North and South Page #21

North and South is a social novel published in 1854 by English writer Elizabeth Gaskell. With Wives and Daughters and Cranford, it is one of her best-known novels and was adapted for television three times. The 2004 version renewed interest in the novel and attracted a wider readership.

• Novel

								


“I should guess about thirty.”

“About thirty--with a face that is neither exactly plain, nor yet
handsome, nothing remarkable--not quite a gentleman; but that was hardly
to be expected.”

“Not vulgar or common though,” put in her father, rather jealous of any
disparagement of the sole friend he had in Milton.

“Oh, no!” said Margaret. “With such an expression of resolution and
power, no face, however plain in feature, could be either vulgar or
common. I should not like to have to bargain with him; he looks very
inflexible. Altogether a man who seems made for his niche, mamma;
sagacious, and strong, as becomes a great tradesman.”

“Don’t call the Milton manufacturers tradesmen, Margaret,” said her
father. “They are very different.”

“Are they? I apply the word to all who have something tangible to sell;
but if you think the term is not correct, papa, I won’t use it. But, oh
mamma! speaking of vulgarity and commonness, you must prepare yourself
for our drawing-room paper. Pink and blue roses, with yellow leaves! And
such a heavy cornice round the room!”

But when they removed to their new house in Milton, the obnoxious papers
were gone. The landlord received their thanks very composedly; and let
them think, if they liked, that he had relented from his expressed
determination not to repaper. There was no particular need to tell them,
that what he did not care to do for a Reverend Mr. Hale, unknown in
Milton, he was only too glad to do at the one short sharp remonstrance
of Mr. Thornton, the wealthy manufacturer.




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 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 unwholsome 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 at 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 particular 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-picnics; 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 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 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
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