Hearts revival (a follow up from the North and South tale)

first encounter 2

Further, I find out from him where he lives, I am intending to call upon his house, to thank him for his kindness. He smiles at me strangely. "This reminds me of an encounter I've had with a young Lady some time ago, her name was Margaret. A very fine, young Lady...", his voice trails of, he looks saddened. I wonder if he is talking about a former sweetheart?  We part and I make my way home.

I walk, even though I have been told to always take a carriage, apparently it 'harms my reputation' if I walk. I couldn't care less now, walking seems to help me process what had just happened. Again and again, I recall that feeling of being on fire, of being-fully-alive. I want it back! And yet thinking back, I am also glad I escaped when I did. 

I seem to be under the influence of the current affairs I have just now experienced, for I act rather uncharacteristically, when I'm faced with my Uncle on arriving at the house. He scowls at me and says; "Miss Elizabeth, I thought we had discussed that you should not walk; how will you ever find a suitor with such frivolous behavior and what ever has happened to you, you look a diaster?" I look him straight into his sunken, strained face (he doesn't look well, I almost feel sorry for him but only almost) and say:
"You know Uncle, I don't think I ever want a suitor if he could not bear me walking."
With that, I leave him standing, mouth agape and retreat to my room. I'm feeling elated by this small victory. I should do this more often! But his face somehow haunts me, it vexes me, I do not want to feel sorry for my Uncle. 

 I have been struggling with depression and disillusionment since my parents died, some ten years ago. That was the time Uncle came to live with me. He lost his wife, my aunt in the same accident too and I suppose he had hoped to be a good guardian and that we would be able to comfort each other?
But we never see eye to eye. I was merely 16 years old then, a young woman struggling with the usual growing up predicaments and who had just lost her parents. He is not a bad person, but his ideas of a fine rich lady, such as I should be in his opinion, are very different to who I really am.

I try to focus on preparing my visit to Higgins, into detail, it diverts my thoughts and is like a true highlight to me, after all, it is something to look forward to, something very different and somewhat exiting, while I while away the agonizingly slow passing time. Something else turns out to be agonizingly slow. The information flow about the out-comings of the riot. Eventually, I just have to know and so I ask the servants. They throw me a surprised look but volunteer the information I so much desire to know. The riot has been postponed due to certain promises the governor has made. Promises I am almost certain, will never come to pass. How powerless the poor really are, it saddens and infuriates me.

I wait a day before I go and see Higgins, I don't want to seem too desperate too eager but the following day I make my way, simply because I can't wait any longer. I've never been good to wait.
I have chosen an a tire that is as blunt as possible, but regardless, as I make my way towards Higgins house I realize that I still seem to attract a lot of attention. The people stare at me as I walk past.  I suppose I still look like a human doll amidst all the dreary hopelessness I seem to pass. What I see effects me greatly and I can feel a heaviness pressing upon me. I feel ashamed of my looks, i had intended to fit in.  I suppose I have been naive about this, without being harsh, rather factual, if I really want to fit in, I have to be all in all dirtier and undernourished. I feel horrible thinking such thoughts but it is the truth. It doesn't make me feel good though, rather it makes me feel compassion and guilt. I like to feel clean and smell the rose oil I tend to apply when I have taken my morning bath. How fortunate I am, really and how unfair it all seems.

As I make my way, I come across one of the cotton mills, not that I'm hugely informed as of how a cotton mill looks like, but I manage to recognize the mill as such because I observe certain traits. It makes me realize that I do take in some knowledge just by intensively listening in on table conversations for example. It has always been Uncle's intention to keep me uninformed, as it is not proper for a young lady to meddle with, what in his opinion is men's business. I disagree and I am so very eager to know things for myself. Sometimes I hate being a woman.

I observe the happenings at the mill for a moment, intrigued by the frantic bustle. In my life, I'm used to slow-motion, slow and quiet, Lady-like and sophisticated. The liveliness of the scene in front of me fascinates me and in some ways seems to call me. It puzzles me.
I am about to carry on when I observe a man leaving the Mill. He draws my attention, mostly because like me, he looks different. His a tire is smart and all-in-all, he looks like one of my kind. Terrible thing to say... On paying closer attention to him, I get more drawn in. He wears an expression of disillusionment and melancholy. Who is this man? Our eyes meet for a fleeting moment and it hits me like a flash, he is emotionally dead, like me! 

I hurry on, feeling confused. I bump into an older man who angrily shakes his fist at me. I turn around and hastily mutter an excuse. Soon after I arrive at Higgins house. I compose myself before knocking. I smooth down my dress and hide a few hairs that have escaped from underneath the bonnet.
A woman, a bit younger than myself, opens the door.  She explains to me that Higgins is not around, as he is working at the Mill. Of cause, what was I thinking, 'these' people work during the day. The woman introduces herself as Mary, Higgin's daughter. There are three younger children poking out from behind Mary's back. These are not Higgins own children, Mary tells me in a hurry, their parents have died. I am surprised by her mannerisms and her disclosure of such significant and personal information. I believe she should be a little bit more sensitive talking in front of the children in this manner.

But it turns out, Mary is in a state of anxiety, she is supposed to work at the Mill, her shift has started five minutes ago. But the woman who was supposed to look after the children has fallen ill. Mary had to take them back home, now she is faced with leaving them alone at home, or losing her job at the Mill.
I don't know what I am doing, I just act.
"If it is of any assistance, I would be delighted to look after the children while you work." She looks at me for a moment, torn and  confused but then again she is so desperate, she accepts my help. Moments later she is gone.    

So here I am, I have no experience or knowledge of how to be with children! They stare at me, I suppose I am staring back at them. There are two girls and one boy. I try a smile, the widest I have. The older girl comes up to me, timidly she touches the material of my dress. "Miss," she breathes, "are you a fairy?" I chuckle slightly, I probably would have laughed, rather not lady-like, if I wouldn't have been so nervous.
"I'm afraid, I am not," I have to disappoint her, "but I am a friend and I would like to spend some time with you and your siblings. Would you like me to tell you a story?" I am good at inventing stories. They nod, so I sit myself on a nearby bed trying not to be taken back by the cleanliness of the bedding I have seated myself upon. The children gather around me. I tell them a story, a story about amazing places in the world and while they get lost in the world of my words I manage to relax.

The ice is broken for they seem at ease as too. As I observe the children's faces and how they reflect the images that I'm installing in their minds, I feel a wondrous, warm feeling flooding through my entire being. As much as I seem out of place in this tiny rundown home, with these undernourished, deprived children I am at this moment, in exactly the place I want to be, doing something I truly treasure. I feel alive and needed!

After the story we play, we play the story I have just come up with. The children's eyes shine and when I produce fruitcake and oranges from the basket I have brought along, they squeal with delight. It makes me want to hug them for treating me with such wondrous feelings, those feelings of being appreciated and of having a purpose.