MAKING FRIENDS.
“Nay, I have done; you get no more of me;
And I am glad, yea glad with all my heart,
That thus so clearly I myself am free.”
DRAYTON.
Margaret shut herself up in her own room, after she had quitted Mrs.
Thornton. She began to walk backwards and forwards, in her old habitual
way of showing agitation; but, then, remembering that in that
slightly-built house every step was heard from one room to another, she
sate down until she heard Mrs. Thornton go safely out of the house. She
forced herself to recollect all the conversation that had passed between
them; speech by speech, she compelled her memory to go through with it.
At the end, she rose up, and said to herself, in a melancholy tone:
“At any rate, her words do not touch me; they fall off from me; for I am
innocent of all the motives she attributes to me. But still, it is hard
to think that any one—any woman—can believe all this of another so
easily. It is hard and sad. Where I have done wrong, she does not accuse
me—she does not know. He never told her: I might have known he would
not!”
She lifted up her head, as if she took pride in any delicacy of feeling
which Mr. Thornton had shown. Then, as a new thought came across her,
she pressed her hands tightly together:
“He, too, must take poor Frederick for some lover.” (She blushed as the
word passed through her mind.) “I see it now. It is not merely that he
knows of my falsehood, but he believes that some one else cares for me;
and that I—— Oh dear!—oh dear! What shall I do? What do I mean? Why
do I care what he thinks, beyond the mere loss of his good opinion as
regards my telling the truth or not? I cannot tell. But I am very
miserable! Oh, how unhappy this last year has been! I have passed out of
childhood into old age. I have had no youth—no womanhood; the hopes of
womanhood have closed for me—for I shall never marry; and I anticipate
cares and sorrows just as if I were an old woman, and with the same
tearful spirit. I am weary of this continual call upon me for strength.
I could bear up for papa; because that is a natural, pious duty. And I
think I could bear up against—at any rate, I could have the energy to
resent, Mrs. Thornton’s unjust, impertinent suspicions. But it is hard
to feel how completely he must misunderstand me. What has happened to
make me so morbid to-day? I do not know. I only know I cannot help it. I
must give way sometimes. No, I will not though,” said she, springing to
her feet. “I will not—I _will_ not think of myself and my own position.
I won’t examine into my own feelings. It would be of no use now. Some
time, if I live to be an old woman, I may sit over the fire, and looking
into the embers, see the life that might have been.”
All this time she was hastily putting on her things to go out, only
stopping from time to time to wipe her eyes, with an impatience of
gesture at the tears that would come again, in spite of all her bravery.
“I dare say there’s many a woman makes as sad a mistake as I have done,
and only finds it out too late. And how proudly and impertinently I
spoke to him that day! But I did not know then. It has come upon me
little by little, and I don’t know where it began. Now I won’t give way.
I shall find it difficult to behave in the same way to him, with this
miserable consciousness upon me; but I will be very calm and very quiet,
and say very little. But, to be sure, I may not see him; he keeps out of
our way evidently. That would be worse than all. And yet no wonder that
he avoids me, believing what he must about me.”
She went out, going rapidly towards the country, and trying to drown
reflection by swiftness of motion.
As she stood on the door-step, at her return, her father came up:
“Good girl!” said he. “You’ve been to Mrs. Boucher’s. I was just meaning
to go there, if I had time, before dinner.”
“No, papa; I have not,” said Margaret, reddening. “I never thought
about her. But I will go directly after dinner; I will go while you are
taking your nap.”
Accordingly Margaret went. Mrs. Boucher was very ill; really ill—not
merely ailing. The kind and sensible neighbour, who had come in the
other day, seemed to have taken charge of everything. Some of the
children were gone to the neighbours. Mary Higgins had come for the
three youngest at dinner-time; and since then Nicholas had gone for the
doctor. He had not come as yet; Mrs. Boucher was dying; and there was
nothing to do but wait. Margaret thought that she should like to hear
his opinion, and that she could not do better than go and see the
Higginses in the meantime. She might then possibly hear whether Nicholas
had been able to make his application to Mr. Thornton.
She found Nicholas busily engaged in making a penny spin on the dresser,
for the amusement of three little children, who were clinging to him in
a fearless manner. He, as well as they, was smiling at a good long spin;
and Margaret thought, that the happy look of interest in his occupation
was a good sign. When the penny stopped spinning, “lile Johnnie” began
to cry.
