North and South Page #24

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

								

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 enquiries 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 turn 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.




CHAPTER IX.

DRESSING FOR TEA.

    “Let China’s earth, enriched with coloured stains,
    Pencil’d with gold, and streaked with azure veins,
    The grateful flavour of the Indian leaf,
    Or Mocha’s sunburnt berry glad receive.”
              MRS. BARBOULD.


The day after this meeting with Higgins and his daughter Mr. Hale came
upstairs into the little drawing-room at an unusual hour. He went up to
different objects in the room, as if examining them, but Margaret saw
that it was merely a nervous trick--a way of putting off something he
wished, yet feared to say. Out it came at last--

“My dear! I’ve asked Mr. Thornton to come to tea to-night.”

Mrs. Hale was leaning back in her easy chair, with her eyes shut, and an
expression of pain on her face which had become habitual to her of late.
But she roused up into querulousness at this speech of her husband’s.

“Mr. Thornton!--and to-night! What in the world does the man want to
come here for? And Dixon is washing my muslins and laces, and there is
no soft water with these horrid east winds, which I suppose we shall
have all the year round in Milton.

“The wind is veering round, my dear,” said Mr. Hale, looking out at the
smoke, which drifted right from the east, only he did not yet understand
the points of the compass, and rather arranged them ad libitum according
to circumstances.

“Don’t tell me!” said Mrs. Hale, shuddering up, and wrapping her shawl
about her still more closely. “But, east or west wind, I suppose this
man comes.”

“Oh mamma, that shows you never saw Mr. Thornton. He looks like a person
who would enjoy battling with every adverse thing he could meet
with--enemies, winds, or circumstances. The more it rains and blows, the
more certain we are to have him. But I’ll go and help Dixon. I’m getting
to be a famous clear-starcher. And he won’t want any amusement beyond
talking to Papa. Papa, I am really longing to see the Pythias to your
Damon. You know I never saw him but once, and then we were so puzzled to
know what to say to each other that we did not get on particularly
well.”

“I don’t know that you would ever like him, or think him agreeable,
Margaret. He is not a lady’s man.”

Margaret wreathed her throat in a scornful curve.

“I don’t particularly admire ladies’ men, papa. But Mr. Thornton comes
here as your friend--as one who has appreciated you”--

“The only person in Milton,” said Mrs. Hale.

“So we will give him a welcome, and some cocoa-nut cakes. Dixon will be
flattered if we ask her to make some; and I will undertake to iron your
caps, mamma.”

Many a time that morning did Margaret wish Mr. Thornton far enough away.
She had planned other employments for herself: a letter to Edith, a good
piece of Dante, a visit to the Higginses. But, instead, she ironed away,
listening to Dixon’s complaints, and only hoping that by an excess of
sympathy she might prevent her from carrying the recital of her sorrows
to Mrs. Hale. Every now and then, Margaret had to remind herself of her
father’s regard for Mr. Thornton, to subdue the irritation of weariness
that was stealing over her, and bringing on one of the bad headaches to
which she had lately become liable. She could hardly speak when she sat
down at last, and told her mother that she was no longer Peggy the
laundry-maid, but Margaret Hale the lady. She meant this speech for a
little joke, and was vexed enough with her busy tongue when she found
her mother taking it seriously.

“Yes! if any one had told me, when I was Miss Beresford, and one of the
belles of the country, that a child of mine would have to stand half a
day, in a little poky kitchen, working away like any servant, that we
might prepare properly for the reception of a tradesman, and that this
tradesman should be the only”--

“Oh, mamma!” said Margaret, lifting herself up, “don’t punish me for so
careless a speech. I don’t mind ironing, or any kind of work for you and
papa. I am myself a born and bred lady through it all, even though it
comes to scouring a floor, or washing dishes. I am tired now, just for a
little while; but in half an hour I shall be ready to do the same over
again. And as to Mr. Thornton’s being in trade, why he can’t help that
now, poor fellow. I don’t suppose his education would fit him for much
else,” Margaret lifted herself slowly up, and went to her own room; for
just now she could not bear much more.

In Mr. Thornton’s house, at this very same time, a similar, yet
different scene was going on. A large-boned lady, long past middle age,
sat at work in a grim handsomely-furnished dining-room. Her features,
like her frame, were strong and massive, rather than heavy. Her face
moved slowly from one decided expression to another equally decided.
There was no great variety in her countenance; but those who looked at
it once, generally looked at it again; even the passers by in the
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