when he 
 next spoke. 
 
 ' ' Warrants are out against three men for con- 
 spiracy, mother. The riot yesterday helped to 
 knock up the strike." 
 
 And Margaret's name was no more mentioned 
 between Mrs. Thornton and her son. They fell 
 back into their usual mode of talk — about facts, 
 not opinions, far less feelings. Their voices and 
 tones were calm and cold; a stranger might 
 have gone away and thought that he had never 
 seen such frigid indifference of demeanor be- 
 tween such near relations. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 Me. Thoknton went straight and hard into 
 all the interests of the following day. There 
 was a slight demand for finished goods ; and, 
 as it affected his branch of the trade, he took 
 advantage of it, and drove hard bargains. He 
 was sharp to the hour at the meeting- of his 
 brother magistrates — giving them the best as- 
 sistance of his strong sense, and his power of 
 seeing consequences at a glance, and so coming 
 to a rapid decision. Older men, men of long 
 standing in the town, men of far greater wealth 
 — realized and turned into land, while his was 
 all floating capital, engaged in his trade — looked 
 to him for prompt, ready wisdom. He was the 
 one deputed to see and arrange with the police 
 — to lead in all the requisite steps. And he 
 cared for their unconscious deference no more 
 than for the soft west wind, that scarcely made 
 the smoke from the great tall chimneys swerve 
 in its straight upward course. He was not 
 aware of the silent respect paid to him. If it 
 had been otherwise, he would have felt it as an 
 obstacle in his progress to the object he had in 
 view. As it was, he looked to the speedy ac- 
 complishment of that alone. It was his moth- 
 er's greedy ears that sucked in, from the wo- 
 men-kind of these magistrates and wealthy men, 
 how highly Mr. This or Mr. That thought of 
 Mr. Thornton ; that if he had not been there, 
 things would have gone on very differently — 
 very badly indeed. He swept off his business 
 right and left that day. It seemed as though 
 his deep mortification of yesterday, and the 
 stunned purposeless course of the hours after- 
 ward, had cleared away all the mists from his 
 ^intellect. He felt his power and reveled in it. 
 He could almost defy his heart. If he had 
 known it, he could have sung the song of the 
 miller who lived by the river Dee: 
 1 care for nobody — 
 Nobody cares for me. 
 
 The evidence against Boucher and other ring- 
 leaders of the riot was taken before him ; that 
 against the three others, for conspiracy, failed. 
 But he sternly charged the police to be on the 
 watch ; for the swift right arm of the law should 
 be in readiness to strike as soon as they could 
 prove a fault. And then he left the hot reeking 
 room in the borough court, and went out into 
 the fresher but still sultry street. It seemed 
 as though he gave way all at once ; he was so 
 languid that he could not control his thoughts ; 
 
 they would wander to her; they would bring 
 back the scene — not of his repulse and rejection 
 the day before, but the looks, the actions of the 
 day before that. He went along the crowded 
 streets mechanically, winding in and out among 
 the people, but never seeing them — almost sick 
 with longing for that one half-hour — that one 
 brief space of time when she clung to him and 
 her heart beat against his — to come once again. 
 " Why, Mr. Thornton I you're cuttingme very 
 coolly, I must say. And how is Mrs. Thornton ? 
 Brave weather this 1 We doctors don't like it, 
 I can tell you!" 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Dr. Donaldson. I really 
 did not see you. My mother's quite well, thank 
 you. It is a fine day, and good for the harvest, 
 I hope. If the wheat is well got in, we shall 
 have a brisk trade next year, whatever you 
 doctors have." 
 
 "Ay, ay. Each man for himself. Your bad 
 weather, and your bad times, are my good ones. 
 When trade is bad, there's more undermining 
 of health, and preparation for death, going on 
 among you Milton men than you're aware of." 
 " Not with me, Doctor. I'm made of iron. 
 The news of the worst bad debt I ever had 
 never made my pulse vary. This strike, which 
 affects me more than any one else in Milton — 
 more than Hamper — never comes near my ap- 
 petite. You must go elsewhere for a patient, 
 Doctor." 
 
 "By the way, you've recommended me a 
 good patient, poor lady ! Not to go on talking 
 in this heartless way, I seriously believe that 
 Mrs. Hale — that lady in Crampton, you know 
 — hasn't many weeks to live. I never had any 
 hope of cure, as I think I told you ; but I've 
 been seeing her to-day, and I think very badly 
 ofhar." 
 
 Mr. Thornton was silent The vaunted stead- 
 iness of pulse failed him for an instant. 
 
 "Can I do any thing, Doctor?" he asked, in 
 an altered voice. ." You know — you would see 
 that money is not very plentiful — are there 
 any comforts or dainties she ought to have !" 
 
 " No," replied the Doctor, shaking his head. 
 " She craves for fruit — she has a constant fever 
 on her; but jargonelle pears will do as well as 
 any thing, and there are quantities of them in 
 the market." 
 
 " You will tell me if there is any thing I can 
 do, I'm sure," replied Mr. Thornton. " I rely 
 upon you." 
 
 " Oh ! never fear ! I'll not spare your purse 
 — I know it's deep enough. I wish you'd give 
 me carte-blanehe for all my patients, and all 
 their wants," 
 
 But Mr. Thornton had no general benevo- 
 lence — no universal philanthropy; few event 
 would have given him credit for strong affec-f 
 tions. But he went straight to the first fruit- ' 
 shop in Milton, and chose out the bunch of' 
 purple grapes with the most delicate bloom upon ■ 
 them — the richest-colored peaches — the freshest 
 vine-leaves. They were packed into a basket, 
 and the shopman awaited the answer to his in- 
 quiry, "Where shall we send them to, sir?" 
 
 There was no reply. " To Marlborough Mills, 
 I suppose, sir ?" 
 
 " No !" Mr. Thornton said. " Give the basket 
 to me — I'll take it." 
 It took up both his hands to carry it; and 
 
84 
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 he had to pass through the busiest part of the 
 town for feminine shopping. Many a young 
 lady of his acquaintance turned to look after 
 him, and thought it strange to see him occupied 
 just like a porter or an errand-boy. 
 
 He was thinking, " I will not be daunted from 
 doing as I choose by the thought of her. I like 
 to take this fruit to the poor mother, and it is 
 simply right that I should. She shall never 
 scorn me out of doing what I please. A pretty 
 joke, indeed, if, for fear of a haughty girl, I 
 failed in doing a kindness to a man I liked! I 
 do it for Mr. Hale — I do it in defiance of her." 
 He went at an unusual pace, and was soon at 
 Crampton. He went up-stairs two steps at a 
 time, and entered the drawing-room before 
 Dixon could announce him — his face flushed, 
 his eyes shining with kindly earnestness. Mrs. 
 Hale lay on the sofa heated with fever. Mr. 
 Hale was reading aloud. Margaret was work- 
 ing on a low stool by her mother's side. Her 
 heart fluttered, if his did not, at this interview. 
 But he took no notice of her — hardly of Mr. 
 Hale himself; he went up straight with his 
 basket to Mrs. Hale, and said, in that subdued 
 and gentle tone which is so touching when used 
 by a robust man in full health speaking to a 
 feeble invalid — 
 
 "I met Dr. Donaldson, ma'am, and as he said 
 fruit would be good fur you, I have taken the 
 liberty- — the great liberty — of bringing you 
 some that seemed to me fine." Mrs. Hale was ex- 
 cessively surprised ; excessively pleased ; quite 
 in a tremble of eagerness. Mr. Hale with fewer 
 words expressed a deeper gratitude. 
 
 "Fetch a plate, Margaret — a basket — any 
 thing." Margaret stood up by the table, half 
 afraid of moving or making any noise to arouse 
 Mr. Thornton into a consciousness of her being 
 in the room. She thought it would be 60 awk- 
 ward for both to be brought into conscious 
 collision ; and fancied that, from her being on 
 a low seat at first, and now standing behind her 
 father, he had overlooked her in his haste. As 
 if he. did not feel the consciousness of her pres- 
 ence all over, though his eyes had never rested 
 on her ! 
 
 "I must go," said he, "I can not stay. If 
 you will forgive this liberty — my rough ways 
 — too abrupt, I fear — but I will be more gentle 
 next time. You will allow me the pleasure of 
 bringing you some fruit again, if I should see 
 any that is tempting. Good afternoon, Mr. 
 Hale. Good-by, ma'am." 
 
 He was gone. Not one word ; not one look 
 to Margaret. She believed that he had not seen 
 her. She went for a plate in silence, and lifted 
 the fruit out tenderly, with the points of her 
 delicate taper fingers. It was good of him to 
 bring it ; and after yesterday too I 
 
 "Oh! it is so delicious!" said Mrs. Hale, in 
 a feeble voice. " How kind of him to think of 
 me ! Margaret love, only taste these grapes ! 
 Was is not good of him?" 
 " Yes !" said Margaret, quietly. 
 "Margaret!" said Mrs. Hale, rather queru- 
 lously, " you won't like any thing Mr. Thornton 
 does. I never saw any body so prejudiced."-. 
 
 Mr. Hale had been peeling a peach for his 
 wife, and, cutting off a small piece for himself, 
 he said : 
 
 " If I had any prejudices, the gift of such de- 
 
 licious fruit as this would melt them all 
 
 away. 
 
 I have not tasted such fruit — no ! not even in 
 Hampshire — since I was a boy ; and to boys, I 
 fancy, all fruit is good. I remember eating 
 sloes and crabs with a relish. Do you remem- 
 ber the matted-up currant bushes, Margaret, 
 at the corner of the west- wall in the garden at 
 home!" 
 
 Did she not? did she not remember every 
 weather-stain on the old stone wall ; the gray 
 and yellow lichens that marked it liked a map; 
 the little crane's-bill that grew in the crevices I 
 She had been shaken by the events of the last 
 two days; her whole life just now was a strain 
 upon her fortitude ; and somehow, these care- 
 less words of her father's, touching on the re- 
 membrance of the sunny times of old, made her 
 start up, and, dropping her sewing on the 
 ground, she went hastily out of the room into 
 her own little chamber. She had hardly given 
 way to the first choking sob, when she became 
 aware of Dixon standing at her drawers, and 
 evidently searching for something. 
 
 "Bless me, miss! How you startled me! 
 Missus is not worse, is she? Is any thing the 
 matter ?" 
 
 "No, nothing. Only I'm silly, Dixon, and 
 want a glass of water. What are you looking 
 for? I keep my muslins in that drawer." 
 
 Dixon did not speak, but went on rummaging. 
 The scent of lavender came out and perfumed 
 the room. 
 
 At last Dixon found what she wanted ; what 
 it was Margaret could not see. Dixon faced 
 round, and spoke to her: 
 
 "Now I don't like telling you what I wanted, 
 because you've fretting enough to go through, 
 and I know you'll fret about this. I meant to 
 have kept it from you till night, maybe, or 
 such times as that." 
 
 "What is the matter ? Pray, tell me, Dixon, 
 at once." 
 
 " That young woman you go to see — Higgins, 
 I mean." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " Well ! she died this morning, and her sister 
 is here — come to beg a strange thing. It seems 
 the young woman who died had a fancy for 
 being buried in something of yours, and so the 
 6ister come to ask for it — and I was looking 
 for a night-cap that wasn't too good to give 
 away." 
 
 " Oh I let me find one," said Margaret, in the 
 midst of her tears. "Poor Bessy! I never 
 thought I should not see her again." 
 
 " Why, that's another thing. This girl down- 
 stairs wanted me to ask you if you would like' 
 to see her." 
 
 "But she's dead!" said Margaret, turning a 
 little pale. " I never saw a dead person. No! 
 I would rather not." 
 
 " I should never have asked you if 3 T ou had 
 not come in. I told her you would not." 
 
 " I will go down and speak to her," said Mar- 
 garet, afraid lest Dixon's harshness of manner 
 might wound the poor girl. So, taking the cap 
 in her hand, she went to the kitchen. Mary's 
 face was all swollen with crying, and she burst 
 out afresh when she saw Margaret. 
 
 " Oh, ma'am, she loved yo, she loved yo, she 
 did indeed !" And for a long time Margaret 
 could not get her to say any tiling more than 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 85 
 
 Ishis. At last, her sympathy, and Dixon's scold- 
 ing, forced out a few facts. Nicholas Higgins 
 had gone out in the morning, leaving Bessy as 
 well as on the day before. But in an hour she 
 was taken worse; some neighbor ran to the 
 room where Mary was working; they did not 
 know where to find her father ; Mary had only 
 come in a few minutes before she died. 
 
 " It were a day or two ago she axed to be 
 buried in somewhat o' yourn. She were never 
 tired o' talking o' yo. She used to say yo were 
 the prettiest thing she'd ever clapped eyes on. 
 She loved yo dearly. Her laBt words were, 
 " Give her my affectionate respects ; and keep 
 father fro' drink.' Yo'll come and see her, 
 ma'am. She would ha' thought it a great com- 
 pliment, I know." 
 
 Margaret shrank a little from answering. 
 
 " Yes, perhaps I may. Yes, I will. I'll come 
 before tea. But where's your father, Mary ?" 
 
 Mary shook her head, and stood up to be 
 going-. 
 
 " Miss Hale," said Dixon, in a low voice, 
 " where's the use o' your going to see the poor 
 thing laid out ? I'd never say a word against it, 
 if it eould do the girl any good ; and I wouldn't 
 mind a bit going myself, if that would satisfy 
 her. They've just a notion these common folks, 
 of its being a respect to the departed. Here," 
 said she, turning sharply round, "I'll come 
 and see your sister. Miss Hale is busy, and 
 she can't come, or else she would." 
 
 The girl looked wistfully at Margaret. Dix- 
 on's coming might be a compliment, but it was 
 not the same thing to the poor sister, who had 
 had her little pangs of jealousy during Bessy's 
 lifetime at the intimacy between her and the 
 young lady. 
 
 "No, Dixon I" said Margaret^ with decision. 
 " I will go. Mary, you shall see me this after- 
 noon." And for fear of her own cowardice, she 
 went away, in order to take from herself any 
 chance of changing her determination. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 That afternoon she walked swiftly to the 
 Higginses' house. Mary was looking out for her, 
 with a half-distrustful face. Margaret smiled 
 into her eyes to reassure her. They passed 
 quickly through the house-place, up stairs, and 
 into the quiet presence of the dead. Then Mar- 
 garet was glad that she had come. The face, 
 often so weary with pain, so restless with troub- 
 lous thoughts, had now the faint soft smile of 
 /eternal rest upon it. The slow tears gathered 
 , into Margaret's eyes, but a deep calm entered 
 into her soul. And that was death ! It looked 
 - more peaceful than life. All beautiful scrip- 
 tures came into her mind. "They rest from 
 their labors." " The weary are at rest." " He 
 giveth His beloved sleep." 
 
 Slowly, slowly Margaret turned away from 
 the bed. Mary was humbly sobbing in the 
 background. They went down stairs without 
 a word. 
 
 Resting his hand upon the house-table, Nich- 
 olas Higgins stood in the midst of the floor; 
 his great eyes startled open by the news he had 
 heard as he came along the court from many 
 
 busy tongues. His eyes were dry, and fierce; 
 studying the reality of her death; bringing 
 himself to understand that her place should 
 know her no more. For she had been sickly, 
 dying so long, that he had persuaded himself 
 she would not die; that she would "pull 
 through." 
 
 Margaret felt as if she had no business to be 
 there, familiarly acquainting herself with the 
 surroundings of the death which he, the father, 
 had only just learnt. There had been a pause 
 of an instant on the steep crooked stair, when 
 she first saw him; but now she tried to steal 
 past his abstracted gaze, and to leave him in 
 the solemn circle of his household misery. 
 
 Mary sat down on the first chair she came to, 
 and throwing her apron over her head, began 
 to cry. 
 
 The noise appeared to rouse him. He took 
 sudden hold of Margaret's arm, and held her 
 till he could gather words to speak. His throat 
 seemed dry ; they came up thick, and choked, 
 and hoarse: 
 
 " Were y o with her ? Did y o see her die ?" 
 
 "No I" replied Margaret, standing still with 
 the utmost patience, now she found herself per- 
 ceived. It was some time before he spoke again, 
 but he kept his hold on her arm. 
 
 " All men must die," said he at last, with a 
 strange sort of gravity, which first suggested 
 to Margaret the idea that he had been drinking 
 — not enough to intoxicate himself, but enough 
 to make his thoughts bewildered. "But she 
 were younger than me.". Still he pondered over 
 the event, not looking at Margaret, though he 
 grasped her tight. Suddenly, he looked up 
 at her with a wild, searching inquiry in his 
 glance. "Yo're sure and certain she's dead — 
 not in a dwam, u. faint ? — she's been so before, 
 often." 
 
 " She is dead," replied Margaret. She felt no 
 fear in speaking to him, though he hurt her 
 arm with his gripe, and wild gleams came across 
 the stupidity of his eyes. 
 
 "She is dead!" she said. 
 
 He looked at her still with that searching 
 look, which seemed to fade out of his eyes as 
 he gazed. Then he suddenly let go his hold of 
 Margaret, and, throwing his body half across 
 the table, he shook it and every other piece of 
 furniture in the room, with his violent sobs. 
 Mary came trembling toward him. 
 
 "Get thee gone! — get thee gone!" he cried, 
 striking wildly and blindly at her. " "What do 
 I care for thee?" Margaret took her hand, and 
 held it softly in hers. He tore his hair, he beat 
 his head against the hard wood, then he lay 
 exhausted and stupid. Still his daughter and 
 Margaret did not move. Mary trembled from 
 head to foot. 
 
 At last — it might have been a quarter of an 
 hour, it might have been an hour — he lifted 
 himself up. His eyes were swollen and blood- 
 shot, and he seemed to have forgotten that any 
 one was by ; he scowled at the watchers when 
 he saw them. He shook himself heavily, gave 
 them one more 4 sullen look, spoke never a word, 
 but made for the door. 
 
 " Oh, father, father!" said Mary, throwing 
 herself upon his arm — "not to-night! Any 
 night but to-night. Oh, help me! he's going 
 out to drink again! Father, I'll not leave yo. 
 
86 
 
 NOKTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 To may strike, but I'll not leave yo. She told 
 me last of all to keep yo fro' drink!" 
 
 But Margaret stood in the doorway, silent 
 yet commanding. He looked up at her defy- 
 mgly. 
 
 " It's my own house. Stand out o' the way, 
 wench, or I'll make yo!" He had shaken off 
 Mary with violence : he looked ready to strike 
 Margaret. But she never moved a feature — 
 never took her deep, serious eyes off him. He 
 stared back on her with gloomy fierceness. If 
 she had stirred hand or foot, he would have 
 thrust her aside with even more violence than 
 he had used to his own daughter, whose face 
 was bleeding from her fall against a chair. 
 
 " What are yo looking at me in that way 
 for?" asked he at last, daunted and awed by 
 her severe calm. '' If yo think for to keep me 
 from going what gait I choose, because she 
 loved yo — and in my own house, too, where I 
 never asked yo to come, yo'r mista'en. It's very 
 hard upon a man that he can't go to the only 
 comfort left." 
 
 Margaret felt that he acknowledged her 
 power. "What could she do next? He had 
 seated himself on a chair, close to the door; 
 half-conquered, half-resenting; intending to go 
 out as soon as she left her position, but unwill- 
 ing to use the violence he had threatened not 
 five minutes before. Margaret laid her hand 
 on his arm. 
 
 " Come with me,'' she said. " Come and see 
 her." 
 
 The voice in which she spoke was very low 
 and solemn ; but there was no fear or doubt 
 expressed in it, either of him or of his compli- 
 ance. He sullenly rose up. He stood uncer- 
 tain, with dogged irresolution upon his face. 
 She waited him there; quietly and patiently 
 waited for his time to move. He had a strange 
 pleasure in making her wait; but at last he 
 moved toward the stairs. 
 
 She and he stood by the corpse. 
 
 " Her last words to Mary were, ' Keep my 
 father fro' drink.' " 
 
 "It canna hurt her now," muttered he. 
 "Nought can hurt her now." Then, raising 
 his voice to a wailing cry, he went on: "We 
 may quarrel and fall out — we may make peace 
 and be friends — we may clem to skin and bone 
 — and nought o' all our griefs will ever touch 
 her more. Hoo's had her portion on 'em. What 
 wi' hard work first, and sickness at last, hoo's 
 led the life of a dog. And to die without know- 
 ing one good piece o' rejoicing in all her days! 
 Nay, wench, whatever hoo said, hoo can know 
 nought about it now, and I mun ha' a sup o' 
 drink just to steady me against sorrow." 
 
 " No," said Margaret, softening with his soft- 
 ened manner. "You shall not. If her life has 
 been what you say, at any rate she did not fear 
 death as some do. Oh, you should have heard 
 her speak of the life to come — the life hidden 
 with God, that she is now gone to." 
 
 He Bhook his head, glancing sideways up at 
 Margaret as he did so. His pale, haggard face 
 struck her painfully. 
 
 "You are sorely tired. Where have you 
 been all clay — not at work?" 
 
 " Not at work, sure enough," said he, with a 
 short, grim laugh. " Not at what you call 
 work. I were at the Committee till I were 
 
 sickened out wi' trying to make fools hear rea- 
 son. I were fetched to Boucher's wife afore 
 seven this morning. She's bed-fast, but she were 
 raving and raging to know where her dunder- 
 headed brute of a chap was, as if I'd to keep 
 him — as if he were fit to be ruled by me. The 
 d — d fool, who has put his foot in all our plans ! 
 And I've walked my feet sore wi' going about 
 for to see men who would not be seen, now the 
 law is raised again us. And I were sore-heart- 
 ed, too, which is worse than sore-footed; and 
 if I did 6ee a friend who ossed to treat me, I 
 never knew hoo lay a-dying here. Bess, lass, 
 thou'd believe me, thou would'st — woulustn't 
 thou?" turning to the poor dumb form with 
 wild appeal. 
 
 " I am sure," said Margaret, " I am sure you 
 did not know: it was quite sudden. But now, 
 you see, it would be different ; you do know ; 
 you do see her lying there; you hear what she 
 said with her last breath. You will not go?" 
 
 No answer. In fact, where was he to look 
 for comfort ? 
 
 " Come home with me," said she at last, with 
 a bold venture, half trembling at her own pro- 
 posal as she made it. " At least you shall have 
 some comfortable food, which I'm sure you 
 need." 
 
 " Yo're father's a parson?" asked he, with a 
 sudden turn in his ideas. 
 
 "He was," said Margaret, shortly. 
 
 " I'll go and take a dish o' tea with him, 
 since yo've asked me. I've many a thing 1 
 often wished to say to a parson, and I'm not 
 particular as to whether he's preaching now, 
 or not." 
 
 Margaret was perplexed; his drinking tea 
 with her father, who would be totally unpre- 
 paredfor his visitor — her mother so ill — seemed 
 utterly out of the question ; and } - et if she drew 
 back now, it would be worse than ever — sure 
 to drive him to the gin-shop. She thought that 
 if she could only get him to their own house, it 
 was so great a step gained that she would trust 
 to the chapter of accidents for the next. 
 
 " Good-by, ou'd wench 1 We've parted com- 
 pany at last, we have! But thou'st been a 
 blcssin' to thy father ever sin' thou wert born. 
 Bless thy white lips, lass — they've a smile on 
 'em now ! and I'm glad to see it once again, 
 though I'm lone and forlorn for evermore." 
 
 He stooped down and fondly kissed his 
 daughter ; covered up her face, and turned to 
 follow Margaret. She had hastily gone down 
 stairs to tell Mary of the arrangement; to say 
 it was the only way she could think of to keep "*" 
 him from the gin-palace ; to urge Mar}- to come 
 too, for her heart smote her at the idea of leav- 
 ing the poor affectionate girl alone. But Mary 
 had friends among the neighbors, she said, who 
 would come in and sit a bit with her; it was 
 all riglit ; but father- 
 He was there by them as she would have 
 spoken more. He had shaken off his emotion 
 as if he was ashamed of having even given way 
 to it ; and had even o'erleaped himself so much 
 that he assumed a sort of bitter mirth, like the 
 crackling of thorns under a pot. 
 
 "I'm going to take my tea wi' her father, I 
 am!" 
 
 But he slouched his cap low down over his 
 brows as he went out into the street, and 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 87 
 
 looked neither to the right nor to the left, 
 ■while he tramped along by Margaret's side; 
 he feared being upset by the words, still more 
 the looks, of sympathizing neighbors. So he 
 and Margaret -walked in silence. 
 
 As he got near the street in which he knew 
 she lived, he looked down at his clothes, his 
 hands, and shoes. 
 
 " I should m'appen ha' cleaned mysel', first?" 
 It certainly would have been desirable, but 
 .Margaret assured him he should be allowed 
 to go into the yard, and have soap and towel 
 provided ; she could not let him slip out of her 
 hands just then. 
 
 While he followed the house-servant along 
 the passage, and through the kitchen, stepping 
 cautiously on every dark mark in the pattern 
 of the oil-cloth in order to conceal his dirty 
 foot-prints, Margaret ran up stairs. She met 
 Dixon on the landing. 
 
 " How is mamma? — where is papa?" 
 Missus was tired, and gone into her own 
 room. She had wanted to go to bed, but Dix- 
 on had persuaded her to lie down on the sofa, 
 and have her tea brought to her there; it would 
 be better than getting restless by being too 
 long in bed. 
 
 So far, so good. But where was Mr. Hale? 
 In the drawing-room. Margaret went in half 
 breathless with the hurried story she had to 
 tell. Of course, she told it incompletely ; and 
 her father was rather " taken aback " by the 
 idea of the drunken weaver awaiting him in 
 his quiet study, with whom he was expected 
 to drink tea, and on whose behalf Margaret was 
 anxiously pleading. The meek, kind-hearted 
 Mr. Hale would have readily tried to console 
 him in his grief, but, unluckily, the point Mar- 
 garet dwelt upon most forcibly was the fact 
 of his having been drinking, and her having 
 brought him home with her as a last expedient 
 to keep him from the gin-shop. One little 
 event had come out of another so naturally 
 that Margaret was hardly conscious of what 
 she had done, till she saw the slight look of re- 
 pugnance on her father's face. 
 
 " Oh, papa ! he really is a man you will not 
 dislike — if you won't be shocked to begin with." 
 " But, Margaret, to bring a drunken man 
 home — and your mother so ill I" 
 
 Margaret's countenance fell. " I am sorry, 
 papa. He is very quiet — he is not tip6y at all. 
 He was only rather strange at first, but that 
 might be the shock of poor Bessy's death." 
 Margaret's eyes filled with tears. Mr. Hale 
 took hold of her sweet pleading face in both 
 his hands, and kissed her forehead. 
 
 " It is all right, deal - . I'll go and make him 
 as comfortable as I can, and do you attend to 
 your mother. Only, if you can come in and 
 make a third in the study, I shall be glad." 
 
 " Oh, yes — thank you." But as Mr. Hale 
 was leaving the room, she ran after him : 
 
 " Papa — you must not wonder at what he 
 says: he's an — I mean he does not believe 
 in much of what we do." 
 
 "Oh dear! a drunken infidel weaver!" said 
 Mr. Hale "to himself, in dismay. But to Mar- 
 garet he only said, "If your mother goes to 
 sleep, be sure you come directly." 
 
 Margaret went into her mother's room. Mrs. 
 Hale lifted herself up from a doze. 
 
 "When did you write to Frederick, Marga- 
 ret? Yesterday, or the day before?" 
 
 " Yesterday, mamma." 
 
 " Yesterday. And the letter went?" 
 
 " Yes. I took it myself." 
 
 " Oh, Margaret, I'm so afraid of his coming! 
 If he should be recognized! If he should be 
 taken ! If he should be executed, after all these 
 years that he has kept away and lived in safe- 
 ty! I keep falling asleep and dreaming that 
 he is caught and being tried." 
 
 " Oh, mamma, don't be afraid There will 
 be some risk, no doubt; but we will lessen it 
 as much as ever we can. And it is so little ! 
 Now, if we were at Helstone, there would be 
 twenty — a hundred times as much. There 
 every body would remember him ; and if there 
 was a stranger known to be in the house, they 
 would be sure to guess it was Frederick ; while 
 here, nobody knows or cares for us enough to 
 notice what we do. Dixon will keep the door 
 like a dragon — won't you, Dixon — while he is 
 here ?" 
 
 " They'll be clever if they come in past me !" 
 said Dixon, showing her teeth at the bare idea. 
 
 " And he need not go out, except in the dusk, 
 poor fellow!" 
 
 "Poor fellow!" echoed Mrs. Hale. " But I 
 almost wish you had not written. "Would it 
 be too late to stop him if you wrote again, 
 Margaret ?" 
 
 " I'm afraid it would, mamma,'' said Marga- 
 ret, remembering the urgency with which she 
 had entreated him to eome directjly, if he wish- 
 ed to see his mother alive. 
 
 "I always dislike that doing things in such 
 a hurry," said Mrs. Hale. 
 
 Margaret was silent. 
 
 " Come now, ma'am," said Dixon, with a kind 
 of cheerful authority, " you know seeing Mas- 
 ter Frederick is just the very thing of all others 
 you're longing for. And I'm glad Miss Marga- 
 ret wrote off straight without shilly-shallying. 
 I've had a great mind to do it myself. And 
 we'll keep him snug, depend upon it. There's 
 only Martha in the house that would not do a 
 good deal to save him on a pinch ; and I've been 
 thinking she might go and see her mother just 
 at that very time. She's been saying once or 
 twice she should like to go, for her mother has 
 had a stroke since she came here; only she 
 didn't like to ask. But I'll see about her being 
 safe off, as soon as we know when he comes, 
 God bless him ! So take your tea, ma'am, in 
 comfort, and trust to me." 
 
 Mrs. Hale did trust in Dixon more than in 
 Margaret. Dixon's words quieted her for the 
 time. Margaret poured out the tea in silence, 
 trying to think of something agreeable to say ; 
 but her thoughts made answer something like 
 Daniel O'Rourke, when the man-in-the-moon 
 asked him to get off his reaping-hook, " The 
 more you ax us, the more we won't stir." The 
 more she tried to think of something — any thing 
 besides, the danger to which Frederick would 
 be exposed — the more closely her imagination 
 clung to the unfortunate idea presented to her. 
 Her mother prattled with Dixon, and seemed 
 to have utterly forgotten the possibility of Fre- 
 derick being tried and executed — utterly for- 
 gotten that at her wish, if by Margaret's deed, 
 he was summoned into this danger. Her moth- 
 
N011TH AND SOUTH. 
 
 er was one of those who throw out terrible 
 possibilities, miserable probabilities, unfortu- 
 nate chances of all kinds, as >i rocket throws 
 out sparks; but if the sparks light on some 
 combustible matter, they smoulder first, and 
 burst out into a frightful flame at last. Mar- 
 garet was glad when, her filial duties gently 
 and carefully performed, she could go down 
 into the study. She wondered how her father 
 and Nicholas Higgins had got on. 
 
 In the first place, the decorous, kind-hearted, 
 simple, old-fashioned gentleman, had uncon- 
 sciously called out, by his own refinement and 
 courteousness of manner, all the latent courtesy 
 in the other. 
 
 Mr. Hale treated all his fellow-creatures 
 alike: it never entered into his head to make 
 any difference because of their rank. He placed 
 a chair for Nk-holns; stood up till he, at Mr. 
 Hale's request, took a seat ; and called him in- 
 variably " Mr. Higgins," instead of the curt 
 ' ' Nicholas" or " Higgins," to which the " drunk- 
 en infidel weaver" had been accustomed. But 
 Nicholas was neither an habitual drunkard nor 
 a thorough infidel. He drank to drown care, 
 as he would have himself expressed it ; and he 
 was infidel so far as he had never yet found 
 any form of faith to which he could attach 
 himself, heart and 6oul. 
 
 Margaret was a little surprised, and very 
 much pleased, when she found her father and 
 Higgins in earnest conversation — each speaking 
 with gentle politeness to the other, however 
 their opinions might clash. Nicholas — clean, 
 tidied (if only at the pump-trough), and quiet- 
 spoken — was a new creature to her, who had 
 only seen him in the rough independence of his 
 own hearthstone. He had " slicked" his hair 
 down with the fresh water; he had adjusted 
 his neck-handkerchief, and borrowed an odd 
 candle-end to polish his clogs with ; and there 
 he sat, enforcing some opinion on her father, 
 with a strong Darkshire accent, it is true, but 
 with a lowered voice, and a good earnest com- 
 posure on his face. Her father, too, was inter- 
 ested in what his companion was saying, lie 
 looked round as she came in, smiled, and quiet- 
 ly gave her his chair, and then sat down afresh 
 as quickly as possible, and with a littlo bow of 
 apology to his guest for the interruption. Hig- 
 gins nodded to her as a sign of greeting; and 
 she softly adjusted her working materials on 
 the table, and prepared to listen. 
 
 "As I was a-saying, sir, I reckon yo'd not 
 ha' much belief in yo if yo lived here — if yo'd 
 been bred here. 1 ox your pardon if I use 
 wrong words; but what I mean by belief just 
 now;, is a-thihking on sayings and maxims and 
 promises made by folk yo never saw — about 
 the things and the life yo never saw, nor no 
 one else. Now, yo say these are true things, 
 and true sayings", and a true life. I just say, 
 where's the proof? There's many and many a 
 one wiser, and scores better learned than I am 
 around me — folk who've had time to think on 
 these things — while my time has had to be gi'en 
 up to getting my bread. Well, I sees these 
 people. Their lives is pretty much open to me. 
 They're real folk. They don't believe i' the 
 Bible — not they. They may say they do, for 
 form's sake ; but Lord, sir, d'ye think their first 
 cry i' th' morning is, ' "What shall I do to get 
 
 hold on eternal life?' or 'What shall I do to fill 
 my purse this blessed day ? Where shall I go ? 
 What bargains Bhall I strike ?' The purse and 
 the gold and the notes is real things ; things as 
 can be felt and touched ; them's realities ; and 
 eternal life is all a talk, very fit for — I ax 
 your pardon, sir ; yo're a parson out o' work, I 
 believe. Well I I'll never speak disrespectful 
 of a man in the same fix as I'm in mysel'. But 
 I'll just ax yo another question, sir, and I dun- 
 not want yo to answer it, only to put it in yo'r 
 pipe, and smoke it, afore yo go for to set down 
 us, who only believe in what we see, #s fools 
 and noddies. If salvation, and life to come, 
 and what not, was true — not in men's words, 
 but in men's hearts' core — dun yo not think 
 they'd din us wi' it as they do wi' political 'con- 
 omy? They're mighty anxious to come round 
 us wi' that piece o' wisdom; but t'other would 
 be a greater convarsion, if it were true." 
 
 "But the masters have nothing to do with 
 your religion. All that they are connected 
 with you in is trade — so they think — and all 
 that it concerns them, therefore, to rectify your 
 opinions in is the science of trade." 
 
 " I'm glad, sir," said Higgins, with a curious 
 wink of his eye, " that yo put in, 'so they think.' 
 I'd ha' thought yo a hypocrite, I'm afeard, if yo 
 hadn't, for all yo'r a parson, or rayther because 
 yo'r a parson. Yo see, if 3*o'd spoken o' religion 
 as a thing that, if it was true, it didn't concern 
 all men to press on all men's attention, above 
 every thing else in this 'Tarsal earth, I should 
 ha' thought yo a knave for to be a parson ; and 
 I'd rather think yo a fool than a knave. No 
 offense, I hope, sir." 
 
 " None at all. You consider me mistaken, 
 and I consider you far more fatally mistaken. 
 I don't expect to convince you in a day — not in 
 one conversation ; but let us know each other, 
 and speak freely to each other about these 
 things, and the truth will prevail. I should 
 not believe in God if I did not believe that. 
 Mr. Higgins, I trust, whatever else you have 
 given up, you believe" — (Mr. Hale's voice drop- 
 ped low in reverence) — "you believe in Him." 
 
 Nicholas Higgins suddenly stood straight, 
 stiff up. Margaret started to her feet — for she 
 thought, by the working of his face, he was 
 going into convulsions. Mr. Hale looked at her 
 dismayed. At last Higgins found words : 
 
 "Man! I could fell yo to the ground for 
 tempting me. Whatten business have yo to 
 try me wi' j'our doubts? Think o' her lying 
 theere, after the life hoo's led ; and think then 
 how yo'd deny me the one sole comfort left — 
 that there is a God, and that He set her her 
 life. I dunnot believe she'll ever live again," 
 said he, sitting down, and drearily going on, 
 as if to the unsympathizing fire. "1 dunnot 
 believe in any other life than this, in which she 
 dreed such trouble, and had such never-ending 
 care ; and I canno bear to think it were all a 
 set o' chances, that might ha' been altered wi' 
 a breath o' wind. There's many a time when 
 I've thought I didna believe in God, but I've 
 never put it fair out before me in words as 
 many men do. I may ha' laughed at those 
 who did, to brave it out like — but I have look- 
 ed round at after, to see if He heard me, if so 
 be there was a He; but to-day, when I'm left 
 desolate, I wunnot listen to yo wi' yo'r ques- 
 
NOKTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 89 
 
 tions, and yo'r doubts. There's but one thing 
 steady and quiet i' all this reeling world, and, 
 reason or no reason, I'll cling to that It's a' 
 very well for happy folk — " 
 
 Margaret touched his arm very softly. She 
 had not spoken before, nor had he heard her 
 rise. 
 
 " Nicholas, we do not want to reason ; you 
 misunderstand my father. "We do not reason 
 — we believe; and so do you. It is the one 
 sole comfort in such times." 
 
 He turned round and caught her hand. "Ay ; 
 it is, it is" — (brushing away the tears with the 
 back of his hand). — " But yo know, she's lying 
 dead at home ; and I'm welly dazed wi' sorrow, 
 and at times I hardly know what I'm saying. 
 It's as if speeches folk ha' made — clever and 
 smart things as I've thought at the time — come 
 up now my heart's welly brossen. Th' strike's 
 failed as well ; dun yo know that, miss ? I were 
 coming whoam to ask her, like a beggar as I 
 am, for a bit o' comfort i' that trouble ; and I 
 were knocked down by one who telled me she 
 were dead — just dead. 'That were all; but 
 that were enough for me." 
 
 Mr. Hale blew his nose, and got up to snuff 
 the candles to conceal his emotion. "He's 
 not an infidel, Margaret ; how could you say 
 so?" muttered he reproachfully. "I've a good 
 mind to read him the fourteenth chapter of 
 Job." 
 
 " Not yet, papa, I think. Perhaps not at all. 
 Let us ask him about the Btrike, and give him 
 all the sympathy he needs, and hoped to have 
 from poor Bessy." 
 
 So they questioned and listened. The work- 
 men's calculations were based (like too many 
 of the masters') on false premises. They reck- 
 oned on their fellow-men as if they possessed 
 the calculable powers of machines, no more, no 
 less; no allowance for human passions getting 
 the better of reason, as in the case of Boucher 
 and the rioters ; and believing that the repre- 
 sentations of their injuries would have the same 
 effect on strangers far away as the injuries (fan- 
 cied or real) had upon themselves. They were 
 consequently surprised and indignant at the 
 poor Irish, who had allowed themselves to be 
 imported and brought over to take their places. 
 This indignation was tempered in some degree 
 by contempt for " them Irishers," and by pleas- 
 ure at the idea of the bungling way in which 
 they would set to work, and perplex their new 
 masters with their ignorance and stupidity, 
 strange exaggerated stories of which were al- 
 ready spreading through the town. But the 
 most cruel cut of all was that of the Milton 
 workmen, who had defied and disobeyed the 
 commands of the Union to keep the peace, 
 whatever came ; who had originated discord in 
 the camp, and spread the panic of the law being 
 arrayed against them. 
 
 " And so the strike is at an end," said Mar- 
 garet. 
 
 "Ay, miss. It's save who save can. Th' 
 factory doors will need open wide to-morrow 
 to let in all who,'ll be axing for work ; if it's 
 only just to show they'd nought to do wi' a 
 measure, which if we'd been made o' th' right 
 stuff would ha' brought wages up to a point 
 they'n not been at this ten year." 
 
 "You'll get work, sha'n't you!" asked Mar- 
 
 garet, 
 you?" 
 
 'You're a famous workman, are not 
 
 Hamper '11 let me work at his mill, when 
 he cuts off his right hand — not before, and not 
 at after," said Nicholas, quietly. Margaret was 
 silenced and sad. 
 
 "About the wages?" said Mr. Hale. "You'll 
 not be offended, but I think you make some sad 
 mistakes. I should like to read you some re- 
 marks in a book I have." He got up and went 
 to his book-shelves. 
 
 " Yo needn't trouble yoursel', sir," said Nich- 
 olas. " Their book-stuff goes in at one ear and 
 out at t'other. I can make nought on't. Afore 
 Hamper and me had this split, th' overlooker 
 telled him I were stirring up th' men to ask for 
 higher wages; and Hamper met me one day in 
 th' yard. He had a thin book i' his hand, and 
 says he, ' Higgins, I'm told you're one of those 
 damned fools that think you can get higher 
 wages for asking for 'em; ay, and keep 'em up 
 too, when you've forced 'em up. Now, I'll give 
 yo a chance and try if yo've any sense in yo. 
 Here's a book written by a friend o' mine, and 
 if yo'U read it yo'U see how wages find their 
 own level, without either masters or men hav- 
 ing aught to do with them ; except the men cut 
 their own throats wi' striking, like the con- 
 founded noodles they are.' "Well, now, sir, I 
 put it to yo, being a parson, and having been 
 in the preaching line, and having had to try 
 and bring folk o'er to what yo thought was a 
 right way o' thinking — did yo begin by calling 
 'em fools and such like, or didn't yo rayther 
 give 'em some kind words at first to make 'em 
 ready for to listen and be convinced, if they 
 could ; and in yo'r preaching did yo stop every 
 now and then, and say, half to them and half 
 to yo'rsel', ' But yo're such a pack o' fools, that 
 I've a strong notion it's no use my tryiDg to put 
 sense into yo ?' I were not i' th' best state, I'll 
 own, for taking in what Hamper's friend had 
 to say — I were so vexed at the way it were put 
 to me — but I thought, 'Come, I'll see what 
 these chaps has got to say, and try if it's them 
 or me that's th' noodle.' So I took th' book 
 and tugged at it; but, Lord bless yo, it went 
 on about capital and labor, and labor and cap- 
 ital, till it fair sent me off to sleep. I ne'er 
 could rightly fix i' my mind which was which ; 
 and it spoke on 'em as if they was vartues or 
 vices ; and what I wanted for to know were • 
 the rights o' men, whether they were rich or, 
 poor — so be they only were men." 
 
 " But for all that," said Mr. Hale, " and grant- 
 ing to the full the offensiveness, the folly, the 
 unchristianness of Mr. Hamper's way of speak- 
 ing to you in recommending his friend's book, 
 yet if it told you what he said it did, that wages 
 find their own level, and that the most success- 
 ful strike can only force them up for a moment, 
 to sink in far greater proportion afterward in 
 consequence of that very strike, the book would 
 have told you the truth." 
 
 "Well, sir," said Higgins, rather doggedly;, 
 "it might, or it might not. There's two opin- 
 ions go to settling that point. But suppose.it 
 was truth double strong, it were no truth to me 
 if I couldna take it in. I daresay there's truth 
 in yon Latin book on your shelves; but it'S\ 
 gibberish and not truth to me, unless I know S i 
 the meaning o' the words. If yo, sir, or any < 
 
90 
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 other knowledgable patient man come to me, 
 and says he'll larn me what the words mean, 
 and not blow me up if I'm a bit stupid, or for- 
 get how one thing hangs on another — why, in 
 time I may get to see the truth of it ; or I may 
 not. I'll not be bound to say I shall end in 
 thinking the same as any man. And I'm not 
 one who think truth can be shaped out in 
 words, all neat and clean, as th' men at th' foun- 
 dry cut out sheet-iron. Same bones won't go 
 down wf every one. It'll stick here i' this 
 man's throat, and there i' t'other's. Let alone 
 that, when down, it may be too strong for this 
 one, too weak for that. Folk who sets up to 
 doctor th' world wi' their truth, must suit dif- 
 ferent for different minds ; and be a bit tender 
 in th' way of giving it too, or th' poor sick fools 
 may spit it out i' their faces. Now Hamper 
 first gi'es me a box on my ear, and then he 
 throws his big bolus at me, and says he reckons 
 it'll do me no good, I'm such a fool, but there 
 it is." 
 
 " I wish some of the kindest and wisest of 
 the masters would meet some of you men, and 
 have a good talk on these things; it would, 
 surely, be the best way of getting over your 
 difficulties, which, I do believe, arise from your 
 ignorance — excuse me, Mr. Higgins — on sub- 
 jects which it is for the mutual interest of both 
 masters and men should be well understood by 
 both. I wonder" — (half to his daughter) — "if 
 Mr. Thornton might not be induced to do such 
 a thing?" 
 
 "Kemember, papa," said she, in 'a very low 
 voice, " what he said one day — about govern- 
 ments, you know." She was unwilling to make 
 any clearer allusion to the conversation -they 
 had held on the mode of governing work-petjpte 
 — by giving men intelligence enough to' rule 
 themselves, or by a wise despotism on the part 
 of the master — for she saw that Higgins had 
 caught Mr. Thornton's name, it not the whole 
 of the speech : indeed, he began to speaK of him. 
 
 " Thornton 1 He's the chap that wrote off 
 at once for these Irishers, and led tc th' riot 
 that ruined th' strike. Even Hamper, wi' all 
 his bullying, would ha' waited a while — but 
 it's a word and a blow wi' Thornton. And, 
 now, when th' Union would ha' thanked him 
 for following up th' chase after Boucher, and 
 them chaps who went right again our com- 
 mands, it's Thornton who steps forrard and 
 coolly says that, as th' strike's at an end, he, as 
 party injured, doesn't want to press the charge 
 again the rioters. I thought he'd had more 
 pluck. I thought he'd ha' carried his point, 
 and had his revenge in an open way ; but says 
 he (one in court telled me his very words), 'they 
 are well known ; they will find the natural pun- 
 ishment of their conduct, in the difficulty they 
 will meet wi' in getting employment. That 
 will be severe enough.' I only wish they'd 
 cotched Boucher, and had him up before Ham- 
 per. I 6ee th' oud tiger setting on him! would 
 he ha' let him off? Not he!" 
 
 " Mr. Thornton was right," said Margaret. 
 " You are angry against Boucher, Nicholas, or 
 else you would be the first to see that where 
 the natural punishment would be severe enough 
 for the offense, any farther punishment would 
 be something like revenge." 
 
 " My daughter is no great friend of Mr. Thorn- 
 
 ton's," said Mr. Hale, smiling at Margaret ; while 
 she, as red as any carnation, began to work with 
 double diligence, " but I believe what she says 
 is the truth. I like him for it." 
 
 "Well, sir! This strike has been a weary 
 piece o' business to me; and yo'll not wonder 
 if I'm a bit put out wi' seeing it fail, just for a 
 few men, who would na suffer in silence, and 
 hou'd out, brave and firm." 
 
 "You forget!" said Margaret. "I don't 
 know much of Boucher ; but the only time I 
 saw him it was not his own sufferings he spoke 
 of, but those of his sick wife — his little chil- 
 dren." 
 
 "True! but he were not made of iron him- 
 sel'. He'd ha' cried out for his own sorrows, 
 next. He were not one to bear." 
 
 "How came he into the Union?" asked Mar- 
 garet, innocently. " You don't 6eem to have 
 had much respect for him; nor gained much 
 good from having him in." 
 
 Higgins's brow clouded. He was silent for a 
 minute or two. Then he said, shortly enough: 
 
 " It's not for me to speak o' th' Union. What 
 they does, they does. Them that is of a trade 
 must hang together ; and if they're not willing 
 to take their chance along wi' th' rest, th' Union 
 has ways and means." 
 
 Mr. Hale saw that Higgins was vexed at the 
 turn the conversation had taken, and was silent. 
 Is'ot so, Margaret, though she saw Higgins's 
 feeling as clearly as he did. By instinct she 
 felt, that if he could but be brought to express 
 himself in plain words, something clear would 
 be gained on which to argue for the right and 
 the j ust. 
 
 " And what are the Union's ways and means ?" 
 
 He looked up at her, as if on the point of 
 dogged resistance to her wish for information. 
 But her calm face, fixed on his, patient and 
 trustful, compelled him to answer. 
 
 "Well! If a man doesn't belong to th' Union, 
 them as works next looms has orders not to speak 
 to him — if he's sorrj' or ill it's a' the same ; he's 
 out o' bounds ; he's none o' us ; he comes among 
 us, he works among us, but he's none o' us. 1' 
 some plaees them's fined who speaks to him. Yo 
 try that, miss; try living a year or two among 
 them as looks away if yo look at 'em ; try work- 
 ing within two yards o' crowds o' men who yo 
 know have a grinding grudge at yo in their 
 hearts — to whom if yo say yo'r glad, not an 
 eye brightens, nor aJip moves — to whom if yo'r 
 heart's heavy, yo can never say nought, because 
 they'll ne'er take notice on your sighs or sad 
 looks (and a man's no man who'll groan out 
 loud 'bout folk asking him what's the matter?) 
 — just yo try that, miss — ten hours for three 
 hundred days, and yo'll know a bit what th' 
 Union is." 
 
 "Why!" said Margaret, "what tyranny this 
 is! Nay, Higgins, I don't care one straw for 
 your anger. I know you can't be angry with 
 me if you would, and I must tell you the truth: 
 that I never read, in all the history I have read, 
 of a more slow lingering torture than this. And 
 you belong to the Union ! And you talk of the 
 tyranny of the masters!" 
 
 " Kay," said Higgins, " yo may say what yo 
 like ! The dead stand between yo and every 
 angry -word o' mine. 1 >'ye think I forget who's 
 lying then, and how hoo loved yo? And it's 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 91 
 
 th' masters as has made us Bin, if th' Union is 
 a sin. Not this generation maybe, hut their 
 fathers. Their fathers ground our fathers to 
 the very dust — ground ns to powder ! Parson I 
 I reckon I've heerd my mother read out a text, 
 'The fathers have eaten sour grapes and th' 
 children's teeth are set on edge.' It's so wi' 
 them. In those days of sore oppression th' 
 Unions began ; it were a necessity. It's a ne- 
 cessity now, according to me. It's a withstand- 
 ing of injustice, past, present, or to come. It 
 may be like war; along with it come crimes; 
 but I think it were a greater crime to let it 
 alone. Our only chance is binding men to- 
 gether in one common interest ; and if some are 
 cowards and some are fools, they mun come 
 along and join the great march, whose only 
 strength is in numbers." 
 
 " Oh !" said Mr. Hale, sighing, " your Union 
 in itself would be beautiful, glorious — it would 
 be Christianity itself — if it were but for an end 
 which affected the good of all instead of that 
 merely of one class as opposed to another." 
 
 "I reckon it's time for me to be going, sir," 
 said Higgins, as the clock struck ten. 
 
 "Home?" said Margaret, very softly. He 
 understood her, and took her offered hand. 
 " Home, miss. Yo may trust me, tho' I am one 
 o' th' Union." 
 
 " I do trust you most thoroughly, Nicholas." 
 
 " Stay !" said Mr. Hale, hurrying to the book- 
 shelves. " Mr. Higgins! I'm sure you'll join us 
 in family prayer?" 
 
