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    Chapter 27

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    Chapter 28
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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.
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    Chapter 28
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