 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Megan Olson in Waxaw, North Carolina, September 2007. North and South by Elizabeth Cleighorn Gaskell. Chapter 22 A Blow and Its Consequences But work grew scarce, while bread grew dear, and wages lessened too. For Irish hoards were bidders here, our half-paid work to do. Corn Law Rhymes Margaret was shown into the drawing-room. It had returned into its normal state of bag and covering. The windows were half-open because of the heat, and the Venetian blinds covered the glass, so that a grey, grim light reflected from the pavement below, threw all the shadows wrong, and combined with a green-tinged upper light to make even Margaret's own face, as she caught it in the mirrors, looked ghastly and won. 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 wiles. Fanny came in at last. Mama will come directly, Miss Hale. She desired me to apologise 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 hadn't a right to get labour where he could, and the stupid wretches here wouldn't work for him. Now they frightened these poor Irish-starvelling soul with their threats, and 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 Mama is seeing about their food, and John is speaking to them, for some of the women are crying to go back. Ah! Here's Mama. 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 her with her request. However, it was only in compliance with Mrs. Thornton's express 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. They're at the gates. They'll batter them in. Call John, I say. And simultaneously the gathering tramp, to which she had been listening instead of heeding Margaret's words, was heard just right outside 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, fascinated to look on the scene which terrified them. Mrs. Thornton, the women's 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 commanding voice seemed to have been like the taste of blood to the infuriated multitude outside. Here the two 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, unearthly groan that even Mrs. Thornton was white with fear as she proceeded 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 handsome man. Margaret had always dreaded lest her courage should fail her in any emergency, and she should be proved to be, what she dreaded 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 in intense sympathy, intense to painfulness, in the interests of the moment. Mr. Thornton came frankly forwards. I am sorry, Miss Hale, you are visited thus at this unfortunate moment, when, I fear, you may be involved in whatever risk we have to bear. Mother, hadn't you better go into the back rooms? I'm not sure whether 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, addressing the upper servant. And she went, followed by the others. Ah, stop here! 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 garrets, with many a cry and a shriek. Mr. Thornton smiled scornfully, as he heard them. He glanced at Margaret, standing all by herself at the window, nearest the factory. Her eyes glittered, her colour was deepened on cheek and lip. As if she had 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? In the factory there. Yes, I left them cowering 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 measured composure, with which he did everything. He made some little calculation. Supposing Williams got straight off when I told him, and hadn't adored about amongst them. It must be twenty minutes yet. Twenty minutes? said his mother, for the first time showing her terror in the tone of her voice. Shut down the windows instantly, mother, exclaimed he. The gates won't bear such another shock. Shut down that window, Miss Ale. Margaret shut down her window, and then went to assist Mrs. Thornton's trembling fingers. 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 up. Are they gone? asked she in a whisper. Gone, replied he, listen. She did listen. They all could hear the one great, straining breath, the creak of wood slowly yielding, the wrench of iron, the mighty fall of the ponderous gates. Fanny stood up, tottering, made a step or two towards her mother, and fell forwards into her arms in a fainting fit. Mrs. Thornton lifted her up with the 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 upstairs, Miss Hale? Margaret's lips formed a know, but he could not hear her speak, for the tramp of innumerable 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 cries not many moments before. Never mind, said he, thinking to encourage her. I am very sorry you should have been entrapped into all this alarm, but it cannot last long now. A few minutes more, and the soldiers will be here. Oh God! cried Margaret, 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? asked Mr. Thornton coolly, and coming close to the window to discover 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 nothing. 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 had provoked. Let them yell, 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 minutes, Miss Hale. Don't be afraid from me, she said hastily. But what in five minutes? Can you do nothing to sue 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 makes 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. Oh, we'll go. Perhaps I may ask you to accompany me downstairs and bar the door behind 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 downstairs 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 anything save the savage satisfaction of the rolling angry murmur. She threw the window wide open. Many in the crowd were mere boys, cruel and thoughtless. Cruel because they were thoughtless. Some were men, gaunt as wolves, and mad for prey. She knew how it was. They were like voucher, with starving children at home, relying on ultimate 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 voucher's face, for lonely 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 hash of their noise, inarticulate as that of a troop of animals. She tore off her bonnet, and bent forwards to hear. She could only see, for if Mr. Thornton had indeed made the attempt to speak, the momentary 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 violence. Margaret felt intuitively that in an instant all would be uproar. The first touch would cause an explosion, in which, among such hundreds 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 barriers of reason or apprehension of consequence. Even while she looked, she saw lads in the background 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, downstairs, she had lifted the great iron bar of the door with an imperious force, had thrown the door open wide, and was there, in the face of that angry sea of men, her eyes smiting them with flaming arrows of reproach. 