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_ CHAPTER XXVII - FRUIT-PIECE
'For never any thing can be amiss
When simpleness and duty tender it.'
MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM.
Mr. Thornton went straight and clear into all the interests of
the following day. There was a slight demand for finished goods;
and as it affected his branch of the trade, he took advantage of
it, and drove hard bargains. He was sharp to the hour at the
meeting of his brother magistrates,--giving them the best
assistance of his strong sense, and his power of seeing
consequences at a glance, and so coming to a rapid decision.
Older men, men of long standing in the town, men of far greater
wealth--realised and turned into land, while his was all floating
capital, engaged in his trade--looked to him for prompt, ready
wisdom. He was the one deputed to see and arrange with the
police--to lead in all the requisite steps. And he cared for
their unconscious deference no more than for the soft west wind,
that scarcely made the smoke from the great tall chimneys swerve
in its straight upward course. He was not aware of the silent
respect paid to him. If it had been otherwise, he would have felt
it as an obstacle in his progress to the object he had in view.
As it was, he looked to the speedy accomplishment of that alone.
It was his mother's greedy ears that sucked in, from the
women-kind of these magistrates and wealthy men, how highly Mr.
This or Mr. That thought of Mr. Thornton; that if he had not been
there, things would have gone on very differently,--very badly,
indeed. He swept off his business right and left that day. It
seemed as though his deep mortification of yesterday, and the
stunned purposeless course of the hours afterwards, had cleared
away all the mists from his intellect. He felt his power and
revelled in it. He could almost defy his heart. If he had known
it, he could have sang the song of the miller who lived by the
river Dee:--
'I care for nobody--Nobody cares for me.'
The evidence against Boucher, and other ringleaders of the riot,
was taken before him; that against the three others, for
conspiracy, failed. But he sternly charged the police to be on
the watch; for the swift right arm of the law should be in
readiness to strike, as soon as they could prove a fault. And
then he left the hot reeking room in the borough court, and went
out into the fresher, but still sultry street. It seemed as
though he gave way all at once; he was so languid that he could
not control his thoughts; they would wander to her; they would
bring back the scene,--not of his repulse and rejection the day
before but the looks, the actions of the day before that. He went
along the crowded streets mechanically, winding in and out among
the people, but never seeing them,--almost sick with longing for
that one half-hour--that one brief space of time when she clung
to him, and her heart beat against his--to come once again.
'Why, Mr. Thornton you're cutting me very coolly, I must say. And
how is Mrs. Thornton? Brave weather this! We doctors don't like
it, I can tell you!'
'I beg your pardon, Dr. Donaldson. I really didn't see you. My
mother's quite well, thank you. It is a fine day, and good for
the harvest, I hope. If the wheat is well got in, we shall have a
brisk trade next year, whatever you doctors have.'
'Ay, ay. Each man for himself Your bad weather, and your bad
times, are my good ones. When trade is bad, there's more
undermining of health, and preparation for death, going on among
you Milton men than you're aware of.'
'Not with me, Doctor. I'm made of iron. The news of the worst bad
debt I ever had, never made my pulse vary. This strike, which
affects me more than any one else in Milton,--more than
Hamper,--never comes near my appetite. You must go elsewhere for
a patient, Doctor.'
'By the way, you've recommended me a good patient, poor lady! Not
to go on talking in this heartless way, I seriously believe that
Mrs. Hale--that lady in Crampton, you know--hasn't many weeks to
live. I never had any hope of cure, as I think I told you; but
I've been seeing her to-day, and I think very badly of her.'
Mr. Thornton was silent. The vaunted steadiness of pulse failed
him for an instant.
'Can I do anything, Doctor?' he asked, in an altered voice. 'You
know--you would see, that money is not very plentiful; are there
any comforts or dainties she ought to have?'
'No,' replied the Doctor, shaking his head. 'She craves for
fruit,--she has a constant fever on her; but jargonelle pears
will do as well as anything, and there are quantities of them in
the market.'
'You will tell me, if there is anything I can do, I'm sure,
replied Mr. Thornton. 'I rely upon you.'
