________________________________________________
_ CHAPTER XXIX - A RAY OF SUNSHINE
'Some wishes crossed my mind and dimly cheered it,
And one or two poor melancholy pleasures,
Each in the pale unwarming light of hope,
Silvering its flimsy wing, flew silent by--
Moths in the moonbeam!'
COLERIDGE.
The next morning brought Margaret a letter from Edith. It was
affectionate and inconsequent like the writer. But the affection
was charming to Margaret's own affectionate nature; and she had
grown up with the inconsequence, so she did not perceive it. It
was as follows:--
'Oh, Margaret, it is worth a journey from England to see my boy!
He is a superb little fellow, especially in his caps, and most
especially in the one you sent him, you good, dainty-fingered,
persevering little lady! Having made all the mothers here
envious, I want to show him to somebody new, and hear a fresh set
of admiring expressions; perhaps, that's all the reason; perhaps
it is not--nay, possibly, there is just a little cousinly love
mixed with it; but I do want you so much to come here, Margaret!
I'm sure it would be the very best thing for Aunt Hale's health;
everybody here is young and well, and our skies are always blue,
and our sun always shines, and the band plays deliciously from
morning till night; and, to come back to the burden of my ditty,
my baby always smiles. I am constantly wanting you to draw him
for me, Margaret. It does not signify what he is doing; that very
thing is prettiest, gracefulest, best. I think I love him a great
deal better than my husband, who is getting stout, and
grumpy,--what he calls "busy." No! he is not. He has just come in
with news of such a charming pic-nic, given by the officers of
the Hazard, at anchor in the bay below. Because he has brought in
such a pleasant piece of news, I retract all I said just now. Did
not somebody burn his hand for having said or done something he
was sorry for? Well, I can't burn mine, because it would hurt me,
and the scar would be ugly; but I'll retract all I said as fast
as I can. Cosmo is quite as great a darling as baby, and not a
bit stout, and as un-grumpy as ever husband was; only, sometimes
he is very, very busy. I may say that without love--wifely
duty--where was I?--I had something very particular to say, I
know, once. Oh, it is this--Dearest Margaret!--you must come and
see me; it would do Aunt Hale good, as I said before. Get the
doctor to order it for her. Tell him that it's the smoke of
Milton that does her harm. I have no doubt it is that, really.
Three months (you must not come for less) of this delicious
climate--all sunshine, and grapes as common as blackberries,
would quite cure her. I don't ask my uncle'--(Here the letter
became more constrained, and better written; Mr. Hale was in the
corner, like a naughty child, for having given up his
living.)--'because, I dare say, he disapproves of war, and
soldiers, and bands of music; at least, I know that many
Dissenters are members of the Peace Society, and I am afraid he
would not like to come; but, if he would, dear, pray say that
Cosmo and I will do our best to make him happy; and I'll hide up
Cosmo's red coat and sword, and make the band play all sorts of
grave, solemn things; or, if they do play pomps and vanities, it
shall be in double slow time. Dear Margaret, if he would like to
accompany you and Aunt Hale, we will try and make it pleasant,
though I'm rather afraid of any one who has done something for
conscience sake. You never did, I hope. Tell Aunt Hale not to
bring many warm clothes, though I'm afraid it will be late in the
year before you can come. But you have no idea of the heat here!
I tried to wear my great beauty Indian shawl at a pic-nic. I kept
myself up with proverbs as long as I could; "Pride must
abide,"--and such wholesome pieces of pith; but it was of no use.
I was like mamma's little dog Tiny with an elephant's trappings
on; smothered, hidden, killed with my finery; so I made it into a
capital carpet for us all to sit down upon. Here's this boy of
mine, Margaret,--if you don't pack up your things as soon as you
get this letter, a come straight off to see him, I shall think
you're descended from King Herod!'
