North and South

III.

MARGARET’S FLITTIN’.

“The meanest thing to which we bid adieu,
Loses its meanness in the parting hour.”
ELLIOTT.

Mrs. Shaw took as vehement a dislike as it was possible for one of her
gentle nature to do, against Milton. It was noisy, and smoky, and the
poor people whom she saw in the streets were dirty, and the rich ladies
over-dressed, and not a man that she saw, high or low, had his clothes
made to fit him. She was sure Margaret would never regain her lost
strength while she stayed in Milton; and she herself was afraid of one
of her old attacks of the nerves. Margaret must return with her, and
that quickly. This, if not the exact force of her words, was at any rate
the spirit of what she urged on Margaret, till the latter, weak, weary,
and broken-spirited, yielded a reluctant promise that, as soon as
Wednesday was over, she would prepare to accompany her aunt back to
town, leaving Dixon in charge of all the arrangements for paying bills,
disposing of furniture, and shutting up the house. Before that
Wednesday—that mournful Wednesday, when Mr. Hale was to be interred,
far away from either of the homes he had known in life, and far away
from the wife who lay lonely among strangers (and this last was
Margaret’s great trouble, for she thought that if she had not given way
to that overwhelming stupor during the first sad days, she could have
arranged things otherwise)—before that Wednesday, Margaret received a
letter from Mr. Bell.

“MY DEAR MARGARET:—I did mean to have returned to Milton on
Thursday, but unluckily it turns out to be one of the rare
occasions when we, Plymouth Fellows, are called upon to perform any
kind of duty, and I must not be absent from my post. Captain Lennox
and Mr. Thornton are here. The former seems a smart, well-meaning
man; and has proposed to go over to Milton, and assist you in any
search for the will; of course there is none, or you would have
found it by this time, if you followed my directions. Then the
Captain declares he must take you and his mother-in-law home; and,
in his wife’s present state, I don’t see how you can expect him to
remain away longer than Friday. However, that Dixon of yours is
trusty; and can hold her, or your own, till I come. I will put
matters into the hands of my Milton attorney if there is no will;
for I doubt this smart Captain is no great man of business.
Nevertheless, his moustachios are splendid. There will have to be a
sale, so select what things you wish to be reserved. Or you can
send a list afterwards. Now two things more, and I have done. You
know, or if you don’t, your poor father did, that you are to have
my money and goods when I die. Not that I mean to die yet; but I
name this just to explain what is coming. These Lennoxes seem very
fond of you now; and perhaps may continue to be; perhaps not. So it
is best to start with a formal agreement; namely, that you are to
pay to them two hundred and fifty pounds a year, as long as you and
they find it pleasant to live together. (This, of course, includes
Dixon; mind you don’t be cajoled into paying more for her.) Then
you won’t be thrown adrift, if some day the captain wishes to have
his house to himself, but you can carry yourself and your two
hundred and fifty pounds off somewhere else; if, indeed, I have
not claimed you to come and keep house for me first. Then as to
dress, and Dixon, and personal expenses, and confectionery (all
young ladies eat confectionery till wisdom comes by age), I shall
consult some lady of my acquaintance, and see how much you will
have from your father before fixing this. Now, Margaret, have you
flown out before you have read this far, and wondered what right
the old man has to settle your affairs for you so cavalierly? I
make no doubt you have. Yet the old man has a right. He has loved
your father for five and thirty years; he stood beside him on his
wedding-day; he closed his eyes in death. Moreover, he is your
godfather; and as he cannot do you much good spiritually, having a
hidden consciousness of your superiority in such things, he would
fain do you the poor good of endowing you materially. And the old
man has not a known relation on earth; ‘who is there to mourn for
Adam Bell?’ and his whole heart is set and bent upon this one
thing, and Margaret Hale is not the girl to say him nay. Write by
return if only two lines, to tell me your answer. But no thanks.”

Margaret took up a pen and scrawled with trembling hand, “Margaret Hale
is not the girl to say him nay.” In her weak state she could not think
of any other words, and yet, she was vexed to use these. But she was so
much fatigued even by this slight exertion, that if she could have
thought of another form of acceptance, she could not have sate up to
write a syllable of it. She was obliged to lie down again and try not to
think.

“My dearest child! Has that letter vexed or troubled you?”

“No!” said Margaret feebly. “I shall be better when to-morrow is over.”

