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 sweeping1 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, unpacking2 and arranging, but everything inside the house still looked in disorder3; 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 dreariness4 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 desolate5. 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 stupor6 of despair. The heavy smoky air hung about her bedroom, which occupied the long narrow projection7 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 loomed8 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 dismal9 thought: but at last she determined10 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 bustle11 of the morning. It was to tell of their arrival at Corfu; their voyage along the Mediterranean12 — 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 graphically13. She could not only seize the salient and characteristic points of a scene, but she could enumerate14 enough of indiscriminate particulars for Margaret to make it out for herself Captain Lennox and another lately married officer shared a villa15, 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 vault16 of blue sky above her, free — utterly17 free from fleck18 or cloud. Her husband had to attend drill, and she, the most musical officer’s wife there, had to copy the new and popular tunes19 out of the most recent English music, for the benefit of the bandmaster; those seemed their most severe and arduous20 duties. She expressed an affectionate hope that, if the regiment21 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 plentiful22 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 vividly23 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 habitual24 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 penetrated25 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 mortification26 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 esteeming27 her father degraded, in its rough wholesale28 judgment29, 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 astonishment30 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 acting31 leisurely32, 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 applied33 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 immediate34 influence of Mr. Thornton. They were mostly of the age when many boys would be still at school, but, according to the prevalent, and apparently35 well-founded notions of Milton, to make a lad into a good tradesman he must be caught young, and acclimated36 to the life of the mill, or office, or warehouse37. If he were sent to even the Scotch38 Universities, he came back unsettled for commercial pursuits; how much more so if he went to Oxford39 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 cultivation40, in hopes of throwing the whole strength and vigour41 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. Nay42, 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 solely43 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 renewal44 of his intercourse45 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 auditors46; 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 machinery47 of Milton, the power of the men of Milton, impressed him with a sense of grandeur48, 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 trampled49 on, instead of being gently lifted aside out of the roadway of the conqueror50, 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 awed51 reverence52 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 inquiries53 respecting their qualifications. They even went the length of questioning her back again; having doubts and fears of their own, as to the solvency54 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 mighty55. 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 repelled56 by the rough uncourteous manners of these people; not but what she shrunk with fastidious pride from their hail-fellow accost57 and severely58 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 inquiry59 for a servant, she could spare her mother the recital60 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 bustling62 place. Mrs. Shaw’s ideas of propriety63 and her own helpless dependence61 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 circumscribed64 Margaret’s independence had been silently rebelled against at the time: and she had doubly enjoyed the free walks and rambles65 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 repose66, 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 tangled67 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 annoyance68. 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 egress69, 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 ascertain70 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 kindliness71, 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 boisterous73 though they might be. But she alternately dreaded74 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 admiration75 from these outspoken76 men. But the very out-spokenness marked their innocence77 of any intention to hurt her delicacy78, as she would have perceived if she had been less frightened by the disorderly tumult79. Out of her fright came a flash of indignation which made her face scarlet80, 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-aged81 workman, with ‘You may well smile, my lass; many a one would smile to have such a bonny face.’ This man looked so careworn82 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, lesser83 celandines, and the like, with an unspoken lament84 in her heart for the sweet profusion85 of the South. Her father had left her to go into Milton upon some business; and on the road home she met her humble86 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 spoke72 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 kindly87 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, bleak88 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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1
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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unpacking
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| n.取出货物，拆包[箱]v.从（包裹等）中取出（所装的东西），打开行李取出( unpack的现在分词 )；拆包；解除…的负担；吐露（心事等） | |
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disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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dreariness
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| 沉寂，可怕，凄凉 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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projection
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| n.发射，计划，突出部分 | |
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loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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Mediterranean
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| adj.地中海的；地中海沿岸的 | |
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graphically
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| adv.通过图表；生动地，轮廓分明地 | |
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enumerate
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| v.列举，计算，枚举，数 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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utterly
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fleck
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| n.斑点，微粒 vt.使有斑点，使成斑驳 | |
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tunes
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| n.曲调，曲子( tune的名词复数 )v.调音( tune的第三人称单数 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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arduous
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| adj.艰苦的，费力的，陡峭的 | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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esteeming
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| v.尊敬( esteem的现在分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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wholesale
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judgment
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astonishment
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acting
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leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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applied
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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acclimated
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| v.使适应新环境，使服水土服水土，适应( acclimate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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warehouse
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scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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renewal
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| adj.(契约)延期，续订，更新，复活，重来 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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auditors
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| n.审计员，稽核员( auditor的名词复数 )；（大学课程的）旁听生 | |
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machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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conqueror
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| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
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awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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solvency
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| n.偿付能力，溶解力 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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accost
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| v.向人搭话，打招呼 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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dependence
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| n.依靠，依赖；信任，信赖；隶属 | |
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bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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circumscribed
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| adj.[医]局限的：受限制或限于有限空间的v.在…周围划线( circumscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；划定…范围；限制；限定 | |
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rambles
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的第三人称单数 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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egress
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| n.出去；出口 | |
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ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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kindliness
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| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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boisterous
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| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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outspoken
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| adj.直言无讳的，坦率的，坦白无隐的 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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careworn
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| adj.疲倦的，饱经忧患的 | |
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lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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lament
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| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
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profusion
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| n.挥霍；丰富 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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