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North and South
CHAPTER VIII - HOME SICKNESS
Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell
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       _ CHAPTER VIII - HOME SICKNESS
       'And it's hame, hame; hame,
       Hame fain wad I be.'
       It needed the pretty light papering of the rooms to reconcile
       them to Milton. It needed more--more that could not be had. The
       thick yellow November fogs had come on; and the view of the plain
       in the valley, made by the sweeping bend of the river, was all
       shut out when Mrs. Hale arrived at her new home.
       Margaret and Dixon had been at work for two days, unpacking and
       arranging, but everything inside the house still looked in
       disorder; and outside a thick fog crept up to the very windows,
       and was driven in to every open door in choking white wreaths of
       unwholesome mist.
       'Oh, Margaret! are we to live here?' asked Mrs. Hale in blank
       dismay. Margaret's heart echoed the dreariness of the tone in
       which this question was put. She could scarcely command herself
       enough to say, 'Oh, the fogs in London are sometimes far worse!'
       'But then you knew that London itself, and friends lay behind it.
       Here--well! we are desolate. Oh Dixon, what a place this is!'
       'Indeed, ma'am, I'm sure it will be your death before long, and
       then I know who'll--stay! Miss Hale, that's far too heavy for you
       to lift.'
       'Not at all, thank you, Dixon,' replied Margaret, coldly. 'The
       best thing we can do for mamma is to get her room quite ready for
       her to go to bed, while I go and bring her a cup of coffee.'
       Mr. Hale was equally out of spirits, and equally came upon
       Margaret for sympathy.
       'Margaret, I do believe this is an unhealthy place. Only suppose
       that your mother's health or yours should suffer. I wish I had
       gone into some country place in Wales; this is really terrible,'
       said he, going up to the window. There was no comfort to be
       given. They were settled in Milton, and must endure smoke and
       fogs for a season; indeed, all other life seemed shut out from
       them by as thick a fog of circumstance. Only the day before, Mr.
       Hale had been reckoning up with dismay how much their removal and
       fortnight at Heston had cost, and he found it had absorbed nearly
       all his little stock of ready money. No! here they were, and here
       they must remain.
       At night when Margaret realised this, she felt inclined to sit
       down in a stupor of despair. The heavy smoky air hung about her
       bedroom, which occupied the long narrow projection at the back of
       the house. The window, placed at the side of the oblong, looked
       to the blank wall of a similar projection, not above ten feet
       distant. It loomed through the fog like a great barrier to hope.
       Inside the room everything was in confusion. All their efforts
       had been directed to make her mother's room comfortable. Margaret
       sat down on a box, the direction card upon which struck her as
       having been written at Helstone--beautiful, beloved Helstone! She
       lost herself in dismal thought: but at last she determined to
       take her mind away from the present; and suddenly remembered that
       she had a letter from Edith which she had only half read in the
       bustle of the morning. It was to tell of their arrival at Corfu;
       their voyage along the Mediterranean--their music, and dancing on
       board ship; the gay new life opening upon her; her house with its
       trellised balcony, and its views over white cliffs and deep blue
       sea. Edith wrote fluently and well, if not graphically. She could
       not only seize the salient and characteristic points of a scene,
       but she could enumerate enough of indiscriminate particulars for
       Margaret to make it out for herself Captain Lennox and another
       lately married officer shared a villa, high up on the beautiful
       precipitous rocks overhanging the sea. Their days, late as it was
       in the year, seemed spent in boating or land pic-nics; all
       out-of-doors, pleasure-seeking and glad, Edith's life seemed like
       the deep vault of blue sky above her, free--utterly free from
       fleck or cloud. Her husband had to attend drill, and she, the
       most musical officer's wife there, had to copy the new and
       popular tunes out of the most recent English music, for the
       benefit of the bandmaster; those seemed their most severe and
       arduous duties. She expressed an affectionate hope that, if the
       regiment stopped another year at Corfu, Margaret might come out
       and pay her a long visit. She asked Margaret if she remembered
       the day twelve-month on which she, Edith, wrote--how it rained
       all day long in Harley Street; and how she would not put on her
       new gown to go to a stupid dinner, and get it all wet and
       splashed in going to the carriage; and how at that very dinner
       they had first met Captain Lennox.