 Higgins looked at Margaret, doubtfully. Her 
 grave sweet eyes met his; there was no com- 
 pulsion, only deep interest in them. He did 
 not speak, but he kept his place. 
 ' Margaret the Churehwoman ; her father the 
 Dissenter ; Higgins the Infidel ; knelt down to- 
 t gether. It did them no harm. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 The next morning brought Margaret a letter 
 from Edith. It was affectionate and inconse- 
 quent like the writer. But the affection was 
 charming to Margaret's own affectionate nature; 
 and she had grown up with the inconsequence, 
 so she did not perceive it. It was as follows : 
 
 " Oh, Margaret, it is worth a journey from 
 England to see my boy ! He is a superb little 
 fellow, especially in his caps, and most especi- 
 ally in the one you sent him, you good, dainty- 
 fingered, persevering little lady 1 Having made 
 all the mothers here envious, I want to show 
 him to somebody new, and hear a fresh set of 
 admiring expressions; perhaps, that's all the 
 reason ; perhaps it is not — nay, possibly, there 
 is just a little cousinly love mixed with it; but 
 I do want you so much to come here, Margaret! 
 I'm sure it would be the very best thing for 
 Aunt Hale's health ; every body here is young 
 and well, and our skies are always blue, and our 
 sun always shines, and the band plays delicious- 
 ly from morning till night ; and, to come back 
 to the burden of my ditty, my baby always 
 smiles. I am constantly wanting you to draw 
 him for me, Margaret. It does not signify what 
 he is doing; that very thing is prettiest, grace- 
 fullest, best. I think I love him a great deal 
 
 better than my husband, who is getting stout 
 and grumpy — what he calls 'busy.' Nol he 
 is not. He has just come in with news of such 
 a charming pic-nic, given by the officers of the 
 Hazard, at anchor in the bay below. Because 
 he has brought in such a pleasant piece of news, 
 I retract all I said just now. Did not some- 
 body burn his hand for having said or done 
 something he was sorry for? Well, I can't 
 burn mine, because it would hurt me, and the 
 sear would be ugly; but I'll retract all I said 
 as fast as I can. Cosmo is quite as great a 
 darling as baby, and not a bit stout, and as un- 
 grumpy as ever husband was ; only some times 
 he is very, very busy. I may say that without 
 love — wifely duty — where was I ? — I had some- 
 thing very particular to say, I know, once. Oh, 
 it is this — dearest Margaret! — you must come 
 and see me — it would do Aunt Hale good, as I 
 said before. Get the doctor to order it for her. 
 Tell him it's the smoke of Milton that does her 
 harm. I have no doubt it is that, really. Three 
 months (you must not come for less) of this 
 delicious climate — all sunshine, and grapes as 
 common as blackberries, would quite cure her. 
 I don't ask my uncle" — (Here the letter became 
 more constrained, and better written ; Mr. Hale 
 was in the corner, like a naughty child, for 
 having given up his living.) — " because, I dare 
 say, he disapproves of war, and soldiers, and 
 bands of music ; at least, I know that many Dis- 
 senters are members of the Peace Society, and 
 I am afraid he would not like to come; but, if 
 he would, dear, pray say that Cosmo and I will 
 do our best to make him happy ; and I'll hide 
 up Cosmo's red coat and sword, and make the 
 band play all sorts of grave, solemn things ; or, 
 if they do play pomps and vanities, it shall be 
 in double slow time. Dear Margaret, if he 
 would like to accompany you and Aunt Hale, 
 we will try and make it pleasant, though I'm 
 rather afraid of any one who has done some- 
 thing for conscience sake. You never did I 
 hope. Tell Aunt Hale not to bring many warm 
 clothes, though I'm afraid it will be late in the 
 year before you can come. But you have no 
 idea of the heat here! I tried to wear my 
 great beauty Indian shawl at a pic-nic. I kept 
 myself up with proverbs as long as I could; 
 ' Pride must abide' — and such wholesome pieces 
 of pith ; but it was of no use. I was like mam- 
 ma's little dog Tiny with an elephant's trap- 
 pings on; smothered, hidden, killed with my 
 finery ; so I made it into a capital carpet for us 
 all to sit down upon. Here's this hoy of mine, 
 Margaret — if you don't pack up your things as 
 soon as you- get this letter, and come straight 
 off to see him, I shall think you're descended 
 from King Herod !" 
 
 Margaret did long for a day of Edith's life — 
 her freedom from care, her cheerful home, her 
 sunny skies. If a wish could have transported 
 her she would have gone off; just for one day. 
 She yearned for the strength which such a 
 change would give — even for a few hours to be 
 in the midst of that bright life, and to feel 
 young again. Not yet twenty ! and she had had 
 to bear up against such hard pressure that she 
 felt quite old. That was her first feeling after 
 reading Edith's letter. Then she read it again, 
 and, forgetting herself, was amused at its like- 
 ness to Edith's self, and was laughing merrily 
 
'.12 
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 over it when Mrs. Hale came into the drawing- 
 voom, leaning on Dixon's arm. Margaret flew 
 to adjust the pillows. Her mother seemed more 
 than usually feeble. 
 
 "What were you laughing at, Margaret?" 
 asked she, as soon as she had recovered from 
 the exertion of settling herself on the sofa. 
 
 " A letter I have had this morning from Edith. 
 Shall I read it you, mamma?" 
 
 She read it aloud, and for a time it seemed 
 to interest her mother, who kept wondering 
 what name Edith had given to her boy, and 
 suggesting all probable names, and all possible 
 reasons why each and all of these names should 
 be given. Into the very midst of these wonders 
 Mr. Thornton came, bringing another offering 
 of fruit for Mrs. Hale. He could not — say 
 rather, he would not — deny himself the chance 
 of the pleasure of seeing Margaret. He had no 
 end in this but the present gratification. It 
 was the sturdy willfulness of a man usually 
 \most reasonable and self-controlled. He en- 
 tered the room, taking in at a glance the fact 
 of Margaret's presence; but after the first cold, 
 distant bow, he never seemed to let his eyes fall 
 on her again. He only staid to present his papers 
 — to speak some gentle kindly words — and then 
 his cold offended eyes met Margaret's with a 
 grave farewell as he left the room. She sat 
 down silent and pale. 
 
 " Do you know, Margaret, I really begin 
 quite to like Mr. Thornton." 
 
 No answer at first. Then Margaret forced 
 out an icy " Do you?" 
 
 " Yes! I think he is really getting quite pol- 
 ished in his manners." 
 
 Margaret's voice was more in order now. 
 She replied, 
 
 " He is very kind and attentive — there is no 
 doubt of that." 
 
 " I wonder Mrs. Thornton never calls. She 
 must know I am ill, because of the water- 
 bed." 
 
 " I dare say she hears how you are from her 
 son." 
 
 " Still I should like to see her. You have 
 so few friends here, Margaret." 
 
 Margaret felt what was in her mother's 
 thoughts — a tender craving to bespeak (lie 
 kindness of some woman toward the daughter 
 that might be so soon left motherless. But 
 she could not speak. 
 
 " Do you think," said Mrs. Hale, after a pause, 
 " that you could go and ask Mrs. Thornton to 
 come and see me? Only once — I don't want 
 to be troublesome." 
 
 " I will do any thing, if you wish it, mamma 
 — but if— but when Frederick comes — " 
 
 "Ah, to be sure! we must keep our doors 
 shut — we must let no one in. I hardly know 
 whether I dare wish him to come or not. Some- 
 times I think I would rather not. Sometimes 
 I have such frightful dreams about him." 
 
 " Oh, mamma! we'll take good care. I will 
 put my arm in the bolt sooner than he should 
 come to the slightest harm. Trust the care of 
 him to me, mamma. I will watch over him 
 like a lioness over her young." 
 
 " When can we hear from him ?" 
 
 "Sot for a week yet, certainly — perhaps 
 more." 
 
 " We must send Martha away in good time. 
 
 it would uever do to have her here when he 
 comes, and then send her off in a hurry." 
 
 " Dixon is sure to remind us of that. I was 
 thinking that if we wanted any help in the 
 house while he is here, we could perhaps get 
 Mary Higgins. She is very slack of work, and 
 is a good girl, and would take pains to do her 
 best, I am sure, and would sleep at home, and 
 need never come up-stairs, so as to know who 
 is in the house." 
 
 "As you please. As Dixon pleases. But, 
 Margaret, don't get to use these horrid Milton 
 words. ' Slack of work :' it is a provincialism. 
 What will your Aunt Shaw say if she hears 
 you use it on her return ?" 
 
 "Oh, mammal don't try and make a bug- 
 bear of Aunt Shaw," said Margaret, laughing. 
 " Edith picked np all sorts of military slang 
 from Captain Lennox, and Aunt Shaw never 
 took any notice of it." 
 
 " But yours is factory slang." 
 
 " And if I live in a factory town, I must 
 speak factory language when I want it. Why, 
 mamma, I could astonish you with a great 
 many words you never heard in your life. I 
 don't believe you know what a knobstick is." 
 
 " Not I, child. I only know it has a very 
 vulgar sound; and I don't want to hear you 
 using it." 
 
 " Very well, dearest mother, I won't. Only 
 I shall have to use a whole explanatory sen- 
 tence instead." 
 
 " I don't like this Milton," said Mrs. Hale. 
 " Edith is right enough in saying it's the smoke 
 that has made me so ill." 
 
 Margaret started up as her mother said this. 
 Her father had just entered the room, and she 
 was most anxious that the faint impression 
 she had seen on his mind that the Milton air 
 had injured her mother's health, should not be 
 deepened — should not receive any confirmation. 
 She could not tell if he had heard what Mrs. 
 Hale had said or not ; but she began speaking 
 hurriedly of other things, unaware that Mr. 
 Thornton was following him. 
 
 "Mamma is accusing me of having picked 
 up a great deal of vulgarity since we came to 
 Milton." 
 
 The " vulgarity" Margaret spoke of referred 
 purely to the use of local words, and the ex- 
 pression arose out of the conversation they 
 had just been holding. But Mr. Thornton's 
 brow darkened; and Margaret suddenly felt 
 how her speech might be misunderstood by 
 him; so, in the natural sweet desire to avoid 
 giving unnecessary pain, she forced herself to 
 go forward with a little greeting, and continue 
 what she was saying, addressing herself to him 
 expressly. 
 
 "Now, Mr. Thornton, though knobkstick has 
 not a very pretty sound, is it not expressive? 
 Could I do without it in speaking of the thing 
 it represents? If using local words is vulgar, 
 I was very vulgar in the Forest — was I not, 
 mamma?" 
 
 It was unusual with Margaret to obtrude 
 her own subject of conversation on others; but 
 in this case she was so anxious to prevent Mr. 
 Thornton from feeling annoyance at the words 
 he had accidentally overheard, that it was not 
 until she had done speaking that she colored all 
 over with consciousness, more especially as Mr. 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 Thornton seemed hardly to understand the ex- 
 act gist or bearing of what she was saying, but 
 passed her by, with a cold reserve of ceremo- 
 nious movement, to speak to Mrs. Hale. 
 
 The sight of him reminded her of the wish 
 to see his mother, and commend Margaret to 
 her care. Margaret, sitting in burning silence, 
 vexed and ashamed of her difficulty in keeping 
 her right place, and her calm unconsciousness 
 of heart, when Mr. Thornton was by, heard her 
 mother's low entreaty that Mrs. Thornton would 
 come and see her; see her soon ; to-morrow, if 
 it were possible. Mr. Thornton promised that 
 she should — conversed a little, and then took 
 his leave ; and Margaret's movements and voice 
 seemed at once released from some invisible 
 chains. He never looked at her ; and yet the 
 careful avoidance of his eyes betokened that in 
 some way he knew exactly where, if they fell by 
 chance, they would rest on her. If she spoke 
 he gave no sign of attention, and yet his next 
 speech to any one else was modified by what 
 she had said; sometimes there was an express 
 answer to what she had remarked, but given 
 to another person as though unsuggested by 
 her. It was not the bad manners of ignorance : 
 it was the willful bad manners arising from deep 
 offense. It was willful at the time ; repented 
 of afterward. But no deep plan, no careful 
 cunning could have stood him in such good 
 stead. Margaret thought about him more than 
 she had ever done before ; not with any tinge 
 of what is called love, but with regret that she 
 had wounded him so deeply — and with a gen- 
 tle, patient striving to return to their former 
 position of antagonistic friendship ; for a friend's 
 position was what she found that he had held 
 in her regard, as well as in that of the rest of 
 the family. There was a pretty humility in 
 her behavior to him, as if mutely apologizing 
 for the over-strong words which were the re- 
 action from the deeds of the day of the riot. 
 
 But he resented those words bitterly. They 
 rung in his ears; and he was proud of the 
 sense of justice which made him go on in every 
 kindness he could offer to her parents. He ex- 
 ulted in the power he showed in compelling 
 himself to face her, whenever he could think 
 of any action which could give her father or 
 mother pleasure. He thought that he disliked 
 seeing one who had mortified him so keenly; 
 but he was mistaken. It was a stinging pleas- 
 ure to be in the room with her, and feel her 
 presence. But he was no great analyzer of his 
 own motives, and was mistaken, as I have said. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 Mks. Thoknton came to see Mrs. Hale the 
 next morning. She was much worse. One 
 of those sudden changes — those great visible 
 strides toward death — had been taken in the 
 night, and her own family were startled by the 
 gray sunken look her features had assumed in 
 that one twelve hours of suffering. Mrs. Thorn- 
 ton — who had not seen her for weeks — was 
 softened all at once. She had come because 
 her son asked it from her as a personal favor, 
 but with all the proud bitter feelings of her 
 nature in arms against that family of which 
 
 Margaret formed one. She doubted the reality 
 of Mrs. Hale's illness ; she doubted any want 
 beyond a momentary fancy on that lady s part, 
 which should take her out of her previously 
 settled course of employment for the day. She 
 told her Bon that she wished they had never 
 come near the place; that he had never got 
 acquainted with them ; that there had been no 
 such useless languages as Latin and Greek ever 
 invented. He bore all this pretty silently ; but 
 when she had ended her invective against the 
 dead languages, he quietly returned to the 
 short, curt, decided expression of his wish that 
 she should go and see Mrs. Hale at the time 
 appointed, as most likely to be convenient to 
 the invalid. Mrs. Thornton submitted with as 
 bad a grace as she could to her son's desire, all 
 the time liking him the better for having it; 
 and exaggerating in her own mind the 6ame 
 notion that he had of extraordinary goodness 
 on his part in so perseveringly keeping up with 
 the Hales. 
 
 His goodness verging on weakness, as all the 
 softer virtues did in her mind, and her own 
 contempt for Mr. and Mrs. Hale, and positive 
 dislike to Margaret, were the ideas which oc- 
 cupied Mrs. Thornton till she was struck into 
 nothingness before the dark shadow of the 
 wings of the angel of death. There lay Mrs. 
 Hale — a mother like herself — a much younger 
 woman than she was — on the bed from which 
 there was no sign of hope that she might ever 
 rise again. No more variety of light and shade 
 for her in that darkened room ; no power of 
 action, scarcely change of movement ; faint al- 
 ternations of whispered sound and studious si- 
 lence ; and yet that monotonous life seemed al- 
 most too much ! "When Mrs. Thornton, strong 
 and prosperous with life, came in, Mrs. Hale 
 lay still, although from the look on her faee she 
 was evidently conscious of who it was. But 
 she did not even open her eyes for a minute or 
 two. The heavy moisture of tears stood on the 
 eyelashes before she looked up ; then, with her 
 hand groping feebly over the bed-clothes, for 
 the touch of Mrs. Thornton's large firm fin- 
 gers, she said, scarcely above her breath — Mrs. 
 Thornton had to stoop from her erectness to 
 listen — 
 
 " Margaret — you ha ve a daughter — my sister 
 is in Italy. My child will be without a mother 
 — in a strange place — if I die — will you — " 
 
 And her filmy wandering eyes fixed them- 
 selves with an intensity of wistfulness on Mrs. 
 Thornton's face. For a minute there was no 
 change in its rigidness ; it was stern and un- 
 moved — nay, but that the eyes of the sick 
 woman were growing dim with the slow-gather- 
 ing tears, she might have seen a dark cloud cross 
 the cold features. And it was no thought of 
 her son, or of her living daughter Fanny, that 
 stirred her heart at last; but a sudden remem- 
 brance, suggested by something in the arrange- 
 ment of the room — of a little daughter — dead 
 in infancy — long years ago ; that, like a sudden 
 sunbeam, melted the icy crust, behind which 
 there was a real, tender woman. 
 
 " You wish me to be a friend to Miss Hale," 
 
 said Mrs. Thornton, in her measured voice, that 
 
 would not soften with her heart, but came out 
 
 distinct and clear. 
 
 Mrs. Hale, her eyes still fixed on Mrs. Thorn- 
 
94 
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 ton's face, pressed the hand that lay below hers 
 on the coverlet. She could not speak. Mrs. 
 Thornton sighed, "I will be a true friend, if 
 circumstances require it. Not a tender friend. 
 That I can not be" — (" to her," she was on the 
 point of adding, but she relented at the sight 
 of that poor, anxious face). — " It is not in my 
 nature to show affection even where I feel it, 
 nor do I volunteer advice in general. Still, 
 at your request — if it will be any comfort to 
 you, I will promise you." Then came a pause. 
 Mrs. Thornton was too conscientious to promise 
 what she did not mean to perform; and to per- 
 form any thing in the way of kindness on be- 
 half of Margaret, more disliked at this moment 
 than ever, was difficult; almost impossible. 
 
 "I promise," said she, with grave severity; 
 which, after all, inspired the dying woman with 
 faith as in something more stable than life it- 
 self — flickering, flitting, wavering life! "I 
 promise that in any difficulty in which Miss 
 
 " Call her Margaret!" gasped Mrs. Hale. 
 
 " In which she comes to me for help, I will 
 help her with every power I have, as if she 
 were my own daughter. I also promise that 
 if ever I see her doing what I think is 
 wrong — " 
 
 " But Margaret never does wrong — not will- 
 fully wrong," pleaded Mrs. Hale. Mrs. Thorn- 
 ton went on as before; as if she had not 
 heard : 
 
 " If ever I see her doing what I believe to be 
 wrong — such wrong not touching me or mine, 
 in which case I might be supposed to have an 
 interested motive — I will tell her of it, faith- 
 fully and plainly, as I should wish my own 
 daughter to be told." 
 
 There was a long pause. Mrs. Hale felt that 
 this promise did not include all ; and yet it was 
 much. It had reservations in it which she did 
 not understand; but then she was weak, dizzy, 
 and tired. Mrs. Thornton was reviewing all 
 the probable cases in which she had pledged 
 herself to act. She had a fierce pleasure in the 
 idea of telling Margaret unwelcome truths, in 
 the shape of performance of duty. Mrs. Hale 
 began to speak : 
 
 " I thank you. I pray God to bless you. I 
 shall never see you again in this world. But 
 my last words are, I thank you for your prom- 
 ise of kindness to my child." 
 
 " Not kindness!" testified Mrs. Thornton, un- 
 graciously truthful to the hi6t. But having 
 eased her conscience by saying these words, she 
 waB not sorry that they were not heard. She 
 pressed Mrs. Hale's soft languid hand ; and rose 
 up and went her way out of the house without 
 seeing a creature. 
 
 During the time that Mrs. Thornton was hav- 
 ing this interview with Mrs. Hale, Margaret 
 and Dixon were laying their heads together 
 and consulting how they should keep Freder- 
 ick's coining a profound secret to all out of the 
 house. A letter from him might now be ex- 
 pected any day ; and he would assuredly fol- 
 low quickly on its heels. Martha must be sent 
 away on her holiday ; Dixon must keep stern 
 guard on the front door, only admitting the 
 few visitors that ever came to the house into 
 Mr. Ilale's room- down-stairs — Mrs. Hale's ex- 
 treme illness giving her a good excuse for this. 
 
 If Mary Higgins was required as a help to Dix- 
 on in the kitchen, she was to hear and see as 
 little of Frederick as possible ; and he was, if 
 necessary, to be spoken of to her under the 
 name of Mr. Dickinson. But her sluggish and 
 incurious nature was the greatest safeguard of 
 all. 
 
 They resolved that Martha should leave them 
 that very afternoon for this visit to her mother. 
 Margaret wished that she had been sent away 
 on the previous day, as she fancied it might be 
 thought strange to give a servant a holiday 
 when her mother's state required so much at- 
 tendance. 
 
 Poor Margaret ! All that afternoon she had 
 to act the part of a Roman daughter, and give 
 strength out of her own scanty stock to her 
 father. Mr. Hale would hope, would not de- 
 spair, between the attacks of his wife's malady; 
 he buoyed himself up in ever3 - respite from her 
 pain, and believed that it was the beginning 
 of ultimate recovery. And so, when the parox- 
 ysms came on, each more severe than the last, 
 they were fresh agonies, and greater disappoint- 
 ments to him. This afternoon he sat in the 
 drawing-room, unable to bear the solitude of 
 his study, or to employ himself in any way. 
 He buried his head in his arms, which lay fold- 
 ed on the table. Margaret's heart ached to see 
 him ; yet, as he did not speak, she did not like 
 to volunteer any attempt at comfort. Martha 
 was gone. Dixon sat with Mrs. Hale while she 
 slept. The house was very still and quiet, and 
 darkness came on, without any movement to 
 procure candles. Margaret sat at the window, 
 looking out at the lamps and the street, but 
 seeing nothing — only alive to her father's 
 heavy sighs. She did not like to go down for 
 lights, lest, the tacit restraint of her presence 
 being withdrawn, he might give way to more 
 violent emotion, without her being at hand to 
 comfort him. Yet she was just thinking that 
 she ought to go and see after the well-doing of 
 the kitchen-fire, which there was nobody but 
 herself to attend to, when she heard the muffled 
 door-bell ring with so violent a pull, that the 
 wires jingled all through the house, though the 
 positive sound was not great. She started up 
 — passed her father, who had never moved at 
 the vailed dull sound — returned, and kissed him 
 tenderly. And still he never moved, nor took 
 any notice of her fond embrace. Then she 
 went down softly, through the dark, to the door. 
 Dixon would have put the chain on before she 
 opened it, but Margaret had not a thought of 
 fear in her preoccupied mind. A man's tall 
 figure stood between her and the luminous 
 street. He was looking away ; but at the sound 
 of the latch he turned quickly round. 
 
 " Is this Mr. Hale's ?" 6aid he, in a clear, full, 
 delicate voice. 
 
 Margaret trembled all over ; at first she did 
 not answer. In a moment she sighed out, 
 
 "Frederick!" and stretched out both her 
 hands to cateh his, and draw him in. 
 
 " Oh, Margaret I" said he, holding her off by 
 her shoulders, after they had kissed each other, 
 as if even in that darkness he could see her face, 
 and read in its expression a quicker answer to 
 his question than words could give — 
 
 " My mother ! is she alive ?" 
 
 "Yes, she is alive, dear, dear brother! She 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 95 
 
 — as ill as she can be she is; but alive! She is 
 alive!" 
 
 "Thank God!" said he. 
 
 " Papa is utterly prostrate with this great 
 grief." 
 
 " You expect me, don't )'ou?" 
 
 " No, we have had no letter." 
 
 " Then I have come before it. But my moth- 
 er, knows I am coming?" 
 
 " Oh ! we all knew you would come. But 
 wait a little! Step in here. Give me your 
 hand. What is this? Oh! your carpet-bag. 
 Dixon has shut the shutters ; but this is papa^s 
 study, and I can take you to a ehair to rest 
 yourself for a few minutes, while I go and tell 
 him." 
 
 She groped her way to the taper and the 
 lueifer matches. She suddenly felt shy when 
 the little feeble light made them visible. All 
 she could see was that her brother's face was 
 unusually dark in complexion, and she caught 
 the stealthy look of a pair of remarkably long- 
 cut blue eyes, that suddenly twinkled up with 
 a droll consciousness of their mutual purpose 
 of inspecting each other. But though the 
 brother and sister had an instant of sympathy 
 in their reciprocal glances, they did not ex- 
 change a word ; only Margaret felt sure that she 
 should like her brother as a companion as much 
 as she already loved him as a near relation. 
 Her heart was wonderfully lighter as she went 
 up stairs ; the sorrow was no less in reality, but 
 it became less oppressive from having some one 
 in precisely the same relation to it as that in 
 which she stood. Not her father's desponding 
 attitude had power to damp her now. He lay 
 across the table, helpless as ever; but she had 
 the spell by which to rouse him. She used it 
 perhaps too violently in her own great relief. 
 
 " Papa," said she, throwing her arms fondly 
 round his neck; pulling his weary head up in 
 fact with her gentle violence, till it rested in 
 her arms, and she could look into his eyes, and 
 gain strength and assurance from hers. 
 
 "Papa! guess who is here !" 
 
 He looked at her ; she saw the idea of the 
 truth glimmer into their filmy sadness, and be 
 dismissed thence as a wild imagination. 
 
 He threw himself forward, and hid his face 
 once more in his stretched-out arms, resting 
 upon the table as heretofore. She heard him 
 whisper ; she bent tenderly down to listen. " I 
 don't kno_w. Don't tell me it is Frederick — not 
 Frederick. I can not bear it — I am too weak. 
 And his mother is dying!" 
 
 He began to cry and wail like a child. It was 
 so different to all which Margaret had hoped 
 and expected, that she turned sick with disap- 
 pointment, and was silent for an instant. Then 
 she spoke again — very differently — not so ex- 
 ultingly, far more tenderly and carefully. 
 
 "Papa, it is Frederick! Think of mamma, 
 how glad she will be! And oh, for her sake, 
 h:iw glad we ought to be ! For his sake too — 
 .our poor, poor boy !" 
 
 Her father did not change his attitude, but 
 he seemed to be trying to understand the fact. 
 
 " Where is he?" asked he at last, his face 
 still hidden in his prostrate arms. 
 
 "In your study, quite alone. I lighted the 
 taper, and ran up to tell you. He is quite 
 alone, and will be wondering why — " 
 
 " I will go to him," broke in her father ; and 
 he lifted himself up and leant on her arm as on 
 that of a guide. 
 
 Margaret led him to the study door, but her 
 spirits were so agitated that she felt that she 
 could not bear to see the meeting. She turned 
 away, and l'an up stairs, and cried most heart- 
 ily. It was the first time she had dared to 
 allow herself this relief for days. The strain 
 had been terrible, as she now felt. But Freder- 
 ick was come I He, the one precious brother, 
 was there, safe, among them again ! She could 
 hardly believe it. She stopped her crying, and 
 opened her bedroom door. She heard no sound 
 of voices, and almost feared she might have 
 dreamt. She went down stairs, and listened at 
 the study door. She heard the buzz of voices ; 
 and that was enough. She went into the kit- 
 chen, and stirred up the fire, and lighted the 
 house, and prepared for the wanderer's refresh- 
 ment. How fortunate it was that her mother 
 slept! She knew that she did, from the candle- 
 lighter thrust through the keyhole of her bed- 
 room door. The traveler could be refreshed and 
 bright, and the first excitement of the meeting 
 with his father all be over, before her mother 
 became aware of any thing unusual. 
 
 When all was ready, Margaret opened the 
 study door, and went in like a serving-maiden, 
 with a heavy tray held in her extended arms. 
 She was proud of serving Frederick. But he, 
 when he saw her, sprang up in a minute, and 
 relieved her of her burden. It was a type, a 
 sign, of all the coming relief which his presence 
 would bring. The brother and sister arranged 
 the table together, saying little, but their hands 
 touching, and their eyes speaking the natural 
 language of expression, so intelligible to those 
 of the same blood. The fire had gone out ; and 
 Margaret applied herself to light it, for the 
 evenings had begun to be chilly; and yet it 
 was desirable to make all noises as distant as 
 possible from Mrs. Hale's room. 
 
 " Dixon says it is a gift to light a fire ; not 
 an art to be acquired." 
 
 " Poeta naseitur, non fit," murmured Mr. 
 Hale ; and Margaret was glad to hear a quota- 
 tion onee more, however languidly given. 
 
 " Dear old Dixon ! How we shall kiss each 
 other!" said Frederick. " She used to kiss me, 
 and then look in my face to be sure I was the 
 right person, and then set-to again ! But Mar- 
 garet what a bungler you are ! I never saw 
 such a little awkward good-for-nothing pair of 
 hands. Run away, and wash them, ready to 
 cut bread-and-butter for me, and leave the fire. 
 I'll manage it. Lighting fires is one of my nat- 
 ural accomplishments." 
 
 So Margaret went away, and returned, and 
 passed in and out of the room in a glad rest- 
 lessness that could not be satisfied with sitting \ 
 still. The more wants Frederick had, the bet- : 
 ter she was pleased ; and he understood all this | 
 by instinct. It was a joy snatched in the house 
 of mourning, and the zest of it was all the more 
 pungent, because they knew in the depths of ' 
 their hearts what irremediable sorrow awaited j 
 them. / 
 
 In the middle, they heard Dixon's foot on 
 the stairs. Mr. Hale started from his languid 
 posture in his great arm-chair, from which he 
 had been watching his children in a dreamy 
 
KOETH AND SOUTH. 
 
 way, as if they were acting some drama of hap- 
 piness, which it was pretty to look at, but 
 which was distinct from reality, and in which 
 he had no part. He stood up and faced the 
 door, showing such a strange, sudden anxiety 
 to conceal Frederick from the sight of any per- 
 son entering, even though it were the faithful 
 Dixon, that a shiver came over Margaret's 
 heart; it reminded her of the new fear in their 
 lives. She caught at Frederick's arm, and 
 clutched it tight, while u. stern thought com- 
 pressed her brows, and caused her to set her 
 teeth. And yet they knew it was only Dixon's 
 measured tread. They heard her walk the 
 length of the passage — into the kitchen. Mar- 
 garet rose up. 
 
 " I will go to her, and tell her. And I shall 
 hear how mamma is." Mrs. Hale was awake. 
 She rambled at first; but after they had given 
 Iter some tea she was refreshed, though not 
 disposed to talk. It was better that the night 
 should pass over before she was told of her 
 son's arrival. Dr. Donaldson's appointed visit 
 would bring nervous excitement enough for 
 the evening ; and he might tell them how to 
 prepare her for seeing Frederick. He was 
 there, jn the house; could be summoned at any 
 moment. 
 
 Margaret could not sit still. It was a relief 
 to her to aid Dixon in all her preparations for 
 " Master Frederick." It seemed as though she 
 never could be tired again. Each glimpse into 
 the room where he sate by his father, convers- 
 ing with him, about she knew not what, nor 
 cared to know — was increase of strength to her. 
 Her own time for talking and hearing would 
 come at last, and she was too certain of this to 
 feel in a hurry to grasp it now. She took in 
 his appearance and liked it. He had delicate 
 features, redeemed from effeminacy by the 
 swarthiness of his complexion, and his quick 
 intensity of expression. His eyes were gene- 
 rally merry-looking, but at times they and his 
 mouth so suddenly changed and gave her such 
 an idea of latent passion that it almost made 
 her afraid. But this look was only for an in- 
 stant ; and had in it no doggedness, no vindic- 
 tiveness ; it was rather the instantaneous feroc- 
 ity of expression that comes over the counte- 
 nances of all natives of wild or southern coun- 
 tries — a ferocity which enhances the charm of 
 the childlike softness into which such a look 
 may melt away. Margaret might fear the vio- 
 lence of the impulsive nature thus occasionally 
 betrayed, but there was nothing in it to make 
 her distrust, or recoil in the least, from the pew- 
 found brother. On the 'contrary, all their in- 
 tercourse was peculiarly charming to her from 
 the very first. She knew then how much re- 
 sponsibility she had had to bear, from the ex- 
 quisite sensation of relief which she felt in Fred- 
 crick's presence. He understood his father and 
 mother — their characters and their weaknesses, 
 and went along with a careless freedom, which 
 was yet most delicately careful not to hurt or 
 wound any of their feelings. He seemed to 
 know instinctively when a little of the natural 
 brilliancy of his manner and conversation would 
 not jar on the deep depression of his father, or 
 might relieve his mother's pain. Whenever it 
 would have been out of tune, and out of time, 
 his patient devotion and watchfulness came 
 
 into play, and made him an admirable nurse. 
 Then Margaret was almost touched into tears 
 by the allusions which he often made to their 
 childish days in the New Forest ; he had never 
 forgotten her — or Helstone either — all the time 
 he had been roaming among distant countries 
 and foreign people. She might talk to him of 
 the old spot, and never fear tiring him. She 
 had been afraid of him before he came, even 
 while she had longed for his coming ; 6even or 
 eight years had, she felt, produced such great 
 changes in herself that, forgetting how much 
 of the original Margaret was left, she had rea- 
 soned that if her tastes and feelings had so ma- 
 terially altered, even in her stay-at-home life, 
 his wild career, with which she was but imper- 
 fectly acquainted, must have almost substituted 
 another Frederick from the tall stripling in his 
 middy's uniform, whom she remembered look- 
 ing up to with such admiring awe. But in 
 their absence they had grown nearer to each 
 other in age, as well as in many other things. 
 And so it was that the weight, this sorrowful 
 time, was lightened to Margaret. Other light 
 than that of Frederick's presence she had none. 
 For a few hours the mother rallied on seeing 
 her son. She sate with his hand in hers; she 
 would not part with it even while she slept; 
 and Margaret had to feed him like a baby, 
 rather than that he should disturb her mother 
 by removing a finger. Mrs. Hale wakened while 
 they were thus engaged; she slowly moved her 
 head round on the pillow, and smiled at her 
 children, as she understood what they were 
 doing, and why it was done. 
 
 I am very selfish," said she; but it will not 
 be for long." Frederick bent down and kissed 
 the feeble hand that imprisoned his. 
 
 This state of tranquillity could not endure for 
 many days, nor perhaps for many hours; so 
 Dr. Donaldson assured Margaret. After the 
 kind doctor had gone away, she stole down to 
 Frederick, who, during the visit, had been ad- 
 jured to remain quietly concealed in the back 
 parlor, usually Dixon's bedroom, but now given 
 up to him. 
 
 Margaret told him what Dr. Donaldson said. 
 
 "I don't believe it," he exclaimed. "She is 
 very ill ; she may be dangerously ill, and in im- 
 mediate danger, too ; but I can't imagine that 
 she could be as she is, if she were on the point 
 of death. Margaret! she should have some 
 other advice — some London doctor. Have you 
 never thought of that?" 
 
 "Yes," said Margaret, "more than once. 
 But I don't believe it would do any good. 
 And, you know, we have not the money to 
 bring any great London surgeon down, and I 
 am sure Dr. Donaldson is only second in skill 
 to the very best, if indeed he is to them." 
 
 Frederick began to walk up and down the 
 room impatiently. 
 
 "I have credit in Cadiz," said he, "but none 
 here, owing to this wretched change of name. 
 Why did my father leave Helstone ? That was 
 the blunder." 
 
 " It was no blunder," said Margaret, gloomi- 
 ly. "And, above all possible chances, avoid 
 letting papa hear any thing like what you 
 have just been saying. I can see that he is tor- 
 menting himself already with the idea that 
 mamma would never have been ill if we had 
 
NORTH AJSD SOUTH. 
 
 97 
 
 staid at Helstone, and you don't know papa's 
 agonizing power of self-reproach 1" 
 
 Frederick walked away as if he were on the 
 quarter-deck. At last he stopped right oppo- 
 site to Margaret, and looked at her drooping, 
 desponding attitude for an instant. 
 
 " My little Margaret 1" said h«, caressing her. 
 " Let us hope as long as we can. Poor little 
 ■woman! what! is this face all wet with tears ? 
 I will hope. I will, in spite of a thousand doc- 
 tors. Bear up, Margaret, and be brave enough 
 to hope!" 
 
 Margaret choked in trying to speak, and 
 when she did it was very low. 
 
 " I must try to be meek enough to trust. 
 Oh, Frederick! mamma was getting to love 
 me so ! And I was getting to understand her. 
 And now comes death to snap us asunder !" 
 
 " Come, come, come ! Let us go up-stairs, and 
 do something, rather than waste time that may 
 be so precious. Thinking has, many a time, 
 made me sad, darling ; but doing never did in 
 all my life. My theory is a sort of parody on 
 the maxim of ' Get money, my son, honestly if 
 you can ; but get money.' My precept is, ' Do 
 something, my sister, do good if you can; but, 
 at any rate, do something.' " 
 
 "Not excluding mischief," said Margaret, 
 smiling faintly through her tears. 
 
 "By no means. What I do exclude is the re- 
 morse afterward. Blot your misdeeds out (if 
 you are particularly conscientious), by a good 
 deed, as soon as you can; just as we did a cor- 
 rect sum at school on the slate, where an incor- 
 rect one was only half rubbed out. It was bet- 
 ter than wetting our sponge with tears ; both 
 less loss of time where tears had to be waited 
 for, and a better effect at last." 
 
 If Margaret thought Frederick's theory rath- 
 -er a rough one at first, she saw how he worked 
 it out into continual production of kindness in 
 fact. After a bad night with his mother (for 
 he insisted on taking his turn as a sitter-up) he 
 was busy the next morning before breakfast, 
 contriving a leg-rest for Dixon, who was begin- 
 ning to feel the fatigues of watching. At break- 
 fast-time he interested Mr. Hale with vivid, 
 graphic, rattling accounts of the wild life he had 
 led in Mexico, South America, and elsewhere. 
 Margaret would have given up the effort in 
 despair to rouse Mr. Hale out of his dejection ; 
 it would even have affected herself and render- 
 ed her incapable of talking at all. But Fred, 
 true to his theory, did something perpetually ; 
 and talking was the only thing to be done, be- 
 sides eating, at breakfast. 
 
 Before the night of that day, Dr. Donaldson's 
 opinion was proved to be all too well founded. 
 Convulsions came on; and when they ceased 
 Mrs. Hale was unconscious. Her husband 
 might lie by her shaking the bed; with his sobs ; 
 her son's strong arms might lift her tenderly 
 up into a comfortable position; her daughter's 
 hands might bathe her face; but she knew 
 them not. She would never recognize them 
 again, till they met in Heaven. 
 Before the morning came all was over. 
 Then Margaret rose from her trembling and 
 despondency, and became as a strong angel of 
 comfort to her father and brother. For Fred- 
 erick had broken down now, and all his theo- 
 ries were of no use to him. He cried so violent- 
 G 
 
 ly, when shut up alone in his little room at 
 night, that Margaret and Dixon came down in 
 affright to warn him to be quiet ; for the house- 
 partitions were but thin, and the next-door 
 neighbors might easily hear his youthful pas- 
 sionate sobs, so different from the slower trem- 
 bling agony of after-life, when we become in- 
 ured to grief, and dare not be rebellious against 
 the inexorable doom, knowing who it is that 
 decrees. 
 
 Margaret sate with her father in the room 
 with the dead. If he had cried, she would 
 have been thankful. But he sate by the bed 
 quite quietly ; only from time to time he un- 
 covered the face, and stroked it gently, making 
 a kind of soft, inarticulate noise, like that of 
 some mother-animal caressing her young. He 
 took no notice of Margaret's presence. Once or 
 twice she came up to kiss him ; and he submit- 
 ted to it, giving her a slight push away when 
 she had done, as if her affection disturbed him 
 from his absorption in the dead. He started 
 when he heard Frederick's cries, and shook his 
 head — "Poor boy! poor boy!" he said, and 
 took no more notice. Margaret's heart ached 
 within her. She could not think of her own 
 loss in thinking of her father's case. The night 
 was wearing away, and the day was at hand, 
 when, without a word of preparation, Marga- 
 ret's voice broke upon the stillness of the room, 
 with a cleai-ness of sound that started even her- 
 self: " Let not your heart be troubled," it said ; 
 and she went steadily on through all that chap- 
 ter of unspeakable consolation. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 The chill, shivery October morning came; 
 not the October morning of the country, with 
 soft, silvery mists, clearing off before the sun- 
 beams that bring out all the gorgeous beauty 
 of coloring, but the October morning of Mil- 
 ton, whose silver mists were heavy fogs, and 
 where the sun could only show long dusky 
 streets when he did break through and shine. 
 Margaret went languidly about, assisting Dixon 
 in her task of arranging the house. Her eyes 
 were continually blinded by tears, but she had 
 no time t,o give way to regular crying. The 
 father and brother depended upon her ; while 
 they were giving way to grief, she must be 
 working, planning, considering. Even the ne- 
 cessary arrangements for the funeral seemed to 
 devolve upon her. 
 
 When the fire was bright and crackling — 
 when every thing was ready for breakfast, and 
 the tea-kettle was singing away, Margaret 
 gave a last look round the room before going 
 to summon Mr. Hale and Frederick. She 
 wanted every thing to look as cheerful as pos- 
 sible ; and yet, when it did so, the contrast be- 
 tween it and her own thoughts forced her into 
 sudden weeping. She was kneeling by the 
 sofa, hiding ner face in the cushions that no 
 one might hear her cry, when she was touched 
 on the shoulder by Dixon. 
 
 " Come, Miss Hale — come, my dear ! You 
 must not give way, or where shall we all be I 
 There is not another person in the house fit to 
 give a direction of any kind, and there is so 
 
98 
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 much to be done. There's who's to manage 
 the funeral; and who's to come to it; and 
 ■where it's to be; and all to be settled: and 
 Master Frederick's like one crazed with crying, 
 and master never was a good one for settling; 
 and, poor gentleman, he goes about now as if 
 he was lost. It's bad enough, my dear, I know ; 
 but death comes to us all ; and you're well off 
 never to have lost any friend till now." 
 
 Perhaps so. But this seemed a loss by itself; 
 not to bear comparison with any other event in 
 the world. Margaret did not take any comfort 
 from what Dixon said, but the unusual tender- 
 ness of the prim old servant's manner touched 
 her to the heart ; and, more from a desire to 
 show her gratitude for this than for any other 
 reason, she roused herself up, and smiled in an- 
 swer to Dixon's anxious look at her ; and went 
 •to tell her father and brother that breakfast 
 was ready. 
 
 Mr. Hale came — as if in a dream, or rather 
 with the unconscious motion of a sleep-walker, 
 whose eyes and mind perceive other things 
 than what are present. Frederick came brisk- 
 ly in with a forced cheerfulness, grasped her 
 hand, looked into her eyes, and burst into tears. 
 She had to try and think of little nothings 
 to say all breakfaat-time, in order to prevent 
 the recurrence of her companions' thoughts 
 too strongly to the last meal they had taken 
 together, when there had been a continual 
 strained listening for some sound or signal from 
 the sick-room. 
 
 After breakfast, she resolved to speak to her 
 father about the funeral. He shook his head, 
 aDd assented to all she proposed, though many 
 of her propositions absolutely contradicted one 
 another. Margaret gained no real decision from 
 him; and was leaving the room languidly, to 
 have a consultation with Dixon, when Mr. Hale 
 motioned her back to his side. 
 
 " Ask Mr. Bell," said he, in a hollow voice. 
 
 " Mr. Bell !" said she, a little surprised. " Mr. 
 Bell of Oxford?" 
 
 "Mr. Bell," he repeated. "Yes. He was 
 ■my groom's-man." 
 
 Margaret understood the association. 
 
 "I will write to-day," said she. He sank 
 . again into listlessness. All morning she toiled 
 ■on, longing for rest, but in a continual whirl 
 of melancholy business. 
 
 Toward evening, Dixon said to her : 
 
 " I've done it, miss, I was really afraid for 
 master, that he'd have a stroke with grief. He 
 ■has been all this day with poor missus ; and 
 when I've listened at the door, I've heard him 
 talking to her, and talking to her, as if she was 
 alive. When I went in he would be quite quiet, 
 but all in a maze like. So I thought to myself, 
 he ought to be roused ; and if it gives him a 
 shock at first, it will, maybe, be the better 
 afterwards. So I've been and told him that I 
 •don't think it's safe for Master Frederick to be 
 here. And I don't. It was only on Tuesday, 
 when I was out, that I met a Southampton 
 man — the first I've seen since I came to Milton ; 
 they don't make their way much up here, I think. 
 Well, it was young Leonards, old; Leonards the 
 draper's son, as great a scamp as ever lived — 
 who plagued his father almost to death, and 
 then ran off to sea. I never could abide him. 
 He was in the Orion at the same time as Master 
 
 Frederick, I know ; though I don't recollect if 
 he was there at the mutiny. 
 
 " Did he know you ?" said Margaret, eagerly. 
 
 "Why, that's the worst of it. if don't believe 
 he would have known me but for my being 
 such a fool as to call out his name. He were 
 a Southampton man, in a strange place, or 
 else I should never have been so ready to call 
 cousins with him, a nasty, good-for-nothing fel- 
 low. Says he, ' Miss Dixon ! who would ha' 
 thought of seeing you here? But perhaps I 
 mistake, and you're Miss Dixon no longer?' So 
 I told him he might still address me as an un- 
 married lady, though if I hadn't been so par- 
 ticular, I'd had good chances of matrimony. He 
 was polite enough : ' He couldn't look at me and 
 doubt me.' But I were not to be caught with 
 such chaff from such a fellow as him, and so I 
 told him ; and, by way of being even, I asked 
 him after his father (who I knew had turned 
 him out of doors) as if they was the best friends 
 as ever was. So then, to spite me — for you see 
 we were getting savage, for all we were so civil 
 to each other — he began to inquire after Mas- 
 ter Frederick, and said, what a scrape he'd got 
 into (as if Master Frederick's scrapes would 
 ever wash George Leonards' white, or make 
 'em look otherwise'than nasty dirty black), and 
 how he'd be hung for mutiny if ever he were 
 caught, and how a hundred pound reward had 
 been offered for catching him, and what a dis- 
 grace he had been to his family — all to spite 
 me, you see, my dear, because before now I've 
 helped old Mr. Leonards to give George a good 
 rating, down in Southampton. So I said, there 
 were other families as I knew who had far 
 more cause to blush for their sons, and to be 
 thankful if they could think they were earning 
 an honest living far away from home. To which 
 he made answer, like the impudent chap he is, 
 that he were in a confidential situation, and if 
 I knew of any young man who had been so un- 
 fortunate as to lead vicious courses, and wanted 
 to turn steady, he'd have no objection to lend 
 him his patronage. He, indeed! Why, he'd 
 corrupt a saint. I've uot felt so bad myself for 
 years as when I were standing talking to him 
 the other day. I could have cried to think I 
 couldn't spite him better, for he kept smiling 
 in my face, as if he took all my compliments 
 for earnest ; and I couldn't see that he minded 
 what I said in the least, while I was mad with 
 all his speeches." 
 
 " But you did not tell him any thing about 
 us — about Frederick ?" 
 
 " Not I," said Dixon. "He had never the grace 
 to ask where I was staying; and I shouldn't 
 have told him if he had asked. Nor did I ask 
 him what his precious situation was. He was 
 waiting for a ous, and just then it drove up, 
 and he hailed it. But, to plague me to the last, 
 he turned back before he got in, and said, ' If 
 you can help me to trap Lieutenant Hale, Miss 
 Dixon, we'll go partners in the reward. I know 
 you'd like to be my partner, now wouldn't you ? 
 Don't be shy, but say yes.' And he jumped on 
 the bus, and I saw his ugly face leering at me 
 with a wicked smile to think how he'd had the 
 last word of plaguing." 
 
 Margaret was made very uncomfortable by 
 this account of Dixon's. 
 
 " Have you told Frederick?" asked she. 
 
NORTH' AND SOUTH. 
 
 99 
 
 "No," said Dixon. "I were uneasy in my 
 mind at knowing that bad Leonards was in 
 town; but there was so much else to think 
 about that I did not dwell on it at alL But 
 when I saw master sitting so stiff, and with his 
 eyes so glazed and sad, I thought it might rouse 
 him to have to think of Master Frederick's safe- 
 ty a bit. So I told him all, though I brushed 
 to say how a young man had been speaking to 
 me. And it has done master good. And if 
 we're to keep Master Frederick in hiding, he 
 would have to go, poor fellow, before Mr. Bell 
 came." I 
 
 " Oh, I'm not afraid of Mr. Bell; but I am 
 afraid of this Leonards. I must tell Frederick. 
 What did Leonards look like ?" 
 
 " A bad-lopking fellow, I can assur» you, miss. 
 Whiskers such as I should be ashamed to wear 
 — they are so red. And for all he said he'd got 
 a confidential situation, he was dressed in fus- 
 tian just like a working man." 
 
 It was evident that Frederick must go. Go, 
 too, when he had so completely vaulted into 
 his place in the family, and promised to be 
 such a stay and staff to his father and sister. 
 Go, when his cares for the living mother, and 
 sorrow for the dead, seemed to make him one 
 of those peculiar people who are bound to us 
 by a fellow-love for those that are taken away. 
 Just as Margaret was thinking all this, sitting 
 over the drawing-room fire — her father restless 
 and uneasy under the pressure of this newly- 
 aroused fear, of which he had not as yet spoken 
 — Frederick came in, his brightness dimmed, 
 but the extreme violence of nis grief 'passed 
 away. He came up to Margaret, and kissed 
 her forehead. 
 
 " How wan you look, Margaret," said he, in a 
 low voice. " You have been thinking of every 
 body, and no one has thought of you. Lie on 
 this sofa — there is nothing for you to do." 
 
 "That is the worst," said Margaret, in a sad 
 whisper. But she went and lay down, and her 
 brother covered her feet with a shawl, and then 
 sate down on the ground by her side ; and the 
 two began to talk in a subdued tone. 
 
 Margaret told him all that Dixon had re- 
 lated of her interview with young Leonards. 
 Frederick's lips closed with a long whew of 
 dismay. 
 
 " I should just like to have it out with that 
 young fellow. A worse sailor was never on 
 board ship — nor a much worse man either. I 
 declare, Margarets— You know the circum- 
 stances of the whole affair?" 
 " Yes, mamma told me." 
 "Well, when all the sailors who were good 
 for any thing were indignant with our captain, 
 this fellow, to curry favor — pah ! And to think 
 of his being here ! Oh, if he'd a notion I was 
 within twenty miles of him, he'jjl ferret me out 
 to pay off old grudges. I'd rather any body 
 had the hundred pounds they think I am worth 
 than that rascal. What a pity poor old Dixon 
 could not be persuaded to give me up, and 
 make a provision for her old age!" 
 " Oh, Frederick, hush ! Don't talk so." 
 Mr. Hale came toward them, eager and 
 trembling. He had overheard what they were 
 saying. He took Frederick's hand in both of 
 his: 
 " My boy, you must go. It is very bad — 
 
 but I see you must. You have done all you 
 could — you have been a comfort to her." 
 
 " Oh, papa, must he got" said Margaret, 
 pleading against her own conviction of neces- 
 sity. 
 
 " I declare I've a good mind to face it out, 
 and stand my trial. If I could only pick up 
 my evidence. I can not endure this thought 
 of being in the power of such a blackguard as 
 Leonards. I could almost have enjoyed — in 
 other circumstances — this stolen visit: it has 
 had all the charm which the French woman 
 attributed to forbidden pleasures." 
 
 " One of the earliest things I can remember," 
 said Margaret, " was your being in some great 
 disgrace, Fred, for stealing apples. We had 
 plenty of our own — trees loaded with them; 
 but some one had told you that stolen fruit 
 tasted sweetest, which you took au pied de la 
 lettre, and off you went a-robbing. You have 
 not changed your feelings much since then." 
 
 " Yes — you must go," repeated Mr. Hale, 
 answering Margaret's question, which she had 
 asked some time ago. His thoughts were fixed 
 on one subject, and it was an effort to him to 
 follow the zigzag remarks of his children — an 
 effort which he did not make. 
 
 Margaret and Frederick looked at each other. 
 That quick momentary sympathy would be 
 theirs no longer if he went away. So much 
 was understood through eyes that could not be 
 put into words. Both coursed the same thought 
 till it was lost in sadness. Frederick shook it 
 off first: 
 
 " Do you know, Margaret, I was very nearly 
 giving both Dixon and myself a good fright this 
 afternoon. I was in my bedroom ; I had heard 
 a ring at the front door, but I thought the 
 ringer must have done his business and gone 
 away long ago ; so I was on the point of mak- 
 ing my appearance in the passage, when, as I 
 opened my room door, I saw Dixon coming 
 down stairs; and she frowned and tricked me 
 into hiding again. I kept the door open, and 
 heard a message given to some man that was 
 in my father's study, and that then went away. 
 Who could it have been! Some of the shop- 
 men i" 
 
 " Very likely," said Margaret, indifferently. 
 " There was a little quiet man who came up for 
 orders about two o'clock." 
 
