CHAPTER XXIX.

A RAY OF SUNSHINE.

“Some wishes crossed my mind and dimly cheered it,

And one or two poor melancholy pleasures,

Each in the pale unwarming light of hope,

Silvering its flimsy wing, flew silent by—

Moths in the moonbeam!”

COLERIDGE.

The next morning brought Margaret a letter from Edith. It was

affectionate and inconsequent like the writer. But the affection was

charming to Margaret’s own affectionate nature; and she had grown up

with the inconsequence, so she did not perceive it. It was as follows:—

“Oh, Margaret, it is worth a journey from England to see my boy! He is a

superb little fellow, especially in his caps, and most especially in the

one you sent him, you good, dainty-fingered, persevering little lady!

Having made all the mothers here envious, I want to show him to somebody

new, and hear a fresh set of admiring expressions; perhaps, that’s all

the reason; perhaps it is not—nay, possibly, there is just a little

cousinly love mixed with it; but I do want you so much to come here,

Margaret! I’m sure it would be the very best thing for Aunt Hale’s

health; everybody here is young and well, and our skies are always blue,

and our sun always shines, and the band plays deliciously from morning

till night; and, to come back to the burden of my ditty, my baby always

smiles. I am constantly wanting you to draw him from me, Margaret. It

does not signify what he is doing; that very thing is prettiest,

gracefullest, best. I think I love him a great deal better than my

husband, who is getting stout, and grumpy—what he calls ‘busy.’ No! he

is not. He has just come in with news of such a charming picnic, given

by the officers of the Hazard, at anchor in the bay below. Because he

has brought in such a pleasant piece of news, I retract all I said just

now. Did not somebody burn his hand for having said or done something he

was sorry for? Well, I can’t burn mine, because it would hurt me, and

the scar would be ugly; but I’ll retract all I said as fast as I can.

Cosmo is quite as great a darling as baby, and not a bit stout, and as

ungrumpy as ever husband was; only, sometimes he is very, very busy. I

may say that without love—wifely duty— where was I?—I had something

very particular to say, I know, once. Oh, it is this—Dearest

Margaret!—you must come and see me; it would do Aunt Hale good, as I

said before. Get the doctor to order it for her. Tell him that it’s the

smoke of Milton that does her harm. I have no doubt it is that, really.

Three months (you must not come for less) of this delicious climate—all

sunshine, and grapes as common as blackberries, would quite cure her. I

don’t ask my uncle”—(Here the letter became more constrained, and

better written. Mr. Hale was in the corner, like a naughty child, for

having given up his living.)—“because, I dare say, he disapproves of

war, soldiers, and bands of music; at least, I know that many Dissenters

are members of the Peace Society, and I am afraid he would not like to

come; but, if he would, dear, pray say that Cosmo and I will do our best

to make him happy; and I’ll hide up Cosmo’s red coat and sword, and make

the band play all sorts of grave, solemn things; or, if they do play

pomps and vanities, it shall be in double slow time. Dear Margaret, if

he would like to accompany you and Aunt Hale, we will try and make it

pleasant, though I’m rather afraid of any one who has done anything for

conscience’ sake. You never did, I hope. Tell Aunt Hale not to bring any

warm clothes, though I’m afraid it will be late in the year before you

can come. But you have no idea of the heat here! I tried to wear my

great beauty Indian shawl at a picnic. I kept myself up with proverbs

as long as I could; ‘Pride must abide,’—and such wholesome pieces of

pith; but it was no use. I was like mamma’s little dog Tiny with an

elephant’s trappings on; smothered, hidden, killed with my finery; so I

made it into a capital carpet for us all to sit down upon. Here’s this

boy of mine, Margaret—if you don’t pack up your things as soon as you

get this letter, and come straight off to see him, I shall think you’re

descended from King Herod!”

Margaret did long for a day of Edith’s life—her freedom from care, her

cheerful home, her sunny skies. If a wish could have transported her,

she would have gone off; just for one day. She yearned for the strength

which such a change would give—even for a few hours to be in the midst

of that bright life, and to feel young again. Not yet twenty! and she

had had to bear up against such hard pressure that she felt quite old.

That was her first feeling after reading Edith’s letter. Then she read

it again, and, forgetting herself, was amused at its likeness to Edith’s

self, and was laughing merrily over it when Mrs. Hale came into the

drawing-room, leaning on Dixon’s arm. Margaret flew to adjust the

pillows. Her mother seemed more than usually feeble.

“What were you laughing at, Margaret?” asked she, as soon as she had

recovered from the exertion of settling herself on the sofa.

“A letter I have had this morning from Edith. Shall I read it to you,

mamma?”

She read it aloud, and for a time it seemed to interest her mother, who

kept wondering what name Edith had given to her boy, and suggesting all

probable names, and all possible reasons why each and all of these names

should be given. Into the very midst of these wonders Mr. Thornton came,

bringing another offering of fruit for Mrs. Hale. He could not—say

rather, he would not—deny himself the chance of the pleasure of seeing

Margaret. He had no end in this but the present gratification. It was

the sturdy wilfulness of a man usually most reasonable and

self-controlled. He entered the room, taking in at a glance the fact of

Margaret’s presence; but after the first cold distant bow, he never

seemed to let his eyes fall on her again. He only stayed to present his

peaches—to speak some gentle kindly words—and then his cold offended

eyes met Margaret’s with a grave farewell, as he left the room. She sat

down silent and pale.

“Do you know, Margaret, I really begin to like Mr. Thornton.”

No answer at first. Then Margaret forced out an icy “Do you?”

“Yes! I think he is really getting quite polished in his manners.”

Margaret’s voice was more in order now. She replied,

“He is very kind and attentive—there is no doubt of that.”