       Yes! Margaret remembered it well. Edith and Mrs. Shaw had gone to
       dinner. Margaret had joined the party in the evening. The
       recollection of the plentiful luxury of all the arrangements, the
       stately handsomeness of the furniture, the size of the house, the
       peaceful, untroubled ease of the visitors--all came vividly
       before her, in strange contrast to the present time. The smooth
       sea of that old life closed up, without a mark left to tell where
       they had all been. The habitual dinners, the calls, the shopping,
       the dancing evenings, were all going on, going on for ever,
       though her Aunt Shaw and Edith were no longer there; and she, of
       course, was even less missed. She doubted if any one of that old
       set ever thought of her, except Henry Lennox. He too, she knew,
       would strive to forget her, because of the pain she had caused
       him. She had heard him often boast of his power of putting any
       disagreeable thought far away from him. Then she penetrated
       farther into what might have been. If she had cared for him as a
       lover, and had accepted him, and this change in her father's
       opinions and consequent station had taken place, she could not
       doubt but that it would have been impatiently received by Mr.
       Lennox. It was a bitter mortification to her in one sense; but
       she could bear it patiently, because she knew her father's purity
       of purpose, and that strengthened her to endure his errors, grave
       and serious though in her estimation they were. But the fact of
       the world esteeming her father degraded, in its rough wholesale
       judgment, would have oppressed and irritated Mr. Lennox. As she
       realised what might have been, she grew to be thankful for what
       was. They were at the lowest now; they could not be worse.
       Edith's astonishment and her aunt Shaw's dismay would have to be
       met bravely, when their letters came. So Margaret rose up and
       began slowly to undress herself, feeling the full luxury of
       acting leisurely, late as it was, after all the past hurry of the
       day. She fell asleep, hoping for some brightness, either internal
       or external. But if she had known how long it would be before the
       brightness came, her heart would have sunk low down. The time of
       the year was most unpropitious to health as well as to spirits.
       Her mother caught a severe cold, and Dixon herself was evidently
       not well, although Margaret could not insult her more than by
       trying to save her, or by taking any care of her. They could hear
       of no girl to assist her; all were at work in the factories; at
       least, those who applied were well scolded by Dixon, for thinking
       that such as they could ever be trusted to work in a gentleman's
       house. So they had to keep a charwoman in almost constant employ.
       Margaret longed to send for Charlotte; but besides the objection
       of her being a better servant than they could now afford to keep,
       the distance was too great.
       Mr. Hale met with several pupils, recommended to him by Mr. Bell,
       or by the more immediate influence of Mr. Thornton. They were
       mostly of the age when many boys would be still at school, but,
       according to the prevalent, and apparently well-founded notions
       of Milton, to make a lad into a good tradesman he must be caught
       young, and acclimated to the life of the mill, or office, or
       warehouse. If he were sent to even the Scotch Universities, he
       came back unsettled for commercial pursuits; how much more so if
       he went to Oxford or Cambridge, where he could not be entered
       till he was eighteen? So most of the manufacturers placed their
       sons in sucking situations' at fourteen or fifteen years of age,
       unsparingly cutting away all off-shoots in the direction of
       literature or high mental cultivation, in hopes of throwing the
       whole strength and vigour of the plant into commerce. Still there
       were some wiser parents; and some young men, who had sense enough
       to perceive their own deficiencies, and strive to remedy them.
       Nay, there were a few no longer youths, but men in the prime of
       life, who had the stern wisdom to acknowledge their own
       ignorance, and to learn late what they should have learnt early.