'Oh! never fear! I'll not spare your purse,--I know it's deep
enough. I wish you'd give me carte-blanche for all my patients,
and all their wants.'
But Mr. Thornton had no general benevolence,--no universal
philanthropy; few even would have given him credit for strong
affections. But he went straight to the first fruit-shop in
Milton, and chose out the bunch of purple grapes with the most
delicate bloom upon them,--the richest-coloured peaches,--the
freshest vine-leaves. They were packed into a basket, and the
shopman awaited the answer to his inquiry, 'Where shall we send
them to, sir?'
There was no reply. 'To Marlborough Mills, I suppose, sir?'
'No!' Mr. Thornton said. 'Give the basket to me,--I'll take it.'
It took up both his hands to carry it; and he had to pass through
the busiest part of the town for feminine shopping. Many a young
lady of his acquaintance turned to look after him, and thought it
strange to see him occupied just like a porter or an errand-boy.
He was thinking, 'I will not be daunted from doing as I choose by
the thought of her. I like to take this fruit to the poor mother,
and it is simply right that I should. She shall never scorn me
out of doing what I please. A pretty joke, indeed, if, for fear
of a haughty girl, I failed in doing a kindness to a man I liked
I do it for Mr. Hale; I do it in defiance of her.'
He went at an unusual pace, and was soon at Crampton. He went
upstairs two steps at a time, and entered the drawing-room before
Dixon could announce him,--his face flushed, his eyes shining
with kindly earnestness. Mrs. Hale lay on the sofa, heated with
fever. Mr. Hale was reading aloud. Margaret was working on a low
stool by her mother's side. Her heart fluttered, if his did not,
at this interview. But he took no notice of her, hardly of Mr.
Hale himself; he went up straight with his basket to Mrs. Hale,
and said, in that subdued and gentle tone, which is so touching
when used by a robust man in full health, speaking to a feeble
invalid--
'I met Dr. Donaldson, ma'am, and as he said fruit would be good
for you, I have taken the liberty--the great liberty of bringing
you some that seemed to me fine.' Mrs. Hale was excessively
surprised; excessively pleased; quite in a tremble of eagerness.
Mr. Hale with fewer words expressed a deeper gratitude.
'Fetch a plate, Margaret--a basket--anything.' Margaret stood up
by the table, half afraid of moving or making any noise to arouse
Mr. Thornton into a consciousness of her being in the room. She
thought it would be awkward for both to be brought into conscious
collision; and fancied that, from her being on a low seat at
first, and now standing behind her father, he had overlooked her
in his haste. As if he did not feel the consciousness of her
presence all over, though his eyes had never rested on her!
'I must go,' said he, 'I cannot stay. If you will forgive this
liberty,--my rough ways,--too abrupt, I fear--but I will be more
gentle next time. You will allow me the pleasure of bringing you
some fruit again, if I should see any that is tempting. Good
afternoon, Mr. Hale. Good-bye, ma'am.'
He was gone. Not one word: not one look to Margaret. She believed
that he had not seen her. She went for a plate in silence, and
lifted the fruit out tenderly, with the points of her delicate
taper fingers. It was good of him to bring it; and after
yesterday too!
'Oh! it is so delicious!' said Mrs. Hale, in a feeble voice. 'How
kind of him to think of me! Margaret love, only taste these
grapes! Was it not good of him?'
'Yes!' said Margaret, quietly.
'Margaret!' said Mrs. Hale, rather querulously, 'you won't like
anything Mr. Thornton does. I never saw anybody so prejudiced.'
Mr. Hale had been peeling a peach for his wife; and, cutting off
a small piece for himself, he said:
'If I had any prejudices, the gift of such delicious fruit as
this would melt them all away. I have not tasted such fruit--no!
not even in Hampshire--since I was a boy; and to boys, I fancy,
all fruit is good. I remember eating sloes and crabs with a
relish. Do you remember the matted-up currant bushes, Margaret,
at the corner of the west-wall in the garden at home?'
