CHAPTER XLVII.

SOMETHING WANTING.

“Experience, like a pale musician, holds

A dulcimer of patience in his hand;

Whence harmonies we cannot understand,

Of God’s will in His worlds, the strain unfolds

In sad, perplexed minors.”

MRS. BROWNING.

About this time Dixon returned from Milton, and assumed her post as

Margaret’s maid. She brought endless pieces of Milton gossip: How Martha

had gone to live with Miss Thornton, on the latter’s marriage; with an

account of the bridesmaids, dresses and breakfasts, at that interesting

ceremony; how people thought that Mr. Thornton had made too grand a

wedding of it, considering he had lost a deal by the strike, and had had

to pay so much for the failure of his contracts; how little money

articles of furniture—long cherished by Dixon—had fetched at the sale,

which was a shame considering how rich folks were at Milton; how Mrs.

Thornton had come one day and got two or three good bargains, and Mr.

Thornton had come the next, and in his desire to obtain one or two

things, had bid against himself, much to the enjoyment of the

bystanders, so as Dixon observed, that made things even; if Mrs.

Thornton paid too little, Mr. Thornton paid too much. Mr. Bell had sent

all sorts of orders about the books; there was no understanding him, he

was so particular; if he had come himself it would have been all right,

but letters always were and always will be more puzzling than they are

worth. Dixon had not much to tell about the Higginses. Her memory had an

aristocratic bias, and was very treacherous whenever she tried to recall

any circumstance connected with those below her in life. Nicholas was

very well she believed. He had been several times at the house asking

for news of Miss Margaret—the only person who ever did ask, except once

Mr. Thornton. And Mary? oh! of course she was very well, a great, stout,

slatternly thing! She did hear, or perhaps it was only a dream of hers,

though it would be strange if she had dreamt of such people as the

Higginses, that Mary had gone to work at Mr. Thornton’s mill, because

her father wished her to know how to cook; but what nonsense that could

mean she didn’t know. Margaret rather agreed with her that the story was

incoherent enough to be like a dream. Still it was pleasant to have some

one now with whom she could talk of Milton, and Milton people. Dixon was

not over-fond of the subject, rather wishing to leave that part of her

life in shadow. She liked much more to dwell upon speeches of Mr.

Bell’s, which had suggested an idea to her of what was really his

intention—making Margaret his heiress. But her young lady gave her no

encouragement, nor in any way gratified her insinuating enquiries,

however disguised in the form of suspicions or assertions.

All this time Margaret had a strange undefined longing to hear that Mr.

Bell had gone to pay one of his business visits to Milton; for it had

been well understood between them, at the time of their conversation at

Helstone, that the explanation she had desired should only be given to

Mr. Thornton by word of mouth, and even in that manner should be in

nowise forced upon him. Mr. Bell was no great correspondent, but he

wrote from time to time long or short letters, as the humour took him,

and although Margaret was not conscious of any definite hope, on

receiving them, yet she always put away his notes with a little feeling

of disappointment. He was not going to Milton; he said nothing about it

at any rate. Well! she must be patient. Sooner or later the mists would

be cleared away. Mr. Bell’s letters were hardly like his usual self;

they were short, and complaining, with every now and then a little touch

of bitterness that was unusual. He did not look forward to the future;

he rather seemed to regret the past, and be weary of the present.

Margaret fancied that he could not be well; but in answer to some

enquiry of hers as to his health, he sent her a short note, saying there

was an old-fashioned complaint called the spleen; that he was suffering

from that, and it was for her to decide if it was more mental or

physical; but that he should like to indulge himself in grumbling,

without being obliged to send a bulletin every time.

In consequence of this note, Margaret made no more enquiries about his

health. One day Edith let out accidentally a fragment of a conversation

which she had had with Mr. Bell, when he was last in London, which

possessed Margaret with the idea that he had some notion of taking her

to pay a visit to her brother and new sister-in-law, at Cadiz, in the

autumn. She questioned and cross-questioned Edith, till the latter was

weary, and declared that there was nothing more to remember; all he had

said was that he half-thought he should go, and hear for himself what

Frederick had to say about the mutiny; and that it would be a good

opportunity for Margaret to become acquainted with her new

sister-in-law; that he always went somewhere during the long vacation,

and did not see why he should not go to Spain as well as anywhere else.

That was all. Edith hoped Margaret did not want to leave them, that she

was so anxious about all this. And then, having nothing else particular

to do, she cried, and said that she knew she cared much more for

Margaret than Margaret did for her. Margaret comforted her as well as

she could, but she could hardly explain to her how this idea of Spain,

mere Château en Espagne as it might be, charmed and delighted her. Edith

was in the mood to think that any pleasure enjoyed away from her was a

tacit affront, or at best a proof of indifference. So Margaret had to

keep her pleasure to herself, and could only let it escape by the

safety-valve of asking Dixon, when she dressed for dinner, if she would

not like to see Master Frederick and his new wife very much indeed?

“She’s a Papist, Miss, isn’t she?”