 " But this was not a little man — a great pow- 
 erful fellow ; and it was past four when he was 
 here." 
 
 " It was Mr. Thornton," said Mr. Hale. They 
 were glad to have drawn him into the conver- 
 sation. 
 
 "Mr. Thornton I" said Margaret, a little sur- 
 prised. " I thought — " 
 
 "Well, little one, what did you think?" ask- 
 ed Frederick, as she did not finish her sentence. 
 
 " Oh, only," said she, reddening and looking 
 straight at him, " I fancied you meant some one 
 of a different class — not a gentleman ; somebody 
 come on an errand." 
 
 " He looked like some one of that kind," said 
 Frederick, carelessly. ," I took him for a shop- 
 man, and he' turns out a manufacturer." 
 
 Margaret was silent. She remembered how 
 at first, before she knew his character, she had 
 spoken and thought of him just as Frederick 
 was doing. It was but a natural impression 
 
ioo 
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 that was made upon him, and yet she was a 
 little annoyed by it. She was unwilling to 
 speak ; she wanted to make Frederick under- 
 stand what kind of a person Mr. Thornton was 
 — but she was tongue-tied. 
 
 Mr. Hale went on. " He came to offer any 
 assistance in his power, I believe. But I could 
 not see him. I told Dixon to ask him if he 
 would like to see you — I think I asked her to 
 find you, and you would go to him. I don't 
 know what I said." 
 
 " He has been a very agreeable acquaintance, 
 has he not?" asked Frederick, throwing the 
 question like a ball for any one to catch who 
 chose. 
 
 "A very kind friend," said Margaret, when 
 her father did not answer. 
 
 Frederick was silent for a time. At last he 
 spoke : 
 
 '• Margeret, it is painful to think I can never 
 thank those who have shown you kindness. 
 Your acquaintances and mine must be separate. 
 Unless, indeed, I run the chances of a court- 
 martial, or unless you and my father would 
 come to Spain." He threw out this last sug- 
 gestion as a kind of feeler ; and then suddenly 
 made the plunge. " You don't know how I 
 wish you would. I have a good position^the 
 chance of a better," continued he, reddening 
 like a girl. " That Dolores Barbour that I was 
 telling you of, Margaret-.— I only wish you knew 
 her ; I am sure you would like — no, love is the 
 right word, like is so poor — .you would love 
 her, father, if you knew her. She is not eight- 
 een; but if she is in the same mind another 
 year, she is to be my wife. Mr. Barbour won't 
 let us call it an engagement. But if you would 
 come, you would find friends every where, be- 
 sides Dolores. Think of it, father. Margaret, 
 be on my side." 
 
 "No — no more removals for me," said Mr. 
 Hale. " One removal has cost me my wife. 
 No more removals in this life. She will be 
 here ; and here will I Btay out my appointed 
 time." 
 
 "Oh, Frederick," said Margaret, "tell us 
 more about her. I never thought of this; but 
 I am so glad. You will have some one to love 
 and care for you out there. Tell us all about 
 it." 
 
 " In the first place, Bhe is a Roman Catholic. 
 That's the only objection I anticipated. But 
 my father's change of opinion — nay, Margaret, 
 don't sigh." 
 
 Margaret had reason to sigh a little more be- 
 fore the conversation ended. Frederick him- 
 self was Roman Catholic in fact, though not in 
 profession as yet. This was, then, the reason 
 why his sympathy in her extreme distress at 
 her father s leaving the Chureh had been so 
 faintly expressed in his letters. She had thought 
 ' it was the carelessness of a sailor ; but the truth 
 was, that even then he was himself inclined to 
 to give up the form of religion into which he 
 had been baptized, only that his opinions were 
 tending in exactly the opposite direction to 
 those of his father. How much love had to do 
 with this change not even Frederick himself 
 could have told. Margaret gave up talking 
 about this branch of the subject at last ; and, re- 
 turning to the fact of the engagement, she be- 
 gan to consider it in some fresh light; 
 
 " But for her sake, Fred, you surely will try 
 and clear yourself of the exaggerated charges 
 brought against you, even if the charge of mu- 
 tiny itself be true. If there were to be a court- 
 martial, and you could find your witnesses, you 
 might at any rate show how your disobedience 
 to authority was because that authority was un- 
 worthily exercised." 
 
 Mr. Hale roused himself up to listen to his 
 son's answer. 
 
 " In the first place, Margaret, who is to hunt 
 up my witnesses ? All of them are sailors, draft- 
 ed off to other ships, except those whose evi- 
 dence would go for very little, as they took part, 
 or sympathized in the affair. In the next place, 
 allow me to tell you, you don't know what a 
 court-martial is, and consider it as an assembly 
 where justice is administered, instead of what it 
 really is — a court where authority weighs nine- 
 tenths in the balance, and evidence forms only 
 the other tenth. In such cases, evidence itsell 
 can hardly escape being influenced by the pres- 
 tige of authority." 
 
 " But is it not worth trying, to see how 
 much evidence might be discovered and ar- 
 rayed on your behalf? At present, all those 
 who knew you formerly, believe you guilty 
 without any shadow of excuse. You have never 
 tried to justify yourself, and we have never 
 known where to seek for proofs of 3*our justifi- 
 cation. Now, for Miss Barbour's sake, make 
 your conduct as clear as you can in the eye of 
 the world. She may not care for it ; she has, I 
 am sure, that trust in you that we all have ; 
 but you ought not to let her ally herself to one 
 under such a serious charge, without showing 
 the world exactly how it is you stand. You 
 disobeyed authority — that was bad; but to 
 have stood by without word or act while that 
 authority was brutally used, would have been 
 infinitely worse. People know what you did ; 
 but not the motives that elevate it out of a 
 crime into an heroic protection of the weak. 
 For Dolores' sake, they ought to know." 
 
 "But how must I make them know? I am 
 not sufficiently 6ure of the purity and justice 
 of those who would be my judges, to give my- 
 self up to a court-martial, even if I could bring 
 a whole array of truth-speaking witnesses. I 
 can't send a bellman about, to cry aloud and 
 proclaim in the streets what you are pleased 
 to call my heroism. No one would read a 
 pamphlet of self-justification so long after the 
 deed, even if I put one out." 
 
 "Will you consult a lawyer as to your 
 chances of exculpation S" asked Margaret, look- 
 ing up, and turning very red. 
 
 " I must first catch my lawyer, and have a 
 look at him, and see how I like him, before I 
 make him into my confidant. Many a briefless 
 barrister might twist his conscience into think- 
 ing that he could earn a hundred pounds very 
 easily by doing a good action — in giving me, a 
 criminal, up to justice." 
 
 "Nonsense, Frederick! because I know a 
 lawyer on whose honor I can rely ; of whose 
 cleverness in his profession people speak very 
 highly : and who would, I think, take a good 
 deal of trouble for any of — of Aunt Shaw's re- 
 lations. Mr. Henry Lennox, papa." 
 
 " I think it is a good idea," said Mr. Hale. 
 "But don't propose any thing which will de- 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 101 
 
 tain Frederick in England. Don't, for your 
 mother's sake." 
 
 " You could go to London to-morrow even- 
 ing by a night-train," continued Margaret, 
 warming up into her plan. " He must go to- 
 morrow, I'm afraid, papa," said she, tenderly; 
 " we fixed that, because of Mr. Bell, and Dix- 
 on's disagreeable acquaintance." 
 
 " Yes ; I must go to-morrow," said Frederick, 
 decidedly. 
 
 Mr. Hale groaned. " I can't bear to part 
 with you, and yet I am miserable with anxiety 
 as long as you stop here." 
 
 " Well then," said Margaret, " listen to my 
 plan. He gets to London on Friday morning. 
 I will — you might — no ! it would be better for 
 me to give him a note to Mr. Lennox. You 
 will find him at his chambers in the Temple." 
 
 " I will write down a list of all the names 
 I can remember on board the Orion. I could 
 leave it with him to ferret them out. He is 
 Edith's husband's brother, isn't he ? I remem- 
 ber your naming him in your letters. I have 
 money in Barbour's hands. I can pay a pretty 
 long bill, if there is any chance of success. 
 Money, dear father, that I had meant for a 
 different purpose ; so I shall only consider it as 
 borrowed from you and Margaret." 
 
 "Don't do that," said Margaret. "You won't 
 risk it if you do. And it will be a risk ; only 
 it is worth trying. You can sail from London 
 as well as from Liverpool ?" 
 
 "To be sure, little goose. Wherever I feel 
 water heaving under a plank, there I feel at 
 home. I'H pick up some craft or other to take 
 me off, never fear. I won't stay twenty-four 
 hours in London, away from you on the one 
 hand, and from somebody else on the other." 
 
 It was rather a comfort to Margaret that 
 Frederick took it into his head to look over 
 her shoulder as she wrote to Mr. Lennox. If 
 she had not been thus compelled to write stead- 
 ily and concisely on, she might have hesitated 
 over many a word, and been puzzled to choose 
 between many an expression, in the awkward- 
 ness of being the first to resume the intercourse 
 of which the concluding event had been so un- 
 pleasant to both sides. However, the note was 
 taken from her before she had even had time 
 to look it over, and treasured up in a pocket- 
 book, out of which fell a long lock of black 
 hair, the sight of which caused Frederick's eyes 
 to glow with pleasure. 
 
 " Now you would like to see that, wouldn't 
 you ?" said he. " No ! you must wait till you see 
 her herself She is too perfect to be known by 
 fragments. No mean brick shall be a specimen 
 of the building of my palace." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIL 
 
 All, the next day they sate together — they 
 £hree. Mr. Hale hardly ever spoke but when 
 his children asked him questions, and forced 
 him as it were into the present. Frederick's 
 grief was no more to be seen or heard; the 
 first paroxysm had passed over, and now he 
 was ashamed of having been so battered down 
 by emotion ; and though his sorrow for the loss 
 of his mother was a deep real feeling, and would 
 
 last out his life, it was never to be spoken of 
 again. Margaret, not so passionate at first, was 
 more suffering now. At times she cried a good 
 deal ; and her manner, even when speaking on 
 indifferent things, had a mournful tenderness 
 about it, which was deepened whenever her 
 looks fell on FrWerick, and thought of his rap- 
 idly approaching departure. She was glad he 
 was going, on her father's account, however 
 much she might grieve over it on her own. 
 The anxious terror in which Mr. Hale lived 
 lest his son should be detected and captured, 
 far outweighed the pleasure he derived from 
 his presence. The nervousness had increased 
 since Mrs. Hale's death, probably because he 
 dwelt upon it more exclusively. He started at 
 every unusual sound; and was never comfort- 
 able unless Frederick sate out of the immediate 
 view of any one entering the room. Towards 
 evening he said: 
 
 " You will go with Frederick to the station, 
 Margaret? I shall want to know he is safely 
 off. You will bring me word that he is clear 
 of Milton, at any rate?" 
 
 " Certainly," said Margaret. " I shall like it, 
 if you won't be lonely without me, papa." 
 
 " No, no! I should always be fancying some 
 one had known him, and that he had been 
 stopped, unless you could tell me you had seen 
 him off. And go to the Outwood station. It 
 is quite as near, and not so many people about. 
 Take a cab there. There is less risk of his 
 being seen. What time is your train, Fred ?" 
 
 " Ten minutes past six ; very nearly dark. 
 So what will you do, Margaret? 
 
 " Oh, I can manage. I am getting very brave 
 and very hard. It is a well-lighted road all 
 the way home, if it should be dark. But I was 
 out last week much later." 
 
 Margaret was thankful when the parting was 
 over — the parting from the dead mother and 
 the living father. She hurried Frederick into 
 the cab, in order to shorten a scene which she 
 saw was so bitterly painful to her father, who 
 would accompany his son as he took his last 
 look at his mother. Partly in consequence of 
 this, and partly owing to one of the very com- 
 mon mistakes in Bradshaw as to the times when 
 trains arrive at the smaller stations, they found, 
 on reaching Outwood, that they had nearly 
 twenty minutes to spare. The booking-office 
 was not open, so they could not even take the 
 ticket. They accordingly went down the flight 
 of steps that led to the level of the ground be- 
 low the railway. There was a broad cinder- 
 path diagonally crossing a field which lay along- 
 side of the carriage-road, and they went there 
 to walk backward and forward for the few 
 minutes they had to spare. 
 
 Margaret's hand lay in Frederick's arm. He 
 took hold of it affectionately. 
 
 " Margaret I I am going to consult Mr. Len- 
 nox as to the chance of exculpating myself, so 
 that I may return to England whenever I choose, 
 more for your sake than for the sake of any one 
 else. I can't bear to think of your lonely po- 
 sition if any thing should happen to my father. 
 He looks sadly changed — terribly shaken. I 
 wish you could get him to think of the Cadiz 
 plan, for many reasons. What could you do 
 if he were taken away ? You have no friend 
 near. We are curiously bare of relations." 
 
102 
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 Margaret could hardly keep from crying at 
 the tender anxiety with which Frederick was 
 bringing before her an event which she herself 
 felt was not very improbable, so severely had 
 the cares of the last few months told upon Mr. 
 Hale. But she tried to rally as she said : 
 
 "There have been such stnroge unexpected 
 changes in my life during this last two years, 
 that I feel more than ever that it is not worth 
 while to calculate too closely what I should do 
 if any future event took place. I try to think 
 only upon the present." She paused; they 
 were standing still for a moment, close on the 
 field side of the stile leading into the road ; the 
 setting sun fell on their faces. Frederick held 
 her hand in his, and looked with wistful anxi- 
 ety into her face, reading there more care and 
 trouble than she would betray by words. She 
 went on : 
 
 " We shall write often to one another, and I 
 will promise — for I see it will set your mind at 
 ease — to tell you every worry I have. Papa 
 is" — she started a little, a hardly visible start 
 — but Frederick felt the sudden motion of the 
 hand he held, and turned his full face to the 
 road, along which a horseman was slowly rid- 
 ing, just passing the very stile where they 
 stood. Margaret bowed; her bow was stiffly 
 returned. 
 
 " Who is that ?" said Frederick, almost before 
 he was out of hearing, 
 
 Margaret was a little drooping, a little flush- 
 ed, as she replied: "Mr. Thornton; you saw 
 him before, you know." 
 
 " Only his back. He is an unprepossessing- 
 looking fellow. What a scowl he has!" 
 
 " Something has happened to vex him," said 
 Margaret, apologetically. " You would not 
 have thought him unprepossessing if you had 
 6een him with mamma." 
 
 " I fancy it must be time to go and take my 
 ticket. If I had known how dark it would be, 
 we wouldn't have sent back the cab, Margaret." 
 
 " Oh, don't fidget about that. I can take a 
 cab here, if I like ; or go back by the railroad, 
 when I should have shops and people and 
 lamps all the way from the Milton station-house. 
 Don't think of me ; take care of yourself. I am 
 sick with the thought that Leonards may be in 
 the same train with you. Look well into the 
 carriage before you get in." 
 
 They went back to the Btation. Margaret 
 insisted upon going into the full light of the 
 flaring gas inside to take the ticket. Some idle- 
 looking young men were lounging about with 
 the statibn-master. Margaret thought she had 
 seen the face of one of them before, and return- 
 ed him a proud look of offended dignity for 
 his somewhat impertinent stare of undisguised 
 admiration. She went hastily to her brother, 
 who wa3 standing outside, and took hold of his 
 arm. "Have you got your bag? Let us walk 
 about here on the platform," said she, a little 
 flurried at the idea of so soon being left alone, 
 and her bravery oozing out rather faster than 
 she liked to acknowledge even to herself. She 
 heard a step following them along the flags; it 
 stopped when they stopped, looking out along 
 the line and hearing the whizz of the coming 
 train. They did not speak ; their hearts were 
 too full. Another moment, and the train would 
 be here ; a minute more, and he would be gone. 
 
 Margaret almost repented the urgency with 
 which she had entreated him to go to London ; 
 it was throwing more chances of detection in 
 his way. If he had sailed for Spain by Liver- 
 pool, he might have been off in two or three 
 hours. 
 
 Frederick turned round, right facing the 
 lamp, where the gas darted up in vivid antici- 
 pation of the train. A man m the dress of a 
 railway porter started forward ; a bad-looking 
 man who seemed to have drunk himself into a 
 state of brutality, although his senses were in 
 perfect order. 
 
 "By your leave, miss I" said he, pushing 
 Margeret rudely on one side, and seizing Fred- 
 erick by the collar. 
 
 " Your name is Hale, I believe V 
 
 In an instant — how, Margaret did not see, 
 for every thing danced before her eyes — but by 
 some sleight of wrestling, Frederick tripped 
 him up, and he fell from the height of three or 
 four feet, which the platform was elevated 
 above the space of soft ground, by the side of 
 the railroad. There he lay. 
 
 "Run, run!" gasped Margaret. "The train 
 is here. It was Leonards, was it ? oh, run I I 
 will carry your bag." And she took him by 
 the arm to push him along with all her feeble 
 force. A door was opened in a carriage — he 
 jumped in ; and as he leant out to say, " God 
 bless you, Margaret 1" the train rushed past her.; 
 and she was left standing alone. She was so 
 terribly sick and faint that she was thankful 
 to be able to turn into the ladies' waiting- 
 room, and sit down for an instant. At first she 
 could do nothing but gasp for breath. It was 
 such a hurry ; such a sickening alarm ; such a 
 near chance. If the train had not been there 
 at the moment the man would have jumped up 
 again and called for assistance to arrest him. 
 She wondered if the man had got up ; she tried 
 to remember if she had seen him move; she 
 wondered if he could have been seriously hurt. 
 She ventured out ; the platform was all alight, 
 but still quite deserted ; she went to the end, 
 and looked over, somewhat fearfully. No one 
 was there; and then she was glad she had 
 made herself go, and inspect, for otherwise ter- 
 rible thoughts would have haunted her dreams. 
 And even as it was, she was so trembling and 
 affrighted that shefelt she could notwalkhome 
 along the road, which did indeed seem lonely 
 and dark, as she gazed down upon it from the 
 blaze of the station. She would wait till the 
 down train passed and take her seat in it. But 
 what if Leonards recognized her as Frederick's 
 companion! She peered about before ventur- 
 ing into the booking-office to take her ticket. 
 There were only some railway officials standing 
 about; and talking loud to one another. 
 
 " So Leonards has been drinking again !" said 
 one, seemingly in authority. "He'll need all 
 his boasted influence to keep his place this 
 time." 
 
 "Where is he?" asked another, while Mar- 
 garet, her back toward them, was counting 
 her change with trembling fingers, not daring 
 to turn round until she heard the answer to 
 this question. 
 
 " I don't know. He came in not five minutes 
 ago, with some long story or other about a fall 
 he'd had, swearing awfully; and wanted to 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 108 
 
 borrow some money from me to go to London 
 by the next up-train. He made all sorts of 
 tipsy promises, but I'd something else to do 
 than listen to him; told him to go about his 
 business ; and he went off at the front door." 
 
 "He's at the nearest vaults, I'll be bound," 
 said the first speaker. " Tour money would 
 have gone there too, if you'd been such a fool 
 as to lend it." 
 
 " Catch me ! I knew better what his London 
 meant Why, he has never paid me off that 
 five shillings" — and so they went on. 
 
 And now all Margaret's anxiety was for the 
 train to come. She hid herself once more in the 
 ladies' waiting-room, and fancied every noise 
 was Leonards' step — every loud and boisterous 
 voice was his. But no one came near her until 
 the train drew up ; when she was civilly helped 
 into a carriage t>y a porter, into whose face 
 she durst not look till they were in motion, and 
 then she saw that it was not Leonards. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXHI. 
 
 Home seemed unnaturally quiet after all this 
 terror and noisy commotion. Her father had 
 seen all due preparation made for her refresh- 
 ment on her return ; and then sate down again 
 in his accustomed chair to fall into one of his 
 sad waking dreams. Dixon had got Mary Hig- 
 
 fins to scold and direct in the kitchen; and 
 er scolding was not the less energetic because 
 it was delivered in an angry whisper; for, 
 speaking above her breath she would have 
 thought irreverent as long as there was any 
 one dead lying in the house. Margaret had 
 resolved not to mention the crowning and clos- 
 ing affright to her father. There was no use 
 in speaking about it ; it had ended well ; the 
 only thing to be feared was lest Leonards should 
 in some way borrow money enough to carry 
 out his purpose of following Frederick to Lon- 
 don, and hunting him out there. But there 
 were immense chances against the success of 
 any such plan ; and Margaret determined not 
 to torment herself by thinking of what she 
 could do nothing to prevent. Frederick would 
 be as much on his guard as she could put him ; 
 and in a day or two at most he would be safely 
 out of England. 
 
 " I suppose we shall hear from Mr. Bell to- 
 morrow," said Margaret. 
 
 " Yes," replied her father. " I suppose so." 
 
 "If he can come, he will be here to-morrow 
 evening, I should think." 
 
 " If he can not come, I shall ask Mr. Thornton 
 to go with me to the funeral. I can not go 
 alone. I should break down utterly." 
 
 " Don't ask Mr. Thornton, papa. Let me go 
 with you," said Margaret, impetuously. 
 
 "You! My dear, women do not generally go." 
 /"" " No : because often they can't control them- 
 selves. Women of our class don't go because 
 they have no power over their emotions, and 
 yet are ashamed of showing them. Poor wom- 
 en go, and don't care if they are seen over- 
 whelmed with^rief. But I promise you, papa, 
 that if you will let me go, I will be no trouble. 
 Don't have a stranger, and leave me out. Dear 
 |_ papa! if Mr. Bell can not come, I shall go. I 
 
 won't urge my wish against your will, if he 
 does." 
 
 Mr. Bell could not come. He had the gout. 
 It was a most affectionate letter, and expressed 
 great and true regret for his inability to attend. 
 He hoped to come and pay them a visit soon, 
 if they would have him; his Milton property 
 required some looking after, and his agent had 
 written to him to say that his presence was 
 absolutely necessary; or else he had avoided 
 coming near Milton as long as he could, and 
 now the only thing that would reconcile him 
 to this necessary visit was the idea that he 
 should see, and might possibly be able to com- 
 fort his old friend. 
 
 Margaret had all the difficulty in the world 
 to persuade her father not to invite Mr. Thorn- 
 ton. She had an indescribable repugnance to 
 this step being taken. The night before the 
 funeral, came a stately note from Mrs. Thorn- 
 ton to Miss Hale, saying that, at her son's de- 
 sire, their carriage should attend the funeral, 
 if it would not be disagreeable to the family. 
 Margaret tossed the note to her father. 
 
 " Oh, don't let us have these forms," said she. 
 "Let us go alone — you and me, papa. They 
 don't care for us, or else he would have offered 
 to go himself, and not have proposed this send- 
 ing an empty carriage." 
 
 " I thought you were so extremely averse to 
 his going, Margaret," said Mr. Hale, in some 
 surprise. 
 
 " And so I am. I don't want him to come 
 at all ; and I should especially dislike the idea 
 of our asking him. But this seems such a mock- 
 ery of mourning that I did not expect it from 
 him." She startled her father by bursting into 
 tears. She had been so subdued in her grief, 
 so thoughtful for others, so gentle and patient 
 in all things, that he could not understand her 
 impatient ways to-night; she seemed agitated 
 and restless ; and at all the tenderness which 
 her father in his turn now lavished upon her, 
 she only cried the more. 
 
 She passed so bad a night that she was ill 
 prepared for the additional anxiety caused by 
 a letter received from Frederick. Mr. Lennox 
 was out of town ; his clerk said that he would 
 return by the following Tuesday at the latest ; 
 that he might possibly be at home on Monday. 
 Consequently, after some consideration, Fred- 
 erick had determined upon remaining in Lon- 
 don for a day or two longer. He had thought 
 of coming down to Milton again ; the tempta- 
 tion had been very strong; but the idea of Mr. 
 Bell domesticated in his father's house, and the 
 alarm he had received at the last moment at 
 the railway station, had made him resolve to 
 stay in London. Margaret might be assured he 
 would take every precaution against being 
 tracked by Leonards. Margaret was thankful 
 that she received this letter while her father 
 was absent in her mother's room. If he had 
 been present, he would have expected her to 
 read it aloud to him, and it would have raised 
 in him a state of nervous alarm which she 
 would have found it impossible to soothe away. 
 There was not merely the fact, which disturbed 
 her excessively, of Frederick's detention in Lon- 
 don, but there were allusions to the recognition 
 at the last moment at Milton, and the possibil- 
 ity of a pursuit, which made her blood run cold ; 
 
104 
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 and how then would it have affected her father S 
 Many a time did Margaret repent of having sug- 
 gested and urged on the plan of consulting Mr. 
 Lennox. At the moment it had seemed as if it 
 would occasion so little delay — add so little to 
 the apparently small chances of detection ; and 
 yet every thing that had since occurred had 
 tended to make it so undesirable. Margaret 
 battled hard against this regret of hers for what 
 could not now be helped ; this self-reproach for 
 having said what had at the time appeared to 
 be wise, but which after events were proving 
 to have been so foolish. But her father was 
 in too depressed a. state of mind and body to 
 struggle healthily; he would succumb to all 
 these causes for morbid regret over what could 
 not be recalled. Margaret summoned up all 
 her forces to her aid. Her father seemed to 
 have forgotten that they had any reason to 
 expect a letter from Frederick that morning. 
 He was absorbed in one idea — that the last 
 visible token of the presence of his wife was 
 to be carried away from him, and hidden from 
 his sight. He trembled pitifully as the under- 
 taker's man was arranging his crape draperies 
 around him. He looked wistfully at Margaret ; 
 and when released he tottered toward her, 
 murmuring, " Pray for me, Margaret. I have 
 no strength left in me. I can not pray. I give 
 her np because I must. I try to bear it; indeed 
 I do. I know it is God's will. But I can not 
 see why she died. Pray for me, Margaret, that 
 I may have faith to pray. It is a great strait, 
 my child." 
 
 Margaret sat by him in the coach, almost 
 supporting him in her arms ; and repeating all 
 -the noble verses of holy comfort, or texts ex- 
 pressive of faithful resignation, that she could 
 remember. Her voice never faltered; and she 
 herself gained strength by doing this. Her fa- 
 ther's lips moved after her, repeating the well- 
 known texts as her words suggested them; it 
 was terrible to see the patient struggling effort 
 to obtain the resignation which he had not 
 strength to take into his heart as a part of him- 
 self. 
 
 Margaret's fortitude nearly gave way as Dix- 
 on, with a slight motion of her hand, directed 
 her notice to Nicholas Higgins and his daugh- 
 ter, standing a little aloof, but deeply attentive 
 to the ceremonial. Nicholas wore his usual 
 fustian clothes, but had a bit of black stuff sewn 
 round his hat— a mark of mourning which he 
 had never shown to his daughter Bessy's mem- 
 ory. But Mr. Hale saw nothing. He went on 
 repeating to himself, mechanically as it were, 
 all the funeral service as it was read by the 
 officiating clergyman ; he sighed twice or thrice 
 when all was ended ; and then putting his hand 
 on Margaret's arm, he mutely entreated to be 
 led away, as if he were blind, and she his faith- 
 ful guide. 
 
 Dixon sobbed aloud; she covered her face 
 with her handkerchief, and was so absorbed in 
 her own grief, that she did not perceive that 
 the crowd attracted on such occasions was dis- 
 persing, till she was spoken to by some one 
 close at hand. It was Mr. Thornton. He had 
 been present all the time, standing, with bent 
 head, behind a group of people, so that in fact, 
 no one had recognized him. 
 
 "I beg your pardon — but, can you tell me 
 
 how Mr. Hale is? And Miss Hale, too? I 
 should like to know how they both are." 
 
 " Of course, sir. They are much as is to be 
 expected. Master is terribly broke down. Miss 
 Hale bears up better than is likely." 
 
 Mr. Thornton would rather have heard that 
 she was suffering the natural sorrow. In the 
 first place, there was selfishness enough in him 
 to have taken pleasure in the idea that his great 
 love might come in to comfort and console her; 
 much the same kind of strange passionate pleas- 
 ure which comes stinging through a mother's 
 heart, when her drooping infant nestles close 
 to her, and is dependent upon her for every 
 thing. But this delicious vision of what might 
 have been — in which, in spite of all Margaret's 
 repulse, he would have indulged only a few 
 days ago — was miserably disturbed by the re- 
 collection of what he had seen near the Out- 
 wood station. " Miserably disturbed !" that is 
 not strong enough. He was haunted by the 
 remembrance of the handsome young man, with 
 whom she stood in an attitude of such familiar 
 confidence ; and the remembrance shot through 
 him like an agony till it made him clinch his 
 hands tight in order to subdue the pain. At 
 that late hour, so far from home! It took a 
 great moral effort to galvanize his trust — ere- 
 while so perfect — in Margaret's pure and ex- 
 quisite maidenliness, into life ; as soon as the 
 effort ceased, his trust dropped down dead and 
 powerless: and all sorts of wild fancies chased 
 each other like dreams through his mind. Here 
 was a little piece of miserable, gnawing confir- 
 mation. " She held up better than likely" un- 
 der this grief. She had then some hope to look 
 to, so bright that even in her affectionate na- 
 ture it could come in to lighten the dark hours 
 of a daughter newly made motherless. Yes ! 
 he knew how she would love. He had not loved 
 her without gaining that instinctive knowledge 
 of what capabilities were in her. Her soul 
 would walk in glorious sunlight if any man 
 was worthy, by his power of loving, to win back 
 her love. Even in her mourning she would 
 rest with a peaceful faith upon his sympathy ! 
 Whose? That other man's. And that it was 
 another was enough to make Mr. Thornton's 
 pale grave face grow doubly wan and stern at 
 Dixon's answer. 
 
 " I suppose I may call," said he coldly. " On 
 Mr. Hale, I mean. He will perhaps admit me 
 after to-morrow or so." 
 
 He spoke as if the answer were a matter of 
 indifference to him. But it was not so. For 
 all his pain, he longed to see the author of it. 
 Although he hated Margaret at times when he 
 thought of that gentle familiar attitude and all 
 the attendant circumstances, he had a restless 
 desire to renew her picture in his mind — a long- 
 ing for the very atmosphere she breathed. He 
 was in the Charybdis of passion, and must per- 
 force circle and circle ever nearer round the 
 fatal centre. 
 
 " I dare say, sir, master will see you. He was 
 very sorry to have to deny you the other day ; 
 but circumstances was not agreeable just then." 
 
 For some reason or other, Dixon never named^i 
 this interview that she had had »ith Mr. Thorn- I 
 ton to Margaret. It might have been mere 
 chance, but so it was that Margaret never heard 
 that he had attended her poor mother's funeral. 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH, 
 
 105 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 ( The "bearing up better than likely" was a 
 terrible strain upon Margaret. Sometimes she 
 thought she must give way, and cry out with 
 her pain, as the sudden, sharp thought came 
 across her, even during her apparently cheer- 
 ful conversations with her father, that she had 
 no longer a mother. About Frederick, too, 
 there was great uneasiness. The Sunday post 
 intervened, and interfered with their London 
 letters; and on Tuesday Margaret was sur- 
 prised and disheartened to find that there was 
 still no letter. She was quite in the dark as 
 to his plans, and her father was miserable at 
 all this uncertainty. It broke in upon his lately 
 acquired habit of sitting still in one easy chair 
 for half a, day together. He kept pacing up 
 and down the room; then out of it; and she 
 heard him upon the landing opening and shut- 
 ting the bedroom doors, without any apparent 
 object. She tried to tranquilize him by read- 
 ing aloud; but it was evident he could not 
 listen for long together. How thankful she 
 was then that she had kept to herself the ad- 
 ditional cause for anxiety produced by their 
 encounter with Leonards. She was thankful 
 to hear Mr. Thornton announced. His visit 
 would force her father's thoughts into another 
 channel. 
 
 He came up straight to her father, whose 
 hands he took and wrung without a word — 
 holding them in his for a minute or two, dur- 
 ing which time his face, his eyes, his look, told 
 of more sympathy than could be put into words. 
 Then he turned to Margaret. Not "better than 
 likely" did she look. Her stately beauty was 
 dimmed with much watching and with many 
 tears. The expression on her countenance was 
 of gentle, patient sadness — nay, of positive pres- 
 ent suffering. He had not meant to greet her 
 otherwise than with his late studied coldness 
 of demeanor; but he could not help going up 
 to her, as she 6tood a little aside, rendered timid 
 by the uncertainty of his manner of late, and 
 saying the few necessary commonplace words 
 in so tender a tone of voice that her eyes filled 
 with tears, and she turned away to hide her 
 emotion. She took her work and sate down 
 very quiet and silent. Mr. Thornton's heart 
 beat quick and strong, and for the time he ut- 
 terly forgot the Outwood lane. He tried to 
 talk to Mr. Hale ; and — his presence always a 
 certain kind of pleasure to Mr. Hale, as his pow- 
 er and decision made him, and his opinions, a 
 safe, sure port — was unusually agreeable to her 
 father, as Margaret saw. 
 
 Presently Dixon came to the door and said, 
 "Miss Hale, you are wanted." 
 
 Dixon's manner was so flurried that Mar- 
 garet turned sick at heart. Something had 
 happened to Fred. She had no doubt of that. 
 It was well that her father and Mr. Thornton 
 were so much occupied by their conversation. 
 
 "What is it, Dixon?" asked Margaret, the 
 moment she had shut the drawing-room door. 
 
 " Come this way, miss," said Dixon, opening 
 the* door of what had been Mrs. Hale's bed- 
 chamber, now Margaret's, for her father refused 
 to sleep there again after his wife's death. " It's 
 nothing, miss," said Dixon, choking a little. 
 "Only a police-inspector. He wants to see 
 
 you, miss. But I dare say, it's, about nothing 
 at all." 
 
 "Did he name — " asked Margaret, almost in- 
 audibly. 
 
 " No, miss ; he named nothing. He only 
 asked if you lived here, and if he could speak 
 to you. Martha went to the door, and let him 
 in ; she has Bhown him into master's study. I 
 went to him myself, to try if that would do ; 
 but no — it's you, miss, he wants." 
 
 Margaret did not speak again till her hand 
 was on the lock of the study door. Here she 
 turned round and said, "Take care papa does 
 not come down. Mr. Thornton is with him 
 now." 
 
 The inspector was almost daunted by the 
 haughtiness of her manner as she entered. There 
 was something of indignation expressed in her 
 countenance, but so kept down and controlled 
 that it gave her a superb air of disdain. There 
 was no surprise, no curiosity. She stood await- 
 ing the opening of his business there. Not u 
 question did she ask. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, ma'am, but my duty 
 obliges me to ask you a few plain questions. 
 A man has died in the Infirmary in conse- 
 quence of a fall, received at Outwood station, 
 between the hours of five and six on Thursday 
 evening, the twenty-sixth instant. At the time, 
 thiB fall did not seem of much consequence ; but 
 it was rendered fatal, the doctors say, by the 
 presence of some internal complaint, and the 
 man's own habit of drinking." 
 
 The large dark eyes, gazing straight into the^- 
 inspector's face, dilated a little. Otherwise 
 there was no motion perceptible to his expe- 
 rienced observation. Her lips swelled out into 
 a richer curve than ordinary, owing to the en- 
 forced tension of the muscles, but he did not 
 know what was their usual appearance, so as 
 to recognize the unwonted sullen defiance of 
 the firm sweeping lines. She never blenched 
 or trembled. She fixed him with her eye. Now 
 — as he paused before going on, she said, almost 
 as if she would encourage him in telling his tale 
 — " Well — go on I" " 
 
 " It is supposed that an inquest will have to 
 be held ; there is some slight evidence to prove 
 that the blow, or push, or scuffle that caused 
 the fall, was provoked by this poor fellow's half- 
 tipsy impertinence to a young lady, walking 
 with the man who pushed the deceased over 
 the edge of the platform. This much was ob- 
 served by some one on the platform, who, how- 
 ever, thought no more about the matter, as the 
 blow seemed of slight consequence. There is 
 also some reason to identify the lady with your- 
 self; in which case — " 
 
 " I was not there," said Margaret, still keep- 
 ing her expressionless eyes fixed on his face, 
 with the unconscious look of a sleep-walker. 
 
 The inspector bowed, but did not speak. The 
 lady standing before him showed no emotion, 
 no fluttering fear, no anxiety, no desire to end 
 the interview. The information he had received 
 was very vague ; one of the porters rushing out 
 to be in readiness for the train had seen a scuf- 
 fle, at the other end of the platform, between 
 Leonards and a gentleman accompanied by a 
 lady, but heard no noise ; and before the train 
 had got to its full speed after starting, he had 
 been almost knocked down by the headlong 
 
106 
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 run of the enraged, half-intoxicated Leonards, 
 swearing and cursing awfully. He had not 
 thought any more about it, till his evidence 
 was routed out by the inspector, who, on mak- 
 ing some farther inquiry at the railroad sta- 
 tion, had heard from the station-master that a 
 young lady and gentleman had been there about 
 that hour — the lady remarkably handsome — 
 and said, by some grocer's assistant present at 
 the time, to be a Miss Hale, Hying at Cramp- 
 ton, whose family dealt at his shop. There was 
 no certainty that the one lady and gentleman 
 were identical with the other pair, but there 
 was great probability. Leonards himself had 
 gone, half mad with rage and pain, to the near- 
 est gin-palace for comfort ; and his tipsy words 
 had not been attended to by the busy waiters 
 there ; they, however, remembered his starting 
 up and cursing himself for not having sooner 
 thought of the electric telegraph, for some pur- 
 pose unknown ; and they believed that he left 
 with the idea of going there. On his way, over- 
 come by pain or drink, he had lain down in the 
 road, where the police had found him and taken 
 him to the Infirmary : there he had never recov- 
 ered sufficient consciousness to give any distinct 
 account of his fall, although once or twice he 
 had had glimmerings of Bense sufficient to make 
 the authorities send for the nearest magistrate, 
 in hopes that he might be able to take down 
 the dying man's deposition of the cause of his 
 death. But when the magistrate had come, he 
 was rambling about being at sea, and mixing 
 up names of captains and lieutenants in an in- 
 distinct manner with those of his fellow-porters 
 at the railway ; and his last words were a curse 
 on the " Cornish trick" which had, he said, 
 made him a hundred pounds poorer than he 
 ought to have been. The inspector ran all this 
 over in his mind — the vagueness of the evidence 
 to prove that Margaret had been at the station 
 — the unflinching calm denial which she gave 
 to such a supposition. She stood awaiting his 
 next word with a composure that appeared su- 
 preme. 
 
 " Then, madam, I have your denial that you 
 were the lady accompanying the gentleman who 
 struck the blow, or gave the push, which caused 
 the death of this poor maul" 
 
 A quick sharp pain went through Margaret's 
 brain. " Oh God ! that I knew Frederick were 
 safe!" A deep observer of human countenances 
 , might have seen the momentary agony shoot 
 out of her great gloomy eyes, like the torture 
 of some creature brought to bay. But the in- 
 spector was a very keen, though not a very 
 deep observer. He was a little struck notwith- 
 standing by the form of the answer, which 
 sounded like a mechanical repetition of her 
 first reply — not changed and modified in shape 
 so as to meet his last question. 
 
 " I was not there," said she, slowly and heav- 
 ily. And all this time she never closed her 
 eyes, or ceased from that glassy, dream-like 
 stare. His quick suspicions were aroused by 
 ' this dull echo of her former denial. It was as 
 if she had forced herself to one untruth, and had 
 been stunned out of all power of varying it. _ 
 
 He put up his book of notes in a very delib- 
 erate manner. Then he looked up ; she had 
 not moved any more than if she had been some 
 great Egyptian statue. 
 
 " I hope you will not think me impertinent 
 when I say that I may have to call on you again. 
 I may have to summon you to appear on the 
 inquest, and prove an alibi, if my witnesses" 
 (it was but one who had recognized her) " per- 
 sist in deposing to your presence at the unfor- 
 tunate event." He looked at her sharply. She 
 was still perfectly quiet — no change of color, 
 or darker shadow of guilt, on her proud face. 
 He thought to have seen her wince : he did not 
 know Margaret Hale. He was a little abashed 
 by her regal composure. It must have been a 
 mistake of identity. He went on : 
 
 " It is very unlikely, ma'am, that I shall have 
 to do any thing of the kind. I hope you will 
 excuse me for doing what is only my duty, al- 
 though it may appear impertinent." 
 
 Margaret bowed her head as he went toward 
 the door. Her lips were stiff and dry. She 
 could not speak even the common words of 
 farewell. But suddenly she walked forward, 
 and opened the study door, and preceded him 
 to the door of the house, which she threw wide 
 open for his exit. She kept her eyes upon him 
 in the same dull, fixed manner, until he was 
 fairly out of the house. She shut the door, and 
 went half-way into the study ; then turnd back, 
 as if moved by some passionate impulse, and 
 locked the door inside. 
 
 Then she went into the study, paused — tot- 
 tered forward — paused again — swayed for an 
 instant where she stood, and fell prone on the 
 floor in a dead swoon. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 Me. Thoknton sate on and on. He felt that 
 his company gave pleasure to Mr. Hale ; and 
 was touched by the half-spoken wishful en- 
 treaty that he would remain a little longer — 
 the plaintive " Don't go yet," which his poor 
 friend put forth from time to time. He won- 
 dered Margaret did not return; but it was 
 with no view of seeing her that he lingered. 
 For the hour — and in the presence of one who 
 was so thoroughly feeling the nothingness of ' 
 earth — he was reasonable and self-controlled. 
 He was deeply interested in all her father said 
 Of death, and of the heavy lull, 
 And of the brain that has grown dull. 
 
 It was curious how the presence of Mr.- 
 Thornton had power over Mr. Hale to make 
 him unlock the secret thoughts which be kept 
 shut up even from Margaret. Whether it was 
 that her sympathy would be so keen, and show 
 itself in so lively a manner, that he was afraid 
 of the reaction upon himself, or whether it was 
 that to his speculative mind all kinds of doubts 
 presented themselves at such a time, pleading 
 and crying aloud to be resolved into certain- 
 ties, and that he knew she would have shrunk 
 from the expresssion of any such doubts — nay, 
 from him himself as capable of conceiving them 
 — whatever was the reason, he could unburden 
 himself better to Mr. Thornton than to her of 
 all the thoughts and fancies and fears that had 
 been frost-bound in his brain till now. Mr. 
 Thornton said very little; but every sentence 
 he uttered added to Mr. Hale's reliance and re- 
 gard for him. "Was it that he paused in the 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 401 
 
 expression of some remembered agony, Mr. 
 Thornton's two or three words would complete 
 the sentence, and show how deeply its mean- 
 ing was entered into. Was it a doubt — a fear 
 — a wandering uncertainty Beeking rest, but 
 finding none — so tear-blinded were its eyes — 
 Mr. Thornton, instead of being shocked, seem- 
 ed to have passed through that very stage of 
 thought himself, and could suggest where the 
 exact ray of light was to be found, which should 
 make the dark places plain. Man of action as 
 he was, busy in the world's great battle, there 
 was a deeper religion binding him to"~C!dd in 
 ^!L5*§i?JlOpita of "lusT strgng^ ^wilU'ulness, 
 
 throngh a11 bill Tniaf.njroa, thfljl M V Hale had 
 
 ever dreamed. They never spoke of such things 
 again, as it happened ; b at this one c onyersa- 
 tiaaj3jade^lM».p^ec.nUar people to eacTTother ; 
 l^jiit, fhf"n tflgnt.nnr, »n 11 wnjLgfiifh no loose 
 indiscriminate talking about sacred things can 
 ever"accompiish. WnefT all fife admitted, low 
 can there be a Holy of Holiest 
 
 AmfalTthis wlnle7 Margaret lay as still and 
 white as death on the study floor! She had 
 sunk under her burden. It had been heavy in 
 weight and long carried; and she had been 
 very meek and patient, till all at once her faith 
 had given way, and she had groped in vain for 
 help! There was a pitiful contraction of suf- 
 fering upon her beautiful brows, although there 
 was no other sign of consciousness remaining. 
 The mouth — a little while ago so sullenly pro- 
 jected in defiance — was relaxed and livii 
 
 E par che de la sua labbia si mova 
 Uno spirto soave e pien d'amore, 
 Chi va dicendo a l'anima : sospira ! 
 
 The first symptom of returning life was a 
 quivering about the lips — a little mute, sound- 
 less attempt at speech ; but the eyes were still 
 closed; and the quivering sank into stillness. 
 Then feebly leaning on her arms for an instant 
 to steady herself, Margaret gathered herself up, 
 and rose. Her comb had fallen out of her hair; 
 and with an intuitive desire to efface the traces 
 of weakness, and bring herself into order again, 
 she sought for it, although, from time to time, 
 in the course of the search, she had to sit down 
 and recover strength. Her head drooped for- 
 ward — her hands meekly laid one upon the 
 other — she tried to recall the force of her 
 temptation, by endeavoring to remember the 
 details which had thrown her into such deadly 
 /fright; but she could not. She only under- 
 ' stood two facts — that Frederick had been in 
 danger of being pursued and detected in Lon- 
 l don, as not only guilty of manslaughter, but as 
 \$he more unpardonable leader of the mutiny, 
 and that she had lied to save him. There was 
 one comfort ; her lie had saved him, if only by 
 gaining some additional time. If the Inspector 
 came again to-morrow, after she had received 
 the letter she longed for to assure her of her 
 brother's safety, she would brave shame, and 
 stand in her bitter penance — she, the lofty 
 Margaret — acknowledging before a crowded 
 justice-room, if need were, that she had been 
 as " a dog, and done this thing." But if he 
 came before she heard from Frederick ; if he 
 returned, as he had half threatened, in a few 
 hours, why! she would tell that lie again; 
 though how the words would come out, after 
 all this terrible pause for reflection and self- 
 
 reproach, without betraying her falsehood, she 
 did not know, she could not tell. But her repe- 
 tition of it would gain time — time for Frederick. 
 
 She was roused by Dixon's entrance into the 
 room. Dixon had just been letting out Mr. 
 Thornton. 
 
 He had hardly got ten steps in the street, 
 before a passing omnibus stopped close by him, 
 and a man got down, and came up to him, 
 touching his hat as he did so. It was the po- 
 lice-inspector. 
 
 Mr. Thornton had obtained for him his first 
 situation in the police, and had heard from time 
 to time of the progress of his protege ; but they 
 had not often met, and at first Mr. Thornton 
 did not remember him. 
 
 "My name is Watson, George Watson, sir, 
 that you got — " 
 
 "Ah, yesl I recollect. Why you are get- 
 ting on famously, I hear !" 
 
 "Yes, sir. I ought to thank you, sir. But 
 it is on a little matter of business I made so 
 bold as to speak to you now. I believe you 
 were the magistrate who attended to take 
 down the deposition of a poor man who died 
 in the Infirmary last night ?" 
 
 "Yes," replied Mr. Thornton. " I went and 
 heard some kind of a rambling statement, which 
 the clerk said was of no great use. I am afraid 
 he was but a drunken fellow, though there is 
 no doubt he came to his death by violence at 
 last. One of my mother's servants was engaged 
 to him, I believe, and she is in great distress 
 to-day. What about him!" 
 
 " Why, sir, his death is oddly mixed up with 
 somebody in the house I saw you coming out 
 of just now; it was a Mr. Hale's, I believe." 
 
 "Yes!" said Mr. Thornton, turning sharp 
 round, and looking into the Inspector's face 
 with sudden interest. " What about it!" 
 
 " Why, sir, it seems to me that I have got a 
 pretty distinct chain of evidence, inculpating a 
 gentleman, who was walking with Miss Hale 
 that night at the Outwood station, as the man 
 who struck or pushed Leonards off the plat- 
 form and so caused his death. But the young 
 lady denies that she was there at the time." 
 
 " Miss Hale denies she was there !" repeated 
 Mr. Thornton, in an altered voice. " Tell me, 
 what evening was it? What time!" 
 
 " About six o'clock, on the evening of Thurs- 
 day, the twenty-sixth instant." 
 
 They walked on side by side in silence for a 
 minute or two. The Inspector was the first to 
 
 " You see, sir, there is like to be a coroner's 
 inquest ; and I've got a young man who is pret- 
 ty positive — at least he was at first. Since he 
 has heard of the young lady's denial, he says 
 he should not like to swear ; but still he's pretty 
 positive that he saw Miss Hale at the station, 
 walking about with a gentleman not five min- 
 utes before the time when one of the porters 
 saw a scuffle, which he set down to some of 
 Leonards' impudence — but which led to the fall 
 which caused his death. And seeing you come 
 out of the very house, Bir, I thought I might 
 make bold to ask if— you see, it's always awk- 
 ward having to do with cases of disputed iden- 
 tity, and one doesn't like to doubt the word of 
 a respectable young woman unless one has 
 strong proof to the contrary." 
 
108 
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 "And she denied having been at the station 
 that evening," repeated Mr. Thornton, in a 
 low, brooding tone. 
 
 " Yes, sir, twice over, as distinct as could be. 
 I told her I should call again, but seeing you 
 just as I was on my way back from questioning 
 the young man who said it was her, I thought 
 I would ask your advice, both as the magistrate 
 who saw Leonards on his deathbed, and as the 
 gentleman who got me my berth in the force." 
 " You were quite right," said Mr. Thornton. 
 " Don't take any steps till you have seen me 
 again." 
 
 " The young lady will expect me to call, from 
 what I said." 
 
 " I only want to delay you an hour. It's now 
 three. Come to my warehouse at four." 
 "Very well, sir!" 
 
 And they parted company. Mr. Thornton 
 hurried to his warehouse, and, sternly forbid- 
 ding his clerks to allow any one to interrupt 
 him, he went his way to his own private room, 
 and locked the door. Then he indulged him- 
 self in the torture of thinking it all over, and 
 realizing every detail. How could he have 
 lulled himself into the unsuspicious calm in 
 which her tearful image had mirrored itself 
 not two hours before, till he had weakly pitied 
 her and yearned toward her, and forgotten the 
 savage, distrustful jealousy with which the sight 
 of her — and that unknown to him — at such an 
 hour — in such a place — had inspired him ! How 
 could one so pure have stooped from her deco- 
 rous and noble manner of bearing I But was it 
 decorous — was it? He hated himself for the 
 ,idea that forced itself upon him just for an in- 
 ' stant — no more — and yet, while it was present, 
 y thrilled him with its old potency of attraction 
 \toward her image. And then this falsehood — 
 how terrible must be some dread of shame to be 
 revealed — for, after all, the provocation given 
 by such a man as Leonards was, when excited 
 by drinking, might, in all probability, be more 
 than enough to justify any one who came for- 
 ward to state the circumstances openly and 
 without reserve! How creeping and deadly 
 that fear which could bow down the truthful 
 /Margaret to falsehood! He could almost pity 
 her. What would be the end of it? She could 
 not have considered all she was entering upon ; 
 if there was an inquest and the young man 
 came forward. Suddenly he started up. There 
 should be no inquest. He would save Marga- 
 ret. He would take the responsibility of pre- 
 venting the inquest, the issue of which, from the 
 uncertainty of the medical testimony (which he 
 had vaguely heard the night before, from the 
 ^surgeon in attendance), could be but doubtful ; 
 the doctors had discovered an internal disease 
 I far advanced, and sure to prove fatal ; they had 
 1 stated that death might have been accelerated 
 ) by the fall, or by the subsequent drinking and 
 -exposure to cold. If he had but known how 
 Margaret would have become involved in the 
 affair — if he had but foreseen that she would 
 have stained her whiteness by a falsehood he 
 could have saved her by a word ; for the ques- 
 tion, of inquest or no inquest, had hung trem- 
 bling in the balance only the night before. Miss 
 Hale might love another — was indifferent and 
 contemptuous to him — but he would yet do her 
 faithful acts of service of which she should never 
 
 know. He inight despise, her, but the_woman 
 whom he Kadonce loved should be "kept from 
 shame; and shame it would Tie to .pledge her- 
 self to a lie in a public court, or otherwise to 
 stand and acknowledge her reason for desiring 
 darkness rather than light. 
 
