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North and South
CHAPTER XXVI - MOTHER AND SON
Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell
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       _ CHAPTER XXVI - MOTHER AND SON
       'I have found that holy place of rest
       Still changeless.'
       MRS. HEMANS.
       When Mr. Thornton had left the house that morning he was almost
       blinded by his baffled passion. He was as dizzy as if Margaret,
       instead of looking, and speaking, and moving like a tender
       graceful woman, had been a sturdy fish-wife, and given him a
       sound blow with her fists. He had positive bodily pain,--a
       violent headache, and a throbbing intermittent pulse. He could
       not bear the noise, the garish light, the continued rumble and
       movement of the street. He called himself a fool for suffering
       so; and yet he could not, at the moment, recollect the cause of
       his suffering, and whether it was adequate to the consequences it
       had produced. It would have been a relief to him, if he could
       have sat down and cried on a door-step by a little child, who was
       raging and storming, through his passionate tears, at some injury
       he had received. He said to himself, that he hated Margaret, but
       a wild, sharp sensation of love cleft his dull, thunderous
       feeling like lightning, even as he shaped the words expressive of
       hatred. His greatest comfort was in hugging his torment; and in
       feeling, as he had indeed said to her, that though she might
       despise him, contemn him, treat him with her proud sovereign
       indifference, he did not change one whit. She could not make him
       change. He loved her, and would love her; and defy her, and this
       miserable bodily pain.
       He stood still for a moment, to make this resolution firm and
       clear. There was an omnibus passing--going into the country; the
       conductor thought he was wishing for a place, and stopped near
       the pavement. It was too much trouble to apologise and explain;
       so he mounted upon it, and was borne away,--past long rows of
       houses--then past detached villas with trim gardens, till they
       came to real country hedge-rows, and, by-and-by, to a small
       country town. Then every body got down; and so did Mr. Thornton,
       and because they walked away he did so too. He went into the
       fields, walking briskly, because the sharp motion relieved his
       mind. He could remember all about it now; the pitiful figure he
       must have cut; the absurd way in which he had gone and done the
       very thing he had so often agreed with himself in thinking would
       be the most foolish thing in the world; and had met with exactly
       the consequences which, in these wise moods, he had always
       fore-told were certain to follow, if he ever did make such a fool
       of himself. Was he bewitched by those beautiful eyes, that soft,
       half-open, sighing mouth which lay so close upon his shoulder
       only yesterday? He could not even shake off the recollection that
       she had been there; that her arms had been round him, once--if
       never again. He only caught glimpses of her; he did not
       understand her altogether. At one time she was so brave, and at
       another so timid; now so tender, and then so haughty and
       regal-proud. And then he thought over every time he had ever seen
       her once again, by way of finally forgetting her. He saw her in
       every dress, in every mood, and did not know which became her
       best. Even this morning, how magnificent she had looked,--her
       eyes flashing out upon him at the idea that, because she had
       shared his danger yesterday, she had cared for him the least!
       If Mr. Thornton was a fool in the morning, as he assured himself
       at least twenty times he was, he did not grow much wiser in the
       afternoon. All that he gained in return for his sixpenny omnibus
       ride, was a more vivid conviction that there never was, never
       could be, any one like Margaret; that she did not love him and
       never would; but that she--no! nor the whole world--should never
       hinder him from loving her. And so he returned to the little
       market-place, and remounted the omnibus to return to Milton.
       It was late in the afternoon when he was set down, near his
       warehouse. The accustomed places brought back the accustomed
       habits and trains of thought. He knew how much he had to do--more
       than his usual work, owing to the commotion of the day before. He
       had to see his brother magistrates; he had to complete the
       arrangements, only half made in the morning, for the comfortand
       safety of his newly imported Irish hands; he had to secure them
       from all chance of communication with the discontented
       work-people of Milton. Last of all, he had to go home and
       encounter his mother.
       Mrs. Thornton had sat in the dining-room all day, every moment
       expecting the news of her son's acceptance by Miss Hale. She had
       braced herself up many and many a time, at some sudden noise in
       the house; had caught up the half-dropped work, and begun to ply
       her needle diligently, though through dimmed spectacles, and with
       an unsteady hand! and many times had the door opened, and some
       indifferent person entered on some insignificant errand. Then her
       rigid face unstiffened from its gray frost-bound expression, and
       the features dropped into the relaxed look of despondency, so
       unusual to their sternness. She wrenched herself away from the
       contemplation of all the dreary changes that would be brought
       about to herself by her son's marriage; she forced her thoughts
       into the accustomed household grooves. The newly-married
       couple-to-be would need fresh household stocks of linen; and Mrs.
