North and South

ISTAKES.

“Which when his mother saw, she in her mind
Was troubled sore, he wist well what to ween.”
SPENSER.

Margaret had not been gone five minutes when Mr. Thornton came in, his
face all a-glow.

“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 re-arranging the disturbed furniture, and did not
instantly reply. “Where is Miss Hale?” asked he 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 am 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’m 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 have to be defended by a girl?” asked
Mrs. Thornton scornfully.

He reddened. “Not many girls would have taken the blows on herself
which were meant for me;—meant with right down goodwill, 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
sympathised 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 eau de 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 anymore violence, do you? Where were the police? Never at hand
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 have seen you safe, do you?”

“Well, perhaps not.” He hesitated for a moment. “But if I’ve time, I
shall go round by Crampton, after I’ve arranged with the police and seen
Hamper and Clarkson.” Their eyes met; they looked at each other intently
for a minute. Then she asked:

“Why are you going round by Crampton?”

“To ask after Miss Hale.”

“I will send. Williams must take the water-bed she came to ask for. He
shall inquire how she is.”

“I must go myself.”

“Not merely to ask how Miss Hale is?”

“No, not merely for that. I want to thank her for the way in which she
stood between me and the mob.”

“What made you go down at all? It was putting your head into the lion’s
mouth!”

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 wondered 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 round 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; how she had been alarmed—and then
thought they were gone—and then felt sick and faint and trembling in
every limb.

“There, that’s enough,” said her brother, 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 go to the Hales’,” 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. To-morrow, you will—— Come back to-night,
John!” She had seldom pleaded with her son at all—she was too proud for
that; but she had never pleaded in vain.

“I will return straight here after I have done my business. You will be
sure to enquire 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 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 feelings 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 the better for
seeing clearly at last. It is a good deal for me to say,” said Mrs.
Thornton, smiling slowly, while the tears stood in her eyes; “for after
to-night, I stand second. It was to have you to myself, all to myself, a
few hours longer, that I begged you not to go till 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 sate down to cry unwonted 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, mamma.”

“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 Bessy Higgins, asking you to go to her,”
said Mrs. Hale. “But I’m 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 hate scenes—I, who have despised people for showing
emotion—who have thought them wanting in self-control—I went down and
must needs throw myself into the melée, like a romantic fool! Did I do
any good? They would have gone away without me, I dare say.” But this
was overleaping the rational conclusion,—as in an instant her
well-poised judgment felt. “No, perhaps they would not. I did some good.
But what possessed me to defend that man as if he were a helpless child!
Ah!” said she, clenching her hands together, “it is no wonder those
people thought I was in love with him, after disgracing myself in that
way. I in love—and with him too!” Her pale cheeks suddenly became one
flame of fire; and she covered her face with her hands. When she took
them away, her palms were wet with scalding tears.

“Oh how low I am fallen that they should say that of me! I could not
have been so brave for any one else, just because he was so utterly
indifferent to me—if, indeed, I do not positively dislike him. It made
me the more anxious that there should be fair play on each side; and I
could see what fair play was. It was not fair,” said she vehemently,
“that he should stand there—sheltered, awaiting the soldiers, who might
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 peace seemed to descend and calm her face,
till it was “stiller than chiselled marble.”

Dixon came in:

“If you please, Miss Margaret, here’s the water-bed from Mrs.
Thornton’s. It’s too late for to-night, I’m afraid, for missus is nearly
asleep: but it will do nicely for to-morrow.”

“Very,” said Margaret. “You must send our best thanks.”

Dixon left the room for a moment.

“If you please, Miss Margaret, he says he’s to ask particular how you
are. I think he must mean missus; but he says his last words were, to
ask how Miss Hale was.”

“Me!” said Margaret, drawing herself up. “I am quite well. Tell him I am
perfectly well.” But her complexion was as deadly white as her
handkerchief; and her head ached intensely.

Mr. Hale now came in. He had left his 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 rummaged up numberless small subjects for
conversation—all except the riot, and that she never named once. It
turned her sick to think of it.

“Good-night, Margaret. I have every chance of a good night myself, and
you are looking very pale with your watching. I shall call Dixon if your
mother needs 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 colour go—the false smile fade away—the eyes grow dull
with heavy pain. She released her strong will from its laborious task.
Till morning she might feel ill and weary.

She lay down and never stirred. To move hand or foot, or even so much as
one finger, would have been 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 repassed the boundary between
sleeping and waking, and kept their own miserable identity. She could
not be alone, prostrate, powerless as she was,—a cloud of faces looked
up at her, giving her no idea of fierce vivid anger, or of personal
danger, but a deep sense of shame that she should thus be the object of
universal regard—a sense of shame so acute that it seemed as if she
would fain have burrowed into the earth to hide herself, and yet she
could not escape out of that unwinking glare of many eyes.