 Very gray and stern did Mr. Thornton look 
 as he passed out through his wondering clerks. 
 He was away about half an hour ; and scarcely 
 less stern did he look when he returned, al- 
 though his errand had been successful. 
 
 He wrote two lines on a slip of paper, put it 
 in an envelope, and sealed it up. This he gave 
 to one of the clerks, saying: 
 
 " I appointed "Watson — he who was a packer 
 in the warehouse, and who went into the po- 
 lice — to call on me at four o'clock. I have just 
 met with a gentleman from Liverpool who 
 wishes to see me before he leaves town. Take 
 care to give this note to "Watson when he calls." 
 
 The note contained these words: 
 
 " There will be no inquest. Medical evidence 
 not sufficient to justify it. Take no further 
 steps. I have not seen the coroner; but I will 
 take the responsibility." 
 
 ""Well," thought "Watson, "it relieves me 
 from an awkward job. None of my witnesses 
 seemed certain of any thing except the young 
 woman. She was clear and distinct enough; 
 the porter at the railroad had seen a scuffle ; 
 or when he found it was likely to bring him 
 in as a witness, then it might not have been a 
 scuffle, only a little larking, and Leonards 
 might have jumped off the platform himself 
 — he would not stick firm to any thing. And 
 Jennings, the grocer's shopman — well, he was 
 not quite so bad, but I doubt if I could have 
 got him up to an oath after he heard that Miss 
 Hale flatly denied it. It would have been a 
 troublesome job and no satisfaction. And now 
 I must go and tell them they won't be want- 
 ed." 
 
 He accordingly presented himself again at 
 Mr. Hale's that evening. Her father and Dixon 
 would fain have persuaded Margaret to go to 
 bed ; but they, neither of them, knew the rea- 
 son for her low continued refusals to do so. 
 Dixon had learnt part of the truth — but only 
 part. Margaret would not tell any human 
 being of what she had said, and she did not 
 reveal the fatal termination to Leonards' fall 
 from the platform. So Dixon's curiosity com- 
 bined with her allegiance to urge Margaret to 
 go to rest, which her appearance, as she lay on 
 the sofa, showed but too clearly that she re- 
 quired. She did not speak except when spoken 
 to ; she tried to smile back in reply to her fa- 
 ther's anxious looks and words of tender in- 
 quiry; but, instead of a smile, the wan lips 
 resolved themselves into a sigh. He was so 
 miserably uneasy that, at last, she consented 
 to go into her own room, and prepare for going 
 to bed. She was indeed inclined to give up 
 the idea that the Inspector would call again 
 that night, as it was already past nine o'clock. 
 
 She stood by her father, holding on to the 
 back of his chair. 
 
 "You will go to bed soon, papa, won't you? 
 Don't sit up alone !" 
 
 What his answer was she did not hear ; the 
 words were lost in the far smaller point of 
 sound that magnified itself to her fears, and 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 109 
 
 filled her brain. There was a low ring at the 
 door-bell. 
 
 She kissed her father and glided down stairs 
 with a rapidity of motion of which no one 
 ■would have thought her capable who had seen 
 her the minute before. She put aside Dixon. 
 
 " Don't come. I will open the door. I know 
 it is him — I can — I must manage it all myself." 
 
 "As you please, miss!" said Dixon, testily; 
 but in a moment afterward she added, "But 
 Vou're not fit for it. You are more dead than 
 alive." 
 
 "Am I?" said Margaret, turning round and 
 showing her eyes all aglow with strange fire, 
 her cheeks flushed, though her lips were baked 
 and livid still. 
 
 She opened the door to the Inspector, and 
 preceded him into the study. She placed the 
 candle on the table, and Bmiffed it carefully, 
 before she turned round and faced him. 
 
 "You are late!" said she. "Well?" She 
 held her breath for the answer. 
 
 " I'm sorry to have given any unnecessary 
 trouble, ma'am ; for, after all, they've given up 
 all thoughts of holding an inquest. I have 
 had other work to do and other people to see, 
 or I should have been here before now." 
 
 " Then it is ended ?" said Margaret. " There 
 is to be no further inquiry ?" 
 
 " I believe I've got Mr. Thornton's note about 
 me," said the Inspector, fumbling in his pocket- 
 book. 
 
 " Mr. Thornton's I" said Margaret. 
 
 "Yes I he's a magistrate — ah! here it is." 
 She could not see to read it — no, not although 
 she was close to the candle. The words swam 
 before her. But she held it in her hand, and 
 looked at it as if she were intently studying 
 it. 
 
 " I'm sure, ma'am, it's a great weight off my 
 mind ; for the evidence was so uncertain, you 
 see, that the man had received any blow at all 
 — and if any question of identity came in, it 
 so complicated the ease, as I told Mr. Thorn- 
 ton — " 
 
 "Mr. Thornton!" said Margaret, again. 
 
 "I met him this morning, just as he was com- 
 ing out of this house, and, as he's an old friend 
 of mine, besides being the magistrate who saw 
 Leonards last night, I made bold to tell him of 
 my difficulty." 
 
 /' Margaret sighed deeply. She did not want 
 f to hear any more ; she was afraid alike of what 
 1 Bhe had heard, and of what she might hear. She 
 ! wished that the man would go. She forced 
 (herself to speak. 
 
 "Thank you for calling. It is very late. I 
 dare say it is past ten o'clock. Oh I here is the 
 note !" she continued, suddenly interpreting the 
 meaning of the hand held out to receive it. He 
 was putting it up, when she said, " I think it is 
 a cramped, dazzling sort of writing. I could 
 not read it ; will you just read it to me?" 
 
 He read it aloud to her. 
 
 " Thank you. You told Mr. Thornton that 
 I was not there ?" 
 
 "Oh, of course, ma'am. I'm sorry now that 
 I acted upon information which seems to have 
 been so erroneous. At first the young man 
 was so positive; and now he says that he 
 doubted all along, and hopes that his mistake 
 won't have occasioned you such annoyance aB 
 
 to lose their shop your custom. Good-night, 
 ma'am." 
 
 " Good-night." She rang the bell for Dixon 
 to show him out. As Dixon returned up the 
 passage Margaret passed her swiftly. 
 
 "It is all right!" said she, without looking 
 at Dixon ; and before the woman could follow 
 her with further questions she had sped up 
 stairs, and entered her bed-chamber, and bolt- 
 ed her door. 
 
 She threw herself, dressed as she was, upon 
 her bed. She was too much exhausted to think. 
 Half an hour or more elapsed before the cramp- 
 ed nature of her position, and the chilliness, 
 supervening upon great fatigue, had the power 
 to rouse her numbed faculties. Then she began 
 to recall, to combine, to wonder. The first 
 idea that presented itself to her was, that all 
 this sickening alarm on Frederick's behalf was 
 over ; that the strain was past. The next was 
 a wish to remember every word of the Inspect- 
 or's which related to Mr. Thornton. When had 
 he seen him? What had he said? What had 
 Mr. Thornton done? What were the exact 
 words of his note ? And until she could recol- 
 lect, even to the placing or omitting an arti- 
 cle, the very expressions which he had used in 
 the note, her mind refused to go on with its 
 progress. But the next conviction Bhe came 
 to was clear enough ; Mr. Thornton had seen 
 her close to Outwood station on the fatal Thurs- 
 day night, and had been told of her denial that 
 she was there. Hh« stoftd afl ft v " ,r in hifl "J"" 
 She was a liar.'aut^she had no thought of 
 penitence before God; nothing but chaos and 
 night surrounded _the one lurid laclPtEag, in 
 Mr. .ThorntQi'JLey. es, jhe^was degraded. She 
 cared not to think, even to herself, of how 
 much of excuse she might plead. That had 
 nothing to do with Mr. Thornton; she never 
 dreamed that he, or any one else, could find 
 cause for suspicion in what was so natural as 
 her accompanying her brother ; but what was 
 really false and wrong was known to him^Mid 
 he had a right, t.n judg» her. "Oh, FrederTckT 
 Frederick rshe cried, " what have I not sacri- 
 ficed for you!" Even when she fell asleep her 
 thoughts were compelled to travel the same 
 circle, only with exaggerated and monstrous 
 circumstances of pain. 
 
 When she awoke a new idea flashed upon 
 her with all the brightness of the morning. 
 Mr. Thornton had learnt her falsehood before 
 he went to the coroner ; that suggested the 
 thought, that he had possibly been influenced 
 so to do with a view of sparing her the repeti- 
 tion of her denial. But she pushed this notion 
 on one side with the sick willfulness of a child. 
 If it were so, she felt no gratitude to him, as i£\ 
 only showed her how keenly he must have 
 seen that she was disgraced already, before he 
 took such unwonted pains to spare her any 
 further trial of truthfulness which had already 
 failed so signally. She would nave gone through] 
 the whole — she would have perjured herself to 
 save Frederick, rather — far rather — than Mr. 
 Thornton should have had the knowledge that 
 prompted him to interfere to save her. What 
 ill-fate brought him in contact with the In- 
 spector? What made him be the very magis- 
 trate sent for to receive Leonards' deposition? 
 What had Leonards said? How much of it was 
 
110 
 
 NOETH AND SOUTH. 
 
 intelligible to Mr. Thornton, who might al- 
 ready, for aught she knew, be aware of the old 
 accusation against Frederick, through their 
 mutual friend Mr. Bell? If so, he had striven 
 to save the son, who came in defiance of the 
 law to attend his mother's death-bed. And 
 under this idea she could feel grateful — not 
 yet, if ever she should, if his interference had 
 teen prompted by contempt Oh! had any 
 one such just cause to feel contempt for her? 
 /Mr. Thornton, above all people, on whom she 
 , [had looked down from her imaginary heights 
 till now ! She suddenly found herself at his 
 \feet, and was strangely distressed at her fall 
 She shrank from following out the premises to 
 their conclusion, and so acknowledging to her- 
 self how much she valued his respect and good 
 opinion. Whenever this idea presented itself 
 to her at the end of a long avenue of thoughts, 
 she turned away from following that path — 
 she would not believe in it. 
 
 It was later than she fancied, for in the agita- 
 tion of the previous night she had forgotten to 
 wind up her watch; and Mr. Hale had given 
 especial orders that she was not to be disturbed 
 by the usual awakening. By-and-by the door 
 opened cautiously, and Dixon put her head in. 
 Perceiving that Margaret was awake, she came 
 forward with a letter. 
 
 "Here's something to do you good, miss. A 
 letter from Master Frederick." 
 
 " Thank you, Dixon. How late it is!" 
 
 She spoke very languidly, and suffered Dixon 
 to lay it on the counterpane before her, with- 
 out putting out a hand to take it. 
 
 "You want your breakfast, I'm sure. I will 
 bring it you in a minute. JStaster has got the 
 tray air ready, I know." 
 - — Margaret did not reply ; she let her go ; she 
 felt that she must be alone before she could 
 open that letter. She opened it at last. The 
 first thing that caught her eye was the date 
 two days earlier than she received it. He had 
 then written when he had promised, and their 
 alarm might have been spared. But she would 
 read the letter and see. It was hasty enough, 
 but perfectly satisfactory. He had seen Henry 
 Lennox, who knew enough of the case to shake 
 his head over it, in the first instance, and tell 
 him he had done a very daring thing in return- 
 ing to England, with such an accusation, back- 
 ed by such powerful influence, hanging over 
 him. But when they had come to talk it over, 
 Mr. Lennox had acknowledged that there might 
 be some chance of his acquittal, if he could but 
 prove his statements by credible witnesses — 
 that in sueh case it might be worth while to 
 stand his trial, otherwise it would be a great 
 risk. He would examine — he would take every 
 pains. " It struck me," said Frederick, " that 
 your introduction, little sister of mine, went a 
 long way. Is it so ? He made many inquiries, 
 I can assure you. He seemed a sharp, intelli- 
 gent fellow, and in good practice too, to judge 
 from the signs of business and the number of 
 clerks about him. But these may be only law- 
 yers' dodges. I have just caught a packet on 
 the point of sailing — I am off in five minutes. 
 I may have to come back to England again on 
 this business, so keep my visit secret. I shall 
 send my father some rare old sherry, such as 
 you can not buy in England — (such stuff as I've 
 
 got in the bottle before me). He needs some- 
 thing of the kind — my dear love to him — God 
 bless him. I'm sure — here's my cab. P.S. — 
 What an escape that was! Take care you don't 
 breathe of my having been — not even to the 
 Shaws." 
 
 Margaret turned to the envelope; it was 
 marked "Too late." The letter had probably 
 been trusted to some careless waiter, who had 
 forgotten to post it. Oh ! what slight cobwebs 
 of chances stand between us and Temptation ! 
 Frederick had been safe, and out of England 
 twenty, nay, thirty hours ago ; and it was only 
 about seventeen hours since she had told a false- 
 hood to baffle pursuit, which even then would 
 have been vain. How faithless she had been! 
 Where now was her proud motto, " Fais ce que 
 dois, advienne que pourra ?" If she had but 
 dared to bravely tell the truth as regarded 
 herself, defying them to find out what she re- 
 fused to tell concerning another, how light of 
 heart she would now have felt ! Not humbled 
 before God, as having failed in trust toward 
 Him, not degraded and abased in Mr. Thorn- 
 ton's sight. She caught herself up at this with 
 a miserable tremor ; here was she classing his 
 low opinion of her alongside with the displeas- 
 ure of God. How was it that he haunted her 
 imagination so persistently? What could it 
 be ? Why did she care for what he thought in 
 spite of all her pride ; in spite of herself? She 
 believed that she could have borne the sense 
 of Almighty displeasure, because He knew all, 
 and could read her penitence, and hear her cries 
 for help in time to come. But Mr. Thornton — 
 why did she tremble, and hide her face in the 
 
 Eillow? What strong feeling had overtaken) 
 er at last? J 
 
 She sprang out of bed and prayed long and 
 earnestly. It soothed and comforted her so 
 to open her heart. But as soon as she review- 
 ed her position she found the sting was still 
 there ; that she was not good enough, nor pure 
 enough to be indifferent to the lowered opin- / 
 ion of a fellow creature ; that the thought of v 
 how he must be looking upon her with con- 
 tempt stood between her and her sense of 
 wrong-doing. She took her letter in to her 
 father as soon as she was dressed. There was 
 so slight an allusion to their alarm at the rail- 
 road station, that Mr. Hale passed over it with- 
 out paying any attention to it Indeed, beyond 
 the mere fact of Frederick having sailed undis- 
 covered and unsuspected, he did not gather 
 much from the letter at the time, he was so 
 uneasy about Margaret's pallid looks. She 
 seemed continually on the point of weeping. 
 
 "You are sadly overdone, Margaret. It is 
 no wonder. But you must let me nurse you 
 now." 
 
 He made her lie down on the sofa, and went 
 for a shawl to cover her with. His tenderness 
 released her tears ; and she cried bitterly. 
 
 "Poor child! — poor child 1" said he, looking 
 fondly at her, as she lay with her face to the 
 wall, shaking with her sobs. After u while 
 they ceased, and she began to wonder whether 
 she durst give herself the relief of telling her 
 father of all her trouble. But there were more- 
 reasons against it than for it. The only one k. 
 for it was the relief to herself; and against it : v 
 was the thought that it would add materially ' 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 Ill 
 
 to her father's nervousness, if it were indeed 
 necessary for Frederick to come to England 
 again ; that he would dwell on the circum- 
 stance of his son's having caused the death of 
 a man, however unwittingly and unwillingly; 
 that this knowledge would perpetually recur 
 to trouble him, in various shapes of exaggera- 
 tion and distortion from the simple truth. And 
 about her own great fault — he would be dis- 
 tressed beyond measure at her want of courage 
 and faith, yet perpetually troubled to make 
 
 (excuses for her. Formerly Margaret would 
 have come to him as priest as well as father, 
 to tell him of her temptation and her sin; but 
 latterly they had not spoken much on Buch 
 subjects ; and she knew not how, in his change 
 of opinions, he would reply if the depth of her 
 soul called unto his. No ; she would keep her 
 secret, and bear the burden alone. Alone she 
 Would go before God, and cry for His absolu- 
 tion. Alone she would endure her disgraced 
 position in the opinion of Mr. Thornton. She 
 was unspeakably touched by the tender efforts 
 of her father to think of cheerful subjects on 
 which to talk, and so to take her thoughts 
 away from dwelling on all that had happened 
 of late. It was some months since he had been 
 so talkative as he was this day. He would not 
 let her sit up, and offended Dixon desperately 
 by insisting on waiting upon her himself. 
 
 At last she smiled ; a poor, weak little smile ; 
 but it gave him the truest pleasure. 
 
 " It seems strange to think, that what gives 
 us most hope for the future should be called 
 Dolores," said Margaret. The remark wa3 more 
 in character with her father than with her 
 usual self; but to-day they seemed to have 
 changed natures. 
 
 " Her mother was a Spaniard, I believe: that 
 accounts for her religion. Her father was a 
 stiff Presbyterian when I knew him. But it 
 is a very soft and pretty name." 
 
 " How young she is 1 — younger by fourteen 
 months than I am. Just the age that Edith 
 was when she was engaged to Captain Lennox. 
 Papa, we will go and see them in Spain." 
 
 He shook his^ head. But he said, "If you 
 wish it, Margaret. Only let us come back here. 
 It would seem unfair — unkind to your mother, 
 who always, I'm afraid, disliked Milton so much, 
 if we left it now she is lying here, and can not 
 go with us. No, dear; you shall go and see 
 them, and bring me back a report of my Span- 
 ish daughter." 
 : "No, papa, I won't go without you. Who 
 is to take care of you when I am gone?" 
 
 ' ' I should like to know which of us is taking 
 care of the other. But if you went, I should 
 persuade Mr. Thornton to let me give him 
 double lessons. We would work up the clas- 
 sics famously. That would be a perpetual in- 
 terest. You might go on, and see Edith at 
 Corfu, if you liked." 
 
 Margaret did not speak all at once. Then 
 she said rather gravely: "Thank you, papa. 
 But I don't want to go. We will hope that 
 Mr. Lennox will manage so well, that Frede- 
 rick may bring Dolores to see us when they 
 are married. And as for Edith, the regiment 
 won't remain much longer in Corfu. Perhaps 
 we shall see both of them here before another 
 year is out" 
 
 Mr. Hale's cheerful subjects had come to an 
 end. Some painful recollection had stolen across 
 his mind, and driven him into silence. By-and- 
 by Margaret said: 
 
 " Papa — did you see Nicholas Higgins at the 
 funeral? He was there, and Mary too. Poor 
 fellow I it was his way of showing sympathy. 
 He has a good warm heart under his bluff ab- 
 rupt wayB." 
 
 "I am sure of it," replied Mr. Hale. "I saw 
 it all along, even while you tried to persuade 
 me that he was all sorts of bad things. We 
 will go and see them to-morrow, if you are 
 strong enough to walk so far." 
 
 " On yes. I want to see them. We did not 
 pay Mary — or rather she refased to take it, 
 Dixon says. We will go so as to catch him 
 just after his dinner, and before he goes to his 
 work." 
 
 Toward evening Mr. Hale said: 
 
 "I half expected Mr. Thornton would have 
 called. He spoke of a book yesterday which 
 he had, and which I wanted to see. He said 
 he would try and bring it to-day." 
 
 Margaret sighed. She knew he would not 
 come. He would be too delicate to run the 
 chance of meeting her while her shame must 
 be so fresh in his memory. The very mention 
 of his name renewed her trouble, and produced 
 a relapse into the feeling of depressed preoccu- 
 pied exhaustion. She gave way to listless lan- 
 guor. Suddenly it struck her that this was a 
 strange manner to show her patience, or to re- 
 ward her father for his watchful care of her all 
 through the day. She sate up, and offered to 
 read aloud. His eyes were failing, and he gladly 
 accepted her proposal. She read well ; she gave 
 the due emphasis ; but had any one asked her, 
 when she had ended, the meaning of what she 
 had been reading, she could not have told. She 
 was smitten with a feeling of ingratitude to Mr. 
 Thornton, Inasmuch as, in the morning, she had 
 refused to accept the kindness he had shown 
 her in making further inquiry from the medical 
 men, so as to obviate any inquest being held. 
 Oh! she was grateful! She had been cowardly 
 and false, and had shown her cowardliness and 
 falsehood in action that could not be recalled ; 
 but she was not ungrateful. It sent a glow to 
 her heart to know how she could feel toward ( 
 one who had reason to despise her. His causey 
 for contempt was so just that she should have 
 respected him less if she had thought he did 
 not feel contempt. Jt was _a_ple J asure__tP- feel 
 how thoroughly she respected him. He could^ 
 not prevent her^doing _that;„it was the. one 
 cornfortrnrairtliis misery. 
 
 Late in the" evening the expected book ar- 
 rived, " with Mr. Thornton's kind regards, and 
 wishes to know how Mr. Hale is." 
 
 " Say that I am much better, Dixon, but that 
 Miss Hale—" 
 
 " No, papa," said Margaret, eagerly — " Don't 
 say any thing about me. He does not ask." 
 
 "My dear child, how you are shivering!" 
 said her father, a few minutes afterward. " You 
 must go to bed directly. You have turned 
 quite pale!" 
 
 Margaret did not refuse to go, though she 
 was loth to leave her father alone. She needed 
 the relief of solitude after a day of busy think- 
 ing, and busier repenting. 
 
112 
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 But 8he seemed much as usual the next day ; 
 the lingering gravity and sadness, and the oc- 
 casional absence of mind, were not unnatural 
 symptoms in the early days of grief. And al- 
 most in proportion to her re-establishment in 
 health, was her father's relapse into his ab- 
 stracted musing upon the wife he had lost, and 
 the past era in his life that was closed to him 
 forever. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 At the time arranged the previous day, they 
 set out on their walk to see Nicholas Higgins 
 and his daughter. They both were reminded 
 of their recent loss by a strange kind of shyness 
 in their new habiliments, and in the fact that it 
 was the first time for many weeks that they had 
 deliberately gone out together. They drew very 
 close to each other in unspoken sympathy. 
 
 Nicholas was sitting by the fireside in his 
 accustomed corner; but he had not his accus- 
 tomed pipe. He was leaning his head upon his 
 hand, his arm resting on his knee. He did not 
 get up when he saw them, though Margaret 
 could read the welcome in his eye. 
 
 " Sit ye down, sit ye down. Fire's welly 
 out," said he, giving it a vigorous poke, as if 
 to turn attention away from himself. He was 
 rather disorderly, to be sure, with a black un- 
 shaven beard of several days' growth, making 
 his pale face look yet paler, and a jacket which 
 would have been all the better for patching. 
 
 " We thought we should have a good chance 
 of finding you, just after dinner-time," said Mar- 
 garet. 
 
 " ATe have had our sorrow too, since we saw 
 you," said Mr. Hale. 
 
 "Ay, ay. Sorrows is more plentiful than 
 dinners just now ; I reckon my dinner hour 
 stretches all o'er the day ; yo're pretty sure of 
 finding me." 
 
 " Are you out of work ?" asked Margaret. 
 
 "Ay," he replied shortly. Then, after a mo- 
 ment's silence, he added, looking up for the first 
 time: " I'm not wanting brass. Dunnoyo think 
 it. Bess, poor lass, had a little stock under her 
 pillow, ready to slip into my hand, last moment, 
 and Mary is fustian cutting. But I'm out o' 
 work a' the same." 
 
 " We owe Mary some money," said Mr. Hale, 
 before Margaret's sharp pressure on his arm 
 could arrest the words. 
 
 " If hoo takes it, I'll turn her out o' doors. 
 I'll bide inside these four walls, and she'll bide 
 out. That's a'." 
 
 " But we owe her many thanks for her kind 
 service," began Mr. Hale again. 
 
 " I ne'er thanked yo'r daughter there for her 
 deeds o' love to my poor wench. I ne'er could 
 find th' words. I'se have to begin and try now, 
 if yo start making an ado about what little 
 Mary could sarve yo." 
 
 " Is it because of the strike you're out of 
 work?" asked Margaret, gently. 
 
 " Strike's ended. It's o'er for this time. I'm 
 out o' work because I ne'er asked for it. And 
 I ne'er asked for it, because good words is scarce, 
 and bad words plentiful." 
 
 He was in a mood to take a surly pleasure 
 
 in giving answers that were like riddles. But 
 Margaret saw that he would like to be asked 
 for the explanation. 
 
 "And good words are — ?" 
 
 " Asking for work. I reckon them's almost 
 the best words that men can say. ' Gi' me work" 
 means, ' and I'll do it like a man.' Them's good 
 words." 
 
 " And bad words are refusing you work when 
 you ask for it." 
 
 " Ay. Bad words is saying ' Aha, my fine 
 chap! Yo've been true to yo'r order, and I'll 
 be true to mine. Yo did the best yo could for 
 them that wanted help ; that's yo'r way of being 
 true to yo'r kind; and I'll be true to mine. 
 Yo've been a poor fool as knowed no better nor 
 be a true faithful fool. So go and be d — d to 
 yo. There's no work for yo here.' Them's bad 
 words. I'm not a fool ; and if I was, folk ought 
 to ha' taught me how to be wise after their 
 fashion. I could mappen ha' learnt, if any one 
 had tried to teach me." 
 
 "Would it not be worth while," said Mr. 
 Hale, " to ask your old master if he would take 
 you back again ? It might be a poor chance, 
 tut it would be a chance." 
 
 He looked up again, with a sharp glance at 
 the questioner; and then tittered a low and 
 bitter laugh. 
 
 "Measter! if it's no offense, I'll ask yo a 
 question or two in my turn." 
 
 " You're quite welcome," said Mr. Hale. 
 
 " I reckon yo ha' some way of earning your 
 bread. Folk seldom live in Milton just for 
 pleasure, if they can live any wliere else." 
 
 " You are quite right. I have some inde- 
 pendent property, but my intention in settling 
 in Milton was to become a private tutor." 
 
 " To teach folk. Weill I reckon they pay 
 yo for teaching them, dunnot they ?" 
 
 "Yes," replied Mr. Hale, smiling. " I teach 
 in order to get paid." 
 
 "And them that pays yo, do they tell yo 
 whatten to do, or whatten not to do wi' the 
 money they gives you in just payment for your 
 pains — in fair exchange like 8" 
 
 " No ; to be sure not!" 
 
 " They dunnot say, yo may have a brother or 
 a friend as dear as a brother, who wants this 
 here brass for a purpose both yo and he think 
 right ; but yo mun promise not to give it him. 
 Yo may see a good use, as yo think, to put yo'r 
 money to; but we don't think it good, and so 
 if yo spend it a-that-ens we'll just leave off 
 dealing with yo. They dunnot say that, dun 
 they?" 
 
 " No ; to be sure not!" 
 
 " Would yo stand it if they did?" 
 
 " It would be some very hard pressure that 
 would make me even think of submitting to 
 sueh dictation." 
 
 "There's not the pressure on all the broad 
 earth that would make me," said Nicholas Hig- 
 gins. " Now yo've got it. Yo've hit the bull's 
 eye. Hampers — that's where I worked — makes 
 their men pledge 'emselves they'll not give a 
 penny to help th' Union, or keep burn-outs fra 
 clemming. They may pledge and make pledge," 
 continued he, scornfully. " They nobbut make 
 liars and hypocrites. And that's a less sin, to 
 my mind, to making men's hearts so hard that 
 they'll not do a kindness to them as needs it, or 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 113 
 
 help on the right and just cause, though it goes 
 again the strong hand. But I'll ne'er forswear 
 mysel' for a' the work the King eould give me. 
 I'm a member o' the Union ; and I think it's the 
 only thing to do the workman any good. And 
 I've been a turn-out, and known what it were 
 to clem ; so ft I get a shilling, sixpence shall go 
 to them if they ask it from me. Consequence 
 is I dunnot see where I'm to get a shilling." 
 
 " Is that rule about not contributing to the 
 Union in force at all the mills?" aBked Marga- 
 ret. 
 
 " I can not say. It's a new regulation at ourn ; 
 and I reckon they'll find that they can not stick 
 to it. But it's in force now. By-and-by they'll 
 find out tyrants makes liars.'' 
 
 There was a little pause. Margaret was hes- 
 itating whether she should say what was in her 
 mind; she was unwilling to irritate one who 
 was already gloomy and despondent enough. 
 At last out it came. But in her soft tones, and 
 with her reluctant manner, showing that she 
 was unwilling to say any thing unpleasant, it 
 did' not seem to annoy Higgins, only to perplex 
 him. 
 
 " Do you remember poor Boucher saying that 
 the Union was a tyrant? I think he said it was 
 the worst tyrant of all. And I remember at the 
 time I agreed with him." 
 
 It was a long while before he spoke. He 
 was resting his head on his two hands, and 
 looking down into the fire, so she could not 
 read the expression on his face. 
 
 " I'll not deny but what th' Union finds it 
 necessary to force » man into his own good. 
 I'll speak truth. A man leads a dree life who's 
 not i' th' Union. But once i' th' Union his in- 
 terests are taken care on better nor he could 
 do it for himsel, or by himsel, for that matter. 
 It's the only way working-men can get their 
 rights by all joining together. More the mem- 
 bers, more chance for each one separate man 
 having justice done him. Government takes 
 care o' fools and madmen ; end if any man is 
 inclined to do himsel or his neighbor a hurt, it 
 puts a bit or a check'on him, whether he likes it 
 /"or no. That's all we do i' th' Union. We can't 
 / clap folk into prison ; but we can make a man's 
 [ life so heavy to be borne, that he's obliged to 
 1 come in, and be wise and helpful in spite of 
 J himself. Boucher were a fool all along, and 
 ' ne'er a worse fool than at th' last." 
 
 " He did you harm ?" asked Margaret, guile- 
 lessly. 
 
 " Ay, that did he. We had public opinion 
 on our side till he and his sort began. rioting 
 and breaking laws. It were all o'er wi' the 
 strike then." 
 
 "Then would it not have been far better to 
 have left him alone, and not forced him to join 
 the Union? He did you no good; and you 
 drove him mad." 
 
 " Margaret," said her father, in a low warn- 
 ing tone, for he saw the eloud gathering on 
 Higgins's face. 
 
 " I like her," said Higgins, suddenly. " Hoo 
 speaks plain out what's in her mind. Hoo 
 doesn't comprehend th' Union for all that. It's 
 a great power: it's our only power. I ha' 
 read a bit o' poetry about a plow going o'er a 
 daisy, that made tears come into my eyes, afore 
 Td other cause for crying. But the chap ne'er 
 H 
 
 stopped driving the plow, I'se warrant, for ■ 
 all he were pitiful about the daisy. He'd too m 
 much mother-wit for that. Th' Union's the,} 
 plow making ready the land for harvest-time. 
 Such as Boucher — 'twould be settin' him up too 
 much to liken him to a daisy ; he's liker a weed 
 lounging over the ground — must just make up 
 their mind to be put out o' the way. I'm sore 
 
 vexed wi' him just now. So, mappen, I dunnot 
 ir. I could go o'er him wi' a plow 
 mysel, wi' a' the pleasure in life." 
 
 speak him fair. 
 
 "Why? What has he been doing? Any 
 thing fresh ?" 
 
 "Ay, to be sure. He's ne'er out o' mischief, 
 that man. First on all, he must go raging like 
 a mad fool, and kick up yon riot. Then he'd to 
 go into hiding, where he d a been yet if Thorn- 
 ton had followed him out as I'd hoped he would 
 ha' done. But Thornton having got his own 
 purpose did not care to go on wi' the prosecu- 
 tion for the riot. So Boucher slunk back again 
 to his house. He ne'er showed himsel abroad 
 for a day or two. He had that grace. And 
 then where think ye that he went ? Why, to 
 Hampers'. Damn himl He went wi' his 
 mealy-mouthed face, that turns me sick to look 
 at, a-asking for work, though he knowed well 
 enough the new rule o' pledging themselves to 
 give nought to th' Unions ; nought to help th^ 
 starving turn-out! Why he'd 'a clemmed to 
 death, if th' Union had na helped him in his 
 pinch. There he went ossing to promise aught, 
 and pledge himself to aught — to tell a' he 
 know'd on our proceedings, the good-for-noth- 
 ing Judas. But I'll say this for Hamper, and 
 thank him for it at my dying day, he drove 
 Boucher away and would na listen to him — 
 ne'er a word — though folk standing by says the 
 traitor cried like a babby." 
 
 "Oh! how shocking 1 how pitiful!" exclaimed 
 Margaret. " Higgins, I don't know you to-day. 
 Don't you see how you've made Boucher what 
 he is by driving him into the Union against his 
 will — without his heart going with it. Tou 
 have made him what he is!" 
 
 Made him what he is! What was he? 
 
 Gathering, gathering along the narrow street, 
 came a hollow, measured Sound ; now forcing 
 itself on their attention. Many voices were 
 hushed and low ; many steps were heard, not 
 moving onward, at least not with any rapidity 
 or steadiness of motion, but as if circling round 
 one spot. Yes, there was one distinct, slow 
 tramp of feet, which made itself a clear path 
 through the air, and reached their ears; the 
 measured, labored walk of men carrying a 
 heavy burden. They were all drawn toward 
 the house door by some irresistible impulse; 
 impelled thither — not by a poor curiosity, but 
 as if by some solemn blast. 
 
 Six men walked in the middle of the road, 
 three of them being policemen. They carried 
 a door, taken off its hinges, upon their shoul- 
 ders, on which lay some dead human creature ; 
 and from each side of the door there were con- 
 stant droppings. All the street turned out to 
 see, and seeing, to accompany the procession, 
 each one questioning the bearers, who answered 
 almost reluctantly at last, so often had they 
 told the tale. 
 
 " We found'him in the brook in the field be- 
 yond there." ' 
 
114 
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 " The brook ! — why there's not water enough 
 to drown him I" 
 
 "He was a determined chap. He lay with 
 his face downward. He was sick enough o' 
 living, choose what cause he had for it." 
 
 Biggins crept up to Margaret's side, and said, 
 in a weak, piping kind of voice : " It's not John 
 Boucher? He had na spunk enough. Sure! 
 It's not John Boucher I Why, they are a' look- 
 ing this way! Listen! I've a singing in my 
 head, and I can not hear." 
 
 They put the door down carefully upon the 
 stones, and all might see the poor drowned 
 wretch — his glassy eyes, one half open, staring 
 right upward to the sky. Owing to the posi- 
 tion in which he had been found lying, his face 
 was swollen and discolored; besides, his skin 
 was stained by the water in the brook, which 
 had been used for dying purposes. The fore 
 part of his head was bald; but the hair grew 
 thin and long behind, and every separate lock 
 was a conduit for water. Through all these dis- 
 figurements, Margaret recognized JohnBoucher. 
 It seemed to her so sacrilegious to be peering 
 into that poor distorted, agonized face, that, 
 by a flash of instinct, she went forward and 
 softly covered the dead man's countenance with 
 iher handkerchief. The eyes that saw' her do 
 this followed her, as she turned away from 
 her pious oflice, and were thus led to the place 
 where Nicholas Higgins stood, like one rooted 
 to the spot. The men spoke together, and then 
 one of them came up to Higgins, who would 
 have fain shrunk back into his house. 
 
 "Higgins, thou knowed him! Thou mun 
 go tell the wife. Do it gently, man, but do it 
 quick, for we canna leave him here long." 
 
 "I canna go," said Higgins. "Dunnot ask 
 me. I canna face her." 
 
 " Thou knows her best," said the man. " We 
 have done a deal in bringing him here — thou 
 take thy share." 
 
 " I canna do it," said Higgins. " I'm welly 
 felled wi' seeing him. We wasn't friends; and 
 now he's dead." 
 
 " Well, if thou wunnot thou wunnot. Some 
 one mun though. It's a dree task ; but it's a 
 chance, every minute, as she doesn't hear on 
 it in some rougher way nor a person going to 
 make her let on by degrees, as it were." 
 
 " Papa, do you go," said Margaret, in a low 
 voice. 
 f "If I could — if I had time to think of what 
 I had better say ; but all at once — " Margaret 
 saw that her father was indeed unable. He 
 was trembling from head to foot. 
 v "I will go," said she. 
 
 "Bless yo, miss, it will be a kind act; for 
 6he's been but a sickly sort ot body, I hear, and 
 few hereabouts know much on her." 
 
 Margaret knocked at the closed door; but 
 there was such a noise, as of many little ill- 
 ordered children, that she could hear no reply; 
 indeed, she doubted if she was heard, and as 
 every moment of delay made her recoil from 
 her task more and more, she opened the door 
 and went in, shutting it after her, and even, 
 unseen to the woman, fastening the bolt. 
 
 Mrs. Boucher was sitting in a rocking-chair 
 on the other side of the ill-redd up fire-place ; it 
 looked as if the house had been untouched for 
 days by any effort at cleanliness. 
 
 Margaret said something, she hardly knew 
 what, her throat and mouth were so dry, and 
 the children's noise completely prevented her 
 being heard. She tried again. 
 
 "How are you, Mrs. Boucher? But very 
 poorly, I'm afraid." 
 
 "I've no chance o' being well," said she, 
 querulously. "I'm left all alone to manage 
 these childer, and nought for to give 'em for to 
 keep 'em quiet. John should na ha' left me, 
 and me so poorly." 
 
 "How long is it since he went away?" 
 
 "Four days sin'. No one would give him 
 work here, and he'd to go on tramp toward 
 Greenfield. But he might ha' been back afore 
 this, or sent me some word if he'd gettenwork. 
 He might — " 
 
 " Oh, don't blame him," said Margaret. " He 
 felt it deeply, I'm sure — " 
 
 "Will ta' hold thy diD, and let me hear the 
 lady speak !" addressing herself in no very gen- 
 tle voice to a little urchin of about a year old. 
 She apologetically continued to Margaret, "He's 
 always mithering me for ' daddy' and ' butty ;' 
 and I ha' no butties to give him, and daddy's 
 away, and forgotten us a', I think. He's his 
 father's darling, he is," said she, with a sudden 
 turn of mood, and, dragging the child up to her 
 knee, she began kissing it fondly. 
 
 Margaret laid her hand on the woman's arm 
 to arrest her attention. Their eyes met. 
 
 " Poor little fellow !" said Margaret, slowly ; 
 "he was his father's darling." 
 
 " He is his father's darling," said the woman, 
 rising hastily, and standing face to face with 
 Margaret Neither of them 6poke for a mo- 
 ment or two. Then Mrs. Boucher began in a 
 low, growling tone, gathering in wildness as 
 she went on: " He is his father's darling, I say. 
 Poor folk can love their childer as well as rich. 
 Why dunno yo speak? Why dun yo stare at 
 me wi' your great pitiful eyes? Where's John?" 
 Weak as she was, she shook Margaret to force 
 out an answer. " Oh my God !" said she, un- 
 derstanding the meaning of that tearful look. 
 She sank back into the chair. Margaret took 
 up the child and put him into her aims. 
 
 "He loved him," said she. 
 
 "Ay," said the woman, shaking her head, 
 "he loved us a'. We had some one to love us 
 onee. It's a long time ago ; but when he were 
 in life and with us he did love us, he did. He 
 loved this babby mappen the best on us ; but 
 he loved me and I loved him, though 1 was 
 calling him five minutes agone. Are yo sure 
 he's dead?" said she, trying to get up. " If it's 
 only that he's ill and like to die, they may bring 
 him round yet. I'm but an ailing creature my- 
 sel' — I've been ailing this long time." 
 
 " But he is dead — he is drowned!" 
 
 "Folk are brought round after they're dead- 
 drowned. Whatten was I thinking of, to sit 
 still when I should be stirring mysel' % Here, 
 whisth thee, child — whisth thee 1 tak this, tak 
 aught to play wi', but dunnot cry while my 
 heart's breaking! Oh, where is my strength 
 gone to? Oh, John — husband!" 
 
 Margaret saved her from falling by catching 
 her in her arms. She sate down in the rock- 
 ing-chair, and held the woman upon her knees, 
 her head lying on Margaret's Bhoulder. The 
 other children, clustered together in affright, 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 115 
 
 began to understand the mystery of the scene ; 
 but the ideas came slowly, for their brains were 
 dull and languid of perception. They set up 
 such a cry of despair as they guessed the truth, 
 that Margaret knew not how to bear it. John- 
 ny's cry was loudest of them all, though he 
 knew not why he cried, poor little fellow. 
 
 The mother quivered as she lay in Margaret's 
 arms. Margaret heard a noise at the door. 
 
 "Open it. Open it quick," said she to the 
 eldest child. " It's bolted ; make no noise — be 
 very still. Oh, papa, let them go up stairs very 
 softly and carefully, and perhaps she will not 
 hear them. She has fainted — that's all." 
 
 "It's as well for her, poor creature," said a 
 woman following in the wake of the bearers of 
 the dead. "But yo're not fit to hold her. Stay, 
 I'll run fetch a pillow, and we'll let her down 
 easy on the floor." 
 
 This helpful neighbor was a great relief to 
 Margaret ; she was evidently a stranger to the 
 house, a new-comer to the district, indeed; but 
 she was so kind and thoughtful that Margaret 
 felt she was no longer needed ; and that it would 
 be better, perhaps, to set an example of clear- 
 ing the house, which was filled with idle, if 
 sympathizing gazers. 
 
 She looked round for Nicholas Higgins. He 
 was not there." So she spoke to the woman 
 who had taken the lead in placing Mrs. Boucher 
 on the floor. 
 
 "Can you give all these people a hint that 
 they had better leave in quietness ? So that 
 when she comes round, she should only find one 
 or two that she knows about her. Papa, will 
 you speak to the men, and get them to go away ? 
 She can not breathe, poor thing 1 with this 
 crowd about her." 
 
 Margaret was kneeling down by Mrs. Boucher 
 and bathing her face with vinegar; but in a 
 few minutes she was surprised at the gush of 
 fresh air. She looked round, and saw a smile 
 pass between her father and the woman. 
 
 "What is it!" asked she. 
 
 " Only our good friend here," replied her 
 father, " hit on a capital expedient for clearing 
 the place." 
 
 " I bade 'em begone, and each take a child 
 with 'em, and to mind that they were orphans, 
 and their mother a widow. It was who could 
 do most, and the childer are sure of a bellyful 
 to-day, and of kindness too. Does hoo know 
 how he died?" 
 
 "No," said Margaret; " I could not tell her 
 all at once." 
 
 "Hoo mun be told because of th' Inquest. 
 See! Hoo's coming round; shall you or I do 
 it ? or mappen your father would be best 1 " 
 
 " No ; you, you," said Margaret. 
 
 They awaited her perfect recovery in silence. 
 Then the neighbor woman sat down on the 
 floor, and took Mrs. Boucher's head and shoul- 
 ders on her lap. 
 
 "Neighbor," said she, "your man is dead. 
 Guess yo how he died?" 
 
 "He were drowned," said Mrs. Boucher, 
 feebly, beginning to cry for the first time, at 
 this rough probing of her sorrows. 
 
 " He were found drowned. He were coming 
 home very hopeless o' aught on earth. He 
 thought God could na be harder than men; 
 mappen not so hard ; mappen as tender as a 
 
 mother ; mappen tenderer. I'm not saying he 
 did right, and I'm not saying he did wrong. 
 All I say is, may neither me nor mine ever have 
 his sore heart, or we may do like things." 
 
 " He has left me alone wi' a' these children!" 
 moaned the widow, lesa distressed at the man- 
 ner of the death than Margaret expected ; but 
 it was of a piece with her helpless character to 
 feel his loss as principally affecting^ herself and 
 her children. 
 
 " Not alone," said Mr. Hale, solemnly. " Who 
 is with you? Who will take up your cause?" 
 The widow opened her eyes wide, and looked 
 at the new speaker of whose presence she had 
 not been aware till then. 
 
 "Who has promised to be a father to the 
 fatherless ?" continued he. 
 
 "But I've getten six children, sir, and the 
 eldest not eight years of age. I'm not meaning 
 for to doubt His power, sir — only it needs a 
 deal o' trust ■" and she began to cry afresh. 
 
 "Hoo'll be better able to talk to-morrow, 
 sir," said the neighbor. "Best comfort now 
 would be the feel of a child at her heart. I'm 
 sorry they took the babby." 
 
 " I'll go for it," said Margaret. And in a few 
 minutes she returned, carrying Johnnie, his face 
 all smeared with eating, and his hands loaded 
 with treasures in the shape of shells, and bits 
 of crystal, and the head of a plaster figure. She 
 placed him in his mother's arms. 
 
 "There!" said the woman, "now you go. 
 They'll cry together, and comfort together, bet- 
 ter nor any one but a child can do. I'll stop 
 with her as long as I'm needed, and if yo come 
 to-morrow, yo can have a deal o' wise talk with 
 her, that she's not up to to-day." 
 
 As Margaret and her father went slowly up 
 the street, she paused at Higgins's closed door. 
 
 "Shall we go in?" asked her father. "Iwas 
 thinking of him too." 
 
 They knocked. There was no answer, so 
 they tried the door. It was bolted, but they 
 thought they heard him moving within. 
 
 "Nicholas!" said Margaret. There was no 
 answer, and they might have gone away, be- 
 lieving the house to be empty, if there had not 
 been some accidental fall, as of a book within. 
 
 "Nicholas!" said Margaret, again. "It is 
 only us. Won't you let us come m?" 
 
 "No," said he. " I spoke as plain as I could 
 'bout using words when I bolted th' door. Let 
 me be, this day." 
 
 Mr. Hale would have urged their desire, but 
 Margaret placed her finger on his lips. 
 
 " I don't wonder at it," said she. " I myself 
 long to be alone. It seems the only thing to 
 do one good after a day like this." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXYII. 
 
 Higgins's door was locked the next day when 
 they went to pay their call on the widow 
 Boucher ; but they learnt this time from an of- 
 ficious neighbor, that he was really from home. 
 He had, however, been in to see Mrs. Boucher 
 before starting on his day's business, whatever 
 that was. It. was but an unsatisfactory visit to 
 Mrs. Boucher ; she considered herself as an ill- 
 used woman by her poor Jmsband's suicide ; and 
 
116 
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 there wag quite germ of truth enough in this 
 idea to make it a very difficult one to refute. 
 Still it was unsatisfactory to see how completely 
 her thoughts were turned upon herself and her 
 own position, and this selfishness extended even 
 to her relations with her children, whom she con- 
 sidered as incumbrances, even in the very midst 
 of her somewhat animal affection for them. Mar- 
 garet tried to make acquaintance with one or 
 two of them, while her father strove to raise the 
 widow's thoughts into some higher channel than 
 that of mere helpless querulousness. She found 
 that the children were truer and simpler mourn- 
 ers than the widow. Daddy had been a kind 
 daddy to them ; each could tell, in their eager, 
 stammering way, of some tenderness shown, 
 some indulgence granted by the lost father. 
 
 "Is yon thing up stairs really him ! it doesna 
 look like him. I'm feared on it, and I never 
 was feared o' daddy." 
 ( Margaret's heart bled to hear that the mother, 
 ; in her selfish requirement of sympathy, had 
 j taken her children up stairs to see their disfig- 
 ' ured father. It was intermingling the coarse- 
 \ ness of horror with the profoundness of natural 
 \grief. She tried to turn their thoughts in some 
 other direction ; on what they could do for moth- 
 er; on what — for this was a more efficacious 
 way of putting it — what father would have 
 wished them to do. Margaret was more suc- 
 cessful than Mr. Hale in her efforts. The chil- 
 dren seeing their little duties lie in action close 
 around them, began to try each one to do some- 
 thing that she suggested toward redding up the 
 /slatternly room. But her father set too high a 
 ! standard, and too abstract a view, before the 
 \ indolent invalid. She could not rouse her torpid 
 mind into any vivid imagination of what her 
 husband's misery might have been, before he 
 had resorted to the last terrible step ; she could 
 only look upon it as it affected herself; she could 
 not enter into the enduring mercy of the God 
 who had not specially interposed to prevent the 
 water from drowning her prostrate husband ; 
 and, although she was secretly blaming her hus- 
 band for having fallen into such drear despair, 
 and denying that he had any excuse for his last 
 rash act, she was inveterate in her abuse of all 
 who could by any possibility have been sup- 
 posed to have driven him to such desperation. 
 The masters — Mr. Thornton in particular, whose 
 mill had been attacked by Boucher, and who, 
 after the warrant had been issued for his ap- 
 prehension on the charge of rioting, had caused 
 it to be withdrawn — the Union, of which Hig- 
 gins was the representative to the poor woman 
 — the children so 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 unreasonable- 
 ness 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 every thing 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 and calm as the 
 country-bred man must find it to be active, and 
 equal to unwonted emergencies. Both must^ 
 find it hard to realize a future of any kind ; the 
 one because the present is so living and hurry- 
 ing and close around him ; the other because 
 his life tempts him to revel in the mere sense 
 of animal existence, not knowing of, and con- 
 sequently not caring for any pungency of pleas- 
 ure, 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, 
 papal 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 
 the faults 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 
 cognizance of her falsehood. She wondered if 
 she should have minded detection half so much - " 
 from any one else. She tried herself in imagina- 
 tion with her Aunt Shaw and Edith ; with her 
 father; with Captain and Mr. Lennox; with' 
 Frederick. The thought of this latter knowing' 
 of 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 opin- 
 ion was as nothing to the shame, the shrinking 
 shame she felt at the thought of meeting Mr. 
 Thornton again. And 3'et she longed to see hiin,^ 
 to get it over; to understand where she Btood 
 in his opinion. Her cheeks burnt as she recol- 
 lected how proudly she had implied an objection 
 to trade (in the early days of their acquaint- 
 ance), 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 re- 
 sources not possessed, in the other. She re- 
 membered Mr. Thornton's look of calm disdain, 
 as in few words he gave her to understand that 
 in the great scheme of commerce all dishonora- 
 ble ways of acting were sure to prove injurious 
 in the long run, and that, testing such actions 
 simply according to the poor standard of suc- 
 cess, 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 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 117 
 
 — and her father had corrected her with the 
 higher word Christian ; and so drawn the ar- 
 gument upon himself, while she sate silent by 
 with a slight feeling of contempt. 
 
 No more contempt for herl — no more talk 
 about the chivalriel 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 sur- 
 prised 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 pos- 
 sible 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 instructions to his pu- 
 pils, which he had relinquished at the com- 
 mencement 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 eager- 
 ness than ever upon his speculations. He was 
 restless all 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 sate down instantly, and bent her head at- 
 tentively 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 glai 
 
 " 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 stock 
 ings ; I'bjs 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 unu- 
 sually quiet and subdued ; and he had evident- 
 ly some difficulty in saying what he came to 
 say. 
 
 Mr. Hale's ever-ready sympathy with any 
 
 thing 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 I" 
 
 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 honor 
 to forward any of her wishes; and her readi- 
 ness, 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 can not 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 honor 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 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 di- 
 rection. 
 
 " No, J don't," said Mr. Hale, seeing he waited 
 for some kind of assent, and completely bewil- 
 dered as to who " that man" could be. 
 
 "That chap as lies there," said he, with anoth- 
 er jerk. " Him as went and drownded himself; 
 poor cliap! 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 of childer." 
 
 " God bless you I" 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 sur- 
 prised 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' 
 the 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. 
 
 " There, there, master ! There's ne'er a man, 
 to call a man, among us, but what would do 
 the same ; ay, and better too ; for, belie' me, 
 I'se 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 
 
118 
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 na, not e'en for this — he'd ne'er ha' such a work- 
 er on his mill as I would be — he'd ha' none o' 
 me — no more would none on th' others. I'm a 
 poor black, feckless sheep — childer may clem for 
 aught I can do, unless, parson, you'd help me ?" 
 "Help you I How? I would do any thing 
 — 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've been thinking if I could get 'em down 
 there, where food is cheap and wages good, and 
 all the folk, rich and pobr, master and man, 
 friendly like ; yo could, maybe, help me to 
 work. I'm not forty-five, and I've a deal o' 
 strength in me, master." 
 
