fell into a state of lethargy, from which it
was in vain to attempt to rouse him, till
the morning brought the sun with it again.

NORTH AND SOUTH.

BY THE AUTHOR OF MARY BARTON.

CHAPTER THE THIRTY-EIGHTH.

IT was not merely that Margaret was
known to Mr. Thornton to have spoken
falsely, though she imagined that for this
reason only was she so turned in his opinion,
but that this falsehood of hers bore a
distinct reference in his mind to some other
lover. He could not forget the fond and
earnest look that had passed between her
and some other man — the attitude of familiar
confidence, if not of positive endearment. The
thought of this perpetually stung him; it
was a picture before his eyes wherever he
went and whatever he was doing. In addition
to this (and he ground his teeth as he
remembered it) was the hour, dusky
twilight; the place, so far away from home and
comparatively unfrequented. His nobler
self had said at first, that all this last might
be accidental, innocent, justifiable; but once
allow her right to love and be beloved (and
had he any reason to deny her right ?— had
not her words been severely explicit when she
cast his love away from her?), she might
easily have been beguiled into a longer walk,
on to a later hour than sho had anticipated.
But that falsehood! which showed a fatal
consciousness of something wrong, and to be
concealed, which was unlike her. He did her
that justice, though all the time it would
have been a relief to believe her utterly
unworthy of his esteem. It was this that made
the misery — that he passionately loved her,
and thought her, even with all her faults,
more lovely and more excellent than any
other woman; yet he deemed her so attached
to some other man, so led away by her affection
for him, as to violate her truthful
nature. The very falsehood that stained her
was a proof how blindly she loved another—
this dark, slight, elegant, handsome man—
while lie himself was rough, and stern, and
strongly made. He lashed himself into an
agony of fierce jealousy. He thought of that
look, that attitude! — how he would have
laid his life at her feet for. such tender
glances, such fond detention! He mocked at
himself for having valued the mechanical
way in which she had protected him from
the fury of the mob: now he had seen how
soft and bewitching she looked when with a
man she really loved. He remembered point
by point the sharpness of her words — " There
was not a man in all that crowd for whom
she would not have done as much, far more
readily than for him." He shared with the
mob in her desire of averting bloodshed from
them. But this man, this hidden lover,
shared with nobody ; he had looks, words,
hand-cleavings, lies, concealment, all to
himself.

Mr. Thornton was conscious that he had
never been so irritable as he was now in all
his life long; he felt inclined to give a short
abrupt answer, more like a bark than a
speech, to every one that asked him a
question; and this conciousness hurt his
pride: he had always piqued himself on his
self-control, and control himself he would.
So the manner was subdued to a quiet deliberation,
but the matter was even harder and
sterner than common. He was more than
usually silent at home; employing his evenings
in a continual pace backwards and
forwards, which would have annoyed his mother
exceedingly if it had been practised by
any one else; and did not tend to promote
any forbearance on her part even to this
beloved son.

"Can you stop — can you sit down for a
moment? I have something to say to you, if
you would give up that everlasting walk, walk,
walk."

He sat down instantly, on a chair against
the wall.

"I want to speak to you about Betsy.
She says she must leave us; that her lover's
death has so affected her spirits she can't
give her heart to her work."

"Very well. I suppose other cooks are to
be met with."

"That's so like a man. It's not merely
the cooking, it is that she knows all the ways
of the house. Besides, she tells me
something about your friend Miss Hale."

"Miss Hale is no friend of mine. Mr. Hale
is my friend."

"I am glad to hear you say so, for if she
had been your friend, what Betsy says would
have annoyed you."

"Let me hear it," said he, with the extreme
quietness of manner he had been assuming
for the last few days.

"Betsy says, that the night on which her
lover—I forget his name — for she always
calls him ' he ' —"

"Leonards."

"The night on which Leonards was last
seen at the station—when he was last seen on
duty, in fact — Miss Hale was there walking
about with a young man who Bessy believes
killed Leonards by some blow or push."

"Leonards was not killed by any blow or
push."

"How do you know?"

"Because I distinctly put the question to the
surgeon of the Infirmary. He told me there
was an internal disease of long standing,
caused by Leonards' habit of drinking to
excess; that the fact of his becoming rapidly
worse while in a state of intoxication, settled
the question as to whether the last fatal
attack was caused by excess of drinking, or
the fall."

"The fall! What fall ?"