North and South Page #32

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

								

since been my residence for some years, requires any accounting for.”

Margaret was vexed. As Fanny had put it, it did seem as if they had been
impertinently discussing Mrs. Thornton’s feelings; but she also rose up
against that lady’s manner of showing that she was offended.

Mrs. Thornton went on after a moment’s pause:

“Do you know anything of Milton, Miss Hale? Have you seen any of our
factories? our magnificent warehouses?”

“No!” said Margaret. “I have not seen anything of that description as
yet.”

Then she felt that, by concealing her utter indifference to all such
places, she was hardly speaking with truth; so she went on:

“I dare say, papa would have taken me before now if I had cared. But I
really do not find much pleasure in going over manufactories.”

“They are very curious places,” said Mrs. Hale, “but there is so much
noise and dirt always. I remember once going in a lilac silk to see
candles made, and my gown was utterly ruined.”

“Very probably,” said Mrs. Thornton, in a short displeased manner. “I
merely thought, that as strangers newly come to reside in a town which
has risen to eminence in the country, from the character and progress of
its peculiar business, you might have cared to visit some of the places
where it is carried on; places unique in the kingdom, I am informed. If
Miss Hale changes her mind and condescends to be curious as to the
manufactures of Milton, I can only say I shall be glad to procure her
admission to print-works, or reed-making, or the more simple operations
of spinning carried on in my son’s mill. Every improvement of machinery
is, I believe, to be seen there, in its highest perfection.”

“I am so glad you don’t like mills and manufactories, and all those kind
of things,” said Fanny, in a half-whisper, as she rose to accompany her
mother, who was taking leave of Mrs. Hale with rustling dignity.

“I think I should like to know all about them, if I were you,” replied
Margaret quietly.

“Fanny!” said her mother, as they drove away, “we will be civil to these
Hales: but don’t form one of your hasty friendships with the daughter.
She will do you no good, I see. The mother looks very ill, and seems a
nice, quiet kind of person.”

“I don’t want to form any friendship with Miss Hale, mamma,” said Fanny,
pouting. “I thought I was doing my duty by talking to her, and trying to
amuse her.”

“Well! at any rate John must be satisfied now.”




CHAPTER XIII.

SOFT BREEZE IN A SULTRY PLACE.

    “That doubt and trouble, fear and pain,
    And anguish, all, are shadows vain,
    That death itself shall not remain;

    That weary deserts we may tread,
    A dreary labyrinth may thread.
    Thro’ dark ways underground be led;

    Yet, if we will one Guide obey,
    The dreariest path, the darkest way
    Shall issue out in heavenly day;

    And we, on divers shores now cast,
    Shall meet, our perilous voyage past,
    All in our Father’s house at last!”
              R. C. TRENCH.


Margaret flew up stairs as soon as their visitors were gone, and put on
her bonnet and shawl, to run and inquire how Betsy Higgins was, and sit
with her as long as she could before dinner. As she went along the
crowded narrow streets, she felt how much of interest they had gained by
the simple fact of her having learnt to care for a dweller in them.

Mary Higgins, the slatternly younger sister, had endeavoured as well as
she could to tidy up the house for the expected visit. There had been
rough-stoning done in the middle of the floor, while the flags under the
chairs and table and round the walls retained their dark unwashed
appearance. Although the day was hot, there burnt a large fire in the
grate, making the whole place feel like an oven; Margaret did not
understand that the lavishness of coals was a sign of hospitable welcome
to her on Mary’s part, and thought that perhaps the oppressive heat was
necessary for Bessy. Bessy herself lay on a squab, or short sofa, placed
under the window. She was very much more feeble than on the previous
day, and tired with raising herself at every step to look out and see if
it was Margaret coming. And now that Margaret was there, and had taken a
chair by her, Bessy lay back silent, and content to look at Margaret’s
face, and touch her articles of dress, with a childish admiration of
their fineness of texture.

“I never knew why folk in the Bible cared for soft raiment afore. But it
must be nice to go dressed as yo’ do. It’s different fro’ common. Most
fine folk tire my eyes out wi’ their colours; but some how yours rest
me. Where did ye get this frock?”

“In London,” said Margaret, much amused.

“London! Have yo’ been in London?”

“Yes! I lived there for some years. But my home was in a forest; in the
country.”

“Tell me about it,” said Bessy. “I like to hear speak of the country,
and trees, and such like things.” She leant back, and shut her eyes,
and crossed her hands over her breast, lying at perfect rest, as if to
receive all the ideas Margaret could suggest.

Margaret had never spoken of Helstone since she left it, except just
naming the place incidentally. She saw it in dreams more vivid than
life, and as she fell away to slumber at nights her memory wandered in
all its pleasant places. But her heart was opened to this girl: “Oh,
Bessy, I loved the home we have left so dearly! I wish you could see it.
I cannot tell you half its beauty. There are great trees standing all
about it, with their branches stretching long and level, and making a
deep shade of rest even at noonday. And yet, though every leaf may seem
still, there is a continual rushing sound of movement all around--not
close at hand. Then sometimes the turf is as soft and fine as velvet;
and sometimes quite lush with the perpetual moisture of a little,
hidden, tinkling brook near at hand. And then in other parts there are
billowy ferns--whole stretches of fern; some in the green shadow; some
with long streaks of golden sunlight lying on them--just like the sea.”

“I have never seen the sea,” murmured Bessy. “But go on.”

“Then here and there, there are wide commons, high up as if above the
very tops of the trees--”

“I am glad of that. I felt smothered like down below. When I have gone
for an out, I’ve always wanted to get high up and see far away, and take
a deep breath o’ fulness in that air. I get smothered enough in Milton,
and I think the sound yo’ speak of among the trees, going on for ever
and ever, would send me dazed; it’s that made my head ache so in the
mill. Now on these commons, I reckon, there is but little noise?”

“No,” said Margaret; “nothing but here and there a lark high in the air.
Sometimes I used to hear a farmer speaking sharp and loud to his
servants; but it was so far away that it only reminded me pleasantly
that other people were hard at work in some distant place, while I just
sat on the heather and did nothing.”

“I used to think once that if I could have a day of doing nothing, to
rest me--a day in some quiet place like that yo’ speak on--it would
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