 " But what kind of work could you do, my 
 man?" 
 
 "Well, I reckon I could spade a bit; — " 
 " And for that," said Margaret, stepping for- 
 ward, "for any thing you could do, Higgins, 
 with the best will in the world, you would, may- 
 be, get nine shillings a week; maybe ten, at 
 the outside. Food is much the same as here, 
 except that you might have a little garden — " 
 "The ehilder could work at that," said he. 
 " I'm sick o' Milton anyways, and Milton is sick 
 o' me." 
 
 " You must not go to the South,' 7 said Marga- 
 ret, " 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 nave 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 — 
 
 1 since it's my way of talking that has set you 
 
 i off on this idea — to put it all clear before you. 
 
 / You would not bear the dullness of the life ; 
 
 / you don't know what it is ; it would eat you 
 
 | away like rust. Those that have lived there all 
 
 i their lives, are used to soaking in the stagnant 
 
 waters. They labor on from day to day in the 
 
 great solitude of steaming fields — never speak- 
 
 i mg or lifting up their poor, bent, downcast 
 
 heads. The hard spade-work robs their brain 
 
 ; of life ; the sameness of their toil deadens their 
 
 : imagination; they don't care to meet to talk 
 
 over thoughts and speculations, even of the 
 
 i weakest, wildest kind, after their work is done ; 
 
 they go home brutishly tired, poor creatures! 
 
 caring for nothing but food and rest. You could 
 
 not stir them up into any companionship you 
 
 get in a town as plentiful as the air you breathe, 
 
 whether it be good or bad ; and that I don't 
 
 know ; but I do know, that you of all men are 
 
 not one to bear a life among such laborers. 
 
 What would be peace to them, would be eternal 
 
 fretting to you. Think no more of it, Nicholas, 
 
 I beg. Besides, you could never pay to get 
 
 mother and children all there — that s one good 
 
 thing." 
 
 "I've reckoned for that. One house mun do 
 for us a', and the furniture o' t'other would go 
 a good way. And men there mun have their 
 families to keep — mappen six or seven childer. 
 
 God help 'em !" said he, more convinced by his 
 own presentation of the facts than by all Mar- 
 garet had said, and suddenly renouncing the 
 idea which had but recently formed itself in 
 a brain worn out by the day's fatigue and anx- 
 iety. "God help 'em! North an' South have 
 each getten their own troubles. If work's sure 
 and steady there, labor's paid at starvation 
 prices; while here we've rucks o' money com- 
 ing in one quarter, and ne'er a farthing th' next. 
 For sure, th' world is in a confusion that passes 
 me or any other man to understand ; it needs 
 fettling, and who's to fettle it, if it's as you folks 
 say, and there's nought but what we see?" 
 
 Mr. Hale was busy cutting bread and butter; 
 Margaret was glad of this, for she saw that 
 Higgins was better left to himself: that if her 
 father began to speak ever so mildly on the sub- 
 ject of Higgin6's thoughts, the latter would con- 
 sider himself challenged to an argument, and 
 would feel himself bound to maintain his old 
 ground. She and her father kept up an in- 
 different conversation until Higgins, scarcely 
 aware whether he ate or not, had made a very 
 substantial meal. Then he pushed his chair 
 away from the table, and tried to take an in- 
 terest in what they were saying ; but it, was of 
 no use; and he fell back into dreamy doom. 
 Suddenly Margaret said (she had been thinking 
 of it for some time, but the words had stuck in 
 her throat), " Higgins, have you been to Marl- 
 borough Mills to seek for work?" 
 
 "Thornton's?" asked he. " Ay, I've been at 
 Thornton's." 
 
 " And what did he say?" 
 "Such v. chap as me is not like to see the 
 measter. Th' o'erlooker bid me go and be 
 d— d." 
 
 "I wish you had seen Mr. Thornton," said 
 Mr. Hale. "He might not have given you work, 
 but he would not have used such language." 
 
 "As to th' language, I'm welly used to it ; it 
 dunnot matter to me. I'm not nesh mysel when 
 I'm put out. It were th' fact that I were na 
 wanted there, no more nor ony other place, as 
 I minded." 
 
 " But I wish^rou had seen Mr. Thornton," re- 
 peated Margaret. "Would you go again — it's 
 a good deal to ask, I know — but would you go 
 to-morrow and try him? I should be so glad 
 if you would." 
 
 " I'm afraid it would be of no use," said Mr. 
 Hale, in a low voice. " It would be better to let 
 me speak to him." Margaret still looked at 
 'Higgins for his answer. Those grave soft eyes 
 of hers were difficult to resist. He gave a great 
 sigh. 
 
 " It would tax my pride above a bit ; if it 
 were for mysel, I could stand a deal of clem- 
 ming first; I'd sooner knock him down than 
 ask a favor from him. I'd a deal sooner be 
 flogged mysel ; but yo're not a common wench, 
 axing yo'r pardon, nor yet have yo common 
 ways about you. I'll e'en make a wry face, and 
 go at it to-morrow. Dunna yo think that he'll 
 do it. That man has it in him to be burnt at 
 the stake afore he'll give in. I do it for yo'r 
 sake, Miss Hale, and it's first time in my life as 
 e'er I gave way to a woman. Neither my wife 
 nor Bess could e'er say that much again me." 
 
 " All the more do I thank you," said Marga- 
 ret, smiling. " Though I don't believe you : I 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 119 
 
 believe you have just given way to wife and 
 daughter as much as most men." 
 
 "And as to Mr. Thornton," said Mr. Hale, 
 "I'll give you a note to him, which, I think I 
 may venture to say, will insure you a hearing." 
 
 " I thank yo kindly, sir, but I'd as leaf stand 
 on my own bottom. I dunnot stomach the no- 
 tion of having favor eurried for me by one as 
 doesn't know the ins and outs of the quarrel. 
 Meddling 'twixt master and man is liker med- 
 dling 'twixt husband and wife than aught else : 
 it takes a deal o' wisdom for to do ony good. 
 I'll stand guard at the lodge door. I'll stand 
 there fra six in the morning till I get speech on 
 him. But I'd liefer sweep th' streets, if paupers 
 had Da' got hold on that work. Dunna yo hope, 
 miss. There'll be more chance o' getting milk 
 out of a flint. I wish yo a very good night, and 
 many thanks to yo." 
 
 " You'll find your shoes by the kitchen fire ; 
 I took them there to dry," said Margaret. 
 
 He turned round and looked at her steadily, 
 and then he brushed his lean hand aerossrtiis 
 eyes and went his way. 
 
 " How proud that man is !" said her father, 
 who was a little annoyed at the manner in 
 which Higgins had declined his intercession 
 with Mr. Thornton. 
 
 "He is," said Margaret; "but what grand 
 makings of a man there are in him, pride and 
 all!" 
 
 "It's amusing to see how he evidently re- 
 \ speets the part in Mr. Thornton's character 
 I which is like his own." 
 
 ! " There's granite in all these northern people, 
 f papa, is there not?" 
 
 " There was none in poor Boucher I am 
 afraid ; none in his wife either." 
 
 "I should guess from their tones that they 
 had Irish blood in them. I wonder what suc- 
 cess he'll have to-morrow. If he and Mr. Thorn- 
 ton would speak out together as man to man — 
 if Higgins would forget that Mr. Thornton was 
 a master, and speak to him as he does to us — 
 and if Mr. Thornton would be patient enough 
 to listen to him with his human heart, not with 
 his master's ears — " 
 
 " You are getting to do Mr. Thornton justice 
 at last, Margaret," said her father, pinching her 
 ear. 
 
 Margaret had a strange choking at her heart, 
 which made her unable to answer. "Oh!" 
 thought she, "I wish I were a man, that I 
 could go and force him to express his disappro- 
 bation, and tell him honestly that I knew I de- 
 ( served it. It seems hard to lose him as a friend 
 ust when I had begun to feel his value. How 
 tender he was with dear mamma ! If it were 
 only for her sake, I wish he would come, and 
 then at least I should know how much I was 
 abased in his eyes." 
 
 Wj 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVHI. 
 
 It was not merely that Margaret was known 
 to Mr. Thornton to have spoken falsely, though 
 she imagined that for this reason only was she 
 so turned in his opinion, but that this falsehood 
 of hers, bore a distinct reference in his mind to 
 some other lover. He eould not forget the 
 
 fond and earnest look that had passed between 
 her and some other man — the attitude of famil- 
 iar confidence, if not of positive endearment. 
 The thought of this perpetually stung him ; it 
 was a picture before his eyes wherever he went 
 and whatever he was doing. In addition to 
 this (and he ground his teeth as he remember- 
 ed it) was the hour, dusky twilight ; the place, 
 so far away from home and comparatively unfre- 
 quented. .His nobler self had said at first, that 
 all this last might be accidental, innocent, justi- 
 fiable ; but once allow her right to love and be 
 beloved (and had he any reason to deny her 
 right? — had not her words been severely ex- 
 plicit when she cast his love away from her?) 
 she might easily have been beguiled into a 
 longer walk, on to a later hour than she had 
 anticipated. But that falsehood ! which show- 
 ed a fatal consciousness of something wrong, 
 and to be concealed, which was unlike her. 
 He did her that justice, though all the time it 
 would have been a relief to believe her utterly 
 unworthy of his esteem. It was this that made 
 the misery — that he passionately loved her, and 
 thought her, even with all her faults, more iove- 
 ly and more excellent than any other woman ; 
 yet he deemed her so attached to some other 
 man, so led away by her affection for him, as 
 to violate her truthful nature. The very false- 
 hood that stained her was a proof how blindly 
 she loved another — this dark, slight, elegant, 
 handsome man — while he himself was rough, 
 and stern, and strongly made. He lashed him- 
 self into an agony of fierce jealousy. He 
 thought of that look, that attitude !— how he 
 would have laid his life at her feet for such 
 tender glances, such fond detention 1 He mock- 
 ed at himself for having valued the mechanical 
 way in which she had protected him from the 
 fury of the mob: now he had seen how soft j 
 and bewitching she looked when with a man 
 she really loved. He remembered point by 
 point the sharpness of her words — " There was 
 not a man in all that crowd for whom she would 
 not have done as much, far more readily than 
 for him." He shared with the mob in her de- 
 sire of averting bloodshed from them. But this 
 man, this hidden lover, shared with nobody; 
 he had looks, words, hand-cleavings, lies, con- 
 cealment, all to himself. 
 
 Mr. Thornton was conscious that he had never 
 been so irritable as he was now in all his life 
 long; he felt inclined to give a short abrupt 
 answer, more like a bark than a speech, to 
 every one that asked him a question ; -and this 
 consciousness hurt his pride: he had always"\ 
 piqued himself on his self-control, and control \ 
 himself he would. So the manner was subduecjU 
 to a quiet deliberation, but the matter was even 
 harder and sterner than common. He was more 
 than usually silent at home; employing his 
 evenings in a continual pace backward and for- 
 ward, which would have annoyed his mother 
 exceedingly if it had been practiced by any one 
 else ; and did not tend to promote any forbear- 
 ance on her part even to this beloved son. 
 
 " Can you stop — can you sit down for a mo- 
 ment ? I have something to say to you, if you 
 would give up that everlasting walk, walk, 
 walk." 
 
 He sat down instantly, on a ohair against the 
 wall. 
 
120 
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 "I want to speak to you about Betsy. She 
 says she must leave us ; that her lover s death 
 has so affected her spirits she can't give her 
 heart to her work." 
 
 " Very well. I suppose other cooks are to 
 be met with." 
 
 "That's so like a man. It's not merely the 
 cooking, it is that she knows all the ways of 
 the house. Besides, she tells me something 
 about your friend Miss Hale." 
 
 " Miss Hale is no friend of mine. Mr. Hale is 
 my friend." 
 
 " I am glad to hear you say bo, for if she had 
 been your friend, what Betsy says would have 
 annoyed you." 
 
 "Let me hear it," said he, with the extreme 
 quietness of manner he had been assuming for 
 the last few days. 
 
 "Betsy says, that the night on which her 
 lover — I forget his name — for she always calls 
 him ' he'—" 
 
 "Leonards." 
 
 " The night on which Leonards was last seen 
 at the station — when he was last seen on duty, 
 in fact — Miss Hale was there walking about 
 with a young man who Betsy believes killed 
 Leonards by some blow or push." 
 
 "Leonards was not killed by any blow or 
 push." 
 
 "How do yon know?" 
 
 "Because I distinctly put the question to the 
 susgeon of the Infirmary. He told me there 
 was an internal disease of long standing, caused 
 by Leonards' habit of drinking to excess ; that 
 the fact of his becoming rapidly worse while in 
 a state of intoxication, settled the question as 
 to whether the last fatal attack was caused by 
 excess of drinking or the fall." 
 
 "The fall I What fall?" 
 
 " Caused by the blow or push of which Betsy 
 
 'Then there was a blow or push?" 
 
 "I believe so." 
 
 "And who did it V 
 
 " As there was no inquest, in consequence of 
 the doctor's opinion, I can not 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 Bhop out at Cramp- 
 ton) can swear that Miss Hale was at the sta- 
 tion at that hour, walking backward and for- 
 ward 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," said 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 assist- 
 ant 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 con- 
 duct. I never knew Fanny have weighty rea- 
 sons for any thing. Other people must guard 
 her. I believe Miss Hale is a euardian to her- 
 self." 
 
 "A pretty character of your sister, indeed! 
 Really, John, one would have thought Miss 
 Hale had done enough to make you clear-sight- 
 ed. She drew you on to an offer by a bold dis- 
 play 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 be- 
 lieve 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 ; 
 hut 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 some- 
 thing is wrong ; some dread 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 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 charac- 
 ter." 
 
 " 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 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 121 
 
 let me hear any one say a word against her, 
 implying any more serious complication than 
 that she now needs the counsel of some kind 
 and gentle woman. You promised Mrs. Hale 
 to be that woman!" 
 
 " No 1" said Mrs. Thornton. " I am happy 
 to say I did not promise kindness and gentle- 
 ness, 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,"saidhe, passionately. 
 
 " She will have to bear it, if I speak in her 
 dead mother's name." 
 
 "Weill" said he, breaking away, "don't tell 
 me any more about it. I can not 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 I" 
 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 toward her. She took 
 a savage pleasure in the idea of "speaking her 
 mind" to her in the guise of fulfillment of a duty. 
 She enjoyed the thought of showing herself un- 
 touched 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 her question. 
 
 Margaret was sitting alone, writing to Edith, 
 and giving her many particulars of her moth- 
 er'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 lady-like 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 grate- 
 ful 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, be- 
 cause she was trying to task herself up to her 
 duty. At last sne stung herself into its per- 
 formance by a suspicion which, in spite of all 
 probability, 6he 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 re- 
 jected lover. Poor Margaret! there was per- 
 haps 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. Thorn- 
 ton 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, with- 
 out remonstrating; at leaBt, 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 ex- 
 plain 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 serv- 
 ants, that you had been seen walking about 
 with a gentleman so far from home as the sta- 
 tion, 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 imperti- 
 nent! She would not answer her — not one 
 word. Mrs. Thornton saw the battle-spirit in 
 Margaret's eyes, and it called up her combat- 
 iveness 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 mj mother's sake," said Margaret^ in a 
 tearful voice, " I will bear much ; but I can not 
 bear every thing. She never meant me to be 
 exposed to insult, I am sure." 
 
122 
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 "Insult, Miss Hale I" 
 
 " 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 — " 
 
 f "No, Miss Hale," said Mrs. Thornton, her 
 /truthfulness causing her to arrest the confession 
 /Margaret wa's on the point of making, though 
 /her curiosity was itching to hear it. "Stop. 
 j 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 scorn- 
 ed, 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 Out- 
 wood station with a gentleman on the evening 
 of the twenty-first — -he lias said nothing — not 
 one word against you. If he has knowledge of 
 any thing 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 wet with tears. Mrs. 
 Thornton was a little mollified. 
 
 " Come, Miss Hale. There may be circum- 
 stances, I'll allow, that, if explained, may take 
 off from the seeming impropriety." 
 
 Still no answer. Margaret was considering 
 what to say; she wished to stand well with 
 Mrs. Thornton ; and yet 6he could not, might 
 not, give any explanation. Mrs. Thornton grew 
 impatient. 
 
 "I shall be sorry to break off an acquaint- 
 ance ; but for Fanny's sake — as I told my son, 
 if Fanny had done so we should consider it a 
 great disgrace — and Fanny might be led 
 away — " 
 
 "1 can give you no explanation," said Mar- 
 garet, in a low voice. "I have done wrong, but 
 not in the way you think or know about. I 
 think Mr. Thornton judges me more mercifully 
 than you" — she had hard work to keep herself 
 from choking with her tears — " but, I believe, 
 madam, you mean to do rightly." 
 
 "Thank you," said Mrs. Thornton, drawing 
 herself up ; "I was not aware that my meaning 
 was doubted. It is the last time I shall inter- 
 fere. I was unwilling to consent to do it when 
 your mother asked me. I had not approved of 
 my son's attachment to you while I only sus- 
 pected it. You did not appear to me worthy 
 of him. But when you compromised yourself 
 as you did at the time of the riot, and exposed 
 yourself to the comments of servants and work- 
 people, I felt it was no longer right to set my- 
 self against my son's wish of proposing to you 
 — a wish, by the way, which he had always 
 denied entertaining until the day of the riot." 
 Margaret winced, and drew in her breath with 
 a long, hissing sound ; of which, however, Mrs. 
 Thornton took no notice. " He came ; you had 
 apparently changed your mind. I told my son 
 yesterday, that I thought it possible, short as 
 was the interval, yon might have heard or 
 learnt something of this other lover — " 
 
 " What must you think of me, madam ?" ask- 
 ed Margaret, throwing her head back with 
 proud disdain, till her throat curved outward 
 like a swan's. "You can say nothing more, 
 Mrs. Thornton. I decline every attempt to 
 justify myself for any thing. You must allow 
 me to leave the room." 
 
 And she swept out of it with the noiseless 
 grace of an offended princess. Mrs. Thornton 
 had quite enough of natural humor to make her 
 feel the ludicrousness of the position in which 
 she was left. There was nothing for it but to 
 show herself out. She was not particularly an- 
 noyed at Margaret's way of behaving. She did 
 not care enough for her for that. She had taken 
 Mrs. Thornton's remonstrance to the full as 
 keenly to heart as that lady expected; and 
 Margaret's passion at once mollified her visitor 
 far more than any silence or reserve could have 
 done. It showed the effect of her words. " My 
 young lady," thought Mrs. Thornton to herself, 
 "you've a pretty good temper of your own. H 
 John and you had come together, he would have 
 had to keep a tight hand over you, to make you 
 know your place. But I don't think you will 
 go a-walking again with your beau at such an 
 hour of the day in a hurry. You've too much 
 pride and spirit in you for that. I like to see a 
 girl fly out at the notion of being talked about. 
 It shows they're neither giddy, nor bold by na- 
 ture. As for that girl, Bhe might be bold, but 
 she'd never be giddy. I'll do her that justice. 
 Now as to Fanny, she'd be giddy, and not bold. 
 She's no courage in her, poor thing!" — ' 
 
 Mr. Thornton was not spending the morning 
 so satisfactorily as his mother. She at any rate 
 was fulfilling her determined purpose. He was 
 trying to understand where he stood; what 
 damage the strike had done him. A good deal 
 of capital was locked up in new and expensive 
 machinery; and he had also bought cotton 
 largely, with a view to some great orders which 
 he had in hand. The strike had thrown him 
 terribly behind-hand, as to the completion of 
 these orders. Even with his own accustomed 
 and skilled workpeople, he would have had 
 some difficulty in fulfilling his engagements ; as 
 it was, the incompetence of the Irish hands, who 
 had to be trained to their work at u time re- 
 quiring unusual activity, was a daily annoyance. 
 
 It was not a favorable hour for Higgins to 
 make his request. Bnt he had promised Mar- 
 garet to do it at any cost. So, though every 
 moment added to his repugnance, his pride, 
 and his sullenness of temper, he stood leaning 
 against the dead wall, hour after hour, first on 
 one leg, then on the other. At last the latch 
 was sharply lifted, and out came Mr. Thornton. 
 
 "I want for to speak to yo, sir." 
 
 "Can't stay now, my man. I'm too late as 
 it is." 
 
 " Well, sir, I reckon I can wait till yo come 
 back." 
 
 Mr. Thornton was half way down the street 
 Higgins sighed. But it was no use. To catch 
 him in the street, was his only chance of seeing 
 "the measter;" if he had rung the lodge bell, 
 or even gone up to the house to ask for him, he 
 would have been referred to the overlooker. 
 So he stood still again, vouchsafing no answer, 
 but a short nod of recognition, to the few men 
 who knew and spoke to him as the crowd drove 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 123 
 
 out of the millyard at dinner time, and scowl- 
 ing with all his might at the Irish " knobsticks" 
 who had just been imported. At last Mr. Thorn- 
 ton returned. 
 
 "What! you there still!" 
 
 " Ay, sir. I mun speak to yo." 
 
 " Come in here, then. Stay ! we'll go across 
 the yard ; the men are not come back, and we 
 shall have it to ourselves. These good people 
 I see are at dinner," said he, closing the door 
 of the porter's lodge. 
 
 He stopped to speak to the overlooker. The 
 latter said in a low tone : 
 
 "I suppose you know, sir, that that man is 
 Higgin3, one of the leaders of the Union; he 
 that made that speech in Hurstfield." 
 
 " No, I didn't," said Mr. Thornton, looking 
 round sharply at his follower. Higgins was 
 known to him by name as a turbulent spirit. 
 
 "Come along!" said he; and his tone was 
 rougher than before. " It is men such as this," 
 thought he, " who interrupt commerce, and in- 
 jure the very town they live in: mere dema- 
 gogues, lovers of power, at whatever cost to 
 others." 
 
 "Well, sir! what do you want with me?" 
 said Mr. Thornton, facing round at him as soon 
 as they were in the counting-house of the mill. 
 
 "My name is Higgins — " 
 
 "I know that," broke in Mr. Thornton. 
 " What do you want, Mr. Higgins ? That's 
 the question." 
 
 "I want work." 
 
 " Work ! You're a pretty chap to come ask- 
 ing me for work. You don't want impudence, 
 that's very clear.'' 
 
 " I've getten enemies and backbiters, like my 
 betters ; but I ne'er heerd o' ony of them call- 
 ing me o'er-modest," said Higgins. His blood 
 was a little roused by Mr. Thornton's manner, 
 more than by his words. 
 
 Mr. Thornton saw a letter addressed to him- 
 self on the table. He took it up, and read it 
 through. At the end, he looked up and said, 
 "What are you waiting for?" 
 
 "An answer to th' question I axed." 
 
 "I gave it you before. Don't waste any 
 more of your time." 
 
 " Yo made a remark, sir, on my impudence : 
 but I were taught that it was manners to say 
 either ' yes' or ' no,' when I were axed a civil 
 question. I should be thankfu' to yo if yo'd 
 give me work. Hamper will speak to my being 
 a good hand." 
 
 "I've a notion you'd better not send me to 
 Hamper to ask for a character, my man. I 
 might hear more than you'd like." 
 
 " I'd take th' risk. Worst they could say of 
 me is, that I did what I thought best, even to 
 my own wrong." 
 
 "You'd better go and try them, then, and 
 see whether they'll give you work. I've turned 
 off upward of a hundred of my best hands for 
 no other fault than following you, and such as 
 you; and d'ye think I'll take you on? I might 
 as well put a firebrand into the midst of the 
 cotton-waste." 
 
 Higgins turned away; then the recollection 
 of Boucher came over him, and he faced round 
 with the greatest concession he could persuade 
 himself to make : 
 
 " I'd promise yo, measter, I'd not speak a 
 
 word as could do harm, if so be yo did right 
 by us; and I'd promise more; I'd promise that 
 when I seed yo going wrong, and acting unfair, 
 I'd speak to yo in private first ; and that would 
 be a fair warning. If yo and I did na agree in 
 our opinion o' your conduct, yo might turn me 
 off at an hour's notice." 
 
 " JTpon my word, you don't think small beer 
 of yourself! Hamper has had a loss of you. 
 How came he to let you and your wisdom go ?" 
 
 " Well, we parted wi' mutual dissatisfaction. 
 I would not gi'e the pledge they were asking ; 
 and they would not have me at no rate. So 
 I'm free to make another engagement; and, as 
 I said Before, though I should na' say it, I'm a 
 good hand, measter, and a steady man — spe- 
 cially when I can keep fra drink ; and that I 
 shall do now, if I ne'er did afore." 
 
 " That you may have more money laid up 
 for another strike, I suppose?" 
 
 " No 1 I'd be thankful if I was free to do 
 that ; it's for to keep th' widow and childer of 
 a man who was drove mad by them knobsticks 
 o' yourn ; put out of his place by a Paddy that 
 did na know weft fra warp." 
 
 " Well I you'd better turn to something else 
 if you've any such good intention in your head. 
 I should not advise you to stay in Milton ; you're 
 too well known here." 
 
 " If it were summer,'' said Higgins, " I'd take 
 to Paddy's work, and go as a navvy, or hay- 
 making, or summut, and ne'er see Milton again. 
 But it's winter, and the childer will clem." 
 
 "A pretty navvy you'd make! why, you 
 could not do half a day's work at digging 
 against an Irishman 1" 
 
 "I'd only charge half-a-day for th' twelve 
 hours, if I could only do half-a-day's work in 
 th' time. Yo're not knowing of any place, 
 where they could gi'e me a trial away fra the 
 mills, if I'm such a firebrand? I'd take any 
 wage they -thought I was worth, for the sake 
 of those childer." 
 
 " Don't you see what you would be? You'd 
 be a knobstick. , You'd be taking less wages 
 than the other laborers — all for the sake of an- 
 other man's children. Think how you'd abuse 
 any poor fellow who was willing to take what 
 he could get to keep his own children. You 
 and your Union would soon be down upon him. 
 No ! no ! if it's only for the recollection of the 
 way in which you've used the poor knobsticks 
 before now, I say No to your question. I will 
 not give you work. I won't say I don't believe 
 your pretext for comiflg and asking for work; 
 I know nothing about it. It may be true, or 
 it may not. It is a very unlikely story, at any 
 rate. Let me pass. I will not give you work. 
 There's your answer." 
 
 " I hear, sir. I would na ha' troubled yo but 
 that I were bid to come, by one as seemed to 
 think yo'd getten some soft place in yo'r heart. 
 She were mistook and I were misled. But I'm 
 not the first man as is misled by a woman." 
 
 " Tell her to mind her own business the next 
 time, instead of taking up your time and mine 
 too. I believe women are at the bottom of 
 every plague in this world. Be off with you." 
 
 " I'm obleeged to yo for a' yo'r kindness, 
 measter, an£ most of a' for yo'r civil way o' 
 saying good-by." 
 
 Mr. Thornton did not deign » reply. But 
 
124 
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 looking out of the window a minute after, he 
 was struck with the lean bent figure going out 
 of the yard; the heavy walk was in strange 
 contrast with the resolute clear determination 
 of the man to speak to him. He crossed to the 
 porter's lodge: 
 
 " How long has that man Higgins been wait- 
 ing to speak to me ?" » 
 
 " He was outside the gate before eight o'clock, 
 sir. I think he's been there ever since." 
 
 " And it is now — ?" 
 
 "Just one, sir." 
 
 "Five hours," thought Mr. Thornton; "it's a 
 long time for a man to w ait, doing nothing but 
 first hoping and then fearing." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX 
 
 Makgaket shut herself up in her own room 
 after she had quitted Mrs. Thornton. She be- 
 gan to walk backward and forward in her old 
 habitual way of showing agitation ; but then, 
 remembering that in that slightly-built house 
 every step was heard from one room to another, 
 she sate down until she heard Mrs. Thornton go 
 safely out of the house. She forced herself to 
 recollect all the conversation that had passed 
 between them ; speech by speech she compelled 
 her memory to go through with it. At the end 
 she rose up, and said to herself, in a melan- 
 choly tone : 
 
 " At any rate, her words do not touch me ; 
 they fall off from me; for I am innocent of all 
 the motives she attributes to me. But still it 
 is hard to think that any one — any woman — 
 can believe all this of another so easily. It is 
 hard and sad. Where I have done wrong, she 
 does not accuse me— - she does not know. He 
 never told her : I might have known he would 
 not!" 
 
 She lifted up her head, as if she took pride 
 in any delicacy of feeling which Mr. Thornton 
 had shown. Then, as a new thought came 
 across her, she pressed her hands tightly to- 
 gether : 
 
 " He, too, must take poor Frederick for some 
 lover." (She blushed as the word passed through 
 her mind.) "I see it now. It is not merely 
 that he knows of my falsehood, but he believes 
 that some one else cares for me ; and that I — Oh 
 dear! — oh dear! What shall I do ? What do 
 I mean? Why do I care what he thinks, be- 
 yond the mere loss of his good opinion as re- 
 gards my telling the truth or not ? I can not 
 tell. But I am very miserable 1 Oh, how un- 
 happy this last year has been! I have passed 
 out of childhood into old age. I have had no 
 youth — no womanhood; the hopes of woman- 
 hood have closed for me — for I shall never 
 marry; and I anticipate cares and sorrows just 
 as if I were an old woman, and with the same 
 fearful spirit. I am weary of this continual 
 call upon me for strength. I eould bear up for 
 papa; because that is a natural, pious duty. 
 And I think I could bear up against — at any 
 rate, I could have the energy to resent, Mrs. 
 Thornton's unjust, impertinent suspicions. But 
 it is hard to feel how completely ke must mis- 
 understand me. What has happened to make 
 me so morbid to-day ? I do not know. I only 
 
 know I can not help it. I must give way some- 
 times. No, I will not though," said she, spring- 
 ing to her feet. I will not — I will not think of 
 myself and my own position. I won't examine 
 into my own feelings. It would be of no use 
 now. Some time, if I live to be an old woman, 
 I may sit over the fire, and, looking into the 
 embers, 6ee the life that might have been." 
 
 All this time she was hastily putting on her 
 things to go out, only stopping from time to 
 time to wipe her eyes, with an impatience of 
 gesture at the tears that would come, in spite 
 of all her bravery. 
 
 " I dare say, there's many a woman makes 
 as sad a mistake as I have done, and only finds 
 it out too late. And how proudly and imper- 
 tinently I spoke to him that day! But I did 
 not know then. It has come upon me little by 
 little, and I don't know where it began. Now 
 I won't give way. I shall find it difficult to 
 behave in the same way to him with this mis- 
 erable consciousness upon me ; but I will be very 
 calm and very quiet, and say very little. But, 
 to be sure, I may not see him ; he keeps out of 
 our way evidently. That would be worse than 
 all. And yet no wonder he avoids me, believ- 
 ing what he must about me." 
 
 She went out, going rapidly toward the 
 country, and trying to drown reflection by 
 swiftness of motion. 
 
 As she stood on the door-step, on her return, 
 her father came up: 
 
 "Good girl!" said he. "You've been to 
 Mrs. Boucher's. I was just meaning to go 
 there, if I had time, before dinner." 
 
 " No, papa, I have not," said Margaret, red- 
 dening. "I never thought about her. But I 
 will go directly after dinner ; I will go while 
 you are taking your nap." 
 
 Accordingly Margaret went. Mrs. Boucher 
 was very ill; really ill — not merely ailing. 
 The kind and sensible neighbor, who had come 
 in the other day, seemed to have taken charge 
 of every thing. Some of the children were 
 gone to the neighbors. Mary Higgins had 
 come for the three youngest at dinner time; 
 and since then Nicholas had gone for the doc- 
 tor. He had not come as yet; Mrs. Boucher 
 was dying; and there was nothing to do but 
 to wait. Margaret thought that she should 
 like to know his opinion, and that she eould 
 not do better than go and see the Higginses 
 in the mean time. She might then possibly 
 hear if Nicholas had been able to make his 
 application to Mr. Thornton. 
 
 She found Nicholas busily engaged in making 
 a penny spin on the dresser, for the amusement 
 of three little children who were clinging to 
 him in a fearless manner. He, as well as they, 
 was smiling at a good long spin; and Margaret 
 thought that the happy look of interest in his 
 occupation was a good sign. When the penny 
 stopped spinning, " lile Johnie" began to ery. 
 
 "Come to me," said Margaret, taking him 
 off the dresser, and holding him in her arms; 
 she held her watch to his ear, while she asked 
 Nicholas if he had seen Mr. Thornton. 
 
 The look on his face changed instantly. 
 
 "Ay!" said he. "I've seen and heerd too 
 much on him." 
 
 " He refused you, then ?" said Margaret, sor- 
 rowfully. 
 
NOBTH AN 
 
 "To be sure. I knew he'd do it all along. 
 It's no good expecting marcy at the hands o' 
 them measters. You're a stranger and a for- 
 eigner, and are not likely to know their ways ; 
 but I knowed it." 
 
 " I am sorry I asked you. Was he angry ? 
 He did not speak to you as Hamper did, did 
 he?" 
 
 "He wern't o'er-eivill" said Nicholas, spin- 
 ning the penny again, as much for his own 
 amusement as for that of the children. " Never 
 yo fret, I'm only where I was. I'll go on tramp 
 to-morrow. I gave him as good as I got. I 
 telled him I'd not that good opinion on him 
 that I'd ha' come a second time of mysel; but 
 yo'd advised me for to come, and I were be- 
 holden to yo." 
 , " You told him I sent you?" 
 
 " I dunno if I ea'd yo by your name. I dun- 
 not think I did. I said, a woman who knew 
 no better had advised me for to come and see 
 if there was a soft place in his heart." 
 
 " And he — ?" asked Margaret. 
 
 "Said I were to tell yo to mind yo'r own 
 business. That's the longest spin yet, my lads. 
 And them's civil words to what he used to me. 
 But ne'er mind. We're but where we was; 
 and I'll break stones on th' road afore I let 
 these little uns clem." 
 
 Margaret put the struggling Johnnie out of 
 her arms, back into his former place on the 
 dresser. 
 
 " I am sorry I asked you to go to Mr. Thorn- 
 ton's. I am disappointed in him." 
 
 There was a slight noise behind her. Both 
 she and Nicholas turned round at the same mo- 
 ment, and there stood Mr. Thomfen, with a 
 look of displeased surprise upon his face. Obey- 
 ing her swift impulse, Margaret passed out be- 
 fore him, saying not a word, only bowing low 
 to hide the sudden paleness that she felt had 
 come over her face. He bent equally low in 
 return, and then closed the door after her. As 
 she hurried to Mrs. Boucher's she heard the 
 clang, and it seemed to fill up the measure of 
 her mortification. He too was annoyed to find 
 
 (her there. He had tenderness in his heart — " a 
 soft place," as Nicholas Higgins called it; but 
 he had some pride in concealing it ; he kept it 
 very sacred and safe, and was jealous of every 
 circumstance that tried to gain admission. But 
 if he dreaded exposure of his tenderness, he 
 was equally desirous that all men should recog- 
 nize his justice ; and he felt that he had been 
 unjust, in giving so scornful a hearing to any 
 one who had waited with humble patience for 
 five hours to speak to him. That the man had 
 spoken saucily to him when he had the oppor- 
 tunity, was nothing to Mr. Thornton. He rather 
 liked him for it; and he was conscious of his 
 own irritability of temper at the time, which 
 probably made them both quits. It was the 
 five hours of waiting that struck Mr. Thornton. 
 . He had not five hours to spare himself; but 
 ''one hour — two hours, of his hard penetrating 
 intellectual, as well as bodily labor, did he give 
 up to going about collecting evidence as to the 
 truth of Higgins's story, the nature of his char- 
 acter, the tenor of his life. He tried not to be, 
 but was convinced that all that Higgins had 
 said wivi true. And then the conviction went 
 in as if by some spell, and touched the latent 
 
 UTH. 125 
 
 tenderness of his heart ; the patience of the 
 man, the simple generosity of the motive (for he 
 had learned about the quarrel between Boucher 
 and Higgins), made him forget entirely the 
 mere reasonings of justice, and overleap them 
 by a diviner instinct. He came to tell Higgins 
 he would give him work; and he was mofe 
 annoyed to find Margaret there than by hear- 
 ing her last words ; for then he understood that 
 she was the woman who had urged Higgins to 
 come to him ; and he dreaded the admission of 
 any thought of her as a motive to what he was 
 doing solely because it was right. 
 
 " So that was the lady you spoke of as a wo- 
 man ?" said he indignantly to Jliggins. " You 
 might have told me who she was." 
 
 " And then maybe yo'd ha' spoken of her 
 more civil than yo did; yo'd getten a mother 
 who might ha' kept yo'r tongue in check when 
 yo were talking o' women being at the root of 
 all the plagues." 
 
 " Of course you told that to Miss Hale 8" 
 
 " In course I did. Leastways, I reckon I did. 
 I telled her she wern't to meddle again in aught 
 that concerned yo." 
 
 "Whose children are those — yours?" Mr. 
 Thornton had a pretty good notion whose they 
 were from what he had heard; but he felt 
 awkward in turning the conversation round 
 from this unpromising beginning. 
 
 " They're not mine, and they are mine." 
 
 "They are the children you spoke of to me 
 this morning t" 
 
 " When yo said," replied Higgins, turning 
 round with ill-smothered fierceness, "that my 
 story might be true or might not, but it were 
 a very unlikely one. Measter, I've not for- 
 getten." 
 
 Mr. Thornton was silent for a moment ; then 
 he said : " No more have L I remember what 
 I said. I spoke to you about those children as 
 I had no business to do. I did not believe you- 
 I could not have taken care of another man's ( 
 children myself, if he had acted toward me as I 
 hear Boucher did toward you. But I know/ 
 now that you spoke truth. I beg your par-l 
 don.'' J 
 
 Higgins did not turn round, or immediately 
 respond to this. But when he did speak, it 
 was in a softened tone, although the words 
 were gruff enough. 
 
 "Yo've no business to go prying into what 
 happened between Boucher and me. He's 
 dead, and I'm sorry. That's enough." 
 
 "So it is. Will you take work with me ? 
 That's what I came to ask." 
 
 Higgins's obstinacy wavered, recovered 
 strength, and stood firm. He would not speak. 
 Mr. Thornton would not ask again. Higgins's 
 eye fell on the children. 
 
 "Yo've called me impudent, and a liar, and 
 a mischief-maker, and yo might ha' said wi' 
 some truth, as I were now and then given to 
 drink. An' I ha' called you a tyrant an' an 
 oud bull-dog, and a hard cruel master ; that's 
 where it stands. But for th' childer. Measter 
 do yo think we can e'er get on together?" 
 
 "Well!" said Mr. Thornton, half-laughing, 
 "it was not my proposal that we should go to- 
 gether. But there's one comfort, on your own 
 showing. We neither of us can think much 
 worse of the other than we do now." 
 
126 NORTH AND 
 
 "That's true," said Higgins, reflectively. 
 " I've been thinking ever sin' I saw you, what 
 a raarcy it were yo did na take me on, for that 
 I ne'er saw a man whom I could less abide. 
 But that's maybe been a hasty judgment; and 
 work's work to such as me. So, measter, I'll 
 come; and what's more I thank yo: and that's 
 a deal fra' me," said he, more frankly, suddenly 
 turning round, and facing Mr. Thornton fully 
 for the first time. 
 
 " And this is a deal from me," said Mr. 
 Thornton, giving Higgins's hand a good grip. 
 "Now mind you come sharp to your time," 
 continued he, resuming the master. " I'll have 
 no laggards at my mill. What fines we have 
 we keep pretty sharply. And the first time I 
 catch you making mischief, off you go. So 
 now you know where you are." 
 
 " Yo spoke of my wisdom this morning. I 
 reckon I may bring it wi' me; or would yo 
 rather have me 'bout my brains?" 
 
 " 'Bout your brains, if 3-011 use them for med- 
 dling with my business ; with your brains, if 
 you can keep them to your own." 
 
 " I shall need a deal o' brains to settle where 
 my business ends and yo'rs begins." 
 
 "Your business has not begun yet, and mine 
 stands still for me. So good afternoon." 
 
 Just before Mr. Thornton came up to Mrs. 
 Boucher's door, Margaret came out of it. She 
 did not see him ; and he followed her for several 
 yards, admiring her light and easy walk, and 
 her tall and graceful figure. But suddenly this 
 simple emotion of pleasure was tainted, poisoned 
 by jealousy. He wished to overtake her, and 
 speak to her, to see how she would receive him, 
 now she must know that he was aware of some 
 other attachment. He wished too, but of this 
 wish he was rather ashamed, that she should 
 know that he had justified her wisdom in send- 
 ing Higgins to him to ask for work, and had 
 repented him of his morning's decision. He 
 came up to her. She started. 
 
 "Allow me to say, Miss Hale, that you were 
 rather premature in expressing your disappoint- 
 ment. I have taken Higgins on." 
 
 " I am glad of it," said she, coldly. 
 
 " He tells me he repeated to you what I said 
 this morning about — " Mr. Thornton hesitated. 
 Margaret took it up : 
 
 "About women not meddling. You had a 
 perfect right to express your opinion, which 
 was a very correct one, I have no doubt But" 
 she went on a little more eagerly, " Higgins did 
 not quite tell you the exact truth." The word 
 "truth" reminded her of her own untruth, and 
 she stopped short, feeling exceedingly uncom- 
 fortable. Mr. Thornton at first was puzzled to 
 account for her silence ; and then he remem- 
 bered the lie she had told, and all that was fore- 
 gone. 
 
 "The exact truth 1" said he. "Very few 
 people do speak the exact truth. I have given 
 up hoping for it. Miss Hale, have you no ex- 
 plan ation to give me ? You must perceive what 
 I can not but think." 
 
 Margaret was silent. She was wondering if 
 an explanation of any kind would be consistent 
 with her loyalty to Frederick. 
 
 "Nay," paid he, "I will ask no farther. I 
 'may be putting temptation in your way. At 
 present, believe me, your secret is safe with me. 
 
 SOUTH. 
 
 But you run great risks, allow me to say, in 
 being so indiscreet I am now only speaking 
 as a friend of your father's ; if I had any other 
 thought or hope, of course that is at an end. ' 
 I am quite disinterested." 
 
 " I am aware of that," said Margaret, forcing 
 herself to speak in an indifferent, careless way. 
 " I am aware of what I must appear to you, 
 but the secret is another person's, and I can 
 not explain it without doing him harm." 
 
 " I have not the slightest wish to pry into 
 the gentleman's secrets," he said, with growing 
 anger. "My own interest in you is — simply 
 that of a friend. You may not believe me, 
 Miss Hale, but it is — in spite of the persecution 
 I'm afraid I threatened you with at one time — 
 but that is all given up ; all passed away. You 
 belie ve me, Miss Hale ?" 
 
 " Yes," said Margaret, quietly and sadly. 
 " Then, really, I don't see any occasion for us 
 to go on walking together. I thought, perhaps, 
 you might have had something to say, tut I see 
 we are nothing to each other. If you're quite 
 convinced that any foolish passion on my part 
 is entirely over, 1 will wish you good" after- 
 noon." He walked off very hastily. 
 
 "What can he mean?" thought Margaret — 
 "what could he mean by speaking so, as if I 
 were always thinking that he eared for me, 
 when I know he does not; he can not. His 
 mother will have said all those cruel things 
 about me to him. But I wont care for him. 
 I surely am mistress enough of myself to con- 
 trol this wild, strange, miserable feeling, which 
 tempted me even to betray my own dear 
 Frederick, so that I might but regain his good 
 opinion ; the good opinion of a man who takes 
 such pains to tell me that I am nothing to him. 
 Come ! poor little heart ! be cheery and brave. 
 We'll be a great deal to one another if we are 
 thrown off and left desolate." 
 
 Her father was almost startled by her mer- 
 riment this morning. She talked incessantly, 
 and forced her natural humor to an unusual 
 pitch; and if there was a tinge of bitterness in 
 much of what she said ; if her accounts of the 
 old Harley Street set were a little sarcastic, her 
 father could not bear to check her, as he would 
 have done at another time — for he was glad to 
 see her shake off her cares. In the middle of 
 the evening she was called down to speak to 
 Mary Higgins; and when she came back, Mr. 
 Hale imagined that he saw traces of tears on 
 her cheeks. But that could not be, for 6he 
 brought good news. — that Higgins had got work 
 at Mr. Thornton's mill. Her spirits were damp- 
 ed at any rate, and she found it very difficult 
 to go on talking at all, much more in the wild 
 way that she had done. For some days her 
 spirits varied strangely ;• and her father was be- 
 ginning to be anxious about her, when news 
 arrived from one or two quarters that promised 
 some change and variety for her. Mr. Hale 
 received a letter from Mr. Bell, in which that 
 gentleman volunteered a visit to them ; and Mr. 
 Hale imagined that the promised society of his 
 old Oxford friend would give as agreeable 'a 
 turn to Margaret's ideas as it did to his own. 
 Margaret tried to take an interest in what 
 pleased her father ; but she was too languid to 
 care about any Mr. Bell, even though he were 
 twenty times her godfather. She was more 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 127 
 
 roused by a letter from Edith, full of sympathy 
 about her aunt's death; full of details about 
 herself, her husband, and child; and at the end 
 saying, that as the climate did not suit the baby, 
 and as Mrs. Shaw was talking of returning to 
 England, she thought it probable that Captain 
 Lennox might sell out, and that they might 
 all go and live again in the old Harley Street 
 house ; which, however, would seem very in- 
 •complete without Margaret. Margaret yearned 
 / after that old house, and the placid tranquillity 
 | of that old, well-ordered monotonous life. She 
 I had felt it occasionally tiresome while it lasted ; 
 \ but since then she had been buffeted about, and 
 j felt so exhausted by this recent struggle with 
 l herself that she thought that even stagnation 
 would be a rest and a refreshment. So she 
 began to look toward a long visit to the Len- 
 noxes on their return to England as to a point 
 — no, not of hope — but of leisure, in which she 
 could regain her power and command over her- 
 self. At present it seemed to her as if all sub- 
 jects tended toward Mr. Thornton ; as if she 
 eould not forget him with all her endeavors. 
 If she went to see the Higginses, she heard of 
 him there ; her father had resumed their read- 
 ings together, and quoted his opinions perpetu- 
 ally; even Mr. Bell's visit brought his tenant's 
 name upon the tapis ; for he wrote word that 
 he believed he must be occupied some great 
 part of his time with Mr. Thornton, as a new 
 lease was in preparation, and the terms of it 
 must be agreed upon. 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 Margaret had not expected much pleasure 
 to herself from Mr. Bell's visit — she had only 
 looked forward to it on her father's account; 
 but when her godfather came, she at once fell 
 into the most natural position of friendship in 
 the world. He said she had no merit in being 
 what she was, a girl so entirely after his own 
 heart; it was an hereditary power which she 
 had, to walk in and take possession of his re- 
 gard ; while she, in reply, gave him much credit 
 for being so fresh and young under his Fellow's 
 cap and gown. 
 
 " Fresh and young in warmth and kindness, 
 I mean. I'm afraid I must own that I think 
 your opinions are the oldest and mustiest I 
 nave met with this long time." 
 
 "Hear this daughter of yours, Hale! Her 
 residence in Milton has quite corrupted her. 
 She's a democrat, a red republican, a member 
 of the Peace Society, a socialist — " 
 
 "Papa, it's all because I'm standing up for 
 the progress of commerce. Mr. Bell would 
 have had it keep still at exchanging wild- 
 beast skins for acorns." 
 
 " No, no. I'd dig the ground and grow pota- 
 toes. And I'd shave the wild-beast skins and 
 make the wool into broadcloth. Don't exag- 
 gerate, missy. But I'm tired of this bustle. 
 Every body rushing over every body, in their 
 hurry to get rich." , 
 
 " It is not every one who can sit comfortably 
 in a set of college rooms, and let his riches grow 
 without any exertion of his own. No doubt 
 there is many a man here who would be thank- 
 
 ful if his property would increase as yours has 
 done, without his taking any trouble about it," 
 said Mr. Hale. 
 
 " I don't believe they would. It's the bustle 
 and the struggle they like. As foi* sitting still, 
 and learning from the past, or shaping out the 
 future by faithful work done in a prophetic 
 spirit — Why! Pooh! I don't believe there's a 
 man in Milton who knows how to sit still ; and 
 it is a great art." 
 
 " Milton people, I suspect, think Oxford men 
 don't know how to move. It would be a very 
 good thing if they mixed a little more." 
 
 " It might be good for the Miltoners. Many 
 things might be good for them which would be 
 very disagreeable for other people." 
 
 " Are you not a Milton man yourself?" asked 
 Margaret. " I should have thought you would 
 have been proud of your town." 
 
 " I confess I don't see what there is to be 
 proud of. If you'll only come to Oxford, Mar- 
 garet, I will snow you a place to glory in." 
 
 ""Well!" said Mr. Hale, "Mr. Thornton is 
 coming to drink tea with us to-night, and he is 
 as proud of Milton as you of Oxford. You 
 two must try and make each other a little more 
 liberal-minded." 
 
 " I don't want to be more liberal-minded, 
 thank you," said Mr. Bell. 
 
 " Is Mr. Thornton coming to tea, papa V 
 asked Margaret, in a low voice. 
 
 " Either to tea or soon after. He could not 
 tell. He told us not to wait." 
 
 Mr. Thornton had determined that he would 
 make no inquiry of his mother as to how far 
 she had put her project into execution of speak- 
 ing to Margaret about the impropriety of her 
 conduct. He felt pretty sure that, if this inter- 
 view took place, his mother's account of what 
 passed at it would only annoy and chagrin him, 
 though he would all the time be aware of the 
 coloring which it received by passing through 
 her mind. He shrank from hearing Margaret's 
 very name mentioned; he, while he blamed 
 her — while he was jealous of her — while he 
 renounced her — he loved her sorely, in spite 
 of himself. He dreamt of her ; he dreamt she 
 came dancing toward him with outspread arms, 
 and with a lightness and gayety which made 
 him loathe her, even while it allured him. 
 But the impression of this figure of Marga- 
 ret — with all Margaret's character taken out 
 of it, as completely as if some evil spirit had 
 got possession of her form — was so deeply 
 stamped upon his imagination, that when he 
 wakened he felt hardly able to separate the* 
 Una from the Duessa ; and the dislike he had 
 to the latter seemed to envelop and disfigure 
 the former. Yet he was too proud to acknowl- 
 edge his weakness by avoiding the sight of her. 
 He would neither seek an opportunity of being 
 in her company, nor avoid it. To convince 
 himself of his power of self-control, he lingered 
 over every piece of business this afternoon ; he 
 forced every movement into unnatural slowness 
 and deliberation ; and it was' consequently past 
 eight o'clock before he reached Mr. Hale's. 
 Then there were business arrangements to be 
 transacted in the study with Mr. Bell; and the 
 latter kept on, sitting over the fire, and talking 
 wearily, long after all business was transacted, 
 and when they might just as well have gone 
 
128 
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 up stairs. But Mr. Thornton would not say a 
 word about moving their quarters; he chafed 
 and chafed, and thought Mr. Bell a most prosy 
 companion ; while Mr. Bell returned the com- 
 pliment in secret, by considering Mr. Thornton 
 about as brusque and curt a fellow as he had 
 ever met with, and terribly gone off both in 
 intelligence and manner. At last, some slight 
 noise in the room above suggested the desir- 
 ableness of moving there. They found" Marga- 
 ret with a letter open before her, eagerly dis- 
 cussing its contents with her father. On the 
 entrance of the gentlemen, it was immediately 
 put aside; but Mr. Thornton's eager senses 
 caught some few words of Mr. Hale's to Mr. 
 Bell. 
 