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 between them and their enemy. She could not speak, but held out her arms towards 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 horse whisper. Mr. Thornton stood a little on one side. He had moved away from behind her, as if jealous of anything that should come between him and danger. Go! 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, whatever they are. Shall the Irish blackheads be packed back again? asked one from out of 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 them. 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 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! said she. You did not see what I saw. If she thought her sex would be a protection. 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 slunk 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 a fright, but changed not her position, only hid her face on Mr. Thornton'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 distinct. 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 and circled in one for an instant. You do well, said he. You come to oust the innocent stranger, you fall, you hundreds on one man, and when a woman comes before you to ask you 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. The storm were meant for thee, but thou art 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 doorstep, her head leaning against the frame. Can you rest there? He asked. But without waiting for her answer, he walked 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 amongst them with his arms folded, in precisely the same attitude as he had been in on the steps. But the retrograde movement towards 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 eyelashes, and dropped down. And, heavier, slower 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 attitude, looking after their retreat with defiant eyes. The moment that retreat had changed into a flight, as it was sure from its very character 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 anger 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 troops, and be quelled by the thought of their narrow escape. While these thoughts crossed his mind, Margaret clung to the doorpost to steady herself. But a film came over her eyes. He was only just in time to catch her. Mother, mother! cried he. Come down, they are gone. And Miss Ayle is hurt. He bore her into the dining-room, and later on the sofa there. Later down softly, and looking on her pure white face, the sense of what she was to him came upon him so keenly that he spoke it out in his pain. Oh, my Margaret, my Margaret! No one can tell what you are 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 Ayle is hurt, mother. A stone has grazed her temple. She has lost a good deal of blood, I'm afraid. She looks very seriously hurt. I could almost fancy her dead, said Mrs. Thornton, a good deal alarmed. It is only a fainting fit. She has spoken to me since. But all the blood in his body seemed to rush inwards 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 attendants. But every pulse beat in him as he remembered how she had come down and placed herself in the 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 unnecessary 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 their fears. There they declared they would not stop and claim to be sent back, and so he had to think and talk and reason. Mrs. Thornton bathed Margaret's temples with eidu cologne. As the spirit touched the wound, which till then neither Mrs. Thornton 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 contracted, 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, said Jane, shrinking back. Them rabble may be all about. I don't think the 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 will not have the time taken up with our errands. They'll have enough to do to catch some of the mob. You 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. Couldn't Anna go, ma'am? Why, Anna? Why any 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, Mama! How you terrified me! I thought you were a man that had gotten to the house. Nonsense! The men are all gone away. There are soldiers all round this place seeking for their work now. It is too late. Miss Hale is lying on the dining-room sofa, badly hurt. I'm going for the doctor. Oh, don't, Mama! They'll murder you! She clung to her mother's gown. Mrs. Thornton wrenched it away with no gentle hand. Find me someone else to go, but that girl must not bleed to death. Bleed? How horrid! How has she got hurt? I don't know. I have no time to ask. Go down to her, Fanny, and do try to make yourself 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 refusals 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 a thought of wounds and bloodshed in the very house. Oh, Jane! said she, creeping into the dining-room. Well, she's 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 days of the swoon made her still miserably faint. She was conscious of movement around her, and of refreshment from the edu cologne, and 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, where they are yet fully aware, not merely of the actions of those around them, but of the idea that is the motive for such actions. Jane paused in her bathing, to reply to Miss Thornton's question. She'd have been safe enough, Miss, if she stayed in the drawing-room or come up to us. We were in the front garret, and could see it all, out of arm's way. Where was she, then? asked Fanny, drawing near her by the slow degrees, as she became accustomed to the sight 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? Near, Miss, that's not for me to say, answered Jane, with a slight 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? asked Fanny sharply. Don't speak in these half sentences, or I can't understand 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 Ayle with her arms about Master's neck, hugging him before all the people. I don't believe it, said Fanny. I know she cares for my brother. Anyone 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 around his neck. Poor young lady, she's paid for it dearly if she did. It's my belief that the blow has given her such an ascendancy of blood to the head as she'll never get the better from. She looks like a corpse now. Oh, I wish Mama 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 his wet tears are 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 colour 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. Low 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, instinctly 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 colour came for a moment into her face, when he asked to examine the wound in her forehead, and she glanced up at Jane, as if shrinking from her inspection more than from the doctors. It is not much, I think. I am better now. I must go home. Not until I've applied some strips of plaster, and you've 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. Mama 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 Mama, if they should hear. Besides, I must go, said she vehemently. I cannot stay here. May I ask for a cab? You are quite flushed and feverish, observed 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 anything, 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 anything. It is the air of this room that makes me feel so miserable. She lent 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 departure 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-bye. 