“I wonder Mrs. Thornton never calls. She must know I am ill, because of

the water-bed.”

“I dare say, she hears how you are from her son.”

“Still, I should like to see her. You have so few friends here,

Margaret.”

Margaret felt what was in her mother’s thoughts—a tender craving to

bespeak the kindness of some woman towards the daughter that might soon

be left motherless. But she could not speak.

“Do you think,” said Mrs. Hale, after a pause, “that you could go and

ask Mrs. Thornton to come and see me? Only once—I don’t want to be

troublesome.”

“I will do anything, if you wish it, mamma—but if—but when Frederick

comes——”

“Ah, to be sure! we must keep our doors shut—we must let no one in. I

hardly know whether I dare wish him to come or not. Sometimes I think I

would rather not. Sometimes I have such frightful dreams about him.”

“Oh, mamma! we’ll take good care. I will put my arm in the bolt sooner

than he should come to the slightest harm. Trust the care of him to me,

mamma. I will watch over him like a lioness over her young.”

“When can we hear from him?”

“Not for a week yet, certainly—perhaps more.”

“We must send Martha away in good time. It would never do to have her

here when he comes, and then send her off in a hurry.”

“Dixon is sure to remind us of that. I was thinking that, if we wanted

any help in the house while he is here, we could perhaps get Mary

Higgins. She is very slack of work, and is a good girl, and would take

pains to do her best, I am sure, and would sleep at home, and need never

come upstairs, so as to know who is in the house.”

“As you please. As Dixon pleases. But, Margaret, don’t get to use these

horrid Milton words. ‘Slack of work:’ it is a provincialism. What will

your aunt Shaw say, if she hears you use it on her return?”

“Oh, mamma! don’t try and make a bugbear of aunt Shaw,” said Margaret,

laughing. “Edith picked up all sorts of military slang from Captain

Lennox, and aunt Shaw never took any notice of it.”

“But yours is factory slang.”

“And if I live in a factory town, I must speak factory language when I

want it. Why, mamma, I could astonish you with a great many words you

never heard in your life. I don’t believe you know what a knobstick is.”

“Not I, child. I only know it has a very vulgar sound; and I don’t want

to hear you using it.”

“Very well, dearest mother, I won’t. Only I shall have to use a whole

explanatory sentence instead.”

“I don’t like this Milton,” said Mrs. Hale. “Edith is right enough in

saying it’s the smoke that has made me so ill.”

Margaret started up as her mother said this. Her father had just entered

the room, and she was most anxious that the faint impression she had

seen on his mind that the Milton air had injured her mother’s health,

should not be deepened—should not receive any confirmation. She could

not tell whether he had heard what Mrs. Hale had said or not; but she

began speaking hurriedly of other things, unaware that Mr. Thornton was

following him.

“Mamma is accusing me of having picked up a great deal of vulgarity

since we came to Milton.”

The “vulgarity” Margaret spoke of, referred purely to the use of local

words, and the expression arose out of the conversation they had just

been holding. But Mr. Thornton’s brow darkened; and Margaret suddenly

felt how her speech might be misunderstood by him; so, in the natural

sweet desire to avoid giving unnecessary pain, she forced herself to go

forwards with a little greeting, and continue what she was saying,

addressing herself to him expressly.

“Now, Mr. Thornton, though ‘knobstick’ has not a very pretty sound, is

it not expressive? Could I do without it, in speaking of the thing it

represents? If using local words is vulgar, I was very vulgar in the

Forest,—was I not, mamma?”

It was unusual with Margaret to obtrude her own subject of conversation

on others; but, in this case, she was so anxious to prevent Mr. Thornton

from feeling annoyance at the words he had accidentally overheard, that

it was not until she had done speaking that she coloured all over with

consciousness, more especially as Mr. Thornton seemed hardly to

understand the exact gist or bearing of what she was saying, but passed

her by, with a cold reserve of ceremonious movement, to speak to Mrs.

Hale.

The sight of him reminded her of the wish to see his mother, and commend

Margaret to her care. Margaret, sitting in burning silence, vexed and

ashamed of her difficulty in keeping her right place, and her calm

unconsciousness of heart, when Mr. Thornton was by, heard her mother’s

slow entreaty that Mrs. Thornton would come and see her; see her soon;

to-morrow, if it were possible. Mr. Thornton promised that she

should—conversed a little, and then took his leave; and Margaret’s

movements and voice seemed at once released from some invisible chains.

He never looked at her; and yet, the careful avoidance of his eyes

betokened that in some way he knew exactly where, if they fell by

chance, they would rest on her. If she spoke, he gave no sign of

attention, and yet his next speech to any one else was modified by what

she had said; sometimes there was an express answer to what she had

remarked, but given to another person as though unsuggested by her. It

was not the bad manners of ignorance; it was the wilful bad manners

arising from deep offence. It was wilful at the time; repented of

afterwards. But no deep plan, no careful cunning could have stood him in

such good stead. Margaret thought about him more than she had ever done

before; not with any tinge of what is called love, but with regret that

she had wounded him so deeply,—and with a gentle, patient striving to

return to their former position of antagonistic friendship; for a

friend’s position was what she found that he had held in her regard, as

well as in that of the rest of the family. There was a pretty humility

in her behaviour to him, as if mutely apologising for the over-strong

words which were the reaction from the deeds of the day of the riot.

But he resented those words bitterly. They rung in his ears; and he was

proud of the sense of justice which made him go in every kindness he

could offer to her parents. He exulted in the power he showed in

compelling himself to face her, whenever he could think of any action

which might give her father or mother pleasure. He thought that he

disliked seeing one who had mortified him so keenly; but he was

mistaken. It was a stinging pleasure to be in the room with her, and

feel her presence. But he was no great analyser of his own motives and

was mistaken, as I have said.