 "A letter from Henry Lennox. It makes 
 Margaret very hopeful." 
 
 Mr. Bell nodded. Margaret was red as a 
 rose when Mr. Thornton looked at her. He 
 had the greatest mind in the world to get up 
 and go out of the room that very instant, and 
 never set foot in the house again. 
 
 ""We were thinking," said Mr. Hale, "that 
 you and Mr. Thornton had taken Margaret's 
 advice, and were each trying to convert the 
 other, j'ou were so long in the study." 
 
 " And you thought there would be nothing 
 left of us but an opinion, like the Kilkenny 
 cat's tail. Pray whose opinion did you think 
 would have the most obstinate vitality ?" 
 
 Mr. Thornton had not a notion what they 
 were talking about, and disdained to inquire. 
 Mr. Hale politely enlightened him. 
 
 " Mr. Thornton, we were accusing Mr. Bell 
 this morning of a kind of Oxonian medieval 
 bigotry against his native town ; and we — Mar- 
 garet I believe — suggested that it would do him 
 good to associate a little with Milton manufac- 
 turers." 
 
 " I beg your pardon. Margaret thought it 
 would do the Milton manufacturers good to as- 
 sociate a little more with Oxford men. Now 
 wasn't it so, Margaret?" 
 
 " I believe I thought it would do both good 
 to see a little more of the other — I did not 
 know it was my idea any more than papa's." 
 
 " And so you see, Mr. Thornton, we ought to 
 have been improving each other down stairs, 
 instead of talking over vanished families of 
 Smiths and Harrisons. However, I am willing 
 to do my part now. I wonder when you Mil- 
 ton men intend to live. All your lives seem to 
 be spent in gathering together the materials for 
 life.'* 
 
 " By living, I suppose you mean enjoyment." 
 
 "Yes, enjoyment — I don't specify of what, 
 because I trust we should both consider mere 
 pleasure as very poor enjoyment." 
 
 "I would rather have the nature of the en- 
 joyment defined." 
 
 "Weill enjoyment of leisure— enjoyment of 
 the power and influence which money gives. 
 You are all striving for money. What do you 
 want it for ?" 
 
 Mr. Thornton was silent. Then he said, " I 
 really don't know. But money is not what i" 
 strive for." 
 
 " What then ?" 
 
 " It is a home question. I shall have to lay 
 myself open to such a catechist, and I am not 
 sure that I am prepared to do it." 
 
 "No!" said Mr. Hale; "don't let us be per- 
 sonal in our catechism. You are neither of you 
 representative men ; you are each of you too 
 individual for that." 
 
 " I am not sure whether to consider that as 
 a compliment or not. I should like to be the 
 representative of Oxford, with its beauty and 
 its learning, and its proud old history. What 
 do you say, Margaret ; ought I to be flattered ?" 
 
 " I don't know Oxford. But there is a differ- 
 ence between being the representative of a city 
 and the representative man of its inhabitants." 
 
 "Very true, Miss Margaret. Now I remem- 
 ber, you were against me this morning, and 
 were quite Miltonian and manufacturing in 
 your preferences." Margaret saw the quick 
 glance of surprise that Mr. Thornton gave her, 
 and she was annoyed at the construction which " 
 he might put on this speech of Mr. Bell's. Mr 
 Bell went on — 
 
 " Ah ! I wish I could show you our High 
 Street — our Radcliffe Square. I am leaving out 
 our colleges, just as I give Mr. Thornton leave 
 to omit his factories in speaking of the charms 
 of Milton. I have & right to abuse my birth- 
 place. Remember I am a Milton man." 
 
 Mr. Thornton was annoyed more than he 
 ought to have been at all that Mr. Bell was 
 saying. He was not in a mood for joking. At 
 another time, he could have enjoyed Mr. Bell's 
 half testy condemnation of <• town where the 
 life was so at variance with every habit he had 
 formed ; but now he was galled enough to at- 
 tempt to defend what was never meant to be 
 seriously attacked. 
 
 "I don't set up Milton as a model of a town." 
 
 "Not in architecture?" slily asked Mr. Bell. 
 
 "No! We've been too busy to attend to 
 mere outward appearances." 
 
 " Don't say mere outward appearances," said 
 Mr. Hale, gently. " They impress us all, from 
 childhood upward — every day of one's life." 
 
 "Wait a little while, said Mr. Thornton. 
 •' Eemember, we are of a different race from the 
 Greeks, to whom beauty was every thing, and 
 to whom Mr. Bell might speak of a life of leis- 
 ure and serene enjoyment, much of which en- 
 tered in through their outward senses. I don't 
 mean to despise them, any more than I would 
 ape them. But I belong to Teutonic blood ; ; 
 it is little mingled in this part of England to 
 what it is in others ; we retain much of their Ian- i 
 guage ; we retain more of their spirit ; we do not j 
 look upon life as a time for enjoyment, but as j 
 a time for action and exertion. Our glory and / 
 our beauty arises out of our inward strength, 
 which makes us victorious over material resist- j 
 ance, and over greater difficulties still. We are 
 Teutonic up here in Darkshire in another way. 
 We hate to have laws made for us at a distance. 
 We wish people would allow us to right our-^ 
 selves, instead of continually meddling with 
 their imperfect legislation. We stand up for 
 self-government, and oppose centralization." J 
 
 "In short, you would like the Heptarchy 
 back again. Well, at any rate, I revoke what 
 I said this morning — that you Milton people 
 did not reverence the past. You are regular 
 worshipers of Thor." 
 
 " If we do not reverence the past as you do 
 in Oxford, it is because we want something 
 which can apply to the present more directly. 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 129 
 
 It is fine when the study of the past leads to a 
 prophecy of the future. But to men groping in 
 new circumstances, it would be finer if the 
 words of experience could direct us how to act 
 in what concerns us most intimately and imme- 
 diately ; which is full of difficulties that must be 
 encountered ; and upon the mode in which they 
 are met and conquered — not merely pushed 
 asifie for the time — depends our future. Out of 
 the wisdom of the past, help us over the pres- 
 sent. But no! People can speak of Utopia 
 much more easily than of the next day's duty ; 
 and yet when that duty is all done by others, 
 who so ready to cry, ' Fie, for shame I 
 
 "And all this time I don't see what you are 
 talking about Would you Milton men conde- 
 scend to send up your to-day's difficulty to Ox- 
 ford ? You have not tried us yet." 
 
 Mr. Thornton laughed outright at this. "I 
 believe I was talking with reference to a good 
 deal that has been troubling us of late ; I was 
 thinking of the strikes we have gone through, 
 which are troublesome and injurious things 
 enough, as I am finding to my cost. And yet 
 this last strike under which I am smarting has 
 been respectable." 
 
 "A respectable strike !" said Mr. Bell. " That 
 sounds as if you were far gone in the worship 
 ofThor." 
 
 Margaret felt, rather than saw, that Mr. 
 Thornton was chagrined by the repeated turn- 
 ing into jest of what he was feeling as very se- 
 rious. She tried to change the conversation 
 from a subject about which one party cared lit- 
 tle, while to the other it was deeply, because 
 personally interesting. She forced herself to 
 say something. w 
 
 " Edith says she finds the printed calicoes in 
 Corfu better and cheaper than in London." 
 
 " Does she ?" said her father. " I think that 
 must be one of Edith's exaggerations. Are you 
 sure of it, Margaret?" 
 
 " I am sure she says so, papa." 
 
 " Then I am sure of the fact," said Mr. Bell. 
 " Margaret, I go so far in my idea of your truth- 
 fulness, that it shall cover your cousin's charac- 
 ter. I don't believe a cousin of yours could 
 exaggerate." 
 
 " Is Miss Hale so remarkable for truth I" said 
 Mr. Thornton, bitterly. The moment he had 
 done so, he could have bitten his tongue out. 
 What was he? And why should he stab her 
 with her shame in this way ? How evil he was 
 to-night; possessed by ill-humor at being de- 
 tained so long from her ; irritated by the men-' 
 tion of some name, because he thought it be- 
 longed to a more successful lover; now ill- 
 tempered because he had been unable to cope, 
 with a light heart, against one who was trying, 
 by gay and careless speeches, to make the even- 
 ing pass pleasantly, away — the kind old friend 
 to all parties, whose manner by this time might 
 be well known to Mr. Thornton, who had been 
 acquainted with him for many years. And 
 then to speak to Margaret as he had donel 
 She did not get up and leave the room as she 
 had done in former days, when his abruptness 
 or his temper had annoyed her. She sat quite 
 still, after the first momentary glance of grieved 
 surprise, thart made her eyes look like 6ome 
 child's who has met with an unexpected rebuff; 
 they slowly dilated into mournful, reproachful 
 
 sadness ; and then they fell, and she bent over 
 her work, and did not speak again. But he 
 could not help looking at her ; and he saw a 
 sigh tremble over her body, as if she quivered 
 in some unwonted chill. He felt as the mother 
 would have done, in the midst of "her rocking 
 it, and rating it," had she been called away be- 
 fore her slow confiding smile implying perfect 
 trust in mother's love had proved the renewing 
 of its love. He gave short, sharp answers ; he 
 was uneasy and cross, unable to discern be- 
 tween jest and earnest ; anxious only for a look, 
 a word of hers, before which to prostrate him- 
 self in penitent humility. But she neither 
 looked nor spoke. Her round taper fingers 
 flew in and out of her sewing, as steadily and 
 Bwiftly as if that were the business of her life. 
 She could not care for him, he thought, or else 
 the passionate fervor of his wish would have 
 forced her to raise those eyes, if but for an 
 instant, to read the late repentance in his. He, 
 could have struck her before he left, in order \ 
 that by some strange overt act of rudeness, he J 
 might earn the privilege of telling her the re-/ 
 morse that gnawed at his heart. It was wely 
 that the long walk in the open air wound up 
 this evening for him. It sobered him back into 
 grave resolution, that henceforth he would see 
 as little of her as possible — since the very 
 sight of that face and form, the very sounds of 
 that voice (like the soft winds of pure melody) 
 had Buch power to move him from his bal- 
 ance. Well I He had known what love was — 
 a sharp pang, a fierce experience, in the midst 
 of whose flames he was struggling | but, through 
 that furnace he would -figSLtJjigCBray-oiifc-Hito 
 tKe"'serenity of^-raiddfcage- — all—the richer 
 and more numan for haying.Jmown this great 
 passion." 
 
 When he had somewhat abruptly left the 
 room, Margaret rose from her seat, and began 
 silently to fold up her work. The long seams 
 were heavy, and had an unusual weight for her 
 languid arms. The round lines in her face took 
 a lengthened, straighter form, and her whole 
 appearance was that of one who had gone 
 through a day of great fatigue. As the three 
 prepared for bed, Mr. Bell muttered forth a 
 little condemnation of Mr. Thornton. 
 
 " I never saw a fellow so spoiled by success. 
 He ean't bear a word; a jest of any kind. 
 Every thing seems to touch on the soreness of 
 his high dignity. .^Formerly, he was as simple^] 
 and nobleas the-openday- ; you-cauld.n.Qt offend 1 
 him, "because he 1 had n p-gaBity." ^J 
 
 " He is not vain now," said Margaret, turn- 
 ing round from the table, and speaking with 
 quiet distinctness. " To-night he has not been 
 like himself. Something must have annoyed 
 him before he came here." 
 
 Mr. Bell gave her one of his sharp glances 
 from above his spectacles. She stood it quite 
 calmly ; but after she had left the room he sud- 
 denly asked — 
 
 " Hale ! did it ever strike you that Thornton 
 and your daughter have what the French call 
 a tendresse for each other?" 
 
 "Neverl" said Mr. Hale, first startled, and 
 then flurried by the new idea. " No, I am sure 
 you are wrong. I am almost certain you are 
 mistaken. If there is any thing, it is all on 
 Mr. Thornton's side. Poor fellow ! I hope and 
 
130 
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 trust he is not thinking of her, for I am sure she 
 would not have him." 
 
 "Weill I'm a bachelor, and have steered 
 clear of love affairs all my life ; so perhaps my 
 opinion is not -worth having. Or else I should 
 say there -were very pretty symptoms about 
 her." 
 
 "Then I am sure you are wrong," said Mr. 
 Hale. " He may care for her, though she real- 
 ly has been almost rude to him at times. But 
 she I — why, Margaret would never think of him, 
 I'm sure ! J3uch a thing has never entered her 
 head." 
 
 " Entering _her heart would do. But I mere- 
 ly threw" out a suggestion of what-might be. I 
 dare say I was wrong. And whether I was 
 wrong or right, I'm very sleepy; so, having 
 disturbed your night's rest (as I can see) with 
 my untimely fancies, I'll betake myself with an 
 easy mind to my own." 
 
 But Mr. Hale resolved that he would not be 
 disturbed by any such nonsensical idea ; so he 
 lay awake, determining not to think about it. 
 
 Mr. Bell took his leave the next day, bidding 
 Margaret look to him as one who had a right 
 to help and protect her in all her troubles, of 
 whatever nature they might be. To Mr. Hale 
 he said — 
 
 " That Margaret of yours has gone deep into 
 my heart. Take care of her, for she is a very 
 precious creature — a great deal too good for 
 Milton — only fit for Oxford, in fact. The town, 
 I mean ; not the men. I can't match her yet. 
 "When I can, I shall bring my young man to 
 stand side by Bide with your young woman, 
 just as the genii inthe Arabian Nights brought 
 Prince Caralmazan to match with the fairy Prin- 
 cess Badoura." 
 
 " I beg you'll do no such thing. Remember 
 the misfortunes that ensued ; and besides, I can't 
 spare Margaret." 
 
 "No; on second thoughts we'll have her to 
 nurse ns ten years hence, when we shall be two 
 cross old invalids. Seriously, Hale! I wish 
 you'd leave Milton ; which is a most unsuitable 
 place for you, though it was my recommenda- 
 tion in the first instance. If you would, I'd 
 swallow my shadows of doubts, and take a col- 
 lege living ; and you and Margaret should come 
 and live at the parsonage — you to be a sort of 
 lay curate, and take the unwashed off my hands; 
 and she to be our housekeeper — the village 
 Lady Bountiful — by day ; and read us to sleep 
 in the evenings. I could be very happy in 
 _Buch a life. "What do you think of it?" 
 f "Never!" said Mr. Hale, decidedly. "My 
 one great change has been made and my price 
 of suffering paid. Here I stay out my life ; and 
 here will I be buried, and lost in the crowd." 
 v ""~ " I don't give up my plan yet. Only I won't 
 bait you with it any more juBt now. "Where's 
 the Pearl? Gome, Margaret, give me a fare- 
 well kiss ; and remember, my dear, where you 
 may find a true friend, as far as his capability 
 goes. You are my child, Margaret. Remem- 
 ber that, and God bless you !" 
 
 So they fell back into the monotony of the 
 quiet life they would henceforth lead. There 
 was no invalid to hope and fear about ; even 
 the Higginses — so long a vivid interest — seem- 
 ed to have receded from any need of immediate 
 thought. The Boucher children, left mother- 
 
 less orphans, claimed what of Margaret's care 
 she could bestow ; and she went pretty often to 
 see Mary Higgins, who had the charge of them. 
 The two families were living in one house : the 
 elder children were at humble schools, the 
 younger ones were tended, in Mary's absence 
 at her work, by the kind neighbor whose good 
 sense had struck Margaret at the time of Bou- 
 cher's death. Of course she was paid for her 
 trouble; and indeed, in all his little plans and 
 arrangements for these orphan children, Nich- 
 olas Bhowed a sober judgment, and regulated 
 method of thinking, which were at variance 
 with his former more eccentric jerks of action. 
 He was so steady at his work, that Margaret did 
 not often see him during these winter months ; 
 but when she did, she saw that he winced away 
 from any reference to the father of those chil- 
 dren, whom he had so fully and heartily taken 
 under his care. He did not speak easily of 
 Mr. Thornton. 
 
 " To tell the truth," said he, " he fairly bam- 
 boozles me. H& is .two chaps. One chap I 
 knowed of old as were measter all o'er. T'other 
 chap hasn't an ounce of measter's flesh about 
 him. ~Hovr_thenutwo.chapa.is.bbund up in one 
 body ig, a craddv for me to find out. 1*11 not 
 be beat by it, though. ' Meanwhile "he comes 
 here pretty often; that's how I know the ehap 
 that's a man, not a measter. And I reckon he's 
 taken aback by me pretty much as I am by 
 him; for he sits and listens and stares as if I 
 were some strange beast newly caught in some 
 of the zones. But I'm none dauntect It would 
 take a deal to daunt me in my own house, as 
 he sees. And I tell him some of my mind that 
 I reckon he'd ha' been the better of hearing 
 when he were a younger man." 
 
 " And does he not answer you ?" asked Mr. 
 Hale. 
 
 "Well! I'll not say tli' advantage is all on 
 his side, for all I take credit for improving him 
 above a bit. Sometimes he says a rough thing 
 or two, which is not agreeable to look at at 
 first, but has a queer smack o' truth in it when 
 yo come to chew it. He'll be coming to-night, 
 I reckon, about them childer's schooling. He's 
 not satisfied wi' the make of it, and wants for 
 t' examine 'em." 
 
 " What are they" — began Mr. Hale ; but Mar- 
 garet, touching his arm, showed him her watch. 
 " It is nearly seven," she said. " The even- 
 ings are getting longer now. Come, papa." She 
 did not breathe freely till they were some dis- 
 tance from the house. Then, as she became 
 more calm, she wished that she had not been 
 in so great a hurry ; for somehow they saw Mr. 
 Thornton but very seldom now; and he might 
 hare come to see Higgins, and for the old friend- 
 ship's sake she should like to have seen him to- 
 night. 
 
 Yes ! he came very seldom, even for the dull, 
 cold purpose of lessons. Mr. Hale was disap- 
 pointed in his pupil's lukewarmness about G reek 
 literature, which had but a short time ago so 
 great an interest for him. And now it often 
 happened that a hurried note from Mr. Thorn- 
 ton would arrive, just at the last moment, saying 
 that he was so much engaged that he could not 
 come to read with Mr. Hale that evening. And 
 though other pupils had taken more than hi3 
 place as to time, no one was like his first scholar 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 131 
 
 in Mr. Hale's heart He was depressed and sad 
 at this partial cessation of an intercourse which 
 had become dear to him ; and he used to sit 
 pondering over the reason that could have oc- 
 casioned this change. 
 
 He startled Margaret one evening as she sate 
 at her work, by suddenly asking : 
 
 "Margaret I had you ever any reason for 
 thinking that Mr. Thornton cared for you!" 
 
 He almost blushed as he put this question; 
 but Mr. Bell's scouted idea recurred to him, and 
 the words were out of his mouth before he well 
 knew what he was about. 
 
 Margaret did not answer immediately ; but 
 by the bent drooping of her head, he guessed 
 what her reply would be. 
 
 " Yes ; I believe — oh, papa, I should have told 
 you 1" And she dropped her work, and hid her 
 face in her hands. 
 
 " No, dear ; don't think that I am imperti- 
 nently curious. I am sure you would have told 
 me if you had felt that you could return his 
 regard. Did he speak to you about it?" 
 
 No answer at first; but by-and-hy a little 
 gentle reluctant " Yes." 
 
 " And you refused him?" 
 
 A long sigh ; a more helpless nerveless atti- 
 tude, and another "Yes." But before her fa- 
 ther could speak, Margaret lifted up her face, 
 rosy with some beautiful shame, and, fixing her 
 eyes upon him, said : 
 
 " Now, papa, I have told you this, and I can 
 not tell you more ; and then the whole thing is 
 so painful to me ; every word and action con- 
 nected with it is so unspeakably bitter, that I 
 can not bear to think of it. Oh, papa, I am 
 sorry to have lost you this friend, but I could 
 not help it — but oh! I am very sorry." She 
 sate down on the ground, and laid her head on 
 his knees. 
 
 " I too, am sorry, my dear. Mr. Bell quite 
 startled me when he said, some idea of the 
 kind—" 
 
 "Mr. Bell! Oh, did Mr. Bell see it?" 
 
 " A little ; but he took it into his head that 
 you — how shall I say it ? — that you were not 
 ungraciously disposed toward Mr. Thornton. I 
 knew $hat could never be. I hoped the whole 
 thing was but an imagination ; but I knew too 
 well what your real feelings were to suppose 
 that you could ever like Mr. Thornton in that 
 way. But I am very sorry." 
 
 They were very quiet and still for some min- 
 utes. But, on stroking her cheek in a caressing 
 way soon after, he was almost shocked to find 
 her face wet with tears. As he touched her, 
 she sprang up, and smiling with forced bright- 
 ness; began to talk of the Lennoxes with such a 
 vehement desire to turn the conversation, that 
 Mr. Hale was too tender-hearted to try to force 
 it back into the old channel. 
 
 "To-morrow — yes, to-morrow they will be 
 back in Harley Street. Oh, how strange it will 
 be ! I wonder what room they will make into 
 the nursery ? Aunt Shaw will be happy with 
 the baby. Fancy Edith a mamma I And Cap- 
 tain Lennox — I wonder what he will do with 
 himself now he has sold out!" 
 
 " I'll tell you what," said her father, anxious 
 to indulge her in this fresh subject of interest; 
 " I think I must spare you for a fortnight just 
 to run up to town and see the travelers. You 
 
 could learn more, by half an hour's conversa- 
 tion with Mr. Henry Lennox, about Frederick's 
 chances, than in a dozen of these letters of his; 
 so it would, in fact, be uniting business with 
 pleasure." 
 
 " No, papa, you can not spare me, and what's 
 more, I won't De spared." Then after a pause, 
 she added : "I am losing hope sadly about Fred- 
 erick ; he is letting us down gently, but I can 
 see that Mr. Lennox himself has no hope of 
 hunting up the witnesses under years and years 
 of time. No," said she, " that bubble was very 
 pretty, and very dear to our hearts ; but it has 
 burst like many another ; and we must console 
 ourselves with being glad that Frederick is so 
 happy, and with being a great deal to each 
 other. So don't offend me by talking of being 
 able to spare me, papa, for I assure you you 
 can't." 
 
 But the idea of a change took root and germ- 
 inated in Margaret's heart, although not in the 
 way in which her father proposed it at first 
 She began to consider how desirable something 
 of the kind would be to her father, whose spirits, 
 always feeble, now became too frequently de- 
 pressed, and whose health, though he never 
 complained, had been seriously affected by his 
 wife's illness and death. -There were the regu- 
 lar hours of reading with his pupils, but that 
 all giving and no receiving could no longer be 
 called companionship, as in the old days when 
 Mr. Thornton came to study under him. Mar- 
 garet was co nscious of the want und er wh ich' 
 heHv us sufl\)l'fng,.;gnkno wn RTEiBSeTfTthe want 
 oj a man's intercourse with men^^At Helstone 
 there had been perpetual occasion for an inter- 
 change of visits with neighboring clergymen ; 
 and the poor laborers in the fields, or leisurely 
 tramping home at eve, or tending their cattle 
 in the forest, were always at liberty to speak on 
 be spoken to. But in MiUon^veryjonewas too \ 
 busy for q uiet sp eech, or~any ripened nj,ter- 
 coursToTWougnt]- wmrtrthey^aTa was about 
 businesi^Very^present and_actual ; and. when 
 the tensi ohT^^muid^aHn^jOlieii'-dail^affairs 
 waifover Jthey sunkuito fallow rest until next 
 morning: The workman was not to be found 
 after the day's work was done ; he had gone 
 away to some lecture, or some club, or some 
 beer-shop, according to his degree of character. 
 Mr. Hale thought of trying to deliver a course 
 of lectures at some of the institutions, but he 
 contemplated doing this so much as an effort of 
 duty, and with so little of the genial impulse 
 of love toward his work and its end, that Mar- 
 garet was sure that it would not be well done 
 until he could look upon it with some kind of 
 zest 
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 So the winter was getting on, and the days 
 were beginning to lengthen, without bringing 
 with them any of the brightness of hope which 
 usually accompanies the rays of a February 
 sun. Mrs. Thornton had of course entirely ceased ■ 
 to come to the house. Mr. Thornton came oc- 
 casionally, but his visits were addressed to her 
 father, and were confined to the study. Mr. 
 Hale spoke of him as always the same ; indeed, 
 
132 
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 the very rarity of their intercourse seemed to 
 make Mr. Hale set only higher value on it. And 
 from what Margaret could gather of what Mr. 
 Thornton had said, there was nothing in the 
 cessation of his visits which could arise from 
 any umbrage or vexation. His business affairs 
 had become complicated during the strike, and 
 required closer attention than he had given to 
 them last winter. Nay, Margaret could even 
 discover that he spoke from time to time of her, 
 and always, as far as she could learn, in the 
 same calm, friendly way, never avoiding and 
 never seeking any mention of her name. 
 
 She was not in spirits to raise her father's 
 tone of mind. The dreary peaceiulness -of the 
 present time had been preceded by so long a 
 period of anxiety and care — even intermixed 
 with storms — that her mind had lost its elas- 
 ticity. She tried to find herself occupation in 
 teaching the two younger Boucher children, 
 and worked hard at goodness ; hard, I say most 
 truly, for her heart seemed dead to the end of 
 all lier efforts; and though she made them 
 punctually and painfully, yet she stood as far off 
 as ever from any cheerfulness; her life seemed 
 still bleak and dreary. Th^_OTilvJ ( bjng_sji£_did 
 well, was what she did out of unconscious piety, 
 the sile&Tcomforting and consoling of her fa- 
 ther. Not a mood of"his but what found a 
 ready sympathizer in Margaret; not a wish of 
 his that she did not strive to forecast and to 
 fulfill. They were quiet wishes to be sure, and 
 hardly named without hesitation and apology. 
 All the more complete and beautiful was her 
 meek spirit of obedience. March brought the 
 news of Frederick's marriage. He and Dolores 
 Wrote ; she in Spanish -English, as was but nat- 
 ural, and he with little turns and inversions of 
 words which proved how far the idioms of his 
 bride's country were infecting him. 
 
 On the receipt of Henry Lennox's letter, an- 
 nouncing how little hope there was of his ever 
 clearing himself at a court-martial, in the ab- 
 sence of the missing witnesses, Frederick had 
 written to Margaret a pretty vehement letter, 
 containing his renunciation of England as his 
 country ; he wished he could unnative himself, 
 and declared that he would not take his pardon 
 if it were offered him, nor live in the country if 
 he had permission to do so. All of which made 
 Margaret cry sorely, so unnatural did it seem 
 to her at the first opening; but on consideration, 
 she saw rather in such expressions the poignancy 
 of the disappointment which had thus crushed 
 hi3 hopes ; and she felt that there was nothing 
 for it but patience. In the next letter, Fred- 
 erick spoke so joyfully of the future that he had 
 no thought for the past ; and Margaret found a 
 use in herself for the patience she had been 
 Craving for him. She would have to be patient. 
 KirMdlS_pretty, timid, girlish letters of Dolores 
 were beginningToJiaVe"a eharnTfor Both Mar- 
 garet' and "her father. Th e young Spaniard was 
 so evidently anxious to make a favorable im- 
 pression upon her lover's English relations, that 
 her feminine care peeped out at every erasure ; 
 and the letters announcing the marriage, were 
 accompanied by a splendid black laoe mantilla, 
 chosen by Dolores herself for her unseen sister- 
 in-law, whom Frederick had represented as a 
 paragon of beauty, wisdom, and virtue. Fred- 
 crick's worldly position was raised by this mar- 
 
 riage on to as high a level as they could desire. 
 Barbour and Co. was one of the most extensive 
 Spanish houses, and into it he was received as 
 a junior partner. Margaret smiled a little, and 
 then sighed as she remembered afresh her old 
 tirades against trade. Here was hgr prenx 
 chevalier of a brother turneoTmerehant^ trader I 
 But then she rebelled against herself, and pro- 
 tested silently against the confusionimplied be- 
 tween a Spanish mercLantand a Milton mill- 
 owner. Weill trade or no trade, Frederick 
 was very, very happy. Dolores must be charm- 
 ing, and the mantilla was exquisite ! And then 
 she returned to the present life. 
 
 Her father had occasionally experienced a 
 difficulty in breathing this spring, which had 
 for the time distressed him exceedingly. Mar- 
 garet was less alarmed, as this difficulty went 
 off completely in the intervals ; but she still was 
 so desirous of his shaking off the liability alto- 
 gether, as to make her very urgent that he 
 should accept Mr. Bell's invitation to visit him 
 at Oxford this April. Mr. Bell's invitation in- 
 cluded Margaret. Nay more, he wrote a spe- 
 cial letter commanding her to come; but she 
 felt as if it would be a greater relief to her to 
 remain quietly at home, entirely free from any 
 responsibility whatever, and so to rest her mind 
 and heart in a manner which she had not been 
 able to do for more than two years past. 
 
 "When her father had driven off on his way 
 to the railroad, Margaret felt how great and 
 long had been the pressure on her time and her 
 spirits. ItjYil3_asionisIiiiig, almost stunning, to 
 feel herself so much flt liberty ; no one depend- 
 ing on her for cheering care,, if not for positive 
 happiness; no invalid to plan and think for; 
 shemlght be idle, and silent, and forgetful — 
 and what seemed worth more than all the othei 
 privileges — she might be unhappy if she liked. 
 For months {3ast,"all Eer own personal: care and 
 troubles had had to be stuffed away into a dark 
 cupboard ; but now she had leisure to take them 
 out, and mourn over them, and study their na- 
 ture, and seek the true method of subduing 
 them into the elements of peace. All these 
 weeks she had been conscious of their existence 
 in a dull kind of way, though they were hidden 
 out of sight. Now, once for all she would con- 
 sider them, and appoint to each of them its 
 right work in her life. So she sat almost mo- 
 tionless for hours in the drawing-room, going 
 over the bitterness of every remembrance with 
 an unwincing resolution. Only once she cried 
 aloud, at the stinging thought of the faithless- 
 ness that gave birth to that abasing falsehood. 
 
 She would not now even acknowledge the 
 force of the temptation ; her plans for J?Keder- 
 ick had all failed, and the temptation lay there 
 a dead mockery — a. mockery which had never 
 had life in it; the lie had been so despicably 
 "foolish, seen by the light of the ensuing events, 
 and faith in the power of truth so infinitely the 
 greater wisdom I 
 
 In her nervous agitation, she unconsciously 
 opened a book of her father's that lay upon 
 the table — the words that caught her eye in 
 it seemed almost made for her present state of 
 acute self-abasement: 
 
 " Je ne voudrois pas reprendre mon c<eur en ceste sorte : 
 meurs de honte, aveugle, impudent, traistre et desloyal a 
 ton Dieu, et sembables choses ; mais je voudrois ]e cor- 
 riger parvoye de compassion. Or sus, mon pauvre ccbut, 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 133 
 
 nous voila tombez dans la fosse, laquelle nous avions tant 
 resolu d' eschapper. Ah! relevons-nous, et quittons-la 
 pour jamais, reclamons la miserieorde de Dieu, et espe- 
 rons en elle qu'elle nous assistera pour desormais estre 
 plus fermes ; et remettons-nous au chemin de l'humilite. 
 Courage, soyons meshuy sur nos gardes, Dieu nous ay- 
 dera." 
 
 "The w»y of humUity^^^Ali^aojjgJit. Mar- 
 garet, ""that ia what I have^mrssed l,_ BttffcflOttt-.. 
 age, little" heart. "We "will turn back, and by- 
 God's help we may find the lost path." 
 
 So Bhe rose up, and determined at once to 
 set to on some work which should take her out 
 of herself. To begin with, she called Martha, 
 as she passed the drawing-room door in going 
 up stairs, and tried to find out what was be- 
 low the grave, respectful, servant-like manner, 
 which crusted over her individual character 
 with an obedience that was almost mechanical. 
 She found it difficult to induce Martha to speak 
 of any of her personal interests ; but at last Bhe 
 touched the right chord in naming Mrs. Thorn- 
 ton. Martha's whole face brightened, and, on 
 a little encouragement, out came a long story, 
 of how her father had been in early life con- 
 nected with Mrs. Thornton's husband — nay, 
 had even been in a position to show him some 
 kindness ; what, Martha hardly knew, for it had 
 happened when she was quite a. little child; 
 ana circumstances had intervened to separate 
 the two families until Martha was nearly grown 
 up, when, her father having sunk lower and 
 lower from his original occupation as clerk in 
 a warehouse, and her mother being dead, she 
 and her sister, to use Martha's own expression, 
 would have been " lost" but for Mrs. Thornton ; 
 who sought them out, and thought for them, 
 and cared for them. 
 
 " I had had the fever, and was but delicate ; 
 and Mrs. Thornton, and Mr. Thornton too, they 
 never rested till they had nursed me up in their 
 own house, and sent me to the sea and all. The 
 doctors said the fever was catching, but they 
 cared none for that — only Miss Fanny, and she 
 went a-visiting these folk that she was going to 
 marry into. So, though she was afraid at the 
 time, it has all ended well." 
 
 " Miss Fanny going to be married!" exclaim- 
 ed Margaret. 
 
 "Yes; and to a rich gentleman, too, only 
 he's a deal older than she is. His name is Ma- 
 ther ; and his mills are somewhere out beyond 
 Haylegh ; it's a very good marriage, for all he's 
 got such gray hair." 
 
 At this piece of information, Margaret was 
 silent long enough for Martha to recover her 
 propriety, and,, with it, her habitual shortness 
 of answer. She swept up the hearth, asked at 
 what time she should prepare tea, and quitted 
 the room with the same wooden face with which 
 she had entered it. Margaret had to pull her- 
 self up from indulging a bad trick which Bhe 
 had lately fallen into, of trying to imagine how 
 every event that she heard of in relation to Mr. 
 Thornton would affect him : whether he would 
 like it or dislike it. 
 
 The next day she had the little Boucher 
 children for their lessons, and took a long walk, 
 and ended by a visit to Mary Higgins. Some- 
 what to Margaret's surprise, she found Nicholas 
 already come home from his work ; the length- 
 ening light had deceived her as to the lateness 
 of the evening. He too seemed, by his manner 
 
 to have entered a little more on the way of hu- 
 mility ; he was quieter, and less self-asserting. 
 
 " So th' oud gentleman's away on his travels, 
 is he f " said he. " Little 'uns telled me so. Eh ! 
 but they're Bharp 'uns, they are; I a'most think 
 they beat my own wenches for sharpness, though 
 mappen it's wrong to say so, and one on 'em in 
 her grave. There's summut in th' weather, I 
 reckon, as sets folk a-wandering. My measter, 
 him at th' shop yonder, is spinning about th' 
 world somewhere." 
 
 " Is that the reason you're so soon at home 
 to-night I" asked Margaret, innocently. 
 
 * Thou know'st nought about it, that's all," 
 said he, contemptuously. " I'm not one wi' two 
 faces — one for my meaBter, and t'other for his 
 back. I counted a' th' clocks in the town strik- 
 ing afore I'd leave my work. No J yp,n TJiP.rn- 
 ton's good enough for tofight wi , but too good 
 4«r"to'~be'cheate"dr* It were you as getten me 
 the place," arid I ffiank yo for it. Thornton's is 
 not a bad milL as times go. Stand down, lad, 
 and say yo'r pretty hymn to Miss Marget. 
 That's right ; steady on thy legs, and right arm 
 out as straight as a skewer. One to stop, two 
 to stay, three mak' ready, and four away I" 
 
 The little fellow repeated a Methodist hymn, 
 far above his comprehension in point of lan- 
 guage, but of which the swinging rhythm had 
 caught his ear, and which he repeated with all 
 the developed cadence of a member of parlia- 
 ment. When Margaret had duly applauded, 
 Nicholas called for another, and yet another, 
 much to her surprise, as she found him thus 
 oddly and unconsciously led to take an inter- 
 est in the sacred things which he had formerly 
 scouted. 
 
 It was past the usual tea-time when she 
 reached home ; but she had the comfort of feel- 
 ing that no one had been kept waiting for her ; 
 and of thinking her own thoughts while she 
 rested, instead of anxiously watching another 
 person to learn whether to be grave or gay. 
 After tea she resolved to examine a large packet 
 of letters, and pick out those that were to be 
 destroyed. 
 
 Among them she came to four or five of Mr. 
 Henry Lennox's, relating to Frederick's affairs ; 
 and she carefully read them over again, with 
 the sole intention, when she began, to ascertain 
 exactly on how fine a chance the justification 
 of her brother hung. But when she had fin- 
 ished the last, and weighed the pros and cons, 
 the little personal revelation of character con- 
 tained in them forced itself on her notice. It 
 was evident enough, from the stiffness of the 
 wording, that Mr. Lennox had never forgotten 
 his relation to her in any interest he might feel 
 in the subject of the correspondence. They 
 were clever letters; Margaret saw that in a 
 twinkling; but she missed out of them all 
 hearty and genial atmosphere. They were to 
 be preserved, however, as valuable ; so she laid 
 them carefully on one side. When this little 
 piece of business was ended, she fell into a rev- 
 erie ; and the thought of her absent father ran. 
 strangely in Margaret's head this night. She) 
 almost blamed herself for having felt her soli- J 
 tude (and consequently his absence) as a relief; I 
 but these two days had set her up afresh, with \ 
 new strength and brighter hope. Plans which J 
 had lately appeared to her in the guise of tasks, 
 
134 
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 
 now appeared like pleasures. The morbid scales 
 had fallen from her eyes, and she saw her po- 
 sition and her work more truly. If only Mr. 
 Thornton would restore her the lost friendship 
 — nay, if he would only come from time to time 
 to cheer her father as in former days — though 
 she Bhould never see him, she felt as if the course 
 of her future life, though not brilliant in pros- 
 pect, might lie clear and even before her. She 
 sighed as she rose up to go to bed. In spite of 
 the " One step's enough for me" — in spite of the 
 one plain duty of devotion to her father — there 
 lay at her heart an anxiety and a pang of sor- 
 row. 
 
 And Mr. Hale thought of Margaret, that 
 April evening, just as strangely and as per- 
 sistently as she was thinking of him. He had 
 been fatigued by going about among his old 
 friends and old familiar places. He had had 
 exaggerated ideas of the change which his al- 
 tered opinions might make in his friends' recep- 
 tion of him ; but although some of them might 
 have felt shocked or grieved, or indignant at 
 his falling off in the abstract, as soon as they 
 saw the face of the man whom they had once 
 loved, they forgot his opinions in himself; or 
 only remembered them enough to give an ad- 
 ditional tender gravity to their manner. For 
 Mr. Hale had not been known to many; he had 
 I belonged to one of the smaller colleges, and had 
 I always been shy and reserved; but those who 
 in youth had cared to penetrate to the delicacy 
 of thought and feeling that lay below his si- 
 lence and indecision, took him to their hearts, 
 with something of the protecting kindness 
 which they would have shown to a woman. 
 And the renewal of this kindliness, after the 
 lapse jpf years, and an interval of so much 
 change, overpowered him more than any 
 roughness or expression of disapproval could 
 have done. 
 
 " I'm afraid we've done too much," said Mr. 
 Bell. " You're suffering now from having lived 
 so long in that Milton air." 
 
 " I'm tired," said Mr. Hale. " But it is not 
 Milton air. I'm fifty-five 3'ears of age, and 
 that little fact of itself accounts for any loss of 
 strength." 
 
 " Nonsense ! I'm upward of sixty, and feel 
 no loss of strength, either bodily or mental. 
 Don't let me hear you talking so. Fifty-five! 
 why, jou're quite a young man." 
 
 Mr. Hale snook his head. " These last few 
 years!" Baid he. But after a minute's pause, 
 he raised himself from his half recumbent posi- 
 tion, in one of Mr. Bell's luxurious easy-chairs, 
 and Baid with a kind of trembling earnest- 
 ness: 
 
 " Bell ! you're not to think, that if I could 
 have foreseen all that would come of my change 
 of opinion, and my resignation of my living — 
 no ! not even if 1^ could have known how she 
 would have'suffered — thatTwouhl undo it — 
 the act of open acknowledgment that T no lbn- 
 
 fer held the same faith as the church in which 
 was a priest. As I think now, evenif i could 
 have foreseen that cruelest martyrdom of suf- 
 feringTTlirough the sufferings of one whom I 
 loved, I would have done just the sameas far as 
 that step of openly leaving the church .went. I 
 might have done differently, and acted more 
 wisely/In all that" I subsequently did for my 
 
 ! 
 
 family. But I don't think God endued me with 
 overmuch wisdom or strength," he added, fall- 
 ing back into his old position. 
 
 Mr. Bell blew his nose ostentatiously before 
 answering. Then he said : 
 
 _" He gave jou strength to do what your con- 
 science told'you was right; and! don't see that 
 we need any higher or holier strength than that ; 
 or wisdom either. "I know "f 'have not "that 
 much ; and yet men set me down in their fool's 
 books as a wise man ; an independent charac- 
 ter; strong-minded, and all that cant. The 
 veriest idint, wh,p "beyff his own simple law_qf 
 right, if it be but in wiping his snoes on a door- 
 mat^ is "wiser "and stronger, than I. But what 
 gulls men are!" 
 
 There was a pause. Mr. Hale spoke first, in 
 continuation of his thought: 
 
 " About Margaret." 
 
 " Well ! about Margaret. What then ?" 
 
 " If I die— " 
 
 " Nonsense !" 
 
 " What will become of her — I often think? I 
 suppose the Lennoxes will ask her to live with 
 them. I try to think they will. Her aunt 
 Shaw loved her well in her own quiet way ; 
 but_shg forgets to love the absent." 
 
 " A very common fault. What sort of people 
 are the Lennoxes ?" 
 
 " He, handsome, fluent and agreeable. Edith, 
 a sweet little spoiled beauty. Margaret loves 
 her with all her heart, and Edith with as much 
 of her heart as she can spare." 
 
 "Now, Hale; you know that girl of yours 
 has got pretty nearly all my heart. I told you 
 that before. Of course, as your daughter, as 
 my god-daughter, I took great interest in her 
 before I saw her the last time. But this visit 
 that I paid to you at Milton made me her slave. 
 I went, a willing old victim, following the car 
 of the conqueror. For, indeed, she looks as 
 grand and serene as one who has struggled, and 
 may be struggling, and yet has the victory se- 
 cure in sight. Yes, in spite of all her present 
 anxieties, that was the look on her face. And 
 so, all I have is at her service, if she needs it ; 
 and will be hers, whether she will or no,- when 
 I die. Moreover, I myself will be her preux 
 chevalier, sixty and gouty though I be. Seri- 
 ously, old friend, your daughter shall be my 
 principal charge in life, and all help that either 
 my wit or my wisdom or my willing heart can 
 give shall be hers. I don't choose her out as a 
 subject for fretting. Something, I know of old, 
 you must have to worry yourself about, or you 
 wouldn't be happy. But you're going to out- 
 live me by many a long year. You spare, thin 
 men are always tempting and always cheating 
 Death ! It's the stout, florid fellows like me, 
 that always go off first." 
 
 If Mr. Bell had had a prophetic eye he might 
 have seen the torch all but inverted, and the 
 angel with the grave and composed" face stand- 
 ing very nigh, beckoning to his friend. That 
 night Mr. Hale laid his head down on the pil- 
 low on which it never more should stir with 
 life. The servant who entered his room in the 
 morning, received no answer to his speech; 
 drew near the bed, and saw the calm, beautiful 
 face lying white and cold under the inefface- 
 able seal of death. The attitude was exquisite- 
 ly easy ; there had been no pain — no struggle. 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 135 
 
 The action of the heart must have ceased as he 
 lay down. 
 
 Mr. Bell was stunned by the shock ; and only 
 recovered when the time came for being angry 
 at every suggestion of his man's. 
 
 " A coroner's inquest? Pooh. You don't 
 think I poisoned him ! Dr. Forbes says it is just 
 the natural end of a heart complaint. Poor old 
 Hale ! You wore out that tender heart of yours 
 before its time. Poor old friend ! how he talk- 
 ed of his — Wallis, pack up a carpet-bag for 
 me in five minutes. Here have I been talking. 
 Pack it up I say. I must go to Milton by the 
 next train." 
 
 The bag was packed, the cab ordered, the 
 railway reached, in twenty minutes from the 
 moment of this decision. The London train 
 whizzed by, drew back some yards, and in Mr. 
 Bell was hurried by the impatient guard. He 
 threw himself back in his seat, to try with 
 closed eyes to understand how one in life yes- 
 terday could be dead to-day; and shortly tears 
 stole out between his grizzled eye-lashes, at the 
 feeling of which he opened his keen eyes, and 
 looked as severely cheerful as his set determ- 
 ination could make him. He was not going to 
 blubber before a set of strangers. Not he ! 
 
 There was no set of strangers, only one sit- 
 ting far from him on the same side. By-and-by 
 Mr. Bell peered at him, to discover what man- 
 ner of man. it was that might have been observ- 
 ing his emotion; and behind the great sheet 
 of the outspread Times, he recognized Mr. 
 Thornton. 
 
 "Why, Thornton 1 is that you?" said he, re- 
 moving hastily to a closer proximity. He shook 
 Mr. Thornton vehemently by the hand, until 
 the gripe ended in a sudden relaxation, for the 
 hand was wanted to wipe away tears. He 
 had last seen Mr. Thornton in his friend Hale's 
 company. 
 
 "I'm going to Milton, bound on a melan- 
 choly errand. Going to break to Hale's daugh- 
 ter the news of his sudden death!" 
 
 "Death! Mr. Hale dead!" 
 
 "Ay; 1 keep saying it to myself, 'Hale is 
 dead!' but it does not make it any the more 
 real. Hale is dead for all that. He went to 
 bed well, to all appearance, last night, and was 
 quite cold this morning when my servant went 
 to call him." 
 
 " Where ? I don't understand !" 
 
 "At Oxford. He came to stay with me; 
 hadn't been in Oxford this seventeen years — 
 and this is the end of it." 
 
 Not one word was spoken for above a quar- 
 ter of an hour. Then Mr. Thornton said: 
 
 "And she!" and stopped full short. 
 
 " Margaret you mean. Yes I I am going to 
 tell her. Poor fellow I how full his thoughts 
 were of her all last night ! Good God ! Last 
 night only! And how immeasurably distant he 
 is now ! But I take Margaret as my child for 
 his sake. I said last night I would take her 
 for her own sake. Well, I take her for both." 
 
 Mr. Thornton made one or two fruitless at- 
 tempts to speak, before he could get out the 
 words : 
 
 " What will become of her!" 
 
 "I rather fancy there will be two people 
 waiting for her : myself for one. I would take 
 a live dragon into my house to live, if, by hir- 
 
 ing such a chaperon, and setting up an estab- 
 lishment of my own, I could make my old age 
 happy with having Margaret for a daughter. 
 But there are those Lennoxes I" 
 
 "Who are they?" asked Mr. Thornton, with 
 trembling interest. 
 
 " Oh, smart London people, who very likely 
 will think they've the best right to her. Cap- 
 tain Lennox married her cousin — the girl she 
 was brought up with. Good enough people, I 
 dare say. And there's her aunt, Mrs. Shaw. 
 There might be a way open, perhaps, by my 
 offering to marry that worthy lady ! but that 
 would be quite a pis aller. And then there's 
 that brother!" 
 
 " What brother? A brother of her aunt's?" 
 
 " No, no ; a clever Lennox (the captain's a 
 fool, you must understand); a young barrister, 
 who will be setting his cap at Margaret. I 
 know he has had her in his mind this five years 
 or more ; one of his chums told me as much ; 
 and he was only kept back by her want of for- 
 tune. Now that will be done away with." 
 
 "How?" asked Mr. Thornton, too earnestly 
 curious to be aware of the impertinence of his 
 question. 
 
 "Why, she'll have my money at my death. 
 And if this Henry Lennox is half good enough 
 for her, and she likes him — well ! I might find 
 another way of getting a home through a mar- 
 riage. I'm dreadfully afraid of being tempted, 
 at an unguarded moment, by the aunt." 
 
 Neither Mr. Bell nor Mr. Thornton were in 
 a laughing humor ; so the oddity of any of the 
 speeches which the former made was unnoticed 
 by them. Mr. Bell whistled, without emit- 
 ting any sound beyond a long hissing breath ; 
 changed his seat, without finding comfort or 
 rest ; while Mr. Thornton sate immovably stilL 
 his eyes fixed on one spot in the newspaper, 
 which he had taken up in order to give himself 
 leisure to think. 
 
 " Where have you been?" asked Mr. Bell, at 
 length. 
 
 " To Havre. Trying to detect the secret of 
 the great rise in the price of cotton." 
 
 " Ugh ! Cotton, and speculations, and smoke, 
 well-cleansed and well cared-for machinery, and 
 unwashed and neglected hands. Poor old Hale ! 
 Poor old Hale I If you could have known the 
 change which it was to him from Helstone. Do 
 you know the New Forest at all?" 
 
 "YeV (Very shortly.) 
 
 " Then you can fancy the difference between 
 it and Milton. What part were you in? Were 
 you ever at Helstone? a little picturesque vil- 
 lage, like some in the Odenwald ? You know 
 Helstone!" 
 
 " I have seen it. It was a great change to 
 leave it and come to Milton." 
 
 He took up his newspaper with a determined 
 air, as if resolved to avoid further conversation; 
 and Mr. Bell was fain to resort to his former 
 occupation of trying to find out how he could 
 best break the news to Margaret. 
 
 She was at an up stairs window ; she saw him , 
 alight ; she guessed the truth with an instinct- ' 
 ive flash. She stood in the middle of the draw- 
 ing-room, as if arrested in her first impulse to 
 rush down stairs, and as if by the same restrain- 
 ing thought she had been turned to stone; so 
 white and immovable was she. 
 
136 
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 "Oh I don't tell me! I know it from your 
 face I You -would have sent — you would not 
 have left him — if he were alive 1 Oh papa, 
 papa!" 
 
 CHAPTER XLII. 
 
 The shock had been great. Margaret fell 
 into a state of prostration, which did not show 
 itself in sobs and tears, or even find the relief 
 of words. She lay on the sofa, with her eyes 
 shut, never 6peaking but when spoken to, and 
 then replying in whispers. Mr. Bell was per- 
 plexed. He dared not leave her; he dared not 
 ask her to accompany him back to Oxford, 
 which had been one of the plans he had formed 
 on the journey to Milton, her physical exhaus- 
 tion was evidently too complete for her to un- 
 dertake any such fatigue — putting the sight 
 that she would have to encounter out of the 
 question. Mr. Bell sate over the fire, consider- 
 ing what he had better do. Margaret lay mo- 
 tionless, and almost breathless, by him. He 
 would not leave her even for the dinner which 
 Dixon had prepared for him down stairs, and, 
 with sobbing hospitality, would fain have tempt- 
 ed him to eat. He had a plateful of something 
 brought up to him. In general, he was par- 
 ticular and dainty enough, and knew well each 
 shade of flavor in his food, but now the deviled 
 chicken tasted like saw-dust. He minced up 
 some of the fowl for Margaret, and peppered 
 and salted it well ; but when Dixon, following 
 his directions, tried to feed her, the languid 
 shake of head proved that in such a state as 
 Margaret was in, food would only choke, not 
 nourish her. 
 
 Mr. Bell gave a great sigh; lifted up his 
 stout old limbs (stiff with traveling) from their 
 easy position, and followed Dixon out of the 
 room. 
 
 " I can't leave her. I must write to them at 
 Oxford, to see that the preparations are made : 
 they can be getting on with these till I arrive. 
 Can't Mrs. Lennox come to her? I'll write and 
 tell her she muBt. The girl must have some 
 woman-friend about her? if only to talk her 
 into a good fit of crying." 
 
 Dixon was crying — enough for two; but, 
 after wiping her eyes and steadying her voice, 
 she managed to tell Mr. Bell, that Mrs. Lennox 
 was too near her confinement to be able to un- 
 dertake any journey at present. 
 
 " Well ! I suppose we must have Mrs. Shaw; 
 she's come back to England, isn't she?" 
 