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 had reached Crampton Crescent, for fear of alarming 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 from utterly losing consciousness in another hideous, sickly swoon. End of Chapter 22 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Megan Olson in Waxon, North Carolina, September 2007. North and South by Elizabeth Clegghorn Gaskell. Chapter 23 Mistakes Which, when his mother saw, she in her mind was troubled saw, nearest well what to wean. Spencer Margaret had not been gone five minutes when Mr. Thornton came in, his face all aglow. I could not come sooner. The superintendent would. Where is she? He looked round the dining-room, and then almost fiercely at his mother, who was quietly rearranging the disturbed furniture, and did not instantly reply. Where is Miss Hale? he asked again. Gone home, said she, rather shortly. Gone home? Yes, she was a great deal better. Indeed, I don't believe it was so very much of a hurt, only some people faint at the least thing. I'm sorry she has gone home, said he, walking 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 grateful shake, but she did not notice the movement. What have you done with your Irish people? 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 going off in a body. How did Miss Hale go home? I am sure she could not walk. She had a cab. Everything 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 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! He made a step forwards, 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 provoked. 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 uneasy, as the presence of all strong feeling, of which the cause is not fully understood or sympathized in, always has this effect. She went to the side-board, opened a drawer, and took out a duster which she kept there for any occasional purpose. She had seen a drop of edu cologne on the polished arm of the sofa, and instinctively 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 at violence, do you? Where were the police? Never attend when they're wanted. 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 was 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? 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've seen you safe, do you? Well, perhaps not. He hesitated for a moment. But if I have time, I shall go round by Crumpton, after I've arranged with the police and seen Emperor and Clarkson. Their eyes met. They looked at each other intently for a minute. Then she asked, Why are you going round by Crumpton? To ask after Miss Hale. I will send Williams. He 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. 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's no time to be lost. I must be off in a quarter of an hour. Mrs. Thornton left the room. Her servants wandered at her directions, usually so sharply cut and decided, now confused and uncertain. Mr. Thornton remained in the dining-room, trying to think of the business he had to do at the police-office, and in reality thinking of Margaret. Everything seemed dim and vague, beyond, behind, besides the touch of her arms around his neck, the soft clinging which made the dark colour 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 feelings, as 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, rising 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've gone to the hails," said she, in a low, anxious voice. I know what I know," said Fanny to herself. Why, will it be too late to disturb them? John, come back to me for this one evening. It will be late for Mrs. Hale. But that is not it. Tomorrow 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 a good listener while her son was absent. But on his return her eyes and ears were keen to see and to listen to all the details which he 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's clearly saw his object. Punishment and suffering 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, you know what I have got to say to Miss Hale, to-morrow. The question came upon her suddenly, during a pause in which she, at least, had forgotten Margaret. She looked up at him. Yes, I do. You can hardly do otherwise. Do otherwise? I don't understand you. I mean that, after allowing her feeling so to overcome her, I consider you bound in honour. Bound in honour? said he scornfully. I'm afraid honour has nothing to do with it. Her feelings overcome her. 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, said he. But mother continued he, stopping short in his walk, right in front of her. I dare not hope. I never was faint-hearted before. But I cannot 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 aristocratic way of viewing things, but I like her 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 hours longer, that I begged you not to go until to-morrow. Dearest mother! 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 notice 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 sat down to cry unwanted tears. Margaret entered the room, where her father and mother still sat, holding low conversation 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, Mama. Dear, how tired you look! Is it very hot, Margaret? Very hot, and the streets are rather rough with the strike. Margaret's colour came back vivid and bright as ever, but it faded away instantly. Here has been a message from Bessie Higgins asking you to go to her, said Mrs. Hale. But I am sure you look too tired. Yes, said Margaret. I am tired. I cannot 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. Margaret was alone. Now I will think of it. Now I will remember it all. I could not before. I dared 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 hates scenes, I, who have despised people for showing emotion, who have thought them wanting in self-control, I went down and must need to throw myself into the mille like a romantic fool. Did I do any good? They would have got 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? Ah! said she, clenching her hands together. It is no wonder these 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 anyone 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 catch 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 threatened. 