North and South
come here for? And Dixon is washing my muslins and laces, and there is
no soft water with these horrid east winds, which I suppose we shall
have all the year round in Milton.”
“The wind is veering round, my dear,” said Mr. Hale, looking out at the
smoke, which drifted right from the east, only he did not yet understand
the points of the compass, and rather arranged them ad libitum according
to circumstances.
“Don’t tell me!” said Mrs. Hale, shuddering up, and wrapping her shawl
about her still more closely. “But, east or west wind, I suppose this
man comes.”
“Oh mamma, that shows you never saw Mr. Thornton. He looks like a person
who would enjoy battling with every adverse thing he could meet
with—enemies, winds, or circumstances. The more it rains and blows, the
more certain we are to have him. But I’ll go and help Dixon. I’m getting
to be a famous clear-starcher. And he won’t want any amusement beyond
talking to Papa. Papa, I am really longing to see the Pythias to your
Damon. You know I never saw him but once, and then we were so puzzled to
know what to say to each other that we did not get on particularly
well.”
“I don’t know that you would ever like him, or think him agreeable,
Margaret. He is not a lady’s man.”
Margaret wreathed her throat in a scornful curve.
“I don’t particularly admire ladies’ men, papa. But Mr. Thornton comes
here as your friend—as one who has appreciated you”—
“The only person in Milton,” said Mrs. Hale.
“So we will give him a welcome, and some cocoa-nut cakes. Dixon will be
flattered if we ask her to make some; and I will undertake to iron your
caps, mamma.”
Many a time that morning did Margaret wish Mr. Thornton far enough away.
She had planned other employments for herself: a letter to Edith, a good
piece of Dante, a visit to the Higginses. But, instead, she ironed away,
listening to Dixon’s complaints, and only hoping that by an excess of
sympathy she might prevent her from carrying the recital of her sorrows
to Mrs. Hale. Every now and then, Margaret had to remind herself of her
father’s regard for Mr. Thornton, to subdue the irritation of weariness
that was stealing over her, and bringing on one of the bad headaches to
which she had lately become liable. She could hardly speak when she sat
down at last, and told her mother that she was no longer Peggy the
laundry-maid, but Margaret Hale the lady. She meant this speech for a
little joke, and was vexed enough with her busy tongue when she found
her mother taking it seriously.
“Yes! if any one had told me, when I was Miss Beresford, and one of the
belles of the country, that a child of mine would have to stand half a
day, in a little poky kitchen, working away like any servant, that we
might prepare properly for the reception of a tradesman, and that this
tradesman should be the only”—
“Oh, mamma!” said Margaret, lifting herself up, “don’t punish me for so
careless a speech. I don’t mind ironing, or any kind of work for you and
papa. I am myself a born and bred lady through it all, even though it
comes to scouring a floor, or washing dishes. I am tired now, just for a
little while; but in half an hour I shall be ready to do the same over
again. And as to Mr. Thornton’s being in trade, why he can’t help that
now, poor fellow. I don’t suppose his education would fit him for much
else.” Margaret lifted herself slowly up, and went to her own room; for
just now she could not bear much more.
In Mr. Thornton’s house, at this very same time, a similar, yet
different scene was going on. A large-boned lady, long past middle age,
sat at work in a grim handsomely-furnished dining-room. Her features,
like her frame, were strong and massive, rather than heavy. Her face
moved