 " Yes, sir, she's come back ; but I don't think 
 she will like to leave Mrs. Lennox at such an 
 interesting time," said Dixon, who did not 
 much approve of a stranger entering the house- 
 hold to share with her in her ruling care of 
 Margaret. 
 
 " Interesting time be — " Mr. Bell restricted 
 himself to coughing over the end of his sen- 
 tence. " She could be content to be at Venice, 
 or Naples, or some of those Popish places, at 
 the last ' interesting time,' which took place in 
 Corfu, I think. And what does that little pros- 
 perous woman's 'interesting time' signify, in 
 comparison with that poor creature there — 
 that helpless, homeless, friendless Margaret — 
 
 lying as still on that sofa as if it were an altar- 
 tomb, and she the stone statue on it. I tell you 
 Mrs. Shaw shall come. See that a room, or 
 whatever she wants, is got ready for her by 
 to-morrow night. I'll take care she comes." 
 
 Accordingly Mr. Bell wrote a letter, which 
 Mrs. Shaw declared, with many tears, to be so 
 like one of the dear general's when he was 
 going to have a fit of the gout, that she should 
 always value and preserve it. If he had given 
 her the option, by requesting or urging her, as 
 if a refusal were possible, she might not have 
 come — true and sincere as was her sympathy 
 with Margaret. It needed the sharp, uncourt- 
 eous command to make her conquer her vis 
 inertiffi, and allow herself to be packed by her 
 maid, after the latter had completed the boxes. 
 Edith, all cap, shawls, and tears, came out to 
 the top of the stairs, as Captain Lennox was 
 taking her mother down to the carriage: 
 
 '"Don't forget, mamma; Margaret must come 
 and live with us. Sholto will go to Oxford on 
 Wednesday, and you must send word by Mr. 
 Bell to him when we're to expect you. And 
 if you want Sholto, he can go on from Oxford 
 to Milton. Don't forget, mamma ; you are to 
 bring back Margaret." 
 
 Edith re-entered the drawing-room. Mr. 
 Henry Lennox was there, cutting open the 
 pages of a new review. Without lifting his 
 head, he said, " If you don't like Sholto to be 
 so long absent from you, Edith, I hope you will 
 let me go down to Milton, and give what assist- 
 ance I can." 
 
 " Oh, thank you," said Edith, " I dare say 
 old Mr. Bell will do every thing he can, and 
 more help may not be needed. Only one does 
 not look for much savoir-faire from a resident 
 Fellow. Dear, darling Margaret! won't it be 
 nice to have her here, again? You were both 
 great allies 3-ears ago." 
 
 " Were we?" asked he indifferently, with an 
 appearance of being interested in a passage in 
 the review. 
 
 " Well, perhaps not — I forget. I was so full 
 of Sholto. But doesn't it fall out well, that if 
 my uncle was to die, it should be just now, 
 when we are come home, and settled in the old 
 house, and quite ready to receive Margaret? 
 Poor thing I what a change it will be to her 
 from Milton ! I'll have new chintz for her bed- 
 room, and make it look new and bright, and 
 cheer her up a little." 
 
 In the same spirit of kindness, Mrs. Shaw 
 journeyed to Milton, occasionally dreading the 
 first meeting, and wondering how it would be 
 got over ; but more frequently planning how 
 soon she could get Margaret away from " that 
 horrid place," and back into the pleasant com- 
 forts of Harley Street. 
 
 "Oh dear!" said she to her maid; "look at 
 those chimneys I My poor sister Hale ! I don't 
 think I could have rested at Naples, if I had 
 known what it was! I must have come and 
 fetched her and Margaret away." And to her- 
 self she acknowledged that she had always 
 thought her brother-in-law rather a weak man, 
 but never so weak as now, when she saw for 
 what a place he had exohanged the lovely Hel- 
 stone home. 
 
 Margaret had remained in the same state; 
 white, motionless, speechless, tearless. They 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 137 
 
 had told her that her aunt Shaw was coming ; 
 but she had not expressed either surprise, or 
 pleasure, or dislike to the idea. Mr. Bell, 
 whose appetite had returned, and who appre- 
 ciated Dixon's endeavors to gratify it, in vain 
 urged upon her to taste some sweet-breads 
 stewed with oysters ; she shook her head with 
 the same quiet obstinacy as on the previous 
 day ; and he was obliged to console himself for 
 her rejection by eating them all himself. But 
 Margaret was the first to hear the stopping of 
 the cab that brought her aunt from the rail- 
 way station. Her eyelids quivered, her lips 
 colored and trembled. Mr. Bell went down to 
 meet Mrs. Shaw ; and when they came up, Mar- 
 gairet was standing, trying to steady her dizzy 
 self; and when she saw*her aunt, she went for- 
 ward to the arms open to receive her, and first 
 found the passionate relief of tears on her aunt's 
 'moulder. All thoughts of quiet habitual love, 
 of tenderness for years, of relationship to the 
 dead — all that inexplicable likeness in look, 
 tone, and gesture, that seems to belong to one 
 family, and which reminded Margaret so forci- 
 bly at this moment of her mother — came in to 
 melt and^often her numbed heart into the over- 
 flow of warm tears. 
 
 "" Mr. Bell stole out of the room and went down 
 into the study, where he ordered a fire, and 
 tried to divert his thoughts by taking down and 
 examining the different books. Each volume 
 brought a remembrance or a suggestion of his 
 dead friend. It might be a change of employ- 
 ment from his two days' work of watching Mar- 
 garet, but it was no change of thought. He 
 was glad to catch the sound of Mr. Thornton's 
 voice, making inquiry at the door. Dixon was 
 rather cavalierly dismissing him ; for with the 
 appearance of Mrs. Shaw's maid, came visions 
 of former grandeur, of the Beresford blood, of 
 the "station" (so she was pleased to term it) 
 from which her young lady had been ousted, and 
 to which she was now, please God, to be restored. 
 These visions, which she had been dwelling 
 on with complacency in her conversation with 
 Mrs. Shaw's maid (skillfully eliciting meanwhile 
 all the circumstances of state and consequence 
 connected with the Harley Street establishment, 
 for the edification of the listening Martha), made 
 Dixon rather inclined to be supercilious in 
 her treatment of any inhabitant of Milton ; so, 
 though she always stood rather in awe of Mr. 
 Thornton, she was as eurt as she durst be in tell- 
 ing him that he could see none of the inmates 
 of that house that night. It was rather un- 
 comfortable to be contradicted in her statement 
 by Mr. Bell's opening the study-door, and call- 
 ing out : 
 
 " Thornton ! is that you ? Come in for a min- 
 ute or two ; I want to speak to you." So Mr. 
 Thornton went into the study, and Dixon had 
 to retreat into the kitchen, and reinstate her- 
 self in her own esteem by a prodigious story 
 of Sir John Beresford's coach and six, when he 
 was high sheriff. 
 
 "I don't know what I wanted to say to you, 
 after all. Only it's dull enough to sit in a room 
 where every thing speaks to you of a dead friend. 
 Yet Margaret and her aunt must have the draw- 
 ing-room to themselves." 
 
 "Is Mrs. — is her aunt comeS" asked Mr. 
 Thornton. 
 
 "Come! Tesl maid and all. One might 
 have thought she could have come by herself 
 at such a time I And now I shall have to turn 
 out and find my way to the Clarendon." 
 
 "You must not go to the Clarendon. We 
 have five or six empty bedrooms at home." 
 
 "Well aired!" 
 
 " I think you may trust my mother." 
 
 "Then I'll only run up stairs and wish that 
 wan girl good-night, and make my bow to her 
 aunt, and go off with you Btraight." 
 
 Mr. Bell was some time up stairs. Mr. Thorn- 
 ton began to think it long, for he was full of 
 business, and had hardly been able to spare the 
 time for running up to Crampton, and inquir- 
 ing how Miss Hale was. 
 
 When they had set out upon their walk, Mr. 
 Bell said : 
 
 "I was kept by those women in the draw- 
 ing-room. Mrs. Snaw is anxious to get home 
 — on account of her daughter, she says — and 
 wants Margaret to go off with her at once. Now 
 she is no more fit for traveling than I am for 
 flying. Besides, she says, and very justly, that 
 6he has friends she must see — that she must 
 wish good-by to 'several people; and then her 
 aunt worried her about old claims, and was she 
 forgetful of old friends? And she said, with a 
 great burst of crying, she should be glad enough 
 to go from a place where she had suffered so 
 much. Now I must return to Oxford to-morrow, 
 and I don't know on which side of the scale to 
 throw in my voice." 
 
 He paused, as if asking a question; but he 
 received no answer from his companion, the 
 echo of whose thoughts kept repeating — 
 
 "Where she had suffered so much." Alas! 
 and that was the way in which this eighteen 
 months in Milton — to him so unspeakably pre- 
 cious, down to its very bitterness, which was 
 worth all the rest of life's sweetness — would be 
 remembered. Neither loss of father, nor loss 
 of mother, dear as Bhe was to Mr. Thornton, 
 could have poisoned the remembrance of the 
 weeks, the days, the hours, when a walk of two 
 miles, every step of which was pleaBant, as it 
 brought him nearer and nearer to her, took him 
 to her sweet presence — every step of which was 
 rich, as each recurring moment that bore him 
 away from her, made him recall some fresh grace 
 in her demeanor, or pleasant pungency in her 
 character. Yes! whatever had happened to 
 him, external to his relation to her, he could 
 never have spoken of that time, when he could 
 have seen her every day — when he had her 
 within his grasp, as it were — as a time of suf- 
 fering. It had been a royal time of luxury to 
 him, with all its stings and contumelies, com- 
 pared to the poverty that crept round and ■ 
 clipped the anticipation of the future down to 
 sordid fact, and life without an atmosphere of 
 either hope or fear. 
 
 Mrs. Thornton and Fanny were in the dining- 
 room ; the latter in a flutter of small exultation, 
 as the maid held up one glossy material after 
 another, to try the effect of the wedding-dresses 
 by candle-light. Her mother really tried to 
 sympathize with her, but could not. Neither 
 taste nor dress was in her line of subjects, and 
 she heartily wished, that Fanny had accepted 
 her brother's offer of having the wedding clothes 
 provided by some first-rate London dressmaker, 
 
138 
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 without the endless troublesome discussions, 
 and unsettled wavering, that arose out of Fan- 
 ny's desire to choose and superintend every 
 thing herself. Mr. Thornton was only too glad 
 to mark his grateful approbation of any sensi- 
 ble man, who could be captivated by Fanny's 
 second-rate airs and graces, by giving her am- 
 ple means for providing herself with the finery, 
 which certainly rivaled, if it did not exceed the 
 lover, in her estimation. When her brother and 
 Mr. Bell came in, Fanny blushed, and simpered, 
 and fluttered over the signs of her employment, 
 in a way which could not fail to draw attention 
 from any one else but Mr. Bell. If he thought 
 about her and her silks and satins at all, it was 
 to compare her and them with the pale sorrow he 
 had left behind him, sitting motionless with bent 
 head and folded hands in a room where the still- 
 ness was so great that you might almost fancy 
 the rush in your straining ears was occasioned 
 by the spirits of the dead, yet hovering round 
 their beloved. For, when Mr. Bell had first 
 gone up stairs, Mrs. Shaw lay asleep on the 
 sofa ; and no sound broke the silence. 
 
 Mrs. Thornton gave Mr. Bell her formal, hos- 
 pitable welcome. She was never so gracious 
 as when receiving her son's friends in her son's 
 house ; and the more unexpected they were, 
 the more honor to her admirable housekeeping 
 preparations for comfort. 
 
 "How is Miss Hale?" she asked. 
 
 "About as broken down by this last stroke 
 as she can be." 
 
 " I am sure it is very well for her that she has 
 such a friend as you." 
 
 "I wish I were her only friend, madam. I 
 dare say it sounds very brutal ; but here have I 
 been displaced, and turned out of my post of 
 comforter and adviser by a fine lady aunt ; and 
 there are cousins and what not claiming her in 
 London, as if she were a lap-dog belonging to 
 them. And she is too weak and miserable to 
 have a will of her own." 
 
 " She must indeed be weak," said Mrs. Thorn- 
 ton, with an implied meaning which her son un- 
 derstood well. "But where," continued Mrs. 
 Thornton, "have these relations been all this 
 time that Miss Hale has appeared almost friend- 
 less, and has certainly had a good deal of anxiety 
 to bear?" But she did not feel interest enough in 
 the answer to her question to wait for it. She left 
 the room to make her household arrangements. 
 
 " They have been living abroad. They have 
 some kind of claim upon her. I will do them 
 that justice. The aunt brought her up, and she 
 and the cousin have been like sisters. The thing 
 vexing me, you see, is that I wanted to take 
 her for a child of my own ; and I am jealous of 
 these people, who don't seem to value the priv- 
 ilege of their right. Now it would be different 
 if Frederick claimed her." 
 
 " Frederick !" exclaimed Mr. Thornton. — 
 "Who is he? What right—?" He stopped 
 short in his vehement question. 
 
 "Frederick," said Mr. Bell, in surprise. " Why, 
 don't you know ? He is her brother. Have you 
 not heard — " 
 
 " I never heard his name before. Where is 
 he? Who is he?" 
 
 "Surely I told you about him when the family 
 first came to Milton — the son who was concerned 
 in that mutiny." 
 
 " I never heard of him till this moment. Where 
 does he live?" 
 
 "In Spain. He is liable to be arrested the 
 moment he sets foot on English ground. Poor 
 fellow I he will grieve at not being able to at- 
 tend his father's funeral. We must be content 
 with Captain Lennox ; for I don't know of any 
 other relation to summon." 
 
 " I hope I may be allowed to go ?" 
 
 " Certainly ; thankfully. You are a good fel- 
 low, after all, Thornton. Hale liked you. He 
 spoke to me only the other day about you at 
 Oxford. He regretted he had seen so little of 
 you lately. I am obliged to you for wishing to 
 show him respect." 
 
 "But about Frederick. Does he never come 
 to England?" 
 
 "Never." 
 
 " He was not over here about the time of Mrs. 
 Hale's death?" 
 
 " No. Why, I was here then. I hadn't seen 
 Hale for years and years: and, if you remem- 
 ber, I came — No, it was some time after that 
 that I came. But poor Frederick Hale was not 
 here then. What made you think he was?" 
 
 " I saw a young man walking with Miss Hale 
 one day," replied Mr. Thornton, "and I think 
 it was about that time." 
 
 "Oh, that would be this young Lennox, the 
 Captain's brother. He's a lawyer, and they 
 were in pretty constant correspondence with 
 him; and I remember Mr. Hale told me he 
 thought he would come down. Do you know," 
 said Mr. Bell, wheeling round, and shutting 
 one eye, the better to bring the forces of the 
 other to bear with keen scrutiny on Mr. Thorn- 
 ton's face, " that I once fancied you had a little 
 tenderness for Margaret ?" 
 
 No answer. No change of countenance. 
 
 " And so did poor Hale. Not at first, and 
 not till I had put it into his head." 
 
 " I admired Miss Hale. Every one must do 
 so. She is a beautiful creature," said Mr. 
 Thornton, driven to bay by Mr. Bell's perti- 
 nacious questioning. 
 
 " Is that all! Tou can speak of her in that 
 measured way as simply a ' beautiful creature' 
 — only something to catch the eye! I did hope 
 you had had nobleness enough in you to make 
 you pay her the homage of the heart. Though 
 I believe — in fact, I know, she would have 
 rejected you — still, to have loved her without 
 return would have lifted you higher than all 
 those, be they who they may, that have never 
 known her to love. ' Beautiful creature' in- 
 deed! Do you speak of her as you would of a 
 horse or a dog?" 
 
 Mr. Thornton's eyes glowed like red embers. 
 
 " Mr. Bell," said he, " before you speak so, 
 you should remember that all men are not as 
 free to express what they feel as you are. Let 
 us talk of something else." For though his 
 heart leapt up, as at a trumpet-call, to every 
 word that Mr. Bell had said, and though he 
 knew that what he had said would hencefor- 
 ward bind the thought of the old Oxford Fel- 
 low closely up with the most precious things 
 of his heart, yet he would not be forced into 
 any expression of what he felt toward Marga- 
 ret. He was no mocking-bird of praise, to try 
 because another extolled what he reverenced 
 and passionately loved, to outdo him iu lauda- 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 189 
 
 tion. So he turned to some of the dry matters 
 of business that lay between Mr. Bell and him 
 as landlord and tenant. 
 
 " What is that heap of brick and mortar 
 we came against in the yard? Any repairs 
 wanted ?" 
 
 " No, none, thank you." 
 
 "Are you building on your own account? 
 If you are, I'm very much obliged to you." 
 
 " I'm building a dining-room — for the men I 
 mean — the hands." 
 
 " I thought you were hard to please, if this 
 room was not good enough to satisfy you, a 
 bachelor." 
 
 " I've got acquainted with a strange kind of 
 chap, and I put one or two children in whom 
 he is interested to school. So, as I happened 
 to be passing near his house one day, I just 
 went there about some trifling payment to be 
 made; and I saw such a miserable black frizzle 
 of a dinner — a greasy cinder of meat, as first 
 set me a-thinking. But it was not till provi- 
 sions grew so high this winter that I bethought 
 me how, by buying things wholesale, and cook- 
 ing a good quantity of provisions together, 
 much money might be saved, and much com- 
 fort gained. So I spoke to my friend — or my 
 enemy — the man I told you of — and he found 
 fault with every detail of my plan ; and in con- 
 sequence I laid it aside, both as impracticable 
 and also because if I forced it into operation I 
 should be interfering with the independence of 
 my men ; when suddenly this Higgins came to 
 me and graciously signified his approval of a 
 scheme so nearly the same as mine, that I might 
 fairly have claimed it ; and, moreover, the ap- 
 proval of several of his fellow-workmen, to whom 
 he had spoken. I was a little 'riled,' I confess, 
 by his manner, and thought of throwing the 
 whole thing overboard to sink or swim. But 
 it seemed childish to relinquish a plan which I 
 had once thought wise and well-laid, just be- 
 cause I myeolf did not receive all the honor and 
 consequence due to the originator. So I coolly 
 took the part assigned to me, which is some- 
 thing like that of steward to a club. I buy in 
 the provisions wholesale, and provide a fitting 
 matron or cook." 
 
 " I hope you give satisfaction in your new 
 capacity. Are you a good judge of potatoes 
 and onions? But I suppose Mrs. Thornton as- 
 sists you in your marketing." 
 
 "Not a bit," replied Mr. Thornton. "She 
 disapproves of the whole plan, and now we 
 never mention it to each other. But I manage 
 pretty well, getting in great stocks from Liver- 
 pool, and being served in butcher's meat by 
 our own family butcher. I can assure you, the 
 hot dinners the matron turns out are by no 
 means to be despised." 
 
 " Do you taste each dish as it goes in, in 
 virtue of your oflice ? I hope you have a white 
 wand." 
 
 " I was very scrupulous, at first, in confining 
 myself to the mere purchasing part, and even 
 in that I rather obeyed the men's orders, con- 
 veyed through the housekeeper, than went by 
 my own judgment. At one time, the beef was 
 too large, at another the mutton was not fat 
 enough. I think they saw how careful I was 
 to leave them free, and not to intrude my own 
 ideas upon them ; so, one day, two or three of 
 
 the men — my friend Higgins among them — 
 asked me if I would not come in and take a 
 snack. It was a very busy day, but I saw that 
 the men would be hurt if, after making the ad- 
 vance, I didn't meet them half-way, so I went 
 in, and I never made a better dinner in my life. 
 I told them (my next neighbors I mean, for I'm 
 no speech-maker) how much I'd enjoyed it; and 
 for some time, whenever that especial dinner 
 recurred in their dietary, I was sure to be met 
 by these men, with a ' Master, there's hot-pot 
 for dinner to-day, win yo' come ?' If they had 
 not asked me, I would no more have intruded 
 on them'than I'd have gone to the mess at the 
 barracks without invitation." 
 
 " I should think you were rather a restraint 
 on your hosts' conversation. They can't abuse 
 the masters while you're there. I suspect they 
 take it out on non-hot-pot days." 
 
 " "Well I hitherto we've steered clear of all 
 vexed questions. But if any of the old disputes 
 came up again, I would certainly speak out my 
 mind next hot-pot day. But you are hardly 
 acquainted with our Darkshire fellows, for all 
 you're a Darkshire man yourself. They have 
 such a sense of humor, and such a racy mode 
 of expression! I am getting really to know 
 some of them now, and they talk pretty freely 
 before me." 
 
 " Nothing like the act of eating for equaliz- 
 ing men. Dying is nothing to it. The philos- 
 opher dies sententiously — the pharisee ostenta- 
 tiously — the simple-hearted humbly — the poor 
 idiot blindly as the sparrow falls to the ground; 
 but philosopher and idiot, publican and phari- 
 see, all eat after the same fashion — given an 
 equally good digestion. There's theory for the- 
 ory for you!" 
 
 " Indeed I have no theory ; I hate theories." 
 
 ' ' I beg your pardon. To show my penitence, 
 will you accept a ten pound note toward your 
 marketing, and give the poor fellows a feast?" 
 
 " Thank you ; but I'd rather noti They pay 
 me rent for the oven and cooking-places at the 
 back of the mill : and will have to- pay more 
 for the new dining-room. I don't want it to 
 fall into a charity. I don't want donations. 
 Once let in the principle, and I shpjald have 
 people going, and talking, and 6poili Bg-the-Biin- v 
 plieity of the whole thing." 
 
 ""People will talk about any new plan. Tou 
 can't help that." 
 
 " My enemies, if I have any, may make a 
 philanthropic fuss about this dinner-scheme; 
 but you are a friend, and I expect you will 
 pay my experiment the respect of silence. It is 
 but a new broom at present, and sweeps clean 
 enough. But by-and-by we shall meet with 
 plenty of stumbling-blocks, no doubt." 
 
 CHAPTER XLHT. 
 
 Mrs. Shaw took as vehement a dislike as it 
 was possible for one of her gentle nature to do, 
 against Milton. It was noisy, and smoky, and 
 the poor people whom she saw in the streets 
 were dirty, and the rich ladies overdressed, 
 and not a man that she saw, high or low, had 
 j his clothes made to fit him. She was sure Mar- 
 I garet would never regain her loBt strength 
 
140 
 
 NOETH AND SOUTH. 
 
 while she staid in Milton ; and she herself was 
 afraid of one of her old attacks of the nerves. 
 Margaret must return with her, and that quick- 
 ly. This, if not the exact force of her words, 
 was at any rate the spirit of what she urged on 
 Margaret, till the latter, weak, weary, and bro- 
 ken-spirited, yielded a reluctant promise that, 
 as soon as Wednesday was over, she would pre- 
 pare to accompany her aunt back to town, leav- 
 ing Dixon in charge of all the arrangements for 
 paying bills, disposing of furniture, and shut- 
 ting up the house. Before that Wednesday — 
 that mournful Wednesday, when Mr. Hale was 
 to be interred, far away from either of the 
 homes he had known in life, and far away from 
 the wife who lay lonely among strangers (and 
 this last was Margaret's great trouble, for she 
 thought that if she had not given way to that 
 overwhelming stupor during the first sad days, 
 she could have arranged things otherwise) — 
 before that Wednesday, Margaret received a 
 letter from Mr. Bell. 
 
 " My Dear Margaret — I did mean to have returned 
 to Milton on Thursday, but unluckily it turns out to be 
 one of the rare occasions when we, Fellows of Radclifle, 
 are called upon to perform any kind of duty, and 1 must 
 not be absent from my post. Captain Lennox and Mr. 
 Thornton are here. The former seems a smart, well- 
 meaning man ; and has proposed to go over to Milton, 
 and assist you in any search for the will ; of course there 
 is none, or you would have found it. by this time, if you 
 followed my directions. Then the Captain declares he 
 must take you and his mother-in-law home ; and, in his 
 wife's present state, I don't see how you can expect him 
 to remain away longer than Friday. However, that Dixon 
 of yours is trusty ; and can hold her, or your own, till I 
 come. T take upon myself to administer, if there is no 
 will ; for I doubt this smart Captain is no great man 
 of business. Nevertheless, his moustaches are splendid. 
 There will have to be a sale ; so select what things you 
 wish reserved. Or you can send a list afterward. Now 
 two things more, and I have done. You know, or if you 
 don't, your poor father did, that you are to have my money 
 and goods when I die. Not that I mean to die yet ; but I 
 name this just to explain what is coming. These Len- 
 noxes seem very fond of yon now ; and perhaps may con- 
 tinue to be ; perhaps not. So it is best to start w ith a 
 formal agreement ; namely, that you are to pay them two 
 hundred and fifty pounds a year, as long as you and they 
 find it pleasant to live together. {This, of course, includes 
 Dixon ; mind you don't be cajoled into paying any more 
 for her.) Then you won't be thrown adrift if some day 
 the Captain wishes to have his house to himself, but you 
 can carry yourself and your two hundred and fifty pounds 
 off somewhere else ; if, indeed, I have not claimed you to 
 come and keep house for me first. Then as to dress, and 
 Dixon, and personal expenses, and confectionery (all 
 young ladies eal confectionery till wisdom comes by age), 
 I shall consult Borne lady of my acquaintance, and see 
 how much you will have from your father, before fixing 
 this. Now, Margaret, have you flown out before you have 
 read this far, and wondered what right the old man has 
 to settle your affairs for you so cavalierly 7 I make no 
 doubt you have. Yet the old man has a right. He has 
 loved your father five and thirty years ; he stood beside 
 him on his wedding-day ; he closed his eyes in death. 
 Moreover, he is your godfather ; and as he can not do you 
 much good spiritually, having a hidden consciousness of 
 your superiority in such things, he would fain do you the 
 poor good of endowing you materially. And the old man 
 has not a known relation on earth ; 'who is there to mourn 
 for Abraham Bell?' and his whole heart is set and bent 
 upon this one thing, and Margaret Hale is not the girl to 
 say him nay. Write by return, if only two lines, to tell 
 me your answer. But 710 thanks." 
 
 Margaret took up a pen and scrawled with 
 trembling hand, " Margaret Hale is not the girl 
 to say him nay.'* In her weak state she could 
 not think of any other words, and yet she was 
 vexed to use these. But she was 60 much fa- 
 tigued even by this slight exertion, that if she 
 could have thought of another form of accept- 
 ance, she could not have sate up to write a syl- 
 
 lable of it. She was obliged to lie down again, 
 and try not to think. 
 
 " My dearest child I Has that letter vexed 
 or troubled you !" 
 
 "No!" said Margaret feebly. "I shall be 
 better when to-morrow is over." 
 
 " I feel sure, darling, you won't be better till 
 I get 3'ou out of this horrid air. How you can 
 have borne it this two years I can't imagine." 
 
 "Where could I go to? I could not leave 
 papa and mamma." 
 
 "Well! don't distress yourself, my dear. I 
 dare say it was all for the best, only I had no 
 conception of how you were living. Our but- 
 ler's wife lives in a better house than this." 
 
 "It is sometimes very pretty — in summer; 
 you can't judge by what it is now. I have been 
 very happy here," and Margaret closed her eyes 
 by way of stopping the conversation. 
 
 The house teemed with comfort now, com- 
 pared to what it had done. The evenings were 
 chilly, and by Mrs. Shaw's directions fires were 
 lighted in every bedroom. She petted Marga- 
 ret in every possible way, and bought every 
 delicacy, or soft luxury m which she herself 
 would have burrowed and sought comfort. But 
 Margaret was indifferent to all these things ; or, 
 if they forced themselves upon her attention, it 
 was simply as causes for gratitude to her aunt, 
 who was putting herself so much out of her way 
 to think of her. She was restless, though so 
 weak. All the day long she kept herself from 
 thinking of the ceremony which was going on 
 at Oxford, by wandering from room to room, 
 and languidly setting aside such articles as she 
 wished to retain. Dixon followed her by Mrs. 
 Shaw's desire, ostensibly to receive instructions, 
 but with a private injunction to soothe her into 
 repose as soon as might be. 
 
 " These books, Dixon, I will keep. All the 
 rest will you send to Mr. Bell ? They are of a 
 kind that he will value for themselves, as well 
 as for papa's sake. This — I should like you 
 to take this to Mr. Thornton, after I am gone. 
 Stay; I will write a note with it." And she 
 sate down hastily, as if afraid of thinking, and 
 wrote : 
 
 u Dear Sir — The accompanying book I am sure will 
 be valued by you, for the sake of my father, to whom it 
 belonged. Yours sincerely, 
 
 " Margaret Hale." 
 
 She set out again upon her travels through 
 the house, turning over articles, known to her 
 from her childhood, with a sort of caressing re- 
 luctance to leave them — old-fashioned, worn 
 and shabby, as they might be. But 6he hardly 
 spoke again ; and Dixon's report to Mrs. Shaw 
 was, that " she doubted whether Miss Hale 
 heard a word of what she said, though she 
 talked the whole time, in order to divert her in- 
 tention." The consequence of being on her feet 
 all day was excessive bodily weariness in the 
 evening, and a better night's rest than she had 
 had since she had heard of Mr. Hale's death. 
 
 At breakfast time the next day, she expressed 
 her wish to go and bid one or two persons good- 
 by. Mrs. Shaw objected: 
 
 " I am sure, my dear, you can have no friends 
 here with whom you are sufficiently intimate 
 to justify you in calling upon them 60 soon ; be- 
 fore you have been at church." 
 
 ' ' But to-day is my only day ; if Captain Len- 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 141 
 
 nox comes this afternoon, and if we must — if I 
 must really go to-morrow — " 
 
 " Oh, yes ; we shall go to-morrow. I am more 
 and more convinced that this air is bad for you, 
 and makes you look so pale and ill; besides, 
 Edith expects us ; and she may be waiting me ; 
 and you can not be left alone, my dear, at your 
 age. No ; if you must pay these calls, 1 will go 
 with you. Dixon can get us a coach, I suppose ?" 
 
 So Mrs. Shaw went to take care of Margaret, 
 and took her maid with her to take care of the 
 shawls and air-cushions. Margaret's face was 
 too sad to lighten up into a smile at all this 
 preparation for paying two visits, that she had 
 often made by herself at all hours of the day. 
 She was half 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 in- 
 disposed 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 her- 
 self, and not to catch any fever, such as was al- 
 ways lurking in such places, heraunt permitted 
 her to go where she had often been before with- 
 out taking any precaution or requiring any per 1 
 mission. 
 
 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 pur- 
 pose was in coming to see them, she began to 
 cry and sob with so little restraint that Mar- 
 garet 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 sug- 
 gesting 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 Bhould come to 
 see her when he had done his work in the even- 
 ing. 
 
 As she was leaving the place, she stopped and 
 looked round ; then hesitated a little before she 
 said: 
 
 " I should like to have some little thing to re- 
 mind me of Bessy." 
 
 Instantly Mary's generosity was keenly alive. 
 What could they give ? And on Margaret's sin- 
 gling out a little common drinking-cup, which 
 she remembered as the one always standing by 
 Bessy's side with drink for her feverish lips, 
 Mary said : 
 
 "Oh, take summut better; that only cost 
 fourpenco I" 
 
 "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 hud- 
 dled 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 toward Margaret now she was go- 
 ing 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 coun- 
 tenance 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 misunder- 
 stood each other." 
 
 Mrs. Shaw looked extremely perplexed by 
 what Margaret had said. Thanks for kindness 1 
 and apologies for failure in good manners ! But 
 Mrs. Thornton replied : 
 
 "Miss Hale, I am glad you do mejustice. 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 be- 
 lieve that, though I can not — I do not choose 
 — to give explanations of my conduct, I have 
 not acted in the unbecoming way you appre- 
 hended?" 
 
 Margaret's voice was so soft, and her eyes so 
 pleading, that Mrs. Thornton was for onee af- 
 fected 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 
 toward 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 obliga- 
 tion for any kindness that has been shown to 
 her. If you and your husband ever come to 
 town, my son and daughter, Captain and Mrs. 
 Lennox, will, I am sure, join with me in wish- 
 ing to do any thing 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, toward 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 
 
142 
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 to be able to avail myself of your polite of- 
 fers." 
 
 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-by." 
 
 "You are going, thenl" said he, in a low 
 voice. 
 
 "Yes,' 7 said Margaret. "We leave to-mor- 
 row." 
 
 " 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 some- 
 thing 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 forward, 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 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 love- 
 liness oT feature 1 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 1" 
 
 And there was no tone of regret, or emotion 
 of any kind in the voice with which he said 
 good-by ; 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 de- 
 laying 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 I let us go. I can not be patient here. I 
 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 
 sympathizer, did her good. She roused up; and 
 by the time that she knew she might expect Hig- 
 gins, she was able to leave the room quietly, and 
 await in her own chamber the expected summons. 
 
 " Eh I" 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 I' 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 th' same 
 wench. And yo're going to be a grand lady 
 up i' London, aren't yo ?" 
 
 "Not a grand lady," said Margaret, half 
 smiling. 
 
 "Weill Thornton 6aid — says he, a day or 
 two ago, ' Higgins, have yo seen Miss Hale V 
 ' 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, jest 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 sha'n't 6ee her no more.' ' Measter,' 
 said I, ' if I dun not see her afore hoo goes, I'll 
 strive to get up to Lunnun next Whissuntide, 
 that I will. I'll not be baulked of saying her 
 good-by by any relations whatsomdever.' But, 
 bless yo, I knowed yo'd come. It were only for 
 to humor the measter, I let on as if I thought 
 yo'd mappen 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 how tender he was. Look, 
 Higgins 1 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 th' 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,"") 
 6aid Margaret, hurriedly. " They may need it. / 
 You've no right to refuse it for them. I would I 
 not give you a penny," she said, smiling ; " don't) 
 think there's any of it for you." 
 
 " Well, wench I I can nobbut say, Bless yo! 
 and bless yo ! — and amen." 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 It was very well for Margaret that the ex- 
 treme 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 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 143 
 
 care seemed scarcely to have penetrated. The 
 wheels of the machinery of daily life were well 
 oiled, and went along with delicious smooth- 
 ness. Mrs. Shaw and Edith could hardly make 
 enough of Margaret, on her return to what they 
 
 J ersisted in calling her home. And she felt that 
 ; was almost ungrateful in her to have a secret 
 ieling that the Helstone vicarage — nay, even 
 the poor little house at Milton, with her anxious 
 father and her invalid mother, and all the small 
 household cares of comparative poverty, com- 
 posed her idea of home. Edith was impatient 
 M;o get well, in order to fill Margaret's bedroom 
 Vith all the soft comforts, and pretty nick- 
 knacks, with which her own abounded. Mrs. 
 Shaw and her maid found plenty of occupation 
 in restoring Margaret's wardrobe to a state of 
 elegant variety. Captain Lennox was easy, 
 kind, and gentlemanly; sate with his wife in 
 her dressing-room an hour or two every day ; 
 played with his little boy for another hour, 
 and lounged away the rest of his time at his 
 club, when he was not engaged out to dinner. 
 Just before Margaret had recovered from her 
 necessity for quiet and repose — before she had 
 begun to feel her life wanting and dull — Edith 
 came down stairs and resumed her usual part 
 in the household; and Margaret fell into the 
 old habit of watching, and admiring, and ad- 
 ministering to her cousin. She gladly took all 
 charge of the semblances of duties off Edith's 
 hands ; answered notes, reminded her of engage- 
 ments, tended her when no gayety was in pros- 
 pect, and she was consequently rather inclined to 
 fancy herself ill. But all the rest of the family 
 were in the full business of the London season, 
 and Margaret was often left alone. Then her 
 thoughts went back to Milton, with a strange 
 sense of the contrast between the life there and 
 here. Sljewasjgetting surfeited of the event- 
 lejggi-ease in which no- strujgg^etox endeaxor was 
 required: — Sh«-was"afraiafKst she should even 
 become "sleepily deadened into forgetfulness of 
 any thing beyond the life which was lapping 
 her round with luxury. There might be toilers 
 and moilers there in London, but she never saw 
 them; the very, servants lived in an - under- 
 ground world of their own, of -whieh she knew 
 neither the hopes nor.the fears^ they only- seem- 
 ed to start into existence, when some want or 
 wEim of their master or mistress jReejle&_them. 
 There was a strange unsatisfied vacuum in.Mar- 
 garet's heart and mode of life £and, once when 
 she had dimly hinted this to Edith, the latter, 
 wearied with dancing the night before, languid- 
 ly stroked Margaret's cheek as she sat by her 
 in the old attitude — she on a footstool by the 
 sofa where Edith lay. 
 
 " Poor child I" said Edith. " It is a little sad 
 for you to be left, night after night, just at this 
 time when all the world is so gay! But we 
 shall be having our dinner-parties soon — as 
 ' soon as Henry comes back from circuit — and 
 then there will be a little pleasant variety for 
 you. No wonder it is moped, poor darling!" 
 
 Margaret did not feel as if the dinner-parties 
 would be a panacea. She looked forward with 
 more interest to the homely object of Dixon's 
 return from Milton ; where, until now, the old 
 servant had been busily engaged in winding 
 up all the affairs of the Hale family, under Mr. 
 Bell's direction. He had been once up to Lon- 
 
 don to see Margaret, and consult her about 
 several of the arrangements, as well as on law 
 business connected with his administration of 
 her father's effects. It was at this particular 
 time that Margaret had been thrown with Mr. 
 Henry Lennox, enough to wear off, in a great 
 measure, the shyness on her side, and the symp- 
 toms of mortified pride and vanity on his. They 
 could now meet, as Margaret believed, very 
 comfortably as friends ; though they had drift- 
 ed strangely apart from their former anchor- 
 age, side by side, in many of their opinions, 
 and all their tastes. 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 
 nursery 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 bat- 
 tled it out ; she, with a firm power which sub- 
 dued 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 ca- 1 
 ressing, till he often fell asleep in her arms, or ! 
 on her shoulder. Those were Margaret's sweet- ; 
 est moments. They gave her a taste of the j 
 feeling that she believed would be denied to 
 her forever. 
 
 At length Dixon came to assume her post as 
 Margaret's maid ; and the dinner-parties began. 
 Both were pleasant events; but neither of them 
 sufficient to still Margaret's craving for some- 
 thing different. Dixon brought endless pieces 
 of Milton gossip — how Martha had gone to live 
 with Miss Thornton on the latter's marriage; 
 with an account of the bridesmaids, dresses, 
 and breakfast at that interesting ceremony — 
 how people thought that Mr. Thornton had 
 made too grand a wedding of it, considering he 
 had lost a deal by the strike, and had had to 
 pay so much for the failure of his contracts — 
 how little money articles of furniture, long cher- 
 ished by Dixon, fetched ; which was a shame, 
 considering how rich folks were at Milton — 
 how Mrs. Thornton had come, one day, and got 
 two or three good bargains, and Mr. Thornton 
 had come the next, and, in his desire to obtain 
 one or two things, had bid against himself, much 
 to the by-standers' enjoyment; so that, as Dixon 
 observed, made things even ; if Mrs. Thornton 
 paid too little, Mr. Thornton paid too much. Mr. 
 Bell had been forever backward and forward 
 about the books; he had asked Dixon if she 
 would go with him and Miss Hale, when they 
 went to Spain in the autumn, to see Master Fred- 
 erick and his wife ; and Dixon took great credit 
 to herself for the answer she had made — namely, 
 that her soul was dearer to her than even Mas- 
 ter Frederick's own self; and that she would 
 never trust herself in a Papish country. But 
 she seemed a little to regret this reply, which 
 Mr. Bell had understood so literally as never to 
 renew his application to her; and now Dixon 
 asked Margaret whether, if she took care never 
 
144 
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 to see a priest, or enter into one of their churches, 
 there would be so very much danger of her 
 being converted? Master Frederick had gone 
 over unaccountable." 
 
 " 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 refused to go." 
 
 Dixon had not so much to tell about the 
 
 • Higginses. Her memory had an aristocratic 
 
 / bias, and was very treacherous whenever she 
 
 1 tried to recall any circumstance connected 
 
 V with those below her in life. Nicholas was 
 
 very well, she believed. He had been several 
 
 times at the house, asking for news of Miss 
 
 Margaret — the only person who ever did ask. 
 
 And Mary? Oh, of course was very well — a 
 
 great, stout, slatternly thing ! She did hear, 
 
 or perhaps it was only a dream of hers, though 
 
 it would be strange if she had dreamt of such 
 
 people as the Higginses — that Mary had gone 
 
 to work at Mr. Thornton's mill, because her 
 
 father wished her to learn how to cook ; but 
 
 what nonsense that could mean she did not 
 
 know. Margaret rather agreed with her that 
 
 the story was incoherent enough to be only 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 sub- 
 ject, 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^sug- 
 gested an idea to her of what was really his in- 
 tention — of making Margaret his heiress. But 
 her young lady gave her no encouragement, 
 nor in any way gratified Dixon's insinuating 
 inquiries, however disguised in the form of sup- 
 positions and assertions. 
 
 Margaret had not heard any hint of this 
 Spanish plan until Dixon named it; and now 
 she was afraid of letting her mind run too 
 much upon it. It seemed an outlet from the 
 monotony of her present life, which was grow- 
 ing to pall upon her. Mr. Bell would be in 
 town on law business at the time of some of 
 Edith's parties. She should see a good deal of 
 him them : doubtless he would tell her if he had 
 any such idea. 
 
 The course of Margaret's day was this: a 
 quiet hour or two before a late breakfast ; an 
 endless discussion of plans at which, although 
 they none of them concerned her, she was ex- 
 pected to be present, to give her sympathy, if 
 she could not assist with her advice ; an endless 
 number of notes to write, which Edith invari- 
 ably left to her with many caressing compli- 
 ments as to the Eloquence du billet; a little 
 play with Sholto, as he returned from his walk ; 
 lunch ; the care of the children during the serv- 
 ants' dinner ; a drive or callers ; and some din- 
 ner or evening engagement for her aunt and 
 cousins, which left Margaret free, it is true, but 
 rather wearied with the inanity of the day, 
 coming on depressed spirits and delicate health. 
 
 Edith piqued herself on her dinner-parties ; 
 " So different," as she said, " from the old heavy 
 dowager dinners under mamma's re'gime;" and 
 Mrs. Shaw seemed to take exactly the same 
 kind of torpid pleasure in the very different 
 
 arrangements and circle of acquaintance which 
 were to Captain and Mrs. Lennox's taste, as she 
 did in the more formal and ponderous enter- 
 tainments which she herself used to give. Cap- 
 tain Lennox was always extremely kind and 
 brotherly to Margaret. She was really very 
 fond of him ; excepting when he was anxiously 
 attentive to Edith's dress and appearance, with 
 a view to her beauty making a sufficient im- 
 pression in the world. Then all the latent 
 Vashti in Margaret was roused, and she could 
 hardly keep herself from expressing her feel- 
 ings. 
 
 Mr. Henry Lennox returned from circuit; 
 and his frequent presence at his brother's 
 house added a new element not disagreeable 
 to Margaret. He appeared colder and more 
 brilliant than formerly; but there were strong 
 intellectual tastes, and much and varied knowl- 
 edge, which gave flavor to the hitherto rather 
 insipid conversation. Margaret saw glimpses 
 of a slight contempt for both his brother and 
 his 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 inquiry, as to whether he meant entire- 
 ly to relinquish his profession ; and on Captain 
 Lennox's reply that he had quite enough to 
 live upon, sift 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 1 
 other, in the way that any two persons are j 
 where the one is cleverer and always leads the J 
 other, and this last is patiently content to fte I 
 led. Mr. Lennox Wilfi .pushing on in his prAy 
 fession ; cultivating with profound purpose all 
 those connections that" might eventually be of 
 service to him ; keen-sighted, far'seemgrmtelli- 
 getft, sarcastic, and proud. Margaret "had had 
 one long conversation with him, in Mr. Bell's 
 presence, about Frederick's case; and it was 
 then that Mr. Bell learnt, for the first time, 
 from Margaret of her brother's stolen visit to 
 England ; and not even to him did she tell the 
 full details, which she had never breathed to 
 any one. Excepting that once, she had had no 
 settled conversation with Mr. Lennox. She 
 thought that he rather avoided being left alone 
 with her ; she fancied she saw traces of the feel- 
 ing best described by the expression of " owing 
 her a grudge." And yet when he had spoken 
 unusually well, or with remarkable epigram- 
 matic point, she felt that his eye sought the 
 expression of her countenance first of all, if bat 
 for an instant ; and that, in the family inter- 
 course 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. 
 
 With regard to the dinner-parties — Edith's 
 friends contributed the beauty, Captain Len- 
 nox's the easy knowledge of the subjects of the 
 day; and Mr. Henry Lennox, and the sprink- 
 ling of rising men, whom he brought about the 
 house, as privileged brother-in-law, contributed' 
 the wit, the cleverness, the keen and extensive 
 knowledge"; Of wMcTrffiey~knew. well ESLto 
 avail themselves when occasion required with- 
 out seeming pedants, or burdening the rapid 
 flow of conversation. These dinners were de- 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 145 
 
 lightful ; but even here Margaret's dissatisfac- 
 tion found her out. Every talent, every feeling, 
 every acquirement — nay, every tendency to- 
 ward virtue, was used-up as materials for fire- 
 works. One day, after the gentlemen had come 
 up into the drawing-room, Mr. Lennox drew 
 near 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 expres- 
 sive," 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 ! Do you remember the happy epithets ?" 
 
 " And despise them, you would like to add. 
 Pray, don't scruple, though he is my friend." 
 
 " There I that is the exact tone in you that — " 
 She stopped short. He listened for a moment 
 to see if she would finish her sentence; but 
 she only reddened, and turned away; before 
 she did so, she heard him say, in a very low, 
 clear voice : v 
 
 "If my tones or modes of thought are what 
 you dislike, will you do me the justice to tell 
 me so, and give me the chance of learning to 
 please you I" 
 
 Mr. Bell did not come up when Margaret ex- 
 pected him. He missed all the dinner-parties; 
 which Edith regretted continually, declaring 
 she was so worn out by the heat that she did 
 not think she had strength enough left in her 
 to give another. This she said with a little air 
 of apology to Margaret, as if she would have 
 wished to pay every attention to her friend; 
 and Margaret could hardly succeed in assuring 
 her that Mr. Bell was the last man in the world 
 to consider himself neglected by any such omis- 
 sion. " Only let him come here in a free way 
 whenever he likes, and you can not please him 
 more. I want him to see you, Edith ; you know 
 you were ill all the time he was here in May." 
 
 "And I am in shocking looks now," said the 
 beauty, glancing at herself complacently in the 
 glass. 
 
 " Oh, it is not at all for your beauty : it's be- 
 cause I love you so much, you naughty Edith, 
 that I want him to see you!" 
 
 " And do you really still think of Spain in 
 this weather?" 
 
 "It will be cooler before September- Oh, 
 
 yes 1 I think of going to Cadiz terribly much 
 
 — just in that absorbing, willful^ way which is 
 
 / sure to be disappointed*— or else gratifiedjEo*the 
 
 leffler^while ia the.spir.it it gives ho pleasure." 
 
 " But that's superstitious, I'm sure, Marga- 
 ret." 
 
 "Ho; I don't think it is. Only it ought to 
 , warn me, and check me from forming such pas- 
 ! eionate wishes. It is a sort of ' Give me chil- 
 dren, or I die 1' , I'm afraid my cry is, ' Let me 
 , go to Cadiz, or else I die.' " 
 — "My dear Margaret] You'll be persuaded 
 to stay there ; and then what shall I do ? Oh, 
 I wish I could find somebody for you to marry 
 here, that I could be sure of youl" 
 £ 
 
 " I shall never marry." 
 
 "Nonsense, and double nonsense! Why, as 
 Sholto says, you're such an attraction to the 
 house, that next year he knows ever so many 
 men who will be glad to come." 
 
 Margaret drew herself up haughtily. "Do 
 you know, Edith, I sometimes think your Corfu 
 life has taught you — " 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " Just a shade or two of coarseness." 
 
 Edith began to sob so bitterly, and to declare 
 so vehemently that Margaret had lost all love 
 for her, and no longer looked upon her as a 
 friend, that Margaret came to thiDk she had ex- 
 pressed too harsh an opinion for the relief of 
 her own wounded pride, and ended by being 
 Edith's slave for the rest of the day ; while that 
 little lady, overcome by wounded feeling, lay 
 like a victim on the sofa, heaving occasionally a 
 profound sigh. 
 
 Mr. Bell did not make his appearance even 
 on the day to which he had for a second time 
 deferred his visit. The next morning there came 
 a letter from Wallis, stating that his master had 
 not been feeling well for some time, which had 
 been the true reason of his putting off his jour- 
 ney, and that at the very time when he should 
 have set out for London, he had been seized 
 With an apoplectic fit; it was, indeed, Wallis 
 added, the opinion of the medical men that he 
 could not survive the night; and more than 
 probable that by the time Miss Hale received 
 this letter, his poor master would be no more. 
 Edith cried terribly at this 6hoek, perhaps the 
 nearest way in which she had ever been brought 
 into contact with death. Here was a man who 
 was to have dined with them to-day, lying dead 
 or dying instead. Margaret's quiet tears fell 
 unnoticed. How fatal this year had been to 
 her! No sooner was she fully aware of one 
 loss, but another came — not to supersede her 
 grief for the one before, but to reopen wounds 
 and feelings scarcely healed. At last Edith 
 started up with, "I can't wait till to-morrow. 
 I will ask Sholto to go to Oxford ; he can be 
 back to dinner, I do bo hate suspense !" 
 
 Margaret wished for a long time in silence 
 that she might accompany him; but the first 
 faint mention of this idea worried her aunt so 
 much that she nearly gave it up ; and then the 
 thought of her father's friend, her own friend, 
 lying at the point of death, came upon her with 
 such vividness that she surprised even herself 
 by asserting something of her right to independ- 
 ence of action ; and almost before she thought 
 that they had consented, she found herself in 
 the railway carnage with Captain Lennox. 
 
 It was always a comfort to her to think that 
 she had gone ; though it was only to hear that 
 he had died in the night. She > saw the rooms 
 that he had occupied, and associated them ?ver 
 after most fondly in her memory'with the idea 
 of her father and his one cherished and faithful 
 friend. They had promised Edith before start- 
 ing, that if all had ended, as they feared, they 
 would return to dinner ; so that long lingering 
 look around the room in which her father had 
 died, had to be interrupted, and a quiet fare- 
 well taken of the kind old face that had so often 
 come out with pleasant words, and merry quips 
 and cranks. Captain Lennox fell asleep on their 
 journey home, and Margaret could cry at leis- 
 
146 
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 ore ; till at the sound of cheerful voices, merry 
 little Sholto's glee, and at the sight of well- 
 lighted rooms, aDd Edith pretty even in her pale- 
 Bess and her eager, sorrowful interest, Margaret 
 roused herself from her heavy trance of almost 
 superstitious hopelessness, and began to feel that 
 even around her joy and gladness might gather. 
 She had Edith's place on the sofa ; Sholto was 
 taught to carry aunt Margaret's cup of tea very 
 carefully to her; and by the time she went up 
 to dress she could thank God for having spared 
 her dear old friend a long or a painful illness. 
 
 CHAPTER XLV. 
 
 "Is not Margaret the heiress?" whispered 
 Edith to her husband, as they were in their room 
 alone at night after the sad journey to Oxford. 
 She had pulled his tall head down, and stood 
 upon tiptoe, and implored him not to be shocked, 
 before she had ventured to ask this question. 
 Captain Lennox was, however, quite in the 
 dark ; if he had ever heard, he had forgotten ; 
 it could not be much that a Fellow of a small 
 college had to leave ; but he had never wanted 
 her to pay for her board ; and two hundred and 
 fifty pounds a year was something ridiculous, 
 considering that she did not take wine. Edith 
 came down upon her feet a little bit sadder, 
 with a romance blown to pieces. 
 