“Come to me,” said Margaret, taking him off the dresser, and holding him
in her arms; she held her watch to his ear, while she asked Nicholas if
he had seen Mr. Thornton.
The look on his face changed instantly.
“Ay!” said he. “I’ve seen and heerd too much on him.”
“He refused you, then?” said Margaret, sorrowfully.
“To be sure. I knew he’d do it all along. It’s no good expecting marcy
at the hands o’ them measters. Yo’r a stranger and a foreigner, and
aren’t likely to know their ways; but I knowed it.”
“I am sorry I asked you. Was he angry? He did not speak to you as Hamper
did, did he?”
“He weren’t o’er-civil!” said Nicholas, spinning the penny again, as
much for his own amusement as for that of the children. “Never yo’ fret,
I’m only where I was. I’ll go on tramp to-morrow. I gave him as good as
I got. I telled him, I’d not that good opinion on him that I’d ha’ come
a second time of mysel’; but yo’d advised me for to come, and I were
beholden to yo’.”
“You told him I sent you?”
“I dunno, if I ca’d yo’ by your name. I dunnot think I did. I said a
woman who knew no better had advised me for to come and see if there was
a soft place in his heart.”
“And he—?” asked Margaret.
“Said I were to tell yo’ to mind yo’r own business.—That’s the longest
spin yet, my lads.—And them’s civil words to what he used to me. But
ne’er mind. We’re but where we was; and I’ll break stones on the road
afore I let these little uns clem.”
Margaret put the struggling Johnnie out of her arms, back into his
former place on the dresser.
“I am sorry I asked you to go to Mr. Thornton’s. I am disappointed in
him.”
There was a slight noise behind her. Both she and Nicholas turned round
at the same moment, and there stood Mr. Thornton, with a look of
displeased surprise upon his face. Obeying her swift impulse, Margaret
passed out before him, saying not a word, only bowing low to hide the
sudden paleness that she felt had come over her face. He bent equally
low in return, and then closed the door after her. As she hurried to
Mrs. Boucher’s, she heard the clang, and it seemed to fill up the
measure of her mortification. He too was annoyed to find her there. He
had tenderness in his heart—“a soft place,” as Nicholas Higgins called
it; but he had some pride in concealing it; he kept it very sacred and
safe, and was jealous of every circumstance that tried to gain
admission. But if he dreaded exposure of his tenderness, he was equally
desirous that all men should recognise his justice; and he felt that he
had been unjust in giving so scornful a hearing to any one who had
waited, with humble patience, for five hours, to speak to him. That the
man had spoken saucily to him when he had the opportunity, was nothing
to Mr. Thornton. He rather liked him for it; and he was conscious of his
own irritability of temper at the time, which probably made them both
quits. It was the five hours of waiting that struck Mr. Thornton. He had
not five hours to spare, himself; but one hour—two hours, of his hard
penetrating intellectual, as well as bodily labour, did he give up to
going about collecting evidence as to the truth of Higgins’s story, the
nature of his character, the tenor of his life. He tried not to be, but
was convinced that all that Higgins had said was true. And then the
conviction went in, as if by some spell, and touched the latent
tenderness of his heart; the patience of the man, the simple generosity
of the motive (for he had learnt about the quarrel between Boucher and
Higgins), made him forget entirely the mere reasonings of justice, and
overleap them by a diviner instinct. He came to tell Higgins he would
give him work; and he was more annoyed to find Margaret there than by
hearing her last words; for then he understood that she was the woman
who had urged Higgins to come to him; and he dreaded the admission of
any thought of her, as a motive to what he was doing solely because it
was right.
“So that was the lady you spoke of as a woman?” said he indignantly to
Higgins. “You might have told me who she was.”
“And then, maybe, yo’d have spoken of her more civil than yo’ did; yo’d
getten a mother who might ha’ kept yo’r tongue in check when yo’ were
talking o’ women being at the root of all the plagues.”
“Of course you told that to Miss Hale?”
“In coorse I did. Leastways, I reckon I did. I telled her she weren’t to
meddle again in aught that concerned yo’.”
