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_ CHAPTER VIII - HOME SICKNESS
'And it's hame, hame; hame,
Hame fain wad I be.'
It needed the pretty light papering of the rooms to reconcile
them to Milton. It needed more--more that could not be had. The
thick yellow November fogs had come on; and the view of the plain
in the valley, made by the sweeping bend of the river, was all
shut out when Mrs. Hale arrived at her new home.
Margaret and Dixon had been at work for two days, unpacking and
arranging, but everything inside the house still looked in
disorder; and outside a thick fog crept up to the very windows,
and was driven in to every open door in choking white wreaths of
unwholesome mist.
'Oh, Margaret! are we to live here?' asked Mrs. Hale in blank
dismay. Margaret's heart echoed the dreariness of the tone in
which this question was put. She could scarcely command herself
enough to say, 'Oh, the fogs in London are sometimes far worse!'
'But then you knew that London itself, and friends lay behind it.
Here--well! we are desolate. Oh Dixon, what a place this is!'
'Indeed, ma'am, I'm sure it will be your death before long, and
then I know who'll--stay! Miss Hale, that's far too heavy for you
to lift.'
'Not at all, thank you, Dixon,' replied Margaret, coldly. 'The
best thing we can do for mamma is to get her room quite ready for
her to go to bed, while I go and bring her a cup of coffee.'
Mr. Hale was equally out of spirits, and equally came upon
Margaret for sympathy.
'Margaret, I do believe this is an unhealthy place. Only suppose
that your mother's health or yours should suffer. I wish I had
gone into some country place in Wales; this is really terrible,'
said he, going up to the window. There was no comfort to be
given. They were settled in Milton, and must endure smoke and
fogs for a season; indeed, all other life seemed shut out from
them by as thick a fog of circumstance. Only the day before, Mr.
Hale had been reckoning up with dismay how much their removal and
fortnight at Heston had cost, and he found it had absorbed nearly
all his little stock of ready money. No! here they were, and here
they must remain.
At night when Margaret realised this, she felt inclined to sit
down in a stupor of despair. The heavy smoky air hung about her
bedroom, which occupied the long narrow projection at the back of
the house. The window, placed at the side of the oblong, looked
to the blank wall of a similar projection, not above ten feet
distant. It loomed through the fog like a great barrier to hope.
Inside the room everything was in confusion. All their efforts
had been directed to make her mother's room comfortable. Margaret
sat down on a box, the direction card upon which struck her as
having been written at Helstone--beautiful, beloved Helstone! She
lost herself in dismal thought: but at last she determined to
take her mind away from the present; and suddenly remembered that
she had a letter from Edith which she had only half read in the
bustle of the morning. It was to tell of their arrival at Corfu;
their voyage along the Mediterranean--their music, and dancing on
board ship; the gay new life opening upon her; her house with its
trellised balcony, and its views over white cliffs and deep blue
sea. Edith wrote fluently and well, if not graphically. She could
not only seize the salient and characteristic points of a scene,
but she could enumerate enough of indiscriminate particulars for
Margaret to make it out for herself Captain Lennox and another
lately married officer shared a villa, high up on the beautiful
precipitous rocks overhanging the sea. Their days, late as it was
in the year, seemed spent in boating or land pic-nics; all
out-of-doors, pleasure-seeking and glad, Edith's life seemed like
the deep vault of blue sky above her, free--utterly free from
fleck or cloud. Her husband had to attend drill, and she, the
most musical officer's wife there, had to copy the new and
popular tunes out of the most recent English music, for the
benefit of the bandmaster; those seemed their most severe and
arduous duties. She expressed an affectionate hope that, if the
regiment stopped another year at Corfu, Margaret might come out
and pay her a long visit. She asked Margaret if she remembered
the day twelve-month on which she, Edith, wrote--how it rained
all day long in Harley Street; and how she would not put on her
new gown to go to a stupid dinner, and get it all wet and
splashed in going to the carriage; and how at that very dinner
they had first met Captain Lennox.
Yes! Margaret remembered it well. Edith and Mrs. Shaw had gone to
dinner. Margaret had joined the party in the evening. The
recollection of the plentiful luxury of all the arrangements, the
stately handsomeness of the furniture, the size of the house, the
peaceful, untroubled ease of the visitors--all came vividly
before her, in strange contrast to the present time. The smooth
sea of that old life closed up, without a mark left to tell where
they had all been. The habitual dinners, the calls, the shopping,
the dancing evenings, were all going on, going on for ever,
though her Aunt Shaw and Edith were no longer there; and she, of
course, was even less missed. She doubted if any one of that old
set ever thought of her, except Henry Lennox. He too, she knew,
would strive to forget her, because of the pain she had caused
him. She had heard him often boast of his power of putting any
disagreeable thought far away from him. Then she penetrated
farther into what might have been. If she had cared for him as a
lover, and had accepted him, and this change in her father's
opinions and consequent station had taken place, she could not
doubt but that it would have been impatiently received by Mr.
Lennox. It was a bitter mortification to her in one sense; but
she could bear it patiently, because she knew her father's purity
of purpose, and that strengthened her to endure his errors, grave
and serious though in her estimation they were. But the fact of
the world esteeming her father degraded, in its rough wholesale
judgment, would have oppressed and irritated Mr. Lennox. As she
realised what might have been, she grew to be thankful for what
was. They were at the lowest now; they could not be worse.
Edith's astonishment and her aunt Shaw's dismay would have to be
met bravely, when their letters came. So Margaret rose up and
began slowly to undress herself, feeling the full luxury of
acting leisurely, late as it was, after all the past hurry of the
day. She fell asleep, hoping for some brightness, either internal
or external. But if she had known how long it would be before the
brightness came, her heart would have sunk low down. The time of
the year was most unpropitious to health as well as to spirits.
Her mother caught a severe cold, and Dixon herself was evidently
not well, although Margaret could not insult her more than by
trying to save her, or by taking any care of her. They could hear
of no girl to assist her; all were at work in the factories; at
least, those who applied were well scolded by Dixon, for thinking
that such as they could ever be trusted to work in a gentleman's
house. So they had to keep a charwoman in almost constant employ.
Margaret longed to send for Charlotte; but besides the objection
of her being a better servant than they could now afford to keep,
the distance was too great.
Mr. Hale met with several pupils, recommended to him by Mr. Bell,
or by the more immediate influence of Mr. Thornton. They were
mostly of the age when many boys would be still at school, but,
according to the prevalent, and apparently well-founded notions
of Milton, to make a lad into a good tradesman he must be caught
young, and acclimated to the life of the mill, or office, or
warehouse. If he were sent to even the Scotch Universities, he
came back unsettled for commercial pursuits; how much more so if
he went to Oxford or Cambridge, where he could not be entered
till he was eighteen? So most of the manufacturers placed their
sons in sucking situations' at fourteen or fifteen years of age,
unsparingly cutting away all off-shoots in the direction of
literature or high mental cultivation, in hopes of throwing the
whole strength and vigour of the plant into commerce. Still there
were some wiser parents; and some young men, who had sense enough
to perceive their own deficiencies, and strive to remedy them.
Nay, there were a few no longer youths, but men in the prime of
life, who had the stern wisdom to acknowledge their own
ignorance, and to learn late what they should have learnt early.
Mr. Thornton was perhaps the oldest of Mr. Hale's pupils. He was
certainly the favourite. Mr. Hale got into the habit of quoting
his opinions so frequently, and with such regard, that it became
a little domestic joke to wonder what time, during the hour
appointed for instruction, could be given to absolute learning,
so much of it appeared to have been spent in conversation.
Margaret rather encouraged this light, merry way of viewing her
father's acquaintance with Mr. Thornton, because she felt that
her mother was inclined to look upon this new friendship of her
husband's with jealous eyes. As long as his time had been solely
occupied with his books and his parishioners, as at Helstone, she
had appeared to care little whether she saw much of him or not;
but now that he looked eagerly forward to each renewal of his
intercourse with Mr. Thornton, she seemed hurt and annoyed, as if
he were slighting her companionship for the first time. Mr.
Hale's over-praise had the usual effect of over-praise upon his
auditors; they were a little inclined to rebel against Aristides
being always called the Just.
After a quiet life in a country parsonage for more than twenty
years, there was something dazzling to Mr. Hale in the energy
which conquered immense difficulties with ease; the power of the
machinery of Milton, the power of the men of Milton, impressed
him with a sense of grandeur, which he yielded to without caring
to inquire into the details of its exercise. But Margaret went
less abroad, among machinery and men; saw less of power in its
public effect, and, as it happened, she was thrown with one or
two of those who, in all measures affecting masses of people,
must be acute sufferers for the good of many. The question always
is, has everything been done to make the sufferings of these
exceptions as small as possible? Or, in the triumph of the
crowded procession, have the helpless been trampled on, instead
of being gently lifted aside out of the roadway of the conqueror,
whom they have no power to accompany on his march?
It fell to Margaret's share to have to look out for a servant to
assist Dixon, who had at first undertaken to find just the person
she wanted to do all the rough work of the house. But Dixon's
ideas of helpful girls were founded on the recollection of tidy
elder scholars at Helstone school, who were only too proud to be
allowed to come to the parsonage on a busy day, and treated Mrs.
Dixon with all the respect, and a good deal more of fright, which
they paid to Mr. and Mrs. Hale. Dixon was not unconscious of this
awed reverence which was given to her; nor did she dislike it; it
flattered her much as Louis the Fourteenth was flattered by his
courtiers shading their eyes from the dazzling light of his
presence.' But nothing short of her faithful love for Mrs. Hale
could have made her endure the rough independent way in which all
the Milton girls, who made application for the servant's place,
replied to her inquiries respecting their qualifications. They
even went the length of questioning her back again; having doubts
and fears of their own, as to the solvency of a family who lived
in a house of thirty pounds a-year, and yet gave themselves airs,
and kept two servants, one of them so very high and mighty. Mr.
Hale was no longer looked upon as Vicar of Helstone, but as a man
who only spent at a certain rate. Margaret was weary and
impatient of the accounts which Dixon perpetually brought to Mrs.
Hale of the behaviour of these would-be servants. Not but what
Margaret was repelled by the rough uncourteous manners of these
people; not but what she shrunk with fastidious pride from their
hail-fellow accost and severely resented their unconcealed
curiosity as to the means and position of any family who lived in
Milton, and yet were not engaged in trade of some kind. But the
more Margaret felt impertinence, the more likely she was to be
silent on the subject; and, at any rate, if she took upon herself
to make inquiry for a servant, she could spare her mother the
recital of all her disappointments and fancied or real insults.
Margaret accordingly went up and down to butchers and grocers,
seeking for a nonpareil of a girl; and lowering her hopes and
expectations every week, as she found the difficulty of meeting
with any one in a manufacturing town who did not prefer the
better wages and greater independence of working in a mill. It
was something of a trial to Margaret to go out by herself in this
busy bustling place. Mrs. Shaw's ideas of propriety and her own
helpless dependence on others, had always made her insist that a
footman should accompany Edith and Margaret, if they went beyond
Harley Street or the immediate neighbourhood. The limits by which
this rule of her aunt's had circumscribed Margaret's independence
had been silently rebelled against at the time: and she had
doubly enjoyed the free walks and rambles of her forest life,
from the contrast which they presented. She went along there with
a bounding fearless step, that occasionally broke out into a run,
if she were in a hurry, and occasionally was stilled into perfect
repose, as she stood listening to, or watching any of the wild
creatures who sang in the leafy courts, or glanced out with their
keen bright eyes from the low brushwood or tangled furze. It was
a trial to come down from such motion or such stillness, only
guided by her own sweet will, to the even and decorous pace
necessary in streets. But she could have laughed at herself for
minding this change, if it had not been accompanied by what was a
more serious annoyance. The side of the town on which Crampton
lay was especially a thoroughfare for the factory people. In the
back streets around them there were many mills, out of which
poured streams of men and women two or three times a day. Until
Margaret had learnt the times of their ingress and egress, she
was very unfortunate in constantly falling in with them. They
came rushing along, with bold, fearless faces, and loud laughs
and jests, particularly aimed at all those who appeared to be
above them in rank or station. The tones of their unrestrained
voices, and their carelessness of all common rules of street
politeness, frightened Margaret a little at first. The girls,
with their rough, but not unfriendly freedom, would comment on
her dress, even touch her shawl or gown to ascertain the exact
material; nay, once or twice she was asked questions relative to
some article which they particularly admired. There was such a
simple reliance on her womanly sympathy with their love of dress,
and on her kindliness, that she gladly replied to these
inquiries, as soon as she understood them; and half smiled back
at their remarks. She did not mind meeting any number of girls,
loud spoken and boisterous though they might be. But she
alternately dreaded and fired up against the workmen, who
commented not on her dress, but on her looks, in the same open
fearless manner. She, who had hitherto felt that even the most
refined remark on her personal appearance was an impertinence,
had to endure undisguised admiration from these outspoken men.
But the very out-spokenness marked their innocence of any
intention to hurt her delicacy, as she would have perceived if
she had been less frightened by the disorderly tumult. Out of her
fright came a flash of indignation which made her face scarlet,
and her dark eyes gather flame, as she heard some of their
speeches. Yet there were other sayings of theirs, which, when she
reached the quiet safety of home, amused her even while they
irritated her.
For instance, one day, after she had passed a number of men,
several of whom had paid her the not unusual compliment of
wishing she was their sweetheart, one of the lingerers added,
'Your bonny face, my lass, makes the day look brighter.' And
another day, as she was unconsciously smiling at some passing
thought, she was addressed by a poorly-dressed, middle-aged
workman, with 'You may well smile, my lass; many a one would
smile to have such a bonny face.' This man looked so careworn
that Margaret could not help giving him an answering smile, glad
to think that her looks, such as they were, should have had the
power to call up a pleasant thought. He seemed to understand her
acknowledging glance, and a silent recognition was established
between them whenever the chances of the day brought them across
each other s paths. They had never exchanged a word; nothing had
been said but that first compliment; yet somehow Margaret looked
upon this man with more interest than upon any one else in
Milton. Once or twice, on Sundays, she saw him walking with a
girl, evidently his daughter, and, if possible, still more
unhealthy than he was himself.
One day Margaret and her father had been as far as the fields
that lay around the town; it was early spring, and she had
gathered some of the hedge and ditch flowers, dog-violets, lesser
celandines, and the like, with an unspoken lament in her heart
for the sweet profusion of the South. Her father had left her to
go into Milton upon some business; and on the road home she met
her humble friends. The girl looked wistfully at the flowers,
and, acting on a sudden impulse, Margaret offered them to her.
Her pale blue eyes lightened up as she took them, and her father
spoke for her.
'Thank yo, Miss. Bessy'll think a deal o' them flowers; that hoo
will; and I shall think a deal o' yor kindness. Yo're not of this
country, I reckon?'
'No!' said Margaret, half sighing. 'I come from the South--from
Hampshire,' she continued, a little afraid of wounding his
consciousness of ignorance, if she used a name which he did not
understand.
'That's beyond London, I reckon? And I come fro' Burnley-ways,
and forty mile to th' North. And yet, yo see, North and South has
both met and made kind o' friends in this big smoky place.'
Margaret had slackened her pace to walk alongside of the man and
his daughter, whose steps were regulated by the feebleness of the
latter. She now spoke to the girl, and there was a sound of
tender pity in the tone of her voice as she did so that went
right to the heart of the father.
'I'm afraid you are not very strong.'
'No,' said the girl, 'nor never will be.'
'Spring is coming,' said Margaret, as if to suggest pleasant,
hopeful thoughts.
'Spring nor summer will do me good,' said the girl quietly.
Margaret looked up at the man, almost expecting some
contradiction from him, or at least some remark that would modify
his daughter's utter hopelessness. But, instead, he added--
'I'm afeared hoo speaks truth. I'm afeared hoo's too far gone in
a waste.'
'I shall have a spring where I'm boun to, and flowers, and
amaranths, and shining robes besides.'
'Poor lass, poor lass!' said her father in a low tone. 'I'm none
so sure o' that; but it's a comfort to thee, poor lass, poor
lass. Poor father! it'll be soon.'
Margaret was shocked by his words--shocked but not repelled;
rather attracted and interested.
'Where do you live? I think we must be neighbours, we meet so
often on this road.'
'We put up at nine Frances Street, second turn to th' left at
after yo've past th' Goulden Dragon.'
'And your name? I must not forget that.'
'I'm none ashamed o' my name. It's Nicholas Higgins. Hoo's called
Bessy Higgins. Whatten yo' asking for?'
Margaret was surprised at this last question, for at Helstone it
would have been an understood thing, after the inquiries she had
made, that she intended to come and call upon any poor neighbour
whose name and habitation she had asked for.
'I thought--I meant to come and see you.' She suddenly felt
rather shy of offering the visit, without having any reason to
give for her wish to make it' * beyond a kindly interest in a
stranger. It seemed all at once to take the shape of an
impertinence on her part; she read this meaning too in the man's
eyes.
'I'm none so fond of having strange folk in my house.' But then
relenting, as he saw her heightened colour, he added, 'Yo're a
foreigner, as one may say, and maybe don't know many folk here,
and yo've given my wench here flowers out of yo'r own hand;--yo
may come if yo like.'
Margaret was half-amused, half-nettled at this answer. She was
not sure if she would go where permission was given so like a
favour conferred. But when they came to the town into Frances
Street, the girl stopped a minute, and said,
'Yo'll not forget yo're to come and see us.'
'Aye, aye,' said the father, impatiently, 'hoo'll come. Hoo's a
bit set up now, because hoo thinks I might ha' spoken more
civilly; but hoo'll think better on it, and come. I can read her
proud bonny face like a book. Come along, Bess; there's the mill
bell ringing.'
Margaret went home, wondering at her new friends, and smiling at
the man's insight into what had been passing in her mind. From
that day Milton became a brighter place to her. It was not the
long, bleak sunny days of spring, nor yet was it that time was
reconciling her to the town of her habitation. It was that in it
she had found a human interest. _
Read next: CHAPTER IX - DRESSING FOR TEA
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