 A week afterward, she came prancing toward 
 her husband, and made him a low courtesy: 
 
 " I am right, and you are wrong, most noble 
 Captain. Margaret has had a lawyer's letter, 
 and she is residuary legatee — the legacies being 
 about two thousand pounds, and the reminder 
 about forty thousand, at the present value of 
 property in Milton." 
 
 " Indeed ! and how does she take her good 
 fortune ?" 
 
 " Oh, it seems she knew she was to have it 
 all along ; only she had no idea it was so much. 
 She looks very white and pale, and saj-s she's 
 afraid of it ; but that's nonsense, you know, and 
 will soon go off. I left mamma pouring con- 
 gratulations down her throat, and stole away to 
 tell you." 
 
 It seemed to be supposed, by general consent, 
 that the most natural thing was to consider Mr. 
 Lennox henceforward as Margaret's legal ad- 
 viser. She was so entirely ignorant of all forms 
 of business that in nearly every thing she had 
 to refer to him. He chose out her attorney ; he 
 came to her with papers to be signed. He was 
 never so happy as when teaching her of what 
 all these mysteries of the law were the signs 
 and types. 
 
 "Henry," said Edith, one day, archly; "do 
 you know what I hope and expect all these long 
 conversations with Margaret will end in ?" 
 
 " No, I don't," said he, reddening. " And I 
 desire you not to tell me." 
 
 " Oh, very well ; then I need not tell Sholto 
 not to ask Mr. Montagu so often to the house." 
 
 " Just as you choose," said he, with forced 
 coolnasss. " What you are thinking of, may or 
 may not happen; but this time, before I com- 
 mit myself, I will 6ee my ground clear. Ask 
 whom you choose. It may not be very civil, 
 Edith, but if you meddle in it you will mar it. 
 
 She has been very farouche with me for a long 
 time ; and is only just beginning to thaw a lit- 
 tle from her Zenobia ways. She has the making 
 of a Cleopatra in her, if only she were a little 
 more pagan." 
 
 " For my part," said Edith, a little maliciously, 
 "I'm very glad she is a Christian. I know so 
 very few !" 
 
 There was no Spain for Margaret that au- 
 tumn ; although to the last she hoped that some 
 fortunate occasion would call Frederick to Paris, 
 whither she could easily have met with a con- 
 voy. Instead of Cadiz, 6he had to content her- 
 self with Cromer. To that place her aunt Shaw 
 and the Lennoxes were bound. They had all 
 along wished her to accompany them, and, con- 
 sequently, with their characters, they made but 
 lazy efforts to forward her own separate wish. 
 Perhaps Cromer was, in one sense of the ex- 
 pression, the best for her. She needed bodily 
 strengthening and bracing as well as rest. 
 
 She used to sit long hours upon the beach, 
 gazing intently on the waves as they chafed 
 with perpetual motion against the pebbly shore 
 — or she looked out upon the more distant heave 
 and sparkle against the sky, and heard, without 
 being conscious of hearing, the eternal psalm, 
 which went up continually. She was soothed 
 without knowing how or why. Listlessly she 
 sat there, on the ground, her hands clasped round 
 her knees, while her Aunt Shaw did small shop- 
 pings, and Edith and Captain Lennox rode far 
 and wide on 6hore and inland. The nurses, 
 sauntering on with their charges, would pass 
 and repass her, and wonder in whispers what 
 she could find to look at so long, day after day. 
 And when the family gathered at dinner-time, 
 Margaret was so silent and absorbed that Edith 
 voted her moped, and hailed a proposal of her 
 husband's with great satisfaction, that Mr. 
 Henry Lennox should be asked to take Cromer 
 for a week, on his return from Scotland in 
 October. 
 
 But all this time for thought enabled Mar- 
 garet to put events in their right places, as to 
 origin and significance, both as regarded her 
 past life and her future. Those hours by the 
 sea-side were not lost, as any one might have 
 seen who had had the perception to read, or 
 the care to understand, the look that Margaret's 
 face was gradually acquiring. Mr. Henry Len- 
 nox was excessively struck by the change. 
 
 "The sea has done Miss Hale an immense 
 deal of good, I should fancy," said he, when 
 she first left the room after his arrival in their 
 family circle. "She looks ten years younger 
 than she did in Harley Street." 
 
 "That's the bonnet I got her!" said Edith, 
 triumphantly. "I knew it would suit her the 
 moment I saw it." 
 
 "I beg your pardon," said Mr. Lennox, in 
 the half-contemptuous, half-indulgent tone he 
 generally used to Edith. "But I believe I 
 know the difference between the charms of a 
 dress and the charms of a woman. No mere 
 bonnet would have made Miss Hale's eyes sc*r 
 lustrous and yet so soft, or her lips so ripe and 
 red — and her face altogether so full of peace 
 and light. She is like, and yet more" — he 
 dropped his voice — "like the Margaret Hale 
 of Helstone." 
 
 From this time the clever and ambitious man 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 /Bent all hia powers to gaming Margaret. He 
 ( loved her sweet beauty. He saw the latent 
 \ sweep of her mind, which could easily (he 
 ^thought) be led to embrace all the objects on 
 ■which he had set his heart. He looked upon 
 her fortune only as a part of the complete and 
 superb character of herself and her position: 
 yet he was fully aware of the rise- which it 
 would immediately enable him, the poor bar- 
 rister, to take. Eventually he would earn such 
 success, and such honors, as would enable him 
 to pay her back, with interest, that first ad- 
 vance in wealth which he should owe to her. 
 He had been to Milton on business connected 
 with her property, on his return from Scotland ; 
 and with the quick eye of a skilled lawyer, 
 ready ever to take in and weigh contingencies, 
 he had seen that much additional value was 
 yearly accruing to the lands and tenements 
 / which she owned in that prosperous and in- 
 creasing town. He was glad to find that the 
 present relationship between Margaret and him- 
 self, of client and legal adviser, was gradually 
 superseding the recollection of that unlucky, 
 mismanaged day at Helstone. He had thus 
 unusual opportunities of intimate intercourse 
 with her, besides those that arose from the 
 connection between the families. .» 
 
 Margaret was only too willing to listen as 
 long as he talked of Milton, though he had seen 
 none of the people whom she more especially 
 knew. It had been the tone with her aunt 
 and cousin to speak of Milton with dislike and 
 contempt; just such feelings as Margaret was 
 ashamed to remember she had expressed and 
 felt on first going to live there. But Mr. Len- 
 nox almost exceeded Margaret in his apprecia- 
 tion of the character of Milton and its inhabit- 
 ants. Their energy, their power, their indom- 
 itable courage in struggling and fighting; their 
 lurid vividness of existence, captivated and ar- 
 rested his attention. He was never tired of 
 talking about them ; and had never perceived 
 how selfish and material were too many of the 
 ^ehds tlreypruposed- to themselves as therFesult 
 ofall their mighty, untiring endeavor, till. Mar- 
 garet, even' in—the- midst of her gratification, 
 had the candor to point this out, as the taint- 
 ing sin in so much that was noble and to be 
 admired. - Still, when other subjects palled 
 upon her, and she gave but short answers to 
 many questions, Henry Lennox found out that 
 an inquiry as to some Darkshire peculiarity of 
 character, called back the light into her eye, 
 the glow into her cheek. 
 
 When they returned to town, Margaret ful- 
 filled one of her sea-side resolves, and took her 
 life into her own hands. Before they went to 
 Cromer, she had been as docile to her aunt's 
 laws as if she were still the scared little stran- 
 ger who cried herself to sleep that first night 
 in the Harley Street nursery. But she had 
 
 r learnt, in those solemn hours of thought, that 
 s he h e rself must o ne day answer for Tier own 
 life, ana_wnat sEe~Ead done "with" it ; and sne 
 tried io'settle that "most "difficult problem foT 
 \ womelirhow~nTuch7was to "Be utterly mergedin 
 obedience to - authority, and Bow "much miglit 
 I ^pset apart for freedom in working. Mrs. Sfraw 
 was as good-tempersjl as eould be^ and Edith 
 haf jnHerited this charming domestic quality ; 
 Margaret herselFKad probftWy ttw worst temper 
 
 147 
 
 of the three, forherquick perceptions, and over- 
 of heart, which made her mariners, even in her |' 
 
 01 tne inree, io rner quicK perceptions, auu over- i 
 Hvely^agma^tionmadB^rhSa^'aiiherJearly I 
 isolation from sympatny had made her proud; 
 
 ." sympathy had made her jprou 
 MflJaBTe" childlike s'weeTniss 
 
 r arely willfu l n rgods, irresistible of old; and how, 
 chastene3~even™By what the world called" her I 
 good fortuBe; she" charmed b'er reluetant aunt / 
 into acquiescence with her will. JSoMargarev 
 gained the acknowledgment of ier rigBirto'fbt'-* 
 low-tar' 'own '.ideas of duty. 
 
 "Only don't bestrong-minded," pleaded Edith. 
 "Mamma wants you to have a footman of your 
 own ; and I'm sure you're very welcome, for 
 they're great plagues. Only to please me, dar- 
 ling, don't go and have a strong mind ; it's the , 
 only thing I ask. Footman or no footman, don't 
 be strong-minded." 
 
 " Don't be afraid, Edith. I'll faint on your 
 hands at the servant's dinner-time, the very first 
 opportunity ; and then, what with Sholto play- 
 ing with the fire, and the baby crying, you'll 
 begin to wish for a strong-minded woman, equal 
 to any emergency." 
 
 "And you'll not grow too good to joke and 
 be merry ?" 
 
 " Not I. I shall be merrier than I have ever 
 been, now I have got my own way." 
 
 " And you'll not go a figure, but let me buy 
 your dresses for you?" 
 
 " Indeed I mean to buy them for myself. You 
 shall come with me if you like ; but no one can 
 please me but myself." / 
 
 " Oh I I was afraid you'd dress in brown and 
 dust-colored, not to show the dirt you'll pick 
 up in all those places. I'm glad you're going 
 to keep one or two vanities, just by way of 
 specimens of the old Adam." 
 
 " I'm going to be just the same, Edith, if you 
 and my aunt could but fancy so. Only as I have 
 pci'f.hor ^neKnT^ Tm- .chiltLto^jisa. ma -natural 
 duties, I must make myself some, in addition to 
 ordering my .gowns." 
 
 In the family conclave, which was made up 
 of Edith, her mother, and her husband, it was 
 decided that perhaps all these plans of hers 
 would only secure her the more for Henry 
 Lennox. They kept her out of the way of 
 other friends who might have eligible sons or 
 brothers; and it was also agreed that she never 
 seemed to take much pleasure in the society of • 
 any one but Henry, out of their own family. 
 The other admirers, attracted by her appear- . 
 ance or the reputation of her fortune, were 
 swept away by her unconscious smiling disdain 
 into the paths frequented by other beauties 
 less fastidious, or other heiresses with a larger 
 amount of gold. Henry and she grew slowly 
 into closer intimacy; but neither he nor she 
 were people to brook the slightest notice of 
 their proceedings. 
 
 Meanwhil e J _at_Milton the ch im neys, smoked, 
 the ceas eless roax .anoTmightyTjeat, and dizzy- ' 
 ing-wmrl of mSmnery^sEFHf gTe3"and"ttrove 
 perpetually. Senseless and" purposeless— were,,; />' 
 wood and iron and steam in their endless la^ v 
 bors; but thfl p«yflig{«B«e-ef- their- monotonous 0, 
 work was rivajed jn_tireless endurance by the -^ ^ 
 strong crowds, who, witE sense and with pur- V 
 pose, .wer e busy and restless in seeking after — 
 What \ In the streets there were few loiterers 
 — none walking for mere pleasure ; every man's 
 
148 
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 face was getjn. lines, j of -ea g erness or anxiety; 
 news was sought for with fierce^ avidity ; and 
 nien jostled each other aside in the Mart and in 
 the Exchange, as they did Jn life, in- the deep 
 selfishness of competition. There was gloom 
 over the town. Few came to buy, and those 
 who did were looked at suspiciously by the 
 sellers; for credit was insecure, and the most 
 stable might have their fortunes affected by 
 the sweep in the great neighboring port among 
 the shipping houses. Hitherto there had been 
 no failures in Milton; but, from the immense 
 speculations that had come to light in making 
 a bad end in America, and yet nearer home, it 
 was known that some Milton houses of business 
 must suffer so severely that every day men's 
 faces asked, if their tongues did not, "What 
 news? Who is gone? How will it affect me?" 
 And if two or three spoke together, they dwelt 
 rather on the names of those who were safe 
 than dared to hint at those likely, in their own 
 opinion, to go ; for idle breath may, at such 
 times, cause the downfall of some who might 
 otherwise weather the storm ; and one going 
 down drags many after. " Thornton is safe," 
 say they. " His business is large — extending 
 every year; but such a head as he has, and so 
 prudent with all his daring!" Then one man 
 draws another aside, and walks a little apart, and 
 with head inclined into his neighbor's ear, he 
 says, "Thornton's business is large; but he has 
 spent his profits in extending it ; he has no cap- 
 ital laid by; his machinery is new within these 
 two years, and has cost him — we won't say 
 what! — a word to the wise!" But that Mr. 
 Harrison was a croaker — a man who had suc- 
 ceeded to his father's trade-made fortune, which 
 he feared to lose by altering his mode of business 
 to any having a larger scope ; yet he grudged 
 every penny made by others more daring and 
 far-sighted. 
 
 But the truth was, Mr. Thornton was hard 
 pressed. He-_feli_it acutely in his vulnerable 
 point — his pride in the commercial character 
 wljjch he had established for himself. Archi- 
 tect of his own fortunes, he attributed this to 
 no "especial merit or qualities of his own, but 
 to the power which he believed that commerce 
 gave to every brave, honest, ami persevering 
 man to raise himself to a level from which he 
 • might see and read the great game of worldly 
 success, and honestly, by such far-sightedness, 
 command more power and influence than in any 
 other mode of life. Far away, in the East and 
 in the West, where his person would never be 
 known, his name was to be regarded, and his 
 wishes to be "fulfilled, and his word pass like 
 gold. That was the idea of merchant-life 
 with which Mr. Thornton had started. " Her 
 merchants be like princes," said his mother, 
 reading the text aloud, as if it were a trumpet- 
 call to invite her boy to the struggle. He was 
 tut like many others — men, women, and child- 
 ren — ralive to distant, and~dead-to near-things. 
 He sought to possess the influence Of a name in 
 (foreign countries and Tar- aw ay seas— £o become 
 i the head of a firm that should be known for 
 | generations; and it had taken him long, silent 
 years to come even to a glimmeringof what he 
 might be now, to-day, here in his own town, 
 | his own factory, among his own people. He 
 ' and they had led parallel lives — very close, but 
 
 nevjrtouching — till the accident(or soft seem- 
 ^7~oTl ^i^gqu ain{airee - witlT Higgins. * Once 
 brought fac e "tofac e^ man to man, with an in- 
 dividual oTthe masses around him, and (lake 
 notice) out of the character of master and work- 
 man, in the first instance, they_iad each be- 
 gun to recognize that "ye hav e ^1 , 1 "f n» ™ j» 
 humahTieartT' It was the fine point of the 
 wedge; and until now, when the apprehension 
 of losing his connection with two or three of 
 the workmen whom he had so lately begun to 
 know s as"nreiF=of having a plan or two, which 
 "were, experiments lyingTEry'close to his heart, 
 roughly nipped off without a trial — gave a new 
 poignaacyto the subtle fear that came over 
 him from time to time ; until now, he had never 
 recognized how much and how deep was the 
 iirteTest'hehad" grown of Tate to feel mjiispo- 
 sition as manufacturer, simply because it led 
 him_ into such close contact, and gave him thej 
 opportunity of so much power, among a race; 
 of people strange, shrewd., ignorant; hut, above] 
 allviuU^lchariister jindjitrong human feeling. 
 
 He reviewed his position as a'Milton manu-f 
 facturer. The strike a year and a half ago — 
 or more, for it was now untimely wintry wea- 
 ther, in a late spring-^thjit strike, when he was 
 young, and henpw.. was old — had prevented 
 his completing some of the large orders he had 
 then on hand. He had locked up a good deal 
 of his capital in new and expensive machinery, 
 and he had also bought cotton largely, for the 
 fulfillment of these orders, taken under contract. 
 That he had not been able to complete them, 
 was owing in some degree to the utter want of 
 skill on the part of the Irish-hands whom he had 
 imported; much of their work was damaged 
 and unfit to be sent forth by a house which 
 prided itself on turning out nothing but first- 
 rate articles. For many months, the embar- 
 rassment caused by the strike had been an ob- 
 stacle in Mr. Thornton's way ; and often, when 
 his eye fell on Higgins, he could have spoken 
 angrily to him without any present cause, just 
 from feeling how serious was the injury that 
 had arisen from this affair in which he was im- 
 plicated. But when he became conscious of 
 this sudden, quick resentment, he resolved to 
 curb it. It would not satisfy him to avoid 
 Higgins ; Jifi_must convince himself that he was 
 master over his own anger, by being particu- 
 larly careful to allow Higgins access to him, 
 whenever the strict rules of business, or Mr. 
 Thornton's leisure permitted. And h3'-and-by, 
 he lost all sense of resentment in wonder how 
 it was, or could be, that two men like himself 
 and Higgins, living by the same trade, work- 
 ing in their different ways at the same object, 
 couldlook upon each other's position and duties 
 in so strangely differentia way. And thence 
 arose that intercourse, which, though it might 
 not have the effeot of preventing all future 
 clash of opinion and action, when the occasion 
 arose, would, at any rate, enable both master 
 and man to look upon each other with far more 
 charity and sympathy, and bear with each 
 other more patiently and kindly. Besides this 
 improvement of feeling, b oth M r._,Thflrn.to:n.and 
 his-workmen found .put their ignorance as to 
 positive matters of faot, known heretofore to 
 one side, but not to the other. 
 
 But now had come one of those periods of 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 149 
 
 bad trade, when the market falling brought 
 down the value of all large stocks ; Mr. Thorn- 
 ton's fell to nearly half. No orders were com- 
 ing in ; so he lost the interest of the capital he 
 had locked up in machinery; indeed, it was 
 difficult to get payment for the orders com- 
 pleted ; yet there was the constant drain of ex- 
 penses for working the business. Then the 
 bills came due for the cotton he had purchased ; 
 and money being scarce he could only borrow 
 at exorbitant interest, and yet he could not 
 realize any of his property. But he did not 
 despair ; he exerted himself day and night to 
 foresee and'to provide for all emergencies; he 
 was as calm and gentle to the women in his 
 home as ever; to the workmen in his mill he 
 spoke not many words, but they knew him by 
 this time; and many a curt, decided answer 
 was received by them rather with sympathy 
 for the care they saw pressing upon him, than 
 with the suppressed antagonism which had 
 formerly been smouldering, and ready for hard 
 words and hard judgments on all occasions. 
 "Th' measter's a deal to potter him," saidHig- 
 gins, one day, as he heard Mr. Thornton's short, 
 sharp inquiry, why such a command had not 
 been obeyed ; and caught the sound of the sup- 
 pressed sigh whieh he heard in going past the 
 room where some of the men were working. 
 Higgins and another man stopped over-hours 
 that night, unknown to any one, to get the 
 neglected piece of work done ; and Mr. Thorn- 
 ton never knew but that the overlooker, to 
 whom he had given the command in the first 
 instance, had done it himself. 
 
 " Eh!" I reckon I know who'd ha' been sorry 
 for to 1 see our measter sitting so like a piece o' 
 gray calico ! Th' ou'd parson would ha' fretted 
 his woman's heart out, if he'd seen the woeful 
 looks I have seen on our measter's face," thought 
 Higgins, one day, as he was approaching Mr. 
 Thornton in Marlborough Street. 
 
 "Measter," said he, stopping his employer in 
 his quick resolved walk, and causing that gen- 
 tleman to look up with a sudden annoyed start, 
 as if his thoughts had been far away. 
 
 "Have yo' heefd aught of Miss Marget late- 
 ly?" 
 
 " Miss — who ?" replied Mr. Thornton. 
 
 "Miss Marget — Miss Hale — th' ou'd parson's 
 daughter — yo' known who I mean well enough, 
 if yo'll only think a bit — " (there was nothing 
 disrespectful in the tone in which this was said). 
 
 "Oh, yes!" and suddenly, the wintry frost- 
 bound look of care had left Mr. Thornton's face, 
 as if some soft summer gale had blown all anxie- 
 ty away from his mind ;' and though his mouth 
 was as much compressed as before, his eyes 
 smiled out benignly on his questioner. 
 
 " She's my landlord now, you know, Higgins. 
 I hear of her through her agent here every now 
 and then. She's well and among friends — thank 
 you, Higgins." That " thank you" that lingered 
 after the other words, and yet came with so 
 much warmth of feeling, let in a new light to 
 the acute Higgins. It might be but a will o' 
 th' wisp, but he thought he would follow it 
 and ascertain whither it would lead him. 
 
 "And she's not getten married, measter?" 
 
 " Not yet." The face was cloudy once more. 
 "There is some talk of it, asl understand, with 
 a connection of the family." 
 
 "Then she'll not be for coming to Milton 
 again, I reckon." 
 
 "No!" 
 
 " Stop a minute, measter.'' Then going up 
 confidentially close, he said, "Isth' young gen- 
 tleman cleared?" He enforced the depth of 
 his intelligence by a wink of the eye, whieh only 
 made things more mysterious to Mr. ThorntOD. 
 
 " Th' young gentleman, I mean — Master Fred- 
 erick, they ca'ed him — her brother as was over 
 here, yo' known." 
 
 "Over here!" 
 
 "Ay, to be sure, at th' missus's death. Yo 
 need na be feared of my telling ; for Mary and 
 me, we knowed it all along, only we held our 
 peace, for we got it through Mary working in 
 th' house. 
 
 " And he was over. It was her brother 1" 
 
 " Sure enough, and I reckoned you knowed 
 it, or I'd never ha' let on. Yo knowed she had 
 a brother ?" 
 
 "Yes, I know all about him. And he was 
 over at Mrs. Hale's death ?" 
 
 " Nay ! I'm not going for to tell more. I've 
 maybe getten them into mischief already, for 
 they kept it very close. I nohbnt wanted to 
 to know if they'd getten him cleared?" 
 
 "Not that I know of. I know nothing. I 
 only hear of Miss Hale, now, as my landlord, 
 and through her lawyer." 
 
 He broke off from Higgins to follow the busi- 
 ness on which he had been bent when the latter 
 first accosted him, leaving Higgins baffled in 
 his endeavor. 
 
 " It was her brother," said Mr. Thornton to 
 himself. "I am glad. I may never see her 
 again ; but it is a comfort — a relief — to know 
 that much. I knew she could not be unmaid- 
 enly; and yet I yearned for conviction. Now 
 I am glad!" 
 
 It was a little golden thread running through 
 the dark web of his present fortunes: which 
 were growing ever gloomier and more gloomy. 
 His agent had largely trusted a house in the 
 American trade, which went down, along with 
 several others, just at this time, like a pack of 
 cards, the fall of one compelling other failures. 
 What were Mr. Thornton's engagements ? Could 
 he stand? 
 
 Night after night he took books and papers 
 into his own private room, and sate up there 
 long after the family were gone to bed. He 
 thought that no one knew of this occupation 
 of the hours he should have spent in sleep. 
 One morning, when daylight was stealing in 
 through the crevices of his shutters, and he had 
 never been in bed, and in hopeless indifference 
 of mind was thinking that he could do without 
 the hour or two of rest that he should be able 
 to take before the stir of daily labor began 
 again, the door of this room opened, and his 
 mother stood there, dressed as she had been the 
 day before. She had never laid herself down 
 to slumber more than he. Their eyes met 
 Their faces were cold and rigid, and wan, from 
 long watching. 
 
 "Mother! why are not you in bed?" 
 
 " Son John," said she, " do you think I can 
 sleep with an easy mind, while you keep awake 
 full of care? You have not told me what your 
 trouble is ; but sore trouble you have had these 
 many days past." 
 
150 
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 " Trade is bad." 
 
 " And you dread — " 
 
 "I dread nothing," replied he, drawing up 
 his head, and holding it erect. " I know now 
 that no man will suffer by me. That was my 
 anxiety." 
 
 "But how do you stand? Shall you — will 
 it be a failure ?" her steady voice trembling in 
 an unwonted manner. 
 
 " Not a failure. I must give up business, but 
 I pay all men. I might redeem myself — I am 
 sorely tempted — " 
 
 " How ? Oh, John I keep up your name — try 
 all risks for that. How redeem it ?" 
 
 " By a speculation offered to me, full of risk ; 
 but, if successful, placing me high above water- 
 mark, so that no one need ever know the Btrait 
 I am in. Still, if it fails—" 
 
 "And if it fails," said she, advancing, and 
 laying her hand on his arm, her eyes full of 
 eager light. She held her breath to hear the 
 end of his speech. 
 
 "Honest men are ruined by a rogue," said 
 he, gloomily. " As I stand now, my creditors' 
 money is safe — every farthing of it ; but I don't 
 know where to find my own — it may be all 
 gone, and I penniless at this moment. There- 
 fore, it is my creditors' money that I should 
 risk." 
 
 "But if it succeeded, they need never know. 
 Is it so desperate a speculation? I am sure it 
 is not, or you would never have thought of it. 
 If it succeeded — " 
 
 "I should be a rich man, and my peace of 
 conscience would be gone I" 
 
 " Why ! You would have injured no one." 
 
 ' ' No I but I should have run the risk of ruin- 
 
 .ing many for my own paltry aggrandizement. 
 
 Mother, I have decided! You won't much 
 
 grieve over our leaving this house, shall you, 
 
 dear mother?" 
 
 " No ! but to have you other than what you 
 are will break my heart. "What can you do?" 
 
 " Be always the same John Thornton in what- 
 ever circumstances; endeavoring to do right, 
 and making great blunders; and then trying 
 to be brave in setting-to afresh. But it is hard, 
 mother. I have so worked and planned. I 
 have discovered new powers in my situation 
 too late — and now all is over. I am too old to 
 begin again with the same heart. It is hard, 
 mother." 
 
 He turned away from her, and covered his 
 face with his hands. 
 
 " I can't think," said she, with gloomy defi- 
 ance in her tone, " how it comes about. Here 
 is my_boy — good son, just man, tender heart — 
 and he falls in all Tie sets his mind upon : he 
 finds a woman to love, and she cares no more 
 for his affection than if he had been any com- 
 mon man ; he labors and his labor comes to 
 naught. Other people prosper and grow rich, 
 and hold their paltry names high and dry above 
 shame." 
 
 " Shame never touched me," said he, in a low 
 tone : but she went on. 
 
 "I sometimes have wondered where justice 
 was gone to, and now I don't believe there is 
 such a thing in the world — now you are come 
 to this; you, my own John Thornton, though 
 you and I may be beggars together — my own 
 dear sonl" 
 
 She fell upon his neck, and kissed him through 
 her tears. 
 
 " Mother !" said he, holding her gently in his 
 arms, "Who has sent me my lot in life, both 
 of good and of evil?" 
 
 She shook her head. She would have no- 
 thing to do with religion just then. 
 
 "Mother," he went on, seeing that she would 
 not speak, " I, too, have been rebellious ; but 
 I am striving to be so no longer. Help me, as 
 you helped me when I was a child. Then you 
 said many good words — when my father died, 
 and we were sometimes sorely short of com- 
 forts — which we shall never be now ; you said 
 brave, noble, trustful words then, mother, which 
 I have never forgotten, though they may have 
 lain dormant. Speak to me again in the old 
 way, mother. Hajjotletus-liayfi ta think that 
 the world has toouimieh - -hardened our hearts. 
 If you would say the old good words, it would 
 make me feel something of the pious simplicity 
 of my childhood. I say them to myself, but 
 they would come differently from you, remem- 
 bering all the cares and trials you have had to 
 bear." 
 
 "I have had a many," said she, sobbing, 
 "but none so sore as this. To see you cast 
 down from your rightful place. I could say 
 it for myself John, but not for you. Not for 
 you ! God has seen fit to be very hard on you — 
 very." 
 
 She shook with the sobs that come so con- 
 vulsively when an old person weeps. The 
 silence around her struck her at last ; and 
 she quieted herself to listen. No sound. She 
 looked. Her son sate by the table, his arms 
 thrown half across it, his head bent face down- 
 ward. 
 
 " Oh, John !" she said, and she lifted his face 
 up. Such a strange, pallid look of gloom was 
 on it. For a moment it struck her that this 
 look was the forerunner of death; but, as the 
 rigidity melted out of the countenance and the 
 natural color returned, and she saw that he 
 was himself once again, all worldly mortifica-^ 
 tion sank to nothing before the consciousness/ 
 of the great blessing that he himself by his/ 
 simple existence was to her. She thanked Godl 
 for this, and this alone, with a fervor that] 
 swept away all rebellious feelings from her 
 mind. 
 
 He did not speak readily ; but he went and 
 opened the shutters, and let the ruddy light of 
 dawn flood the room. But the wind was in 
 the east; the weather was piercing cold, as it 
 had been for weeks; there would bs no de- 
 mand for light summer goods this year. That 
 hope for the revival of trade must utterly be 
 given up. 
 
 It was a great comfort to have had this con- 
 versation with his mother; and to feel sure 
 that L however. they mi ght hen ceforward keep 
 silence on all these anxieties, they yet under- 
 stood each other's feelings, and were, if not in* 
 harmony, not at least in discord with each 
 other, in their way of viewing them. Fanny's 
 husband was vexed at Thornton's refusal to take 
 any share in the speculation which he had of- 
 fered to him, and withdrew from any possibility 
 of being supposed able to assist him with the 
 ready money which indeed the speculator need- 
 ed for his own venture. 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 151 
 
 There was nothing for it at last but that 
 ■which Mr. Thornton had dreaded for many 
 ■weeks ; he had to give up the business in which 
 he had been so long engaged with so much 
 honor and success, and look out for a subordi- 
 nate situation. Marlborough Mills and the ad- 
 jacent dwelling were held under a long lease; 
 they must, if possible, be relet. There was an 
 immediate choice of situations offered to Mr. 
 Thornton. Mr. Hamper would have been only 
 too glad to have secured him as a steady and 
 experienced partner for his son, whom he was 
 setting up with a large capital in a neighboring 
 town; but the young man was half educated 
 as regarded information, and wholly uneducated 
 as regarded any other responsibilities than that 
 of getting money, and brutalized both as to his 
 
 Pleasures and his pains. Mr. Thornton declined 
 aving any share in a partnership which would 
 frustrate what few plans he had that survived 
 the wreck of his fortunes. He would sooner 
 consent to be only a manager, where he could 
 have a certain degree .of- power -fcey&nd the 
 mere money-getting fact than„baveJa.&U in 
 wlIhThe^yranmcat humors of a money edjpart- 
 ner with whom he felt sure -that-ha-should 
 quarrel in a few months. So he waited, and 
 stood on one side with profound humility, as the 
 news swept through the Exchange, of the enor- 
 mous fortune which his brother-in-law had 
 made by his daring speculation. It was a nine 
 days' wonder. Success brought with it its 
 worldly consequence of extreme admiration. 
 No one was considered so wise and far-seeing 
 as Mr. "Watson. 
 
 CHAPTER XL VI 
 
 It was a hot summer's evening. Edith came 
 into Margaret's bedroom the first time in her 
 habit, the second ready dressed for dinner. No 
 one was there at first; the next time Edith 
 found Dixon laying out Margaret's dress on the 
 bed; but no Margaret. Edith remained to 
 fidget about. 
 
 " Oh, Dixon ! not those horrid blue flowers to 
 that dead gold-colored gown. What taste 1 
 Wait a minute, and I will bring you some 
 pomegranate blossoms." 
 
 "It's' not a dead gold-color, ma'am. It's a 
 straw-color. And blue always goes with straw- 
 color." But Edith had brought the brilliant 
 scarletflowers before Dixon had got half through 
 her remonstrance. 
 
 " Where is Miss Hale ?" asked Edith, as soon 
 as she had tried the effect of the garniture. " I 
 can't think," she went on, pettishly, "how my 
 aunt allowed her to get into such rambling 
 habits in Milton ! I'm sure I'm always expect- 
 ing to hear of her having met with something 
 horrible among all those wretched places she 
 pokes herself into. I should never dare to go 
 down some of those streets without a servant. 
 They're not fit for ladies." 
 
 Dixon was still huffed about her despised 
 taste ; so she replied, rather shortly : 
 
 " It's no wonder to my mind, when I hear 
 ladies talk such a deal about being ladies — and 
 when they're such fearful, delicate, dainty ladies 
 too — I say it's no wonder to me that there are 
 no longer any saints on earth — " 
 
 "Oh, Margaret! here you are I I have been 
 so wanting you. But how your cheeks are 
 flushed with the heat, poor child I But only 
 think what that tiresome Henry has done. Re- 
 ally, he exceeds brother-in-law's limits. Just 
 when my party was made up so beautifully — 
 fitted in so precisely for Mr. Colthurst — there 
 has Henry come, with an apology it is true, 
 and making use of your name for an excuse, 
 and asked me if he may bring that Mr. Thorn- 
 ton of Milton — your tenant, you know — who is 
 in London about some law business. It will 
 spoil my number, quite." 
 
 " I don't mind dinner. I don't want any," 
 said Margaret, in a low voice. "Dixon can get 
 me a cup of tea here, and I will be in the draw- 
 ing-room by the time you come up. I shall 
 really be glad to lie down." 
 
 " No, no ! that will never do. Tou do look 
 wretchedly white to be sure ; but that is just 
 the heat, and we can't do without you possibly. 
 (Those flowers a little lower, Dixon. They look 
 glorious flames in your black hair.) You know 
 we planned you to talk about Milton to Mr. 
 Colthurst. Oh, to be 6ure 1 and this man comes 
 from Milton. I believe it will be capital, after 
 all. Mr. Colthurst can pump him well on all 
 the subjects in which he is interested, and it 
 will be great fun to trace out your experiences, 
 and this Mr. Thornton's wisdom, in Mr. Colt- 
 hurst's next speech in the House. Really, I 
 think it is a happy hit of Henry's. I asked 
 him if he was a man one would be ashamed of; 
 and he replied, 'Not if you've any sense in you, 
 my little sister.' So I suppose he is able to 
 sound his h's, which is not a common Darkshire 
 accomplishment — eh, Margaret ?" 
 
 " Mr. Lennox did not say why Mr. Thornton 
 was come up to town? Was it law business 
 connected with the property?" asked Marga- 
 ret, in a constrained voice. 
 
 "Oh I he's failed, or something of the kind 
 that Henry told you of that day you had such 
 a headache — what was it ? (There, that's cap- 
 ital, Dixon. Miss Hale does us credit, does she 
 not ?) I wish I was as tall as a queen, and as 
 brown as a gipsy, Margaret." 
 "But about Mr. Thornton?" 
 " Oh 1 I really have such a terrible head for 
 law business. Henry will like nothing better 
 than to tell you all about it. I know the im- 
 pression he made upon me was, that Mr. Thorn- 
 ton is very badly off, and a very respectable 
 man, and that I'm to be very civil to him ; and 
 as I did not know how, I came to you to ask 
 you to help me. And now come down with me, 
 and rest on the sofa for a quarter of an hour." 
 The privileged brother-in-law came early; 
 and Margaret, reddening as she spoke, began 
 to ask him the questions she wanted to hear 
 answered about Mr. Thornton. 
 
 " He came up about this sub-letting the prop- 
 erty — Marlborough Mills, and the house and 
 premises adjoining, I mean. He is unable to" 
 keep it on ; and there are deeds and leases to 
 be looked over, and agreements to be drawn 
 up. I hope Edith will receive him properly ; 
 but she was rather put out, as I could see, by 
 the liberty I had taken in begging for an in- 
 vitation for him. But I thought you would 
 like to have some attention shown him; and 
 one would be particularly scrupulous in paying 
 
152 
 
 NOKTH AMD SOUTH. 
 
 every respect to a man -who is going down in 
 the -world." He had dropped his voice to speak 
 to Margaret, by whom he was sitting ; but as 
 he ended he sprang tip, and introduced Mr. 
 Thornton, who had that moment entered, to 
 Edith and Captain Lennox. 
 
 Margaret looked with an anxious eye at Mr. 
 Thornton while he was thus occupied. It was 
 considerably more than a year since she had 
 seen him ; and events had occurred to change 
 him much in that time. His fine figure yet 
 bore him above the common height of men; 
 and gave him a distinguished appearance from 
 the ease of motion which arose out of it, and 
 was natural to him ; but his face looked older 
 and care-worn ; yet a noble composure sate 
 upon it, which impressed those who had just 
 been hearing of his changed position with a 
 sense of inherent dignity and manly strength. 
 He was aware, from the first glance he had 
 given round the room, that Margaret was there ; 
 he had seen her intent look of occupation as 
 she listened to Mr. Henry Lennox ; and he came 
 up to her with the perfectly regulated manner 
 of an old friend. With his first calm words a 
 vivid color flashed into her cheeks, which never 
 left them again during the evening. She did 
 not seem to have much to say to him. She dis- 
 appointed him by the quiet way in which she 
 asked what seemed to him to be the merely 
 necessary questions respecting her old acquaint- 
 ance in Milton ; but others came in — more in- 
 timate in the house than he — and he fell into 
 the background, where he and Mr. Lennox talk- 
 ed together from time to time. 
 
 "You think Miss Hale looking well," said 
 Mr. Lennox, "don't you? Milton didn't agree 
 with her, I imagine ; for when she first came 
 to London, I thought I had never seen any one 
 so much changed. To-night she is looking radi- 
 ant But she is much stronger. Last autumn 
 she was fatigued with a walk of a couple of 
 miles. On Friday evening we walked up to 
 Hampstead and back. Yet on Saturday she 
 looked as well as she does now." 
 
 "Wei" Who? They two alone? 
 
 Mr. Colthurst was a very clever man, and a 
 rising member of parliament. He had a quick 
 eye at discerning character, and was struck by 
 a remark which Mr. Thornton made at dinner- 
 time. He inquired from Edith who that gen- 
 tleman was; and, rather to her surprise, she 
 found, from the tone of his "Indeed!" that Mr. 
 • Thornton of Milton was not such an unknown 
 name to him as she had imagined it would be. 
 Her dinner was going off well. Henry was in 
 good-humor, and brought out his dry, caustic 
 wit admirably. Mr. Thornton and Mr. Colt- 
 hurst found one or two mutual subjects of in- 
 terest, which they could only touch upon then, 
 reserving them for more private after-dinner 
 talk. Margaret looked beautiful in the pome- 
 granate flowers; and if she did lean back in 
 her chair and speak but little, Edith was not 
 annoyed, for the conversation flowed on smooth- 
 ly without her. Margaret was watching Mr. 
 Thornton's face. He never looked at her; so 
 she might study him unobserved, and note the 
 changes which even this short time had wrought 
 in him. Only at some unexpected mot of Mr. 
 Lennox's his face flashed out into the old look 
 of intense enjoyment; the merry brightness re- 
 
 turned to his eyes, the lips just parted to sug- 
 gest the brilliant smile of former days ; and for 
 an instant, his glance instinctively sought hers 
 as if he wanted her sympathy. But when their'', 
 eyes met, his whole countenance changed; he / 
 was grave and anxious once more ; and he reso- f 
 lutely avoided even looking near her again dur- 1 
 ing dinner. 
 
 There were only two ladies besides their own 
 party, and as these were occupied in conversa- 
 tion by her aunt and Edith, when they went up 
 into the drawing-room, Margaret languidly em- 
 ployed herself about some work. Presently the 
 gentlemen came up, Mr. Colthurst and Mr. 
 Thornton in close conversation. Mr. Lennox 
 drew near to Margaret, and said in a low voice: 
 
 "I really think Edith owes me thanks for 
 my contribution to her party. You've no idea 
 what an agreeable, sensible fellow this tenant 
 of yours is. He has been the very man to give 
 Colthurst all the facts he wanted coaching in. 
 I can't conceive how he contrived to mismanage 
 his affairs." 
 
 "With his powers and opportunities you 
 would have succeeded," said Margaret. He 
 did not quite relish the tone in which she spoke, 
 although the words but expressed a thought 
 which had passed through his own mind. As 
 he was silent, they caught a swell in the sound 
 of conversation going on near the fire-place be- 
 tween Mr. Colthurst and Ml-. Thornton. 
 
 "I assure you, I heard it spoken of with great 
 interest — curiosity as to its result perhaps I 
 should rather say. I heard your name fre- 
 quently mentioned during my short stay, in the 
 neighborhood." Then the}' lost some words; 
 and when next they could hear Mr. Thornton 
 was speaking. 
 
 "I have not the elements for popularity — if 
 they spoke of me in that way they were mis- 
 taken. I fall slowly into new projects ; and I 
 find it difficult to let myself bo known even by 
 those whom I desire to know, and with whom 
 I would fain have no reserve. Yet, even with 
 all these drawbacks, I felt that I was on the 
 right path, and that, starting from u kind of 
 friendship with one, I was becoming acquaint- 
 ed with many. The advantages were mutual : 
 we were both unconsciously and consciously 
 teaching each other." , 
 
 " You say 'were.' I trust you are intending 
 to pursue the same course ?" 
 
 " I must stop Colthurst," said Henry Lennox, 
 hastily. And by an abrupt, yet apropos ques- 
 tion, he turned the current of the conversation, 
 so as not to give Mr. Thornton the mortification 
 of acknowledging his waut of success and con- 
 sequent change of position. But as soon as the 
 newly-started subject had come to a close, Mr. 
 Thornton resumed the conversation just where 
 it had been interrupted, and gave Mr. Colthurst 
 the reply to his inquiry. 
 
 "I have been unsuccessful in business, and 
 have had to give up my position as a master. 
 I am on the look out for a situation in Milton, 
 where, I may meet with employment under 
 some one who will be willing to let me go along 
 in my own way in such matters as these. I can 
 depend upon myself for having no go-ahead 
 theories that I would rashly bring into prac- 
 tice. My only wish is to have the opportunity 
 of cultivating some intercourse with the hands 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 1S3 
 
 '^ejond-tlie-me^e-i-eaBlmexus.' But it might 
 be the point Archimedea sought from •which to 
 move the earth, to judge from the importance 
 attached to it by some of our manufacturers, 
 who shake their heads and look grave as soon 
 as I name the one or two experiments that I 
 should like to try." 
 
 "You call them ' experiments,' I notice,'' said 
 Mr. Colthurst, with a delicate increase of respect 
 in his manner. 
 
 " Because I believe them to be such. I am 
 not sure of the consequences that may result 
 from them. But I am sure they ought to be 
 tried." 
 
 " And you think they may prevent the recur- 
 rence of strikes?" 
 
 "Not at all. My utmost expectation ' only 
 goes so far as this — that they may render strikes 
 not the bitter, venomous sources of hatred they 
 have hitherto been. A more hopeful man might 
 imagine that a closer and more genial inter- 
 course between classes might do away with 
 strikes. But I am not a hopeful man." 
 
 Suddenly, as if a new idea had struck him, 
 he crossed over to where Margaret was sitting, 
 and began, without preface, as if he knew she 
 had been listening to all that had passed : 
 
 "Miss Hale, I had a round -robin from some 
 of my men — I suspect inHiggins's handwriting 
 — stating their wish to work for me, if ever I 
 was in a position to employ men again on my 
 own behalf. That was good, wasn't it ?" 
 
 " Yes. Just right. I'm glad of it," said Mar- 
 garet, looking up straight into his face with her 
 speaking eyes, and then dropping them under 
 his eloquent glance. He gazed back at her for 
 a minute, as if he did not know exactly what 
 he was about. Then sighed; and saying, "I 
 knew you would like it," he turned away, and 
 never spoke to her again until he bade her a 
 formal "good-night." 
 
 As Mr. Lennox took his departure, Margaret 
 said, with a blush that she could not repress, 
 and with some hesitation, 
 
 " Can I speak to you to-morrow ? I want 
 your help about — something." 
 
 " Certainly. I will come at whatever time 
 you name. You can not give me a greater 
 pleasure than by making me of any use. At 
 eleven ? Very well." 
 
 His eye brightened with exultation. How she 
 was learning to depend upon him ! It seemed 
 as if any day now might give him the certainty, 
 without having which he had determined never 
 to offer to her again. 
 
 CHAPTER XLYIL 
 
 Edith went about on tip-toe,, and checked 
 Sholto in all loud speaking that next morning, 
 as if any sudden noise would interrupt the con- 
 ference that was taking place in the drawing- 
 room. Two o'clock came, and they still sate 
 there with closed doors. Then there was a 
 man's footstep running down stairs ; and Edith 
 peeped out of the drawing-room. 
 
 "Well, Henry?" said she, with a look of in- 
 terrogation. 
 
 " Weill" said he, rather shortly. 
 
 • Come in to lunch!" 
 
 "No, thank you, I can't. I've lost too much 
 time here already." 
 
 "Then it's not all settled?" said Edith, de- 
 spOndingly. 
 
 "No! not at all. It never will be settled, if 
 the ' it' is what I conjecture you mean. That 
 will never be, Edith, so give up thinking about 
 it." 
 
 "But it would be so nice for us all," pleaded 
 Edith. " I should always feel comfortable about 
 the children, if I had Margaret settled down 
 near me. As it is, I am always afraid of her 
 going off to Cadiz." 
 
 "I will try when I marry to look out for a 
 young lady who has a knowledge of the man- 
 agement of children. That is all I can do. Miss 
 Hale would not have me. And I shall not ask 
 her." 
 
 "Then, what have you been talking about?" 
 
 " A thousand things you would not under- 
 stand. Investments, and leases, and value of 
 land." 
 
 "Oh, go away, if that's all. You and she 
 will be unbearably stupid if you've been talk- 
 ing all this time about such weary things." 
 
 ' ' Very well. I'm coming again to morrow, 
 and bringing Mr. Thornton with me to have 
 some more talk with Miss Hale." 
 
 "Mr. Thornton I What has he to do with it?" 
 
 "He is Miss Hale's tenant," said Mr. Lennox, 
 turning- away. "And he wishes to give up his 
 lease." 
 
 " Oh ! very well. I can't understand details, 
 so don't give them me." 
 
 " The only detail I want you to understand 
 is, to let us have the back drawing-room un- 
 disturbed, as it was to-day. In general, the 
 children and servants are so in and out, that I 
 can never get any business satisfactorily ex- 
 plained; and the arrangements we have to 
 make to-morrow are of importance. 
 
 No one ever knew why Mr. Lennox did not 
 keep to his appointment on the following day. 
 Mr. Thornton came true to his time; and, after 
 keeping him waiting for nearly an hour, Mar- 
 garet came in looking very white and anxious. 
 
 She began hurriedly : 
 
 " I am so* sorry Mr. Lennox is not here — he 
 could have done it so much better than I. He 
 is my adviser in this — " 
 
 " I am sorry that I came if it troubles you. 
 Shall I go to Mr. Lennox's chambers and try 
 and find him?" 
 
 " No, thank you. I wanted to tell you how 
 grieved I was to find that I am to lose you as 
 a tenant. But, Mr. Lennox says, thing3 are 
 sure to brighten — " 
 
 " Mr. Lennox knows little about it," said Mr. 
 Thornton, quietly. " Happy and fortunate in 
 all a man eares for, he does not understand 
 what it is to find one's self no longer young — 
 yet 'IhTOwTT back to" fne" starting-pOiHiTwnich C-< 
 req"utFes"'the hop'eful^ffirrgjr-of-youttP^to feel 
 oi»e-hdtf™of^ifeJg5HS3OT~nothing^ done— no- 
 tiiiug r5maanlBg^'Waated«&ppor.UimJty.l)ut The 
 bitter recollection that jt hasbeen. Miss Hale, 
 I would rather not hear Mr. Lennox's opinion 
 of my affairs. Those who are happy and suc- 
 cessful themselves are too apt to make light of 
 the misfortunes of others." 
 
 "You are unjust," said Margaret, gently. 
 "Mr. Lennox has only spoken of the great 
 
154 
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 probability which he believes there to be of 
 your redeeming — your more than redeeming 
 what you have lost — don't speak till I have 
 ended — pray don't 1" And collecting herself 
 once more, she went on rapidly turning over 
 some law papers and statements of accounts 
 in a trembling, hurried manner. "Oh! here 
 it is ! and — he drew me out a proposal — I wish 
 he was here to explain it — showing that if you 
 would take some money of mine, eighteen hun- 
 dred and fifty-seven pounds, lying just at this 
 moment unused in the bank, and bringing me 
 in only two and a half per cent. — you could 
 pay me much better interest, and might go on 
 working Marlborough Mills." Her voice had 
 cleared itself and become more steady. Mr. 
 Thornton did not speak, and she went on look- 
 ing for some paper on which was written down 
 the proposals for security; for she was most 
 sanxious to have it all looked upon in the light 
 ;of a mere business arrangement, in which the 
 principal advantage would be on her side. 
 While she sought for this paper, her very heart- 
 j pulse was arrested by the tone in which Mr. 
 \ Thornton spoke. His voice was hoarse and 
 trembling with tender passion as he said : 
 
 "Margaret!" 
 
 For an instant she looked up; and then 
 sought to vail her luminous eyes by dropping 
 her forehead on her hands. Again, stepping 
 nearer, he besought her with another tremu- 
 lous eager call upon her name. 
 
 *' Margaret 1" 
 
 Still lower went the head ; more closely hid- 
 den was the face, almost resting on the table 
 before her. He came close to her. He knelt 
 by her side to bring his face to a level with 
 her ear; and whispered — panted out the 
 words : • 
 
 "Take care! If you do not speak — I 6hall 
 claim you as my own in some strange pre- 
 sumptuous way. Send me away at once, if I 
 must go — Margaret! — " 
 
 At that third call, she turned her face, still 
 covered with her small white hands, toward 
 him, and laid it on his shoulder, hiding it even 
 there ; and it was too delicious to feel her soft 
 cheek against his, for him to wisk to see either 
 deep blushes or loving eyes. He clasped her 
 
 close. But they both kept silence.' At length 
 she murmured in a broken voice : 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Thornton, I am not good enough !" 
 
 "Not good enough! Don't mock my own 
 deep feeling of unworthiness." 
 
 After a minute or two, he gently disengaged 
 her hands from her face, and laid her arms as 
 they had once before been placed to protect 
 him from the rioters. 
 
 "Do you remember, love?" he murmured. 
 "And how I requited you with my insolence 
 the next day." 
 
 "I remember how wrongly I spoke to you 
 — that is all." 
 
 " Look here 1 Lift up your head. I have 
 something to show you!" She slowly faced 
 him, glowing with beautiful shame. 
 
 " Do you know these roses t" he said, draw- 
 ing out his pocket-book, in which were treas- 
 ured up some dead flowers. 
 
 " No I" she replied, with innocent curiosity. 
 " Did I give them to you ?" 
 
 " No, Vanity ; you did not. You may have 
 worn sister roses, very probably." 
 
 She looked at them, wondering for a minute, 
 then she smiled a little as she said — 
 
 "They are from Helstone, are they not? I 
 know the deep indentations round the leaves. 
 Oh! have you been there? When were you 
 there?" 
 
 " I wanted io see the place where Margaret 
 grew to what she is, even at the worst time of 
 all; when I had no hope of ever calling her 
 mine. I went there on my return from Havre." 
 
 " You muBt give them to me," she said, try- 
 ing to take them out of his hand with gentle 
 violence. 
 
 "Very well Only you must pay me for 
 them!" 
 
 "How shall I ever tell Aunt Shaw?" she 
 whispered, after some time of delicious silence. 
 
 "Let me speak to her." 
 
 " Oh, no ! I owe to her — but what will she 
 say?" 
 
 "" I can guess. Her first exclamation will be, \ 
 'That man!'" i 
 
 "Hush!" said Margaret, "or I shall try and ! 
 show you your mother's indignant tones as she 
 says, ' That woman I* " 
 
 THE END. 
 
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