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. She looked up, and a noble piece 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 Mrs. 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 Mrs., but he says his last words were to ask how Miss Ayle 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. Ayle now came in. He had left his sleeping 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 rammaged 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. You are looking very pale with your watching. I shall call Dixon if your mother needs anything. 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 laborer's task. Till morning she might feel ill and weary. She lay down and never stirred. To move hand or foot, or even so much as one finger, would have been an exertion beyond the powers of either volition or motion. She was so tired, so stunned, that she thought she never slept at all. Her feverish thoughts passed and repast 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 regard. A sense of shame so acute, that it seemed as if she would feign have burrowed into the earth to hide herself, and yet she could not escape out of that unwinking glare of many eyes. Recording by Megan Olson in Waxaw, North Carolina, September 2007 North and South by Elizabeth Clegghorn Gaskell Chapter 24 Mistakes Cleared Up Your beauty was the first that won the place, and scaled the walls of my undaunted heart, which captive now pines in a cative case, unkindly met with rigor for desert. Yet not the less your servant shall abide, in spite of rude repulse or silent pride. William Fowler The next morning Margaret dragged herself up, thankful that the night was over, unrefreshed, 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 other. By wayside, in copses, or in thick green woods, there was a pleasant murmuring, dancing 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 four-noon slumber was over, she would help her mother to dress. After dinner, she would go and see Bessie 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 from time to time the hot flash came over her pale face, sweeping it into colour, as a sunbeam from between watery clouds come swiftly moving 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? Isn't Papa come in? He asked for you, Miss, and Master is out. Very well. I will come," said Margaret 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 defence of him seemed to thrill him through and through to melt away every resolution, all power of self-control, as if it were wax before a fire. He dreaded lest he should go forwards to meet her, with his arms held out in mute in treaty 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 flutter to his arms, as to her natural home and resting place. One moment 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 was so deadly a blight that he refused to think of it. He was startled by the sense of the presence of someone 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 inattentive ear than her slow movements in her soft muslin gown. She stood by the table, not offering to sit down. Her eyelids were drooped, half over her eyes. Her teeth were shut, not compressed. Her lips were parted, just 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 worn and pale to-day. The loss of their usual natural healthy colour, 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 received. Her head, for all its drooping eyes, was thrown a little back, in the old, proud attitude. Her long arms hung motionless by her sides. All together she looked like some prisoner, falsely accused 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 forwards, recovered himself, and went with quiet firmness to the door, which she had left open, and shut it. Then he came back, and stood opposite to her for a moment, receiving the general 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 yesterday. 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, she said hastily, to apologise to you for having said thoughtless words which sent you down into the danger. It was not your words. It was the truth they conveyed, pungently as it was expressed, but you shall not drive me off upon that, and so escape the expression of my deep gratitude, my— He was on the 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 anything, said she. I simply say that you owe me no gratitude, 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 wish to be relieved from any obligation, said he, goaded by her calm manner. Fancied or not fancied, I question not myself to know which. I choose to believe that I owe my very life to you. I smile and think in an exaggeration, if you will. I believe it, because 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 exalt in existence hence-forward, I may say to myself, 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 makes the pride glow, it sharpens 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 forwards 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 cannot help it, if that is my first feeling. It might not be so, I daresay, if I understood the kind of feeling you describe. I do not want to vex you, and, besides, we must speak gently, for Mama 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 fancy 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 woman would come forward to shield with her reverenced helplessness a man in danger from violence of numbers. And the gentleman thus rescued is forbidden the relief of thanks, he broke in contemptuously. 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 a womanly instinct, but—and here the passionate tears, kept down for long, struggled with vehemently—came up into her eyes and choked her voice. But that I was prompted by some particular feeling for you—you—why, there was not a man—not a poor desperate man in all that crowd—for whom I had not more sympathy—for whom I should not have done what little I could 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 her wounded pride fell hot and fast. He waited a while, 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 cannot avoid it. Nay, I, if I would, cannot 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 absorbed with other things. Now I love and 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 making 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 unshed tears in his eyes, and that turned her proud dislike into something different and kinder, if nearly as painful, self-approach for having caused such mortification to any one. How could I help it? she asked of herself. I never liked him. I was civil, but I took no trouble to conceal my indifference. Indeed, I never thought about myself or him, so my manners must have shown the truth. All that 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. Revenge may have her