North and South Page #23

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

								

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 boundless
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
outspokenness 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’ Burnleyways, and forty
miles 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 a 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 the truth. I’m afeared hoo’s too far gone in a
waste.”

“I shall have a spring where I am 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!
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