North and South Page #30

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

								

hand--why, I say, leave a’ this talk about religion alone, and set to
work on what yo’ see and know. That’s my creed. It’s simple, and not far
to fetch, nor hard to work.”

But the girl only pleaded the more with Margaret.

“Don’t think hardly on him--he’s a good man, he is. I sometimes think I
shall be moped wi’ sorrow even in the City of God, if father is not
there.” The feverish colour came into her cheek, and the feverish flame
into her eye. “But you will be there, father! you shall! Oh! my heart!”
She put her hand to it, and became ghastly pale.

Margaret held her in her arms, and put the weary head to rest upon her
bosom. She lifted the thin soft hair from off the temples, and bathed
them with water. Nicholas understood all her signs for different
articles with the quickness of love, and even the round-eyed sister
moved with laborious gentleness at Margaret’s “hush!” Presently the
spasm that foreshadowed death had passed away, and Bessy roused herself
and said,--

“I’ll go to bed,--it’s best place; but,” catching at Margaret’s gown,
“yo’ll come again,--I know yo’ will--but just say it!”

“I will come again to-morrow,” said Margaret.

Bessy leant back against her father, who prepared to carry her upstairs;
but as Margaret rose to go, he struggled to say something; “I could wish
there were a God, if it were only to ask Him to bless thee.”

Margaret went away very sad and thoughtful.

She was late for tea at home. At Helstone unpunctuality at meal-times
was a great fault in her mother’s eyes; but now this, as well as many
other little irregularities, seemed to have lost their power of
irritation, and Margaret almost longed for the old complainings.

“Have you met with a servant, dear?”

“No, mamma; that Anne Buckley would never have done.”

“Suppose I try,” said Mr. Hale. “Everybody else has had their turn at
this great difficulty. Now let me try. I may be the Cinderella to put on
the slipper after all.”

Margaret could hardly smile at this little joke, so oppressed was she by
her visit to the Higginses.

“What would you do, papa? How would you set about it?”

“Why, I should apply to some good house-mother to recommend me one known
to herself or her servants.”

“Very good. But we must first catch our house-mother.”

“You have caught her. Or rather she is coming into the snare, and you
will catch her to-morrow, if you’re skilful.”

“What do you mean, Mr. Hale?” asked his wife, her curiosity aroused.

“Why, my paragon pupil (as Margaret calls him) has told me that his
mother intends to call on Mrs. and Miss Hale to-morrow.”

“Mrs. Thornton!” exclaimed Mrs. Hale.

“The mother of whom he spoke to us?” said Margaret.

“Mrs. Thornton; the only mother he has, I believe,” said Mr. Hale,
quietly.

“I shall like to see her. She must be an uncommon person,” her mother
added. “Perhaps she may have a relation who might suit us, and be glad
of our place. She sounded to be such a careful economical person, that I
should like any one out of the same family.”

“My dear,” said Mr. Hale alarmed. “Pray don’t go off on that idea. I
fancy Mrs. Thornton is as haughty and proud in her way as our little
Margaret here is in hers, and that she completely ignores that old time
of trial, and poverty, and economy, of which he speaks so openly. I am
sure, at any rate, she would not like strangers to know anything about
it.”

“Take notice that is not my kind of haughtiness, papa, if I have any at
all; which I don’t agree to, though you’re always accusing me of it.”

“I don’t know positively that it is hers either; but from little things
I have gathered from him, I fancy so.”

They cared too little to ask in what manner her son had spoken about
her. Margaret only wanted to know if she must stay in to receive this
call, as it would prevent her going to see how Bessy was, until late in
the day, since the early morning was always occupied in household
affairs; and then she recollected that her mother must not be left to
have the whole weight of entertaining her visitor.




CHAPTER XII.

MORNING CALLS.

    “Well--I suppose we must.”
              FRIENDS IN COUNCIL.


Mr. Thornton had had some difficulty in working up his mother to the
desired point of civility. She did not often make calls; and when she
did, it was in heavy state that she went through her duties. Her son had
given her a carriage; but she refused to let him keep horses for it;
they were hired for the solemn occasions, when she paid morning or
evening visits. She had had horses for three days, not a fortnight
before, and had comfortably “killed off” all her acquaintances, who
might now put themselves to trouble and expense in their turn. Yet
Crampton was too far off for her to walk; and she had repeatedly
questioned her son as to whether his wish that she should call on the
Hales was strong enough to bear the expense of cab-hire. She would have
been thankful if it had not; for, as she said, “she saw no use in making
up friendships and intimacies with all the teachers and masters in
Milton; why, he would be wanting her to call on Fanny’s dancing-master’s
wife, the next thing!”

“And so I would, mother, if Mr. Mason and his wife were friendless in a
strange place, like the Hales.”

“Oh! you need not speak so hastily. I am going to-morrow. I only wanted
you exactly to understand about it.”

“If you are going to-morrow, I shall order horses.”

“Nonsense, John. One would think you were made of money.”

“Not quite, yet. But about the horses I’m determined. The last time you
were out in a cab, you came home with a headache from the jolting.”

“I never complained of it, I’m sure.”

“No! my mother is not given to complaints,” said he, a little proudly.
“But so much the more I have to watch over you. Now, as for Fanny there,
a little hardship would do her good.”

“She is not made of the same stuff as you are, John. She could not bear
it.”

Mrs. Thornton was silent after this; for her last words bore relation to
a subject which mortified her. She had an unconscious contempt for a
weak character; and Fanny was weak in the very points in which her
mother and brother were strong. Mrs. Thornton was not a woman much
given to reasoning; her quick judgment and firm resolution served her in
good stead of any long arguments and discussions with herself; she felt
instinctively that nothing could strengthen Fanny to endure hardships
patiently, or face difficulties bravely; and though she winced as she
made this acknowledgment to herself about her daughter, it only gave her
a kind of pitying tenderness of manner towards her; much of the same
description of demeanour with which mothers are wont to treat their weak
and sickly children. A stranger, a careless observer might have
considered that Mrs. Thornton’s manner to her children betokened far
more love to Fanny than to John. But such a one would have been deeply
mistaken. The very daringness with which mother and son spoke out
unpalatable truths, the one to the other, showed a reliance on the firm
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