       Mr. Thornton was perhaps the oldest of Mr. Hale's pupils. He was
       certainly the favourite. Mr. Hale got into the habit of quoting
       his opinions so frequently, and with such regard, that it became
       a little domestic joke to wonder what time, during the hour
       appointed for instruction, could be given to absolute learning,
       so much of it appeared to have been spent in conversation.
       Margaret rather encouraged this light, merry way of viewing her
       father's acquaintance with Mr. Thornton, because she felt that
       her mother was inclined to look upon this new friendship of her
       husband's with jealous eyes. As long as his time had been solely
       occupied with his books and his parishioners, as at Helstone, she
       had appeared to care little whether she saw much of him or not;
       but now that he looked eagerly forward to each renewal of his
       intercourse with Mr. Thornton, she seemed hurt and annoyed, as if
       he were slighting her companionship for the first time. Mr.
       Hale's over-praise had the usual effect of over-praise upon his
       auditors; they were a little inclined to rebel against Aristides
       being always called the Just.
       After a quiet life in a country parsonage for more than twenty
       years, there was something dazzling to Mr. Hale in the energy
       which conquered immense difficulties with ease; the power of the
       machinery of Milton, the power of the men of Milton, impressed
       him with a sense of grandeur, which he yielded to without caring
       to inquire into the details of its exercise. But Margaret went
       less abroad, among machinery and men; saw less of power in its
       public effect, and, as it happened, she was thrown with one or
       two of those who, in all measures affecting masses of people,
       must be acute sufferers for the good of many. The question always
       is, has everything been done to make the sufferings of these
       exceptions as small as possible? Or, in the triumph of the
       crowded procession, have the helpless been trampled on, instead
       of being gently lifted aside out of the roadway of the conqueror,
       whom they have no power to accompany on his march?
       It fell to Margaret's share to have to look out for a servant to
       assist Dixon, who had at first undertaken to find just the person
       she wanted to do all the rough work of the house. But Dixon's
       ideas of helpful girls were founded on the recollection of tidy
       elder scholars at Helstone school, who were only too proud to be
       allowed to come to the parsonage on a busy day, and treated Mrs.
       Dixon with all the respect, and a good deal more of fright, which
       they paid to Mr. and Mrs. Hale. Dixon was not unconscious of this
       awed reverence which was given to her; nor did she dislike it; it
       flattered her much as Louis the Fourteenth was flattered by his
       courtiers shading their eyes from the dazzling light of his
       presence.' But nothing short of her faithful love for Mrs. Hale
       could have made her endure the rough independent way in which all
       the Milton girls, who made application for the servant's place,
       replied to her inquiries respecting their qualifications. They
       even went the length of questioning her back again; having doubts
       and fears of their own, as to the solvency of a family who lived
       in a house of thirty pounds a-year, and yet gave themselves airs,
       and kept two servants, one of them so very high and mighty. Mr.
       Hale was no longer looked upon as Vicar of Helstone, but as a man
       who only spent at a certain rate. Margaret was weary and
       impatient of the accounts which Dixon perpetually brought to Mrs.
       Hale of the behaviour of these would-be servants. Not but what
       Margaret was repelled by the rough uncourteous manners of these
       people; not but what she shrunk with fastidious pride from their
       hail-fellow accost and severely resented their unconcealed
       curiosity as to the means and position of any family who lived in
       Milton, and yet were not engaged in trade of some kind. But the
       more Margaret felt impertinence, the more likely she was to be
       silent on the subject; and, at any rate, if she took upon herself
       to make inquiry for a servant, she could spare her mother the
       recital of all her disappointments and fancied or real insults.