“Whose children are those—yours?” Mr. Thornton had a pretty good notion
whose they were, from what he had heard; but he felt awkward in turning
the conversation round from this unpromising beginning.
“They’re not mine, and they are mine.”
“They are the children you spoke of to me this morning?”
“When yo’ said,” replied Higgins, turning round, with ill-smothered
fierceness, “that my story might be true or might not, but it were a
very unlikely one. Measter, I’ve not forgotten.”
Mr. Thornton was silent for a moment; then he said: “No more have I. I
remember what I said. I spoke to you about those children in a way I had
no business to. I did not believe you. I could not have taken care of
another man’s children myself, if he had acted towards me as I hear
Boucher did towards you. But I know now you spoke truth. I beg your
pardon.”
Higgins did not turn round, or immediately respond to this. But when he
did speak, it was in a softened tone, although the words were gruff
enough.
“Yo’ve no business to go prying into what happened between Boucher and
me. He’s dead, and I’m sorry. That’s enough.”
“So it is. Will you take work with me? That’s what I came to ask.”
Higgins’s obstinacy wavered, recovered strength, and stood firm. He
would not speak. Mr. Thornton would not ask again. Higgins’s eye fell on
the children.
“Yo’ve called me impudent, and a liar, and a mischief-maker, and yo’
might ha’ said wi’ some truth, as I were now and then given to drink.
An’, I ha’ called you a tyrant, an’ an oud bull dog, and a hard, cruel
master; that’s where it stands. But for th’ childer, Measter, do yo’
think we can e’er get on together?”
“Well!” said Mr. Thornton, half-laughing, “it was not my proposal that
we should go together. But there’s one comfort on your own showing. We
neither of us can think much worse of the other than we do now.”
“That’s true,” said Higgins, reflectively. “I’ve been thinking ever sin’
I saw you, what a marcy it were yo’ did na take me on, for that I ne’er
saw a man whom I could less abide. But that’s maybe been a hasty
judgment; and work’s work to such as me. So, measter, I’ll come; and
what’s more, I thank yo’; and that’s a deal fro’ me,” said he, more
frankly, suddenly turning round and facing Mr. Thornton fully for the
first time.
“And this is a deal from me,” said Mr. Thornton, giving Higgins’s hand a
good grip. “Now mind you come sharp to your time,” continued he,
resuming the master. “I’ll have no laggards at my mill. What fines we
have, we keep pretty sharply. And the first time I catch you making
mischief, off you go. So now you know where you are.”
“Yo’ spoke of my wisdom this morning. I reckon I may bring it wi’ me; or
would yo’ rayther have me ’bout my brains?”
“’Bout your brains if you use them for meddling with my business; with
your brains if you can keep to your own.”
“I shall need a deal o’ brains to settle where my business ends and
yo’rs begins.”
“Your business has not begun yet, and mine stands still for me. So good
afternoon.”
Just before Mr. Thornton came up to Mrs. Boucher’s door, Margaret came
out of it. She did not see him; and he followed her for several yards,
admiring her light and easy walk, and her tall and graceful figure. But,
suddenly, this simple emotion of pleasure was tainted, poisoned by
jealousy. He wished to overtake her, and speak to her, to see how she
would receive him, now she must know he was aware of some other
attachment. He wished too, but of this wish he was rather ashamed, that
she should know that he had justified her wisdom in sending Higgins to
him to ask for work, and had repented him of his morning’s decision. He
came up to her. She started.
“Allow me to say, Miss Hale, that you were rather premature in
expressing your disappointment. I have taken Higgins on.”
“I am glad of it,” said she coldly.
“He tells me, he repeated to you, what I said this morning about—,” Mr.
Thornton hesitated. Margaret took it up:
“About women not meddling. You had a perfect right to express your
opinion, which was a very correct one, I have no doubt. But,” she went
on a little more eagerly, “Higgins did not quite tell you the exact
truth.” The word “truth,” reminded her of her own untruth, and she
stopped short, feeling exceedingly uncomfortable.
Mr. Thornton at first was puzzled to account for her silence; and then
he remembered the lie she had told, and all that was foregone. “The
exact truth!” said he. “Very few people do speak the exact truth. I have
given up hoping for it. Miss Hale, have you no explanation to give me?