       Thornton had clothes-basket upon clothes-basket, full of
       table-cloths and napkins, brought in, and began to reckon up the
       store. There was some confusion between what was hers, and
       consequently marked G. H. T. (for George and Hannah Thornton),
       and what was her son's--bought with his money, marked with his
       initials. Some of those marked G. H. T. were Dutch damask of the
       old kind, exquisitely fine; none were like them now. Mrs.
       Thornton stood looking at them long,--they had been her pride
       when she was first married. Then she knit her brows, and pinched
       and compressed her lips tight, and carefully unpicked the G. H.
       She went so far as to search for the Turkey-red marking-thread to
       put in the new initials; but it was all used,--and she had no
       heart to send for any more just yet. So she looked fixedly at
       vacancy; a series of visions passing before her, in all of which
       her son was the principal, the sole object,--her son, her pride,
       her property. Still he did not come. Doubtless he was with Miss
       Hale. The new love was displacing her already from her place as
       first in his heart. A terrible pain--a pang of vain
       jealousy--shot through her: she hardly knew whether it was more
       physical or mental; but it forced her to sit down. In a moment,
       she was up again as straight as ever,--a grim smile upon her face
       for the first time that day, ready for the door opening, and the
       rejoicing triumphant one, who should never know the sore regret
       his mother felt at his marriage. In all this, there was little
       thought enough of the future daughter-in-law as an individual.
       She was to be John's wife. To take Mrs. Thornton's place as
       mistress of the house, was only one of the rich consequences
       which decked out the supreme glory; all household plenty and
       comfort, all purple and fine linen, honour, love, obedience,
       troops of friends, would all come as naturally as jewels on a
       king's robe, and be as little thought of for their separate
       value. To be chosen by John, would separate a kitchen-wench from
       the rest of the world. And Miss Hale was not so bad. If she had
       been a Milton lass, Mrs. Thornton would have positively liked
       her. She was pungent, and had taste, and spirit, and flavour in
       her. True, she was sadly prejudiced, and veryignorant; but that
       was to be expected from her southern breeding. A strange sort of
       mortified comparison of Fanny with her, went on in Mrs.
       Thornton's mind; and for once she spoke harshly to her daughter;
       abused her roundly; and then, as if by way of penance, she took
       up Henry's Commentaries, and tried to fix her attention on it,
       instead of pursuing the employment she took pride and pleasure
       in, and continuing her inspection of the table-linen.
       ~His~ step at last! She heard him, even while she thought she was
       finishing a sentence; while her eye did pass over it, and her
       memory could mechanically have repeated it word for word, she
       heard him come in at the hall-door. Her quickened sense could
       interpret every sound of motion: now he was at the hat-stand--now
       at the very room-door. Why did he pause? Let her know the worst.
       Yet her head was down over the book; she did not look up. He came
       close to the table, and stood still there, waiting till she
       should have finished the paragraph which apparently absorbed her.
       By an effort she looked up. Well, John?'
       He knew what that little speech meant. But he had steeled
       himself. He longed to reply with a jest; the bitterness of his
       heart could have uttered one, but his mother deserved better of
       him. He came round behind her, so that she could not see his
       looks, and, bending back her gray, stony face, he kissed it,
       murmuring:
       'No one loves me,--no one cares for me, but you, mother.'
       He turned away and stood leaning his head against the
       mantel-piece, tears forcing themselves into his manly eyes. She
       stood up,--she tottered. For the first time in her life, the
       strong woman tottered. She put her hands on his shoulders; she
       was a tall woman. She looked into his face; she made him look at
       her.
       'Mother's love is given by God, John. It holds fast for ever and
       ever. A girl's love is like a puff of smoke,--it changes with
       every wind. And she would not have you, my own lad, would not
       she?' She set her teeth; she showed them like a dog for the whole
       length of her mouth. He shook his head.
       'I am not fit for her, mother; I knew I was not.'
       She ground out words between her closed teeth. He could not hear
       what she said; but the look in her eyes interpreted it to be a
       curse,--if not as coarsely worded, as fell in intent as ever was
       uttered. And yet her heart leapt up light, to know he was her own
       again.
       'Mother!' said he, hurriedly, 'I cannot hear a word against her.
