North and South | Page 7

the house in Harley Street, where she herself had had to
play the part of Figaro, and was wanted everywhere at one and the
same time. Her mind and body ached now with the recollection of all
she had done and said within the last forty-eight hours. The farewells
so hurriedly taken, amongst all the other good-byes, of those she had
lived with so long, oppressed her now with a sad regret for the times

that were no more; it did not signify what those times had been, they
were gone never to return. Margaret's heart felt more heavy than she
could ever have thought it possible in going to her own dear home, the
place and the life she had longed for for years--at that time of all times
for yearning and longing, just before the sharp senses lose their outlines
in sleep. She took her mind away with a wrench from the recollection
of the past to the bright serene contemplation of the hopeful future. Her
eyes began to see, not visions of what had been, but the sight actually
before her; her dear father leaning back asleep in the railway carriage.
His blue-black hair was grey now, and lay thinly over his brows. The
bones of his face were plainly to be seen--too plainly for beauty, if his
features had been less finely cut; as it was, they had a grace if not a
comeliness of their own. The face was in repose; but it was rather rest
after weariness, than the serene calm of the countenance of one who led
a placid, contented life. Margaret was painfully struck by the worn,
anxious expression; and she went back over the open and avowed
circumstances of her father's life, to find the cause for the lines that
spoke so plainly of habitual distress and depression.
'Poor Frederick!' thought she, sighing. 'Oh! if Frederick had but been a
clergyman, instead of going into the navy, and being lost to us all! I
wish I knew all about it. I never understood it from Aunt Shaw; I only
knew he could not come back to England because of that terrible affair.
Poor dear papa! how sad he looks! I am so glad I am going home, to be
at hand to comfort him and mamma.
She was ready with a bright smile, in which there was not a trace of
fatigue, to greet her father when he awakened. He smiled back again,
but faintly, as if it were an unusual exertion. His face returned into its
lines of habitual anxiety. He had a trick of half-opening his mouth as if
to speak, which constantly unsettled the form of the lips, and gave the
face an undecided expression. But he had the same large, soft eyes as
his daughter,--eyes which moved slowly and almost grandly round in
their orbits, and were well veiled by their transparent white eyelids.
Margaret was more like him than like her mother. Sometimes people
wondered that parents so handsome should have a daughter who was so
far from regularly beautiful; not beautiful at all, was occasionally said.

Her mouth was wide; no rosebud that could only open just' enough to
let out a 'yes' and 'no,' and 'an't please you, sir.' But the wide mouth was
one soft curve of rich red lips; and the skin, if not white and fair, was of
an ivory smoothness and delicacy. If the look on her face was, in
general, too dignified and reserved for one so young, now, talking to
her father, it was bright as the morning,--full of dimples, and glances
that spoke of childish gladness, and boundless hope in the future.
It was the latter part of July when Margaret returned home. The forest
trees were all one dark, full, dusky green; the fern below them caught
all the slanting sunbeams; the weather was sultry and broodingly still.
Margaret used to tramp along by her father's side, crushing down the
fern with a cruel glee, as she felt it yield under her light foot, and send
up the fragrance peculiar to it,--out on the broad commons into the
warm scented light, seeing multitudes of wild, free, living creatures,
revelling in the sunshine, and the herbs and flowers it called forth. This
life--at least these walks--realised all Margaret's anticipations. She took
a pride in her forest. Its people were her people. She made hearty
friends with them; learned and delighted in using their peculiar words;
took up her freedom amongst them; nursed their babies; talked or read
with slow distinctness to their old people; carried dainty messes to their
sick; resolved before long to teach at the school, where her father went
every day as to an appointed task, but she was continually tempted off
to go and see