Did she not? Did she not remember every weather-stain on the old
stone wall; the gray and yellow lichens that marked it like a
map; the little crane's-bill that grew in the crevices? She had
been shaken by the events of the last two days; her whole life
just now was a strain upon her fortitude; and, somehow, these
careless words of her father's, touching on the remembrance of
the sunny times of old, made her start up, and, dropping her
sewing on the ground, she went hastily out of the room into her
own little chamber. She had hardly given way to the first choking
sob, when she became aware of Dixon standing at her drawers, and
evidently searching for something.
'Bless me, miss! How you startled me! Missus is not worse, is
she? Is anything the matter?'
'No, nothing. Only I'm silly, Dixon, and want a glass of water.
What are you looking for? I keep my muslins in that drawer.'
Dixon did not speak, but went on rummaging. The scent of lavender
came out and perfumed the room.
At last Dixon found what she wanted; what it was Margaret could
not see. Dixon faced round, and spoke to her:
'Now I don't like telling you what I wanted, because you've
fretting enough to go through, and I know you'll fret about this.
I meant to have kept it from you till night, may be, or such
times as that.'
'What is the matter? Pray, tell me, Dixon, at once.'
'That young woman you go to see--Higgins, I mean.'
'Well?'
'Well! she died this morning, and her sister is here--come to beg
a strange thing. It seems, the young woman who died had a fancy
for being buried in something of yours, and so the sister's come
to ask for it,--and I was looking for a night-cap that wasn't too
good to give away.'
'Oh! let me find one,' said Margaret, in the midst of her tears.
'Poor Bessy! I never thought I should not see her again.'
'Why, that's another thing. This girl down-stairs wanted me to
ask you, if you would like to see her.'
'But she's dead!' said Margaret, turning a little pale. 'I never
saw a dead person. No! I would rather not.'
'I should never have asked you, if you hadn't come in. I told her
you wouldn't.'
'I will go down and speak to her,' said Margaret, afraid lest
Dixon's harshness of manner might wound the poor girl. So, taking
the cap in her hand, she went to the kitchen. Mary's face was all
swollen with crying, and she burst out afresh when she saw
Margaret.
'Oh, ma'am, she loved yo', she loved yo', she did indeed!' And
for a long time, Margaret could not get her to say anything more
than this. At last, her sympathy, and Dixon's scolding, forced
out a few facts. Nicholas Higgins had gone out in the morning,
leaving Bessy as well as on the day before. But in an hour she
was taken worse; some neighbour ran to the room where Mary was
working; they did not know where to find her father; Mary had
only come in a few minutes before she died.
'It were a day or two ago she axed to be buried in somewhat o'
yourn. She were never tired o' talking o' yo'. She used to say
yo' were the prettiest thing she'd ever clapped eyes on. She
loved yo' dearly Her last words were, "Give her my affectionate
respects; and keep father fro' drink." Yo'll come and see her,
ma'am. She would ha' thought it a great compliment, I know.'
Margaret shrank a little from answering.
'Yes, perhaps I may. Yes, I will. I'll come before tea. But
where's your father, Mary?'
Mary shook her head, and stood up to be going.
'Miss Hale,' said Dixon, in a low voice, 'where's the use o' your
going to see the poor thing laid out? I'd never say a word
against it, if it could do the girl any good; and I wouldn't mind
a bit going myself, if that would satisfy her. They've just a
notion, these common folks, of its being a respect to the
departed. Here,' said she, turning sharply round, 'I'll come and
see your sister. Miss Hale is busy, and she can't come, or else
she would.'
The girl looked wistfully at Margaret. Dixon's coming might be a
compliment, but it was not the same thing to the poor sister, who
had had her little pangs of jealousy, during Bessy's lifetime, at
the intimacy between her and the young lady.
'No, Dixon!' said Margaret with decision. 'I will go. Mary, you
shall see me this afternoon.' And for fear of her own cowardice,
she went away, in order to take from herself any chance of
changing her determination. _
Read next: CHAPTER XXVIII - COMFORT IN SORROW
Read previous: CHAPTER XXVI - MOTHER AND SON
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