       Margaret accordingly went up and down to butchers and grocers,
       seeking for a nonpareil of a girl; and lowering her hopes and
       expectations every week, as she found the difficulty of meeting
       with any one in a manufacturing town who did not prefer the
       better wages and greater independence of working in a mill. It
       was something of a trial to Margaret to go out by herself in this
       busy bustling place. Mrs. Shaw's ideas of propriety and her own
       helpless dependence on others, had always made her insist that a
       footman should accompany Edith and Margaret, if they went beyond
       Harley Street or the immediate neighbourhood. The limits by which
       this rule of her aunt's had circumscribed Margaret's independence
       had been silently rebelled against at the time: and she had
       doubly enjoyed the free walks and rambles of her forest life,
       from the contrast which they presented. She went along there with
       a bounding fearless step, that occasionally broke out into a run,
       if she were in a hurry, and occasionally was stilled into perfect
       repose, as she stood listening to, or watching any of the wild
       creatures who sang in the leafy courts, or glanced out with their
       keen bright eyes from the low brushwood or tangled furze. It was
       a trial to come down from such motion or such stillness, only
       guided by her own sweet will, to the even and decorous pace
       necessary in streets. But she could have laughed at herself for
       minding this change, if it had not been accompanied by what was a
       more serious annoyance. The side of the town on which Crampton
       lay was especially a thoroughfare for the factory people. In the
       back streets around them there were many mills, out of which
       poured streams of men and women two or three times a day. Until
       Margaret had learnt the times of their ingress and egress, she
       was very unfortunate in constantly falling in with them. They
       came rushing along, with bold, fearless faces, and loud laughs
       and jests, particularly aimed at all those who appeared to be
       above them in rank or station. The tones of their unrestrained
       voices, and their carelessness of all common rules of street
       politeness, frightened Margaret a little at first. The girls,
       with their rough, but not unfriendly freedom, would comment on
       her dress, even touch her shawl or gown to ascertain the exact
       material; nay, once or twice she was asked questions relative to
       some article which they particularly admired. There was such a
       simple reliance on her womanly sympathy with their love of dress,
       and on her kindliness, that she gladly replied to these
       inquiries, as soon as she understood them; and half smiled back
       at their remarks. She did not mind meeting any number of girls,
       loud spoken and boisterous though they might be. But she
       alternately dreaded and fired up against the workmen, who
       commented not on her dress, but on her looks, in the same open
       fearless manner. She, who had hitherto felt that even the most
       refined remark on her personal appearance was an impertinence,
       had to endure undisguised admiration from these outspoken men.
       But the very out-spokenness marked their innocence of any
       intention to hurt her delicacy, as she would have perceived if
       she had been less frightened by the disorderly tumult. Out of her
       fright came a flash of indignation which made her face scarlet,
       and her dark eyes gather flame, as she heard some of their
       speeches. Yet there were other sayings of theirs, which, when she
       reached the quiet safety of home, amused her even while they
       irritated her.
       For instance, one day, after she had passed a number of men,
       several of whom had paid her the not unusual compliment of
       wishing she was their sweetheart, one of the lingerers added,
       'Your bonny face, my lass, makes the day look brighter.' And
       another day, as she was unconsciously smiling at some passing
       thought, she was addressed by a poorly-dressed, middle-aged
       workman, with 'You may well smile, my lass; many a one would
       smile to have such a bonny face.' This man looked so careworn
       that Margaret could not help giving him an answering smile, glad
       to think that her looks, such as they were, should have had the
       power to call up a pleasant thought. He seemed to understand her
       acknowledging glance, and a silent recognition was established
       between them whenever the chances of the day brought them across
       each other s paths. They had never exchanged a word; nothing had
       been said but that first compliment; yet somehow Margaret looked
       upon this man with more interest than upon any one else in
       Milton. Once or twice, on Sundays, she saw him walking with a
       girl, evidently his daughter, and, if possible, still more
       unhealthy than he was himself.
       One day Margaret and her father had been as far as the fields
       that lay around the town; it was early spring, and she had
       gathered some of the hedge and ditch flowers, dog-violets, lesser
       celandines, and the like, with an unspoken lament in her heart
       for the sweet profusion of the South. Her father had left her to
       go into Milton upon some business; and on the road home she met
       her humble friends. The girl looked wistfully at the flowers,
       and, acting on a sudden impulse, Margaret offered them to her.