“I believe—oh yes, certainly!” said Margaret, a little damped for an

instant at this recollection.

“And they live in a Popish country?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’m afraid I must say, that my soul is dearer to me than even

Master Frederick, his own dear self. I should be in a perpetual terror,

Miss, lest I should be converted.”

“Oh,” said Margaret, “I do not know that I am going; and if I go, I am

not such a fine lady as to be unable to travel without you. No! dear old

Dixon, you shall have a long holiday, if we go. But I’m afraid it is a

long ‘if.’”

Now Dixon did not like this speech. In the first place, she did not like

Margaret’s trick of calling her ‘dear old Dixon’ whenever she was

particularly demonstrative. She knew that Miss Hale was apt to call all

people that she liked “old,” as a sort of term of endearment; but Dixon

always winced away from the application of the word to herself, who,

being not much past fifty, was, she thought, in the very prime of life.

Secondly, she did not like being so easily taken at her word; she had,

with all her terror, a lurking curiosity about Spain, the Inquisition,

and Popish mysteries. So, after clearing her throat, as if to show her

willingness to do away with difficulties, she asked Miss Hale whether

she thought, if she took care never to see a priest, or enter into one

of their churches, there would be so very much danger of her being

converted? Master Frederick, to be sure, had gone over unaccountably.

“I fancy it was love that first predisposed him to conversion,” said

Margaret, sighing.

“Indeed, Miss!” said Dixon; “well! I can preserve myself from priests,

and from churches; but love steals in unawares! I think it’s as well I

should not go.”

Margaret was afraid of letting her mind run too much upon this Spanish

plan. But it took off her thoughts from too impatiently dwelling upon

her desire to have all explained to Mr. Thornton. Mr. Bell appeared for

the present to be stationary at Oxford, and to have no immediate purpose

of going to Milton, and some secret restraint seemed to hang over

Margaret, and prevent her from even asking, or alluding again to any

probability of such a visit on his part. Nor did she feel at liberty to

name what Edith had told her of the idea he had entertained,—it might

be but for five minutes,—of going to Spain. He had never named it at

Helstone, during all that sunny day of leisure; it was very probably but

the fancy of a moment,—but if it were true, what a bright outlet it

would be from the monotony of her present life, which was beginning to

fall upon her.

One of the great pleasures of Margaret’s life at this time was in

Edith’s boy. He was the pride and plaything of both father and mother,

as long as he was good; but he had a strong will of his own, and as soon

as he burst out into one of his stormy passions, Edith would throw

herself back in despair and fatigue, and sigh out, “Oh dear, what shall

I do with him! Do, Margaret, please ring the bell for Hanley.”

But Margaret almost liked him better in these manifestations of

character than in his good blue-sashed moods. She would carry him off

into a room, where they two alone battled it out; she with a firm power

which subdued him into peace, while every sudden charm and wile she

possessed was exerted on the side of right, until he would rub his

little hot and tear-smeared face all over hers, kissing and caressing

till he often fell asleep in her arms or on her shoulder. Those were

Margaret’s sweetest moments. They gave her a taste of the feeling that

she believed would be denied to her for ever.

Mr. Henry Lennox added a new and not disagreeable element to the course

of the household life by his frequent presence. Margaret thought him

colder, if more brilliant than formerly; but there were strong

intellectual tastes, and much and varied knowledge, which gave flavour

to the otherwise rather insipid conversation. Margaret saw glimpses in

him of a slight contempt for his brother and sister-in-law, and for

their mode of life, which he seemed to consider as frivolous and

purposeless. He once or twice spoke to his brother, in Margaret’s

presence, in a pretty sharp tone of enquiry, as to whether he meant

entirely to relinquish his profession; and on Captain Lennox’s reply,

that he had quite enough to live upon, she had seen Mr. Lennox’s curl of

the lip as he said, “And is that all you live for?”

But the brothers were much attached to each other, in the way that any

two persons are, when the one is cleverer and always leads the other,

and this last is patiently content to be led. Mr. Lennox was pushing on

in his profession; cultivating, with profound calculation, all those

connections that might eventually be of service to him; keen-sighted,

far-seeing, intelligent, sarcastic, and proud. Since the one long

conversation relating to Frederick’s affairs, which she had with him the

first evening in Mr. Bell’s presence, she had had no great intercourse

with him, further than that which arose out of their close relations

with the same household. But this was enough to wear off the shyness on

her side, and any symptoms of mortified pride and vanity on his. They

met, continually, of course, but she thought that he rather avoided

being alone with her; she fancied that he, as well as she, perceived

that they had drifted strangely apart from their former anchorage, side

by side, in many of their opinions, and all their tastes.

And yet, when he had spoken unusually well, or with remarkable

epigrammatic point, she felt that his eye sought the expression of her

countenance first of all, if but for an instant; and that, in the

family intercourse which constantly threw them together, her opinion was

the one to which he listened with a deference,—the more complete,

because it was reluctantly paid, and concealed as much as possible.