Margaret did long for a day of Edith's life--her freedom from
care, her cheerful home, her sunny skies. If a wish could have
transported her, she would have gone off; just for one day. She
yearned for the strength which such a change would give,--even
for a few hours to be in the midst of that bright life, and to
feel young again. Not yet twenty! and she had had to bear up
against such hard pressure that she felt quite old. That was her
first feeling after reading Edith's letter. Then she read it
again, and, forgetting herself, was amused at its likeness to
Edith's self, and was laughing merrily over it when Mrs. Hale
came into the drawing-room, leaning on Dixon's arm. Margaret flew
to adjust the pillows. Her mother seemed more than usually
feeble.
'What were you laughing at, Margaret?' asked she, as soon as she
had recovered from the exertion of settling herself on the sofa.
'A letter I have had this morning from Edith. Shall I read it
you, mamma?'
She read it aloud, and for a time it seemed to interest her
mother, who kept wondering what name Edith had given to her boy,
and suggesting all probable names, and all possible reasons why
each and all of these names should be given. Into the very midst
of these wonders Mr. Thornton came, bringing another offering of
fruit for Mrs. Hale. He could not--say rather, he would not--deny
himself the chance of the pleasure of seeing Margaret. He had no
end in this but the present gratification. It was the sturdy
wilfulness of a man usually most reasonable and self-controlled.
He entered the room, taking in at a glance the fact of Margaret's
presence; but after the first cold distant bow, he never seemed
to let his eyes fall on her again. He only stayed to present his
peaches--to speak some gentle kindly words--and then his cold
offended eyes met Margaret's with a grave farewell, as he left
the room. She sat down silent and pale.
'Do you know, Margaret, I really begin quite to like Mr.
Thornton.'
No answer at first. Then Margaret forced out an icy 'Do you?'
'Yes! I think he is really getting quite polished in his
manners.'
Margaret's voice was more in order now. She replied,
'He is very kind and attentive,--there is no doubt of that.'
'I wonder Mrs. Thornton never calls. She must know I am ill,
because of the water-bed.'
'I dare say, she hears how you are from her son.'
'Still, I should like to see her You have so few friends here,
Margaret.'
Margaret felt what was in her mother's thoughts,--a tender
craving to bespeak the kindness of some woman towards the
daughter that might be so soon left motherless. But she could not
speak.
'Do you think,' said Mrs. Hale, after a pause, 'that you could go
and ask Mrs. Thornton to come and see me? Only once,--I don't
want to be troublesome.'
'I will do anything, if you wish it, mamma,--but if--but when
Frederick comes----'
'Ah, to be sure! we must keep our doors shut,--we must let no one
in. I hardly know whether I dare wish him to come or not.
Sometimes I think I would rather not. Sometimes I have such
frightful dreams about him.'
'Oh, mamma! we'll take good care. I will put my arm in the bolt
sooner than he should come to the slightest harm. Trust the care
of him to me, mamma. I will watch over him like a lioness over
her young.'
'When can we hear from him?'
'Not for a week yet, certainly,--perhaps more.'
'We must send Martha away in good time. It would never do to have
her here when he comes, and then send her off in a hurry.'
'Dixon is sure to remind us of that. I was thinking that, if we
wanted any help in the house while he is here, we could perhaps
get Mary Higgins. She is very slack of work, and is a good girl,
and would take pains to do her best, I am sure, and would sleep
at home, and need never come upstairs, so as to know who is in
the house.'
'As you please. As Dixon pleases. But, Margaret, don't get to use
these horrid Milton words. "Slack of work:" it is a
provincialism. What will your aunt Shaw say, if she hears you use
it on her return?'
'Oh, mamma! don't try and make a bugbear of aunt Shaw' said
Margaret, laughing. 'Edith picked up all sorts of military slang
from Captain Lennox, and aunt Shaw never took any notice of it.'
'But yours is factory slang.'
'And if I live in a factory town, I must speak factory language
when I want it. Why, mamma, I could astonish you with a great
many words you never heard in your life. I don't believe you know
what a knobstick is.'