       Her pale blue eyes lightened up as she took them, and her father
       spoke for her.
       'Thank yo, Miss. Bessy'll think a deal o' them flowers; that hoo
       will; and I shall think a deal o' yor kindness. Yo're not of this
       country, I reckon?'
       'No!' said Margaret, half sighing. 'I come from the South--from
       Hampshire,' she continued, a little afraid of wounding his
       consciousness of ignorance, if she used a name which he did not
       understand.
       'That's beyond London, I reckon? And I come fro' Burnley-ways,
       and forty mile to th' North. And yet, yo see, North and South has
       both met and made kind o' friends in this big smoky place.'
       Margaret had slackened her pace to walk alongside of the man and
       his daughter, whose steps were regulated by the feebleness of the
       latter. She now spoke to the girl, and there was a sound of
       tender pity in the tone of her voice as she did so that went
       right to the heart of the father.
       'I'm afraid you are not very strong.'
       'No,' said the girl, 'nor never will be.'
       'Spring is coming,' said Margaret, as if to suggest pleasant,
       hopeful thoughts.
       'Spring nor summer will do me good,' said the girl quietly.
       Margaret looked up at the man, almost expecting some
       contradiction from him, or at least some remark that would modify
       his daughter's utter hopelessness. But, instead, he added--
       'I'm afeared hoo speaks truth. I'm afeared hoo's too far gone in
       a waste.'
       'I shall have a spring where I'm boun to, and flowers, and
       amaranths, and shining robes besides.'
       'Poor lass, poor lass!' said her father in a low tone. 'I'm none
       so sure o' that; but it's a comfort to thee, poor lass, poor
       lass. Poor father! it'll be soon.'
       Margaret was shocked by his words--shocked but not repelled;
       rather attracted and interested.
       'Where do you live? I think we must be neighbours, we meet so
       often on this road.'
       'We put up at nine Frances Street, second turn to th' left at
       after yo've past th' Goulden Dragon.'
       'And your name? I must not forget that.'
       'I'm none ashamed o' my name. It's Nicholas Higgins. Hoo's called
       Bessy Higgins. Whatten yo' asking for?'
       Margaret was surprised at this last question, for at Helstone it
       would have been an understood thing, after the inquiries she had
       made, that she intended to come and call upon any poor neighbour
       whose name and habitation she had asked for.
       'I thought--I meant to come and see you.' She suddenly felt
       rather shy of offering the visit, without having any reason to
       give for her wish to make it' * beyond a kindly interest in a
       stranger. It seemed all at once to take the shape of an
       impertinence on her part; she read this meaning too in the man's
       eyes.
       'I'm none so fond of having strange folk in my house.' But then
       relenting, as he saw her heightened colour, he added, 'Yo're a
       foreigner, as one may say, and maybe don't know many folk here,
       and yo've given my wench here flowers out of yo'r own hand;--yo
       may come if yo like.'
       Margaret was half-amused, half-nettled at this answer. She was
       not sure if she would go where permission was given so like a
       favour conferred. But when they came to the town into Frances
       Street, the girl stopped a minute, and said,
       'Yo'll not forget yo're to come and see us.'
       'Aye, aye,' said the father, impatiently, 'hoo'll come. Hoo's a
       bit set up now, because hoo thinks I might ha' spoken more
       civilly; but hoo'll think better on it, and come. I can read her
       proud bonny face like a book. Come along, Bess; there's the mill
       bell ringing.'
       Margaret went home, wondering at her new friends, and smiling at
       the man's insight into what had been passing in her mind. From
       that day Milton became a brighter place to her. It was not the
       long, bleak sunny days of spring, nor yet was it that time was
       reconciling her to the town of her habitation. It was that in it
       she had found a human interest. _
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本书目录

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'