North and South

But she neither looked nor spoke. Her round taper fingers flew in and out of her sewing, as steadily and swiftly as if that were the business of her life. She could not care for him, he thought, or else the passionate fervour of his wish would have forced her to raise those eyes, if but for an instant, to read the late repentance in his. He could have struck her before he left, in order that by some strange overt act of rudeness, he might earn the privilege of telling her the remorse that gnawed at his heart. It was well that the long walk in the open air wound up this evening for him. It sobered him back into grave resolution that henceforth he would see as little of her as possible⁠—since the very sight of that face and form, the very sounds of that voice (like the soft winds of pure melody) had such power to move him from his balance. Well! He had known what love was⁠—a sharp pang, a fierce experience, in the midst of whose flames he was struggling! but, through the furnace he would fight his way out into the serenity of middle age⁠—all the richer and more human for having known this great passion.

When he had somewhat abruptly left the room, Margaret rose from her seat, and began silently to fold up her work. The long seams were heavy, and had an unusual weight for her languid arms. The round lines in her face took a lengthened, straighter form, and her whole appearance was that of one who had gone through a day of great fatigue. As the three prepared for bed, Mr. Bell muttered a little condemnation of Mr. Thornton.

“I never saw a fellow so spoiled by success. He can’t bear a word; a jest of any kind. Everything seems to touch on the soreness of his high dignity. Formerly, he was as simple and noble as the open day; you could not offend him, because he had no vanity.”

“He is not vain now,” said Margaret, turning round from the table, and speaking with quiet distinctness. “Tonight he has not been like himself. Something must have annoyed him before he came here.”

Mr. Bell gave her one of his sharp glances from above his spectacles. She stood it quite calmly; but, after she had left the room, he suddenly asked⁠—

“Hale! did it ever strike you that Thornton and your daughter have what the French call a tendresse for each other?”

“Never!” said Mr. Hale, first startled and then flurried by the new idea. “No, I am sure you are wrong, I am almost certain you are mistaken. If there is anything, it is all on Mr. Thornton’s side. Poor fellow! I hope and trust he is not thinking of her, for I am sure she would not have him.”

“Well! I’m a bachelor, and have steered clear of love affairs all my life; so perhaps my opinion is not worth having. Or else I should say there were very pretty symptoms about her!”

“Then I am sure you are wrong,” said Mr. Hale. “He may care for her, though she really has been almost rude to him at times. But she!⁠—why, Margaret would never think of him, I’m sure. Such a thing has never entered her head.”

“Entering her heart would do. But I merely threw out a suggestion of what might be. I dare say I was wrong. And whether I was wrong or right, I’m very sleepy; so, having disturbed your night’s rest (as I can see) with my untimely fancies, I’ll betake myself with an easy mind to my own.”

But Mr. Hale resolved that he would not be disturbed by any such nonsensical idea; so he lay awake, determining not to think about it.

Mr. Bell took his leave the next day, bidding Margaret look to him as one who had a right to help and protect her in all her troubles, of whatever nature they might be. To Mr. Hale he said⁠—

“That Margaret of yours has gone deep into my heart. Take care of her, for she is a very precious creature⁠—a great deal too good for Milton⁠—only fit for Oxford, in fact. The town, I mean; not the men. I can’t match her yet. When I can, I shall bring my young man to stand side by side with your young woman, just as the genii in the Arabian Nights brought Prince Caralmazan to match with the fairy’s Princess Badoura.”

“I beg you’ll do no such thing. Remember the misfortunes that ensued; and besides, I can’t spare Margaret.”

“No; on second thoughts, we’ll have her to nurse us ten years hence, when we shall be two cross old invalids. Seriously, Hale! I wish you’d leave Milton; which is a most unsuitable place for you, though it was my recommendation in the first instance. If you would, I’d swallow my shadows of doubts, and take a college living; and you and Margaret should come and live at the parsonage⁠—you to be a sort of lay curate, and take the unwashed off my hands; and she to be our housekeeper⁠—the village Lady Bountiful⁠—by day; and read us to sleep in the evenings. I could be very happy in such a life. What do you think of it?”

“Never,” said Mr. Hale, decidedly. “My one great change has been made and my price of suffering paid. Here I stay out my life; and here will I be buried, and lost in the crowd.”

“I don’t give up my plan yet. Only I won’t bait you with it any more just now. Where’s the Pearl. Come, Margaret, give me a farewell kiss; and remember, my dear, where you may find a true friend, as far as his capability goes. You are my child, Margaret. Remember that, and God bless you!”

So they fell back into the monotony of the quiet life they would henceforth lead. There was no invalid to hope and fear about; even the Higginses⁠—so long a vivid