'You know, we have very little society here, mamma. The Gormans,
who are our nearest neighbours (to call society--and we hardly
ever see them), have been in trade just as much as these
Milton-Northern people.' 'Yes,' said Mrs. Hale, almost indignantly, 'but, at any rate, the
Gormans made carriages for half the gentry of the county, and
were brought into some kind of intercourse with them; but these
factory people, who on earth wears cotton that can afford linen?' 'Well, mamma, I give up the cotton-spinners; I am not standing up
for them, any more than for any other trades-people. Only we
shall have little enough to do with them.' 'Why on earth has your father fixed on Milton-Northern to live
in?' 'Partly,' said Margaret, sighing, 'because it is so very
different from Helstone--partly because Mr. Bell says there is an
opening there for a private tutor.' 'Private tutor in Milton! Why can't he go to Oxford, and be a
tutor to gentlemen?' 'You forget, mamma! He is leaving the Church on account of his
opinions--his doubts would do him no good at Oxford.' Mrs. Hale was silent for some time, quietly crying. At last she
said:-'And the furniture--How in the world are we to manage the
removal? I never removed in my life, and only a fortnight to
think about it!' Margaret was inexpressibly relieved to find that her mother's
anxiety and distress was lowered to this point, so insignificant
to herself, and on which she could do so much to help. She
planned and promised, and led her mother on to arrange fully as
much as could be fixed before they knew somewhat more
definitively what Mr. Hale intended to do. Throughout the day
Margaret never left her mother; bending her whole soul to
sympathise in all the various turns her feelings took; towards
evening especially, as she became more and more anxious that her
father should find a soothing welcome home awaiting him, after
his return from his day of fatigue and distress. She dwelt upon
what he must have borne in secret for long; her mother only
replied coldly that he ought to have told her, and that then at
any rate he would have had an adviser to give him counsel; and
Margaret turned faint at heart when she heard her father's step
in the hall. She dared not go to meet him, and tell him what she
had done all day, for fear of her mother's jealous annoyance. She
heard him linger, as if awaiting her, or some sign of her; and
she dared not stir; she saw by her mother's twitching lips, and
changing colour, that she too was aware that her husband had
returned. Presently he opened the room-door, and stood there
uncertain whether to come in. His face was gray and pale; he had
a timid, fearful look in his eyes; something almost pitiful to
see in a man's face; but that look of despondent uncertainty, of
mental and bodily languor, touched his wife's heart. She went to
him, and threw herself on his breast, crying out-'Oh! Richard, Richard, you should have told me sooner!' And then, in tears, Margaret left her, as she rushed up-stairs to
throw herself on her bed, and hide her face in the pillows to
stifle the hysteric sobs that would force their way at last,
after the rigid self-control of the whole day. How long she lay
thus she could not tell. She heard no noise, though the housemaid
came in to arrange the room. The affrighted girl stole out again
on tip-toe, and went and told Mrs. Dixon that Miss Hale was
crying as if her heart would break: she was sure she would make
herself deadly ill if she went on at that rate. In consequence of
this, Margaret felt herself touched, and started up into a
sitting posture; she saw the accustomed room, the figure of Dixon
in shadow, as the latter stood holding the candle a little behind
her, for fear of the effect on Miss Hale's startled eyes, swollen
and blinded as they were.