own. Roused discipline, allowed, proclaims their cause, and injured navies urge their broken laws. Byron. Margaret began to wonder whether 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 Mr. Lennox's case he seemed for a moment to have slid over the boundary between friendship and love, and the instant afterwards to regret it nearly as much as she did, although for different reasons. In Mr. Thornton's case, as far as Margaret knew, there was no intervening stage of friendship. There intercourse had been one continued series of opposition. Their opinions clashed, 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 passion strength, 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 the strange, wild, passionate 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 shattered, as under the fascination 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 parody a line out of Fairfax's tosso, 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 speeches came thronging into her mind, now that it was too late to utter them. The deep impression 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 chamber, listening to hear whether we dare to breathe of its presence to any one. And we dare not, poor cowards that we are. And so she shuddered away from the threat of his enduring love. What did he mean? Had she not the power to daunt him? She would see. It was more 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 crippled beggar, unwillingly and gladly. But by him she would do it, just as bravely, in spite of his deductions, and the cold slime of women's impertinence. She did it because it was right, and simple, and true, to save where she could save, even to try to save. Hitherto she had not stirred from where he 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 company of others, or in active exertion. But all was profoundly hushed in the noonday stillness of a house, where an invalid catches the unrefreshing sleep that is denied to the night-hours. Margaret would not be alone. What should she do? Go and see Bessie 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 Bessie 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 Bessie was more at ease, though very languid. I thought I shouldn't have seen you 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, colouring. It may happen, think I went beyond my place in sending Mary for you, but the wrangling 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 of peace and promise, I could die away into the silence and rest a God, just as a Barbie is hushed up to sleep by its mother's lullaby. Shall I read you a chapter now? I do. May happen I shan't listen to the sense at first. It will seem far away, but when you come to the words I like, to the comforting texts, it'll seem close in my ear, and going through me as it were. Margaret began. Bessie tossed, to and fro. If by an effort she attended for one moment, it seemed as though she were convulsed into double restlessness the next. At last she burst out. Oh, don't go on reading, it's no use. I'm blaspheming all the time in my mind with thinking angrily on what can I be helped. Your dear of the riot may happen yesterday at Marlborough Mills, Thornton's factory, you know. Your father was not there, was he? asked Margaret, colouring deep. Not he, either given his rat and if it had never come to pass. It's that that's fretting me. He's fairly knocked down in his mind by it. It's no use telling him fools will always break out of bounds. You never saw a man so down-hearted as he is. But why, asked Margaret, I don't understand. Why, you see, he's a committeeman on this special strike. The Union appointed him because, though I say it as shouldn't say it, he's reckoned a deep chap and true to the backbone, and he and all the committeemen laid their plans. They were to hide together, through thick and thin, what the major part thought, 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 with dumb patience, but if there was once any noise of fighting and struggling, even with nobsticks, all was up, as they knew by the experience of many, and many a time before. They would try and get speech of the nobsticks and corksome and reason with them, and may happen warn them off, but whatever came. The committe charged all members of the Union to lie down and die, if need were, without striking a blow, and then they reckoned they were sure a carry in the public with them. And besides all that, the committe knew they were the right in their demand, and they didn't want to have right all mixed up with wrong, till Folk can't separate it, no more can I, the phoetic powder from the jelly you gave me to mix it in. Jelly is much the biggest, but powder tastes it all through. Well, I've told you at length about this one, but I'm tired out. You just think for yourself, what it must be for father to have his work on done, and by such a fool is Boucher, who must needs go right again the orders of the committe, and ruin the strike, just as bad as if he meant to be a Judas. Eh! but father'd give it him last night. He went so far as to say he'd go and tell the police where they might find the ringleader or the riot. He'd give him up to the mill-owners to do what they would with him. He'd show the world that the real leaders of the strike were not such as Boucher, 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 wouldn't work, even though they starved till we 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 sister, that Wellie killed her. That's not true, said Margaret. It was not Boucher that threw the stone. She went first red, then white. You'd be there, then, were you? asked Bessie languidly, for, indeed, she had spoken with many pauses, as if speech were unusually difficult 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 not speak words. He were all in such a tremble with spent passion, I couldn't bear to look at him. I heard his breath coming quick, and at one time I thought he was sopping. But when father said he'd give him up to the police, he gave a great cry, and struck father on the face with his closed fist, and be off like lightning. Father was stunned with the blow at first, for all Boucher were weak with passion, and with climbing. It sat down a bit, and put his hands up for his eyes, and then made for the door. I don't know where I got the strength, but I threw myself off the settle, and clung to him. Father, father, said I, they'll never go peach on that poor cleansed man. I'll never leave go on thee till thou seest their oneot. Do not be a fool, says he. Words come readyer than deeds to most men. I never thought to tell in the police on him, though, by God, he deserves it. And I shouldn't have had minded if someone else had done the dirty work, and got him clapped up. But now he has struck in 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 all this