You must perceive what I cannot but think.”
Margaret was silent. She was wondering whether an explanation of any
kind would be consistent with her loyalty to Frederick.
“Nay,” said he, “I will ask no farther. I may be putting temptation in
your way. At present, believe me, your secret is safe with me. But you
run great risks, allow me to say, in being so indiscreet. I am only
speaking as a friend of your father’s: if I had any other thought or
hope, of course that is at an end. I am quite disinterested.”
“I am aware of that,” said Margaret, forcing herself to speak in an
indifferent, careless way. “I am aware of what I must appear to you, but
the secret is another person’s, and I cannot explain it without doing
him harm.”
“I have not the slightest wish to pry into the gentleman’s secrets,” he
said, with growing anger. “My own interest in you is—simply that of a
friend. You may not believe me, Miss Hale, but it is—in spite of the
persecution I’m afraid I threatened you with at one time—but that is
all given up; all passed away. You believe me, Miss Hale?”
“Yes,” said Margaret, quietly and sadly.
“Then, really, I don’t see any reason for us to go on walking together.
I thought, perhaps, you might have had something to say, but I see we
are nothing to each other. If you’re quite convinced, that any foolish
passion on my part is entirely over, I wish you good afternoon.” He
walked off very hastily.
“What can he mean?” thought Margaret,—“what could he mean by speaking
so, as if I were always thinking that he cared for me, when I know he
does not; he cannot. His mother will have said all those cruel things
about me to him. But I won’t care for him. I surely am mistress enough
of myself to control this wild, strange, miserable feeling, which
tempted me even to betray my own dear Frederick, so that I might but
regain his good opinion—the good opinion of a man who takes such pains
to tell me that I am nothing to him. Come! poor little heart! be cheery
and brave. We’ll be a great deal to one another, if we are thrown off
and left desolate.”
Her father was almost startled by her merriment this morning. She talked
incessantly, and forced her natural humour to an unusual pitch; and if
there was a tinge of bitterness in much of what she said; if her
accounts of the old Harley Street set were a little sarcastic, her
father could not bear to check her, as he would have done at another
time—for he was glad to see her shake off her cares. In the middle of
the evening, she was called down to speak to Mary Higgins; and when she
came back, Mr. Hale imagined that he saw traces of tears on her cheeks.
But that could not be, for she brought good news—that Higgins had got
work at Mr. Thornton’s mill. Her spirits were damped, at any rate, and
she found it very difficult to go on talking at all, much more in the
wild way that she had done. For some days her spirits varied strangely;
and her father was beginning to be anxious about her, when news arrived
from one or two quarters that promised some change and variety for her.
Mr. Hale received a letter from Mr. Bell, in which that gentleman
volunteered a visit to them; and Mr. Hale imagined that the promised
society of his old Oxford friend would give as agreeable a turn to
Margaret’s ideas as it did to his own. Margaret tried to take an
interest in what pleased her father; but she was too languid to care
about any Mr. Bell, even though he were twenty times her godfather. She
was more roused by a letter from Edith, full of sympathy about her
aunt’s death; full of details about herself, her husband, and child; and
at the end saying, that as the climate did not suit the baby, and as
Mrs. Shaw was talking of returning to England, she thought it probable
that Captain Lennox might sell out, and that they might all go and live
again in the old Harley Street house; which, however, would seem very
incomplete without Margaret. Margaret yearned after that old house, and
the placid tranquility of that well-ordered, monotonous life. She had
found it occasionally tiresome while it lasted; but since then she had
been buffeted about, and felt so exhausted by this recent struggle with
herself, that she thought that even stagnation would be a rest and a
refreshment. So she began to look towards a long visit to the Lennoxes,
on their return to England, as to a point—no, not of hope—but of
leisure, in which she could regain her power and command over herself.
At present it seemed to her as if all subjects tended towards Mr.
Thornton; as if she could not forget him with all her endeavours. If she
went to see the Higginses, she heard of him there; her father had
resumed their readings together, and quoted his opinions perpetually;
even Mr. Bell’s visit brought his tenant’s name upon the tapis; for he
wrote word, that he believed he must be occupied some great part of his
time with Mr. Thornton, as a new lease was in preparation, and the terms
of it must be agreed upon.