       Spare me,--spare me! I am very weak in my sore heart;--I love her
       yet; I love her more than ever.'
       'And I hate her,' said Mrs. Thornton, in a low fierce voice. 'I
       tried not to hate her, when she stood between you and me,
       because,--I said to myself,--she will make him happy; and I would
       give my heart's blood to do that. But now, I hate her for your
       misery's sake. Yes, John, it's no use hiding up your aching heart
       from me. I am the mother that bore you, and your sorrow is my
       agony; and if you don't hate her, I do.'
       'Then, mother, you make me love her more. She is unjustly treated
       by you, and I must make the balance even. But why do we talk of
       love or hatred? She does not care for me, and that is
       enough,--too much. Let us never name the subject again. It is the
       only thing you can do for me in the matter. Let us never name
       her.'
       'With all my heart. I only wish that she, and all belonging to
       her, were swept back to the place they came from.'
       He stood still, gazing into the fire for a minute or two longer.
       Her dry dim eyes filled with unwonted tears as she looked at him;
       but she seemed just as grim and quiet as usual when he next
       spoke.
       'Warrants are out against three men for conspiracy, mother. The
       riot yesterday helped to knock up the strike.'
       And Margaret's name was no more mentioned between Mrs. Thornton
       and her son. They fell back into their usual mode of talk,--about
       facts, not opinions, far less feelings. Their voices and tones
       were calm and cold a stranger might have gone away and thought
       that he had never seen such frigid indifference of demeanour
       between such near relations. _
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Introduction
CHAPTER I - 'HASTE TO THE WEDDING'
CHAPTER II - ROSES AND THORNS
CHAPTER III - 'THE MORE HASTE THE WORSE SPEED'
CHAPTER IV - DOUBTS AND DIFFICULTIES
CHAPTER V - DECISION
CHAPTER VI - FAREWELL
CHAPTER VII - NEW SCENES AND FACES
CHAPTER VIII - HOME SICKNESS
CHAPTER IX - DRESSING FOR TEA
CHAPTER X - WROUGHT IRON AND GOLD
CHAPTER XI - FIRST IMPRESSIONS
CHAPTER XII - MORNING CALLS
CHAPTER XIII - A SOFT BREEZE IN A SULTRY PLACE
CHAPTER XIV - THE MUTINY
CHAPTER XV - MASTERS AND MEN
CHAPTER XVI - THE SHADOW OF DEATH
CHAPTER XVII - WHAT IS A STRIKE?
CHAPTER XVIII - LIKES AND DISLIKES
CHAPTER XIX - ANGEL VISITS
CHAPTER XX - MEN AND GENTLEMEN
CHAPTER XXI - THE DARK NIGHT
CHAPTER XXII - A BLOW AND ITS CONSEQUENCES
CHAPTER XXIII - MISTAKES
CHAPTER XXIV - MISTAKES CLEARED UP
CHAPTER XXV - FREDERICK
CHAPTER XXVI - MOTHER AND SON
CHAPTER XXVII - FRUIT-PIECE
CHAPTER XXVIII - COMFORT IN SORROW
CHAPTER XXIX - A RAY OF SUNSHINE
CHAPTER XXX - HOME AT LAST
CHAPTER XXXI - 'SHOULD AULD ACQUAINTANCE BE FORGOT?'
CHAPTER XXXII - MISCHANCES
CHAPTER XXXIII - PEACE
CHAPTER XXXIV - FALSE AND TRUE
CHAPTER XXXV - EXPIATION
CHAPTER XXXVI - UNION NOT ALWAYS STRENGTH
CHAPTER XXXVII - LOOKING SOUTH
CHAPTER XXXVIII - PROMISES FULFILLED
CHAPTER XXXIX - MAKING FRIENDS
CHAPTER XL - OUT OF TUNE
CHAPTER XLI - THE JOURNEY'S END
CHAPTER XLII - ALONE! ALONE!
CHAPTER XLIII - MARGARET'S FLITTIN'
CHAPTER XLIV - EASE NOT PEACE
CHAPTER XLV - NOT ALL A DREAM
CHAPTER XLVI - ONCE AND NOW
CHAPTER XLVII - SOMETHING WANTING
CHAPTER XLVIII - 'NE'ER TO BE FOUND AGAIN'
CHAPTER XLIX - BREATHING TRANQUILLITY
CHAPTER L - CHANGES AT MILTON
CHAPTER LI - MEETING AGAIN
CHAPTER LII - 'PACK CLOUDS AWAY'