climbing, and is in good condition, he and I'll have an up-and-down fight, purring an hour, and I'll see what I can do for him. And so Father shook me off, for indeed 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 tell her to fetch you to me. And now do not talk to me. Just read out the 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 of 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 may appen I'll forget this. Margaret read in her soft low voice. Though Bessie'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 uneasy 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 one 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 anything 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 resting 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. Oh, 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, Mama, I have never thought about my bed at all, what kind it is. I'm so sleepy at night, that if I only lie down anywhere, 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, no, to be sure. It was poor darling Fred I took with me. I remember. 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 Dick Cinder not like changing from ladies-maid to nurse. And I was afraid that if I took her near her old home, and amongst her own people, she might want to leave me. But poor baby was taken ill at Oxenham, with his teething. 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 everyone, and cling to her, that I don't believe she ever thought of leaving me, again, though it was very different from what she had been accustomed to. Poor Fred. Everybody loved him. He was born with a gift of winning hearts. Makes me think very badly of Captain Reed, when I know he disliked my own dear boy. I think it is certain proof he had a bad heart. Ah! your poor father, Margaret. He has left the room. He can't bear to hear Fred spoken of. I love to hear of him, Mama. Tell me all you like. You never can tell me too much. Tell me what he was like as a baby. Why, Margaret? You must not be hurt. But he was much prettier than you were. I remember when I first saw you in Dixon's arms, I said, dear, what an ugly little thing. And she said, it's not every child that's like Master Fred, bless him. Dear, how well I remember it. Then I could have had Fred in my arms 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, caressing 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, almost solemn earnestness, Margaret, if I can get better, if God gives me a chance of recovery, it must be through seeing my son Frederick 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 quavering, 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 cannot think how it must be managed, but I charge you, Margaret, as you yourself hope for comfort in your last illness. Bring him to me, the time 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 anything 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 stung 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. Hales was so 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 do everything 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. Mama, I will write to night, and tell Frederick what you say. I am as sure that he will come directly to us, as I am sure of my life. Be easy, mama. You shall see him as far as anything 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, as if I should not recover, though sometimes your father over persuades me into hoping. You will write directly, won't you? Don't lose a single post, for just by that very post I may miss him. But, mama, 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—if he had not taken me away from Helston to this unhealthy, smoky, sunless place. Oh, mama, said Margaret. Yes, it is so indeed. He knows it himself. He has said so many a time. He would do anything 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 cannot pray till I have this one thing. Indeed, I cannot. Don't lose a time, dear Margaret, right 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 hands 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 sadly. Only wait till papa comes in. I just ask him how best to do it. You promised, Margaret, not a quarter of an hour ago. You said he should come. And so 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. Does only a day's delay. Oh, mamma, don't cry so pitifully. Cuts me to the heart. Mrs. Hale could not stop her tears. They came hysterically, and in truth she may 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 sun 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 entreaty, sealed it up hurriedly for fear her mother should ask to see it, and then, to make security most sure, and Mrs. Hale's own bidding took it herself to the post office. She was coming home when her father overtook her. And where have you been, my pretty maid? 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 passionate yearning to see him. She said it would make her well again. And then she said that she must see him before she died. I cannot 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, Margaret. 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. Yes, it is necessary, of course, for government to take very stringent measures for the repression of offences 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. Gold, hasty tempers to madness. Or, if that can be any excuse afterwards, 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 offence. It is a fresh and vivid crime on the admiralty books till it is blotted out by blood. Oh, papa! What have I done? And yet it seems so right at the time. I'm sure Frederick himself would run the risk. So he would. So he should. Nay, Margaret, I'm glad it is done. Though I dost 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 account of the relentless manner in which mutinies 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. End of Chapter 25 Howlett North and South By Elizabeth Clegghorn Gaskell Chapter 26 Mother and Son I have found that holy place of rest still changeless, Mrs. Hemons. When Mr. Thornton had left the house that morning, he was almost blinded by his baffled passion. He was as dizzy as if Margaret, instead 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 intermittent pulse. He could not bear the noise, the garish light, the continued rumble and movement 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 it had produced. It would have been a relief to him if he could have sat down and cried on a doorstep by a little child, who was raging and storming through his passionate tears at some injury he had received. He said to himself that he hated Margaret, but a wild, sharp sensation of love cleft his dull, thunderous feeling 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, condemn him, treat him with her proud, sovereign indifference, he did not change one wit. She