“I feel sure, darling, you won’t be better till I get you out of this
horrid air. How you can have borne it these two years I can’t imagine.”

“Where could I go to? I could not leave papa and mamma.”

“Well, don’t distress yourself, my dear. I dare say it was all for the
best, only I had no conception of how you were living. Our butler’s wife
lives in a better house than this.”

“It is sometimes very pretty—in summer; you can’t judge by what it is
now. I have been very happy here,” and Margaret closed her eyes by way
of stopping the conversation.

The house teemed with comfort now, compared to what it had been. The
evenings were chilly, and by Mrs. Shaw’s directions fires were lighted
in every bedroom. She petted Margaret in every possible way, and bought
every delicacy, or soft luxury in which she herself would have burrowed
and sought comfort. But Margaret was indifferent to all these things;
or, if they forced themselves upon her attention, it was simply as
causes for gratitude to her aunt, who was putting herself so much out of
the way to think of her. She was restless, though so weak. All the day
long, she kept herself from thinking of the ceremony which was going on
at Oxford, by wandering from room to room, and languidly setting aside
such articles as she wished to retain. Dixon followed her by Mrs. Shaw’s
desire, ostensibly to receive instructions, but with a private
injunction to soothe her into repose as soon as might be.

“These books, Dixon, I will keep. All the rest will you send to Mr.
Bell? They are of a kind that he will value for themselves, as well as
for papa’s sake. This—— I should like you to take this to Mr.
Thornton, after I am gone. Stay; I will write a note with it.” And she
sate down hastily, as if afraid of thinking, and wrote:

“DEAR SIR,—The accompanying book I am sure will be valued by you
for the sake of my father, to whom it belonged.

“Yours sincerely,

MARGARET HALE.”

She set out again upon her travels through the house, turning over
articles, known to her from her childhood, with a sort of caressing
reluctance to leave them—old-fashioned, worn and shabby, as they might
be. But she hardly spoke again; and Dixon’s report to Mrs. Shaw was,
that “she doubted whether Miss Hale heard a word of what she said,
though she talked the whole time, in order to divert her intention.” The
consequence of her being on her feet all day was excessive bodily
weariness in the evening, and a better night’s rest than she had had
since she heard of Mr. Hale’s death.

At breakfast time the next day, she expressed her wish to go and bid one
or two friends good-bye. Mrs. Shaw objected:

“I am sure, my dear, you can have no friends here with whom you are
sufficiently intimate to justify you in calling upon them so soon;
before you have been at church.”

“But to-day is my only day; if Captain Lennox comes this afternoon, and
if we must—if I must really go to-morrow——”

“Oh, yes, we shall go to-morrow. I am more and more convinced that this
air is bad for you, and makes you look so pale and ill; besides, Edith
expects us; and she may be waiting for me; and you cannot be left alone,
my dear, at your age. No; if you must make these calls, I will go with
you. Dixon can get us a coach, I suppose?”

So Mrs. Shaw went to take care of Margaret and took her maid with her to
take care of the shawls and air-cushions. Margaret’s face was too sad to
lighten up into a smile at all this preparation for paying two visits,
that she had often made by herself at all hours of the day. She was half
afraid of owning that one place to which she was going was Nicholas
Higgins’; all she could do was to hope her aunt would be indisposed to
get out of the coach and walk up the court, and at every breath of wind
have her face slapped by wet clothes, hanging out to dry on ropes
stretched from house to house.

There was a little battle in Mrs. Shaw’s mind between ease and a sense
of matronly propriety; but the former gained the day; and with many an
injunction to Margaret to be careful of herself, and not to catch any
fever, such as was always lurking in such places, her aunt permitted her
to go where she had often been before without taking any precaution or
requiring any permission.

Nicholas was out; only Mary and one or two of the Boucher children at
home. Margaret was vexed with herself for not having timed her visit
better. Mary had a very blunt intellect, although her feelings were warm
and kind; and the instant she understood what Margaret’s purpose was in
coming to see them, she began to cry and sob with so little restraint
that Margaret found it useless to say any of the thousand little things
which had suggested themselves to her as she was coming along in the
coach. She could only try to comfort her a little by suggesting the
vague chance of their meeting again, at some possible time, in some
possible place, and bid her tell her father how much she wished, if he
could manage it, that he should come to see her when he had done his
work in the evening.

As she was leaving the place, she stopped and looked around; then
hesitated a little before she said:

“I should like to have some little thing to remind me of Bessy.”

Instantly Mary’s generosity was keenly alive. What could they give? And
on Margaret’s singling out a little common drinking-cup, which she
remembered as the one always standing by Bessy’s side with a drink for
her feverish lips, Mary said:

“Oh, take summat better; that only cost fourpence!”

“That will do, thank you,” said Margaret; and she went quickly away,
while the light caused by the pleasure of having something to give yet
lingered on Mary’s face.

“Now to Mrs. Thornton’s,” thought she to herself. “It must be done.” But
she looked rather rigid and pale at the thoughts of it, and had hard
work to find the exact words in which to explain to her aunt who Mrs.
Thornton was, and why she should go to bid her farewell.

They (for Mrs. Shaw alighted here) were shown into the drawing-room, in
which a fire had only just been kindled. Mrs. Shaw huddled herself up in
her shawl and shivered.

“What an icy room!” she said.

They had to wait for some time before Mrs. Thornton entered. There was
some softening in her heart towards Margaret, now that she was going
away out of her sight. She remembered her spirit, as shown at various
times and places, even more than the patience with which she had endured
long and wearing cares. Her countenance was blander than usual, as she
greeted her; there was even a shade of tenderness in her manner, as she
noticed the white, tear-swollen face, and the quiver in the voice which
Margaret tried to make so steady.

“Allow me to introduce my aunt, Mrs. Shaw. I am going away from Milton
to-morrow; I do not know if you are aware of it, but I wanted to see you
once again, Mrs. Thornton, to—to apologize for my manner the last time
I saw you; and to say that I am sure you meant kindly—however much we
may have misunderstood each other.”

Mrs. Shaw looked extremely perplexed by what Margaret had said. Thanks
for kindness! and apologies for failure in good manners! But Mrs.
Thornton replied:

“Miss Hale, I am glad you do me justice. I did no more than I believed
to be my duty in remonstrating with you as I did. I have always desired
to act the part of a friend to you. I am glad you do me justice.”

“And,” said Margaret, blushing excessively as she spoke, “will you do me
justice, and believe that though I cannot—I do not choose—to give
explanations of my conduct, I have not acted in the unbecoming way you
apprehended?”

Margaret’s voice was so soft, and her eyes so pleading, that Mrs.
Thornton was for once affected by the charm of manner to which she had
hitherto proved herself invulnerable.

“Yes, I do believe you. Let us say no more about it. Where are you going
to reside, Miss Hale? I understood from Mr. Bell that you were going to
leave Milton. You never liked Milton, you know,” said Mrs. Thornton,
with a sort of grim smile; “but for all that, you must not expect me to
congratulate you on quitting it. Where shall you live?”

“With my aunt,” replied Margaret, turning towards Mrs. Shaw.

“My niece will reside with me in Harley Street. She is almost like a
daughter to me,” said Mrs. Shaw, looking fondly at Margaret; “and I am
glad to acknowledge my own obligation for any kindness that has been
shown to her. If you and your husband ever come to the town, my son and
daughter, Captain and Mrs. Lennox, will, I am sure, join with me in
wishing to do anything in our power to show you attention.”

Mrs. Thornton thought in her own mind, that Margaret had not taken much
care to enlighten her aunt as to the relationship between the Mr. and
Mrs. Thornton, towards whom the fine-lady aunt was extending her soft
patronage; so she answered shortly,

“My husband is dead. Mr. Thornton is my son. I never go to London; so I
am not likely to be able to avail myself of your polite offers.”

At this instant Mr. Thornton entered the room; he had only just returned
from Oxford. His mourning suit spoke of the reason that had called him
there.

“John,” said his mother, “this lady is Mrs. Shaw, Miss Hale’s aunt. I am
sorry to say, that Miss Hale’s call is to wish us good-bye.”

“You are going then!” said he in a low voice.

“Yes,” said Margaret. “We leave to-morrow.”

“My son-in-law comes this evening to escort us,” said Mrs. Shaw.

Mr. Thornton turned away. He had not sat down, and now he seemed to be
examining something on the table, almost as if he had discovered an
unopened letter, which had made him forget the present company. He did
not even seem to be aware when they got up to take leave. He started
forwards, however, to hand Mrs. Shaw down to the carriage. As it drove
up, he and Margaret stood close together on the door-step, and it was
impossible but that the recollection of the day of the riot should force
itself into both their minds. Into his it came associated with the
speeches of the following day; her passionate declaration that there was
not a man in all that violent and a desperate crowd, for whom she did
not care as much as for him. And at the remembrance of her taunting
words, his brow grew stern, though his heart beat thick with longing
love. “No!” said he, “I put it to the touch once, and I lost it all. Let
her go,—with her stony heart, and her beauty;—how set and terrible her
look is now, for all her loveliness of feature! She is afraid I shall
speak what will require some stern repression. Let her go. Beauty and
heiress as she may be, she will find it hard to meet with a truer heart
than mine. Let her go!”

And there was no tone of regret, or emotion of any kind in the voice
with which he said good-bye; and the offered hand was taken with a
resolute calmness, and dropped as carelessly as if it had been a dead
and withered flower. But none in his household saw Mr. Thornton again
that day. He was busily engaged; or so he said.

Margaret’s strength was so utterly exhausted by these visits, that she
had to submit to much watching and petting, and sighing
“I-told-you-so’s,” from her aunt. Dixon said she was quite as bad as she
had been on the first day she heard of her father’s death; and she and
Mrs. Shaw consulted as to the desirableness of delaying the morrow’s
journey. But when her aunt reluctantly proposed a few days’ delay to
Margaret, the latter writhed her body as if in acute suffering, and
said:

“Oh! let us go. I cannot be patient here. I shall not get well here. I
want to forget.”

So the arrangements went on: and Captain Lennox came, and with him news
of Edith and the little boy; and Margaret found that the indifferent,
careless conversation of one who, however kind, was not too warm and
anxious a sympathiser, did her good. She roused up; and by the time that
she knew she might expect Higgins, she was able to leave the room
quietly, and await in her own chamber the expected summons.

“Eh!” said he, as she came in, “to think of th’ oud gentleman dropping
off as he did! Yo’ might ha’ knocked me down wi’ a straw when they
telled me. ‘Mr. Hale?’ said I; ‘him as was th’ parson?’ ‘Ay,’ said they.
‘Then,’ said I, ‘there’s as good a man gone as ever lived on this earth,
let who will be t’other!’ And I came to see yo’, and tell yo’ how
grieved I were, but them women in th’ kitchen wouldn’t tell yo’ I were
there. They said yo’ were ill,—and butter me, but yo’ dunnot look like
the same wench. And yo’re going to be a grand lady up i’ Lunnon, aren’t
yo’?”

“Not a grand lady,” said Margaret, half smiling.

“Well! Thornton said—says he, a day or two ago, ‘Higgins, have yo’ seen
Miss Hale?’ ‘No,’ says I; ‘there’s a pack o’ women who won’t let me at
her. But I can bide my time, if she’s ill. She and I knows each other
pretty well; and hoo’l not go doubting that I’m main sorry for th’ oud
gentleman’s death, just because I can’t get at her and tell her so.’ And
says he, ‘Yo’ll not have much time for to try and see her, my fine chap.
She’s not for staying with us a day longer nor she can help. She’s got
grand relations, and they’re carrying her off; and we shan’t see her no
more.’ ‘Measter,’ said I, ‘if I dunnot see her afore hoo goes, I’ll
strive to get up to Lunnon next Whitsuntide, that I will. I’ll not be
baulked of saying her good-bye by any relations whatsomdever. But bless
yo’, I knowed yo’d come. It were only for to humour the measter, I let
on as if I thought yo’d m’appen leave Milton without seeing me.”

“You’re quite right,” said Margaret. “You only do me justice. And you’ll
not forget me, I’m sure. If no one else in Milton remembers me, I’m
certain you will; and papa too. You know how good and tender he was.
Look, Higgins! here is his Bible. I have kept it for you. I can ill
spare it; but I know he would have liked you to have it. I’m sure you’ll
care for it, and study what is in it, for his sake.”

“Yo’ may say that. If it were the deuce’s own scribble, and yo’ axed me
to read in it for yo’r sake and the oud gentleman’s, I’d do it.
Whatten’s this, wench! I’m not going for to take yo’r brass, so dunnot
think it. We’ve been great friends, ’bout the sound o’ money passing
between us.”

“For the children—for Boucher’s children,” said Margaret, hurriedly.
“They may need it. You’ve no right to refuse it for them. I would not
give you one penny,” she said, smiling; “don’t think there’s any of it
for you.”

“Well, wench! I can nobbut say, Bless yo’! and bless yo’!—and amen.”