North and South

‘If it has been Mrs. Thornton’s home for some years, I can well understand her loving it,’ said Margaret, in her clear bell-like voice.

‘What are you saying about me, Miss Hale? May I inquire?’

Margaret had not the words ready for an answer to this question, which took her a little by surprise, so Miss Thornton replied:

‘Oh, mamma! we are only trying to account for your being so fond of Milton.’

‘Thank you,’ said Mrs. Thornton. ‘I do not feel that my very natural liking for the place where I was born and brought up—and which has since been my residence for some years, requires any accounting for.’

Margaret was vexed. As Fanny had put it, it did seem as if they had been impertinently discussing Mrs. Thornton’s feelings; but she also rose up against that lady’s manner of showing that she was offended.

Mrs. Thornton went on after a moment’s pause:

‘Do you know anything of Milton, Miss Hale? Have you seen any of our factories? our magnificent warehouses?’

‘No!’ said Margaret. ‘I have not seen anything of that description as yet.’ Then she felt that, by concealing her utter indifference to all such places, she was hardly speaking with truth; so she went on:

‘I dare say, papa would have taken me before now if I had cared. But I really do not find much pleasure in going over manufactories.’

‘They are very curious places,’ said Mrs. Hale, ‘but there is so much noise and dirt always. I remember once going in a lilac silk to see candles made, and my gown was utterly ruined.’

‘Very probably,’ said Mrs. Thornton, in a short displeased manner. ‘I merely thought, that as strangers newly come to reside in a town which has risen to eminence in the country, from the character and progress of its peculiar business, you might have cared to visit some of the places where it is carried on; places unique in the kingdom, I am informed. If Miss Hale changes her mind and condescends to be curious as to the manufactures of Milton, I can only say I shall be glad to procure her admission to print-works, or reed-making, or the more simple operations of spinning carried on in my son’s mill. Every improvement of machinery is, I believe, to be seen there, in its highest perfection.’

‘I am so glad you don’t like mills and manufactories, and all those kind of things,’ said Fanny, in a half-whisper, as she rose to accompany her mother, who was taking leave of Mrs. Hale with rustling dignity.

‘I think I should like to know all about them, if I were you,’ replied Margaret quietly.

‘Fanny!’ said her mother, as they drove away, ‘we will be civil to these Hales: but don’t form one of your hasty friendships with the daughter. She will do you no good, I see. The mother looks very ill, and seems a nice, quiet kind of person.’

‘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! at any rate John must be satisfied now.’

CHAPTER 13 A Soft Breeze in a Sultry Place (#ulink_6676c1a2-7bf0-5833-9ceb-a10babb3913e)

‘That doubt and trouble, fear and pain,

And anguish, all, are shadows vain,

That death itself shall not remain;

That weary deserts we may tread,

A dreary labyrinth may thread,

Thro’ dark ways underground be led;

Yet, if we will one Guide obey,

The dreariest path, the darkest way

Shall issue out in heavenly day;

And we, on divers shores now cast,

Shall meet, our perilous voyage past,

All in our Father’s house at last!’

R. C. TRENCH.

Margaret flew up stairs as soon as their visitors were gone, and put on her bonnet and shawl, to run and inquire how Bessy Higgins was, and sit with her as long as she could before dinner. As she went along the crowded narrow streets, she felt how much of interest they had gained by the simple fact of her having learnt to care for a dweller in them.

Mary Higgins, the slatternly younger sister, had endeavoured 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 unwashed appearance. Although the day was hot, there burnt a large fire in the grate, making the whole place feel like an oven. Margaret 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 Bessy. 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 Margaret 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.

‘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’ common. Most fine folk tire my eyes out wi’ their colours; but some how 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 back, and shut her eye 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 incidentally. 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 wish you could see it. I cannot tell you half its beauty. There are great trees standing 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, tinkling 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 Bessy. ‘But go on.’

‘Then, here and there, there are wide commons, high up as if above the very tops of the trees—’

‘I’m glad of that. I felt smothered like down below. When I have gone for an out, I’ve always wanted to get high up and see far away, and take a deep breath o’ fulness in that air. I get smothered enough in Milton, and I think the sound yo’ speak of among the trees, going on for ever 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 rest me—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 cannot enjoy heaven without 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, laying 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, and let me have a little piece o’ quiet—and wi’ the fluff filling my lungs, until I thirst to death for one long deep breath o’ the clear air yo’ speak on—and my mother gone, and I never able to tell her again how I loved her, and o’ all my troubles—I think if this life is th’ end, and that there’s no God to wipe away all tears from all eyes—yo’ wench, yo’!’ said she, sitting 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, turning her head uneasily from side to side.

‘I’m very wicked. I’ve spoken very wickedly. 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.’