could not make him change. He loved her and would love her, and defy her in this miserable bodily pain. He stood still for a moment to make this resolution firm and clear. There was an omnibus passing, going into the country. The conductor thought he was wishing for a place and stopped near the pavement. It was too much trouble to apologize and explain, so he mounted upon it and was borne away, passed long rows of houses, then passed detached villas with trimmed gardens, till they came to real country hedgerows, and by and by to a small country town. Then everybody got down, and so did Mr. Thornton, and because they walked away, he did so too. He went into the fields, walking briskly, because the sharp 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 consequences which, in these wise moods, he had always foretold were certain to follow if he ever did make such a fool of himself. Was he bewitched 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 around 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 magnificent 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. 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 six-penny omnibus ride was a more vivid conviction that there never was, never could be, anyone like Margaret, that she did not love him and never would, but that she, no, nor the whole world, should never hinder him from loving her. And so he returned to the little marketplace 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 imported Irish hands. He had to secure them from all chance of communication with the discontented work people 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 sudden noise in the house, had caught up the half-dropped work and begun to ply her needle diligently, though through dim spectacles and with an unsteady hand, and many times had the door opened and some indifferent person 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 household stocks of linen, and Mrs. Thornton had clothes-basket upon clothes-basket full of tablecloths and napkins brought in and began to reckon up the store. There was some confusion between what was hers and consequently marked G.H.T. for George and Hannah Thornton and what was her son's, bought with his money, marked with his initials. Some of those marked G.H.T. were Dutch Damascus 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 knit her brows and pinched and compressed her lips tight and carefully 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 series of visions passing before her, and all of which her son was the principal, the sole object, 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 places first in his heart. A terrible pain, a pain of vain jealousy shot through her. She hardly knew whether 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 rejoicing 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. Thornton's place as mistress of the house was only one of the rich consequences which decked out the supreme glory. All household plenty and comfort, all purple and fine linen, honor, love, obedience, troops of friends would all come as naturally as jewels on a king's robe and to be as little thought of for their separate value. To be chosen by John would separate a kitchen winch from the rest of the world. And Miss Hale was not so bad. If she had been a Milton last, Mrs. Thornton would have positively liked her. She was pungent and had taste and spirit and flavor in her. True, she was sadly prejudiced and very ignorant, but that was to be expected 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 in continuing her inspection of the table linen. 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, she heard him come in at the hall door. Her quick and 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 came close to the table and stood still there, waiting till she should have finished the paragraph which apparently absorbed her. By an effort she looked up. Well, John? He knew what that little speech meant, but he had stilled himself. He longed to reply with a jest. The bitterness of his heart could have uttered one, but his mother deserved better of him. He came down 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 mantelpiece. Tears forcing themselves 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 drew 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 said her teeth. She showed 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. He 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 light to know he was her own again. Mother said he hurriedly. I cannot hear a word against her. Spare me, spare me. I am very weak in my sore heart. I love her yet. I love her more than ever. And I hate her, said Mrs. Thornton in a 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 your sorrow is my agony and if you don't hate her, I do. Then mother, you make me love her more. She is unjustly treated by you and I must make the balance even. But why do we talk of love or hatred? Don't care for me and that is enough, too much. Let us never name the subject again. It is the only 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 was swept back to the place they came from. He stood still, gazing into the fire for a minute or two longer. Her dry, dim eyes filled with unwanted 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 conspiracy, 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, non-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 between such near relations. End of Chapter 26. Recording by Leanne Howlett. Mr. Thornton went straight and clear 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 assistance of his strong sense and his power of seeing consequences. Older men, men of long standing in the town, men of far greater wealth, realised 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 uncleanness, and he was the only one to know what to do. He was the 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 accomplishment of that alone. It was his mother's greedy years that sucked in from the womankind 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 modification of yesterday and the stunned purposeless course of the hours afterwards had cleared away all the myths from his intellect. He felt his power and reveled in it. He could almost divide his heart. If he had known it, he could have sung a song for the miller who lived by the River Dee. I care for nobody, nobody cares for me. The evidence against Butcher and other ingleads 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, weak and gloom 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 repulsive 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? You're cutting me very cruelly, I must say. And how is Mrs. Thornton? Brave weather this, we doctors don't like it I can tell you. I beg your pardon, Dr. Donaldson. I really didn't 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-gotten, we shall have a brisk trade next year, whatever you doctors have. Aye, aye, each month 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 death I ever had never made my pulse vary. The strike, which affects me more than anyone else in Milton, more than hamper, never comes near my appetite. 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 today, but I think very badly of her. Mr. Thornton was silent. The wanted steadiness of pulse failed him for an instant. Can I do anything, doctor? he asked in an altered voice. You know, you would see that money is not very plentiful. Are there any comforts ordained that she ought to have? No, replied the doctor, shaking his head. She crazed for food. She has a constant fever on her. Our canal pairs will do as well as anything, and there are quantities of them in the market. You will tell me if there's anything 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 blanche for all my patients and all their wants. But Mr. Thornton had no general benevolence, no universal philanthropy. Few even would have given him credit for stronger factions. But he went straight to the first fruit shop in Milton, and chose out a bunch of purple grapes with the most delicate bloom upon them, the richest coloured peaches, the freshest fine leaves. They were packed into a basket, and the shopman awaited the answer to his inquiry. 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 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 a simply right that I should. She shall never scorn me out of doing what I please. A pretty joke indeed, if a fear of a haughty girl, I felled in doing the 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 upstairs two steps at a time, and then to the drawing-room before Dixon could announce him. His face flashed, his eyes shining with kindly earnestness. Mrs. Hale lay on the safer, heated with fever. Mr. Hale was reading aloud. Margaret was working on a lay 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 Mr. Donaldson, ma'am, and as he said fruit would be good for you, I have taken the liberty, the great liberty, of bringing you some, that seem to me fine. Mrs. Hale was excessively surprised, excessively pleased, quite in a tremble of eagerness. Mr. Hale, with fewer words, expressed a deeper gratitude. Fetch a plate, Margaret, a basket, anything. 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 awkward for both to be brought into a conscious collision, and fancied that from her being on a low seat at first, and now standing behind her father, he overlooked her in his haste, as if he did not feel the consciousness of her presence all over, though his eyes had never rested on her. I must go, said he, I cannot 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, goodbye, ma'am. Who is gone? Not one word, not one look to Margaret. I believe that he had not seen her. She went for a place in silence, and lifted the fruit out tenderly, with the points of her delicate tape of fingers. It was good of him to bring it, and after yesterday, too. Oh, it is so delicious, said Mrs. Hale in a feeble voice. How kind of him to think of me. Margaret, love, only tastes these grapes. Was it not good of him? Yes, said Margaret quietly. Margaret, said Mrs. Hale, rather quarrellessly. You won't like anything, Mr. Thornton does. I never saw anybody so prejudiced. Mr. Hale had been peeling the peach for his wife, and, cutting off a small piece for himself, he said, if I had any prejudices, the gift of such delicious 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 slows and crabs with the relish. Do you remember the matted-up Coentbushies, 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 grey and yellow lichens that marked it like a map, the little cranesbill that grew in the crevices? She had been shaken by the events of the last two days. Her whole life just now was strain upon her fortitude, and somehow these careless words of her fathers, touching on the remembrance of the sunny times of old, started to start up, and dropping her sitting 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 there anything 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 Margot could not see. Dixon faced round and spoke to her. Now I don't like telling you what I wanted, because you're fretting enough to go through, and I know you'll fret about this. I meant to have kept it from mutil 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, while 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 sisters come to ask for it and I was looking for a nightcap that wasn't too good to give away. Oh, let me find one, said Margot in the midst of her tears, poor Bessie. I never thought I should not see her again. Why, that's another thing. This girl downstairs wanted me to ask you if you would like to see her. But she's dead, said Margot turning a little pale. I never saw a dead person. No, I would rather not. I should never have asked you if you hadn't come in. I told her you wouldn't. I will go down and speak to her, said Margot, afraid Lester Dixon's harshness of Manor might wound the poor girl. So taking the cabin her hands, she went to the kitchen. Mary's face was all swollen with crying and she burst out fresh when she saw Margot. Oh, Mam, she loved you, she loved you, she did indeed. And for a long time Margot could not get her to say anything more than this. At last her sympathy and Dixon's scolding forced out a few facts. Nicholas Higgins had gone out in the morning, leaving Bessie as well as on the day before. But in an hour she was taken worse. Some neighbour 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 had to be buried in some water yawn. She would never tired of talking to you. She used to say you were the prettiest thing she'd ever clapped eyes on. She loved you dearly. Her last words were, give her my affectionate respects and keep father for a drink. You'll come and see her, Mam. She would have thought it a great compliment, I know. Margot 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 issue of going to see the poor thing laid out? I'd never say a word against it if you could do the girl any good. I wouldn't mind a bit going myself if that would satisfy her. There's just a notion these common folks have of being a respect to the departed. Here said she, turning sharply round. I'll come and see your sister. Miss Hale is busy and can't come or else she would. The girl looked wistfully at Margaret. Dixon'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 Bessie's lifetime as the intimacy between her and the young lady. No, Dixon, said Margaret with the decision. I will go. Mary, you shall see me this afternoon. And for fear of her own cowardice she went away in order to take from herself any chance of changing her determination. End of Chapter 27