'Not I, child. I only know it has a very vulgar sound and I don't
want to hear you using it.'
'Very well, dearest mother, I won't. Only I shall have to use a
whole explanatory sentence instead.'
'I don't like this Milton,' said Mrs. Hale. 'Edith is right
enough in saying it's the smoke that has made me so ill.'
Margaret started up as her mother said this. Her father had just
entered the room, and she was most anxious that the faint
impression she had seen on his mind that the Milton air had
injured her mother's health, should not be deepened,--should not
receive any confirmation. She could not tell whether he had heard
what Mrs. Hale had said or not; but she began speaking hurriedly
of other things, unaware that Mr. Thornton was following him.
'Mamma is accusing me of having picked up a great deal of
vulgarity since we came to Milton.'
The 'vulgarity' Margaret spoke of, referred purely to the use of
local words, and the expression arose out of the conversation
they had just been holding. But Mr. Thornton's brow darkened; and
Margaret suddenly felt how her speech might be misunderstood by
him; so, in the natural sweet desire to avoid giving unnecessary
pain, she forced herself to go forwards with a little greeting,
and continue what she was saying, addressing herself to him
expressly.
'Now, Mr. Thornton, though "knobstick" has not a very pretty
sound, is it not expressive? Could I do without it, in speaking
of the thing it represents? If using local words is vulgar, I was
very vulgar in the Forest,--was I not, mamma?'
It was unusual with Margaret to obtrude her own subject of
conversation on others; but, in this case, she was so anxious to
prevent Mr. Thornton from feeling annoyance at the words he had
accidentally overheard, that it was not until she had done
speaking that she coloured all over with consciousness, more
especially as Mr. Thornton seemed hardly to understand the exact
gist or bearing of what she was saying, but passed her by, with a
cold reserve of ceremonious movement, to speak to Mrs. Hale.
The sight of him reminded her of the wish to see his mother, and
commend Margaret to her care. Margaret, sitting in burning
silence, vexed and ashamed of her difficulty in keeping her right
place, and her calm unconsciousness of heart, when Mr. Thornton
was by, heard her mother's slow entreaty that Mrs. Thornton would
come and see her; see her soon; to-morrow, if it were possible.
Mr. Thornton promised that she should--conversed a little, and
then took his leave; and Margaret's movements and voice seemed at
once released from some invisible chains. He never looked at her;
and yet, the careful avoidance of his eyes betokened that in some
way he knew exactly where, if they fell by chance, they would
rest on her. If she spoke, he gave no sign of attention, and yet
his next speech to any one else was modified by what she had
said; sometimes there was an express answer to what she had
remarked, but given to another person as though unsuggested by
her. It was not the bad manners of ignorance it was the wilful
bad manners arising from deep offence. It was wilful at the time,
repented of afterwards. But no deep plan, no careful cunning
could have stood him in such good stead. Margaret thought about
him more than she had ever done before; not with any tinge of
what is called love, but with regret that she had wounded him so
deeply,--and with a gentle, patient striving to return to their
former position of antagonistic friendship; for a friend's
position was what she found that he had held in her regard, as
well as in that of the rest of the family. There was a pretty
humility in her behaviour to him, as if mutely apologising for
the over-strong words which were the reaction from the deeds of
the day of the riot.
But he resented those words bitterly. They rung in his ears; and
he was proud of the sense of justice which made him go on in
every kindness he could offer to her parents. He exulted in the
power he showed in compelling himself to face her, whenever he
could think of any action which might give her father or mother
pleasure. He thought that he disliked seeing one who had
mortified him so keenly; but he was mistaken. It was a stinging
pleasure to be in the room with her, and feel her presence. But
he was no great analyser of his own motives, and was mistaken as
I have said. _
Read next: CHAPTER XXX - HOME AT LAST
Read previous: CHAPTER XXVIII - COMFORT IN SORROW
Table of content of North and South
GO TO TOP OF SCREEN
Post your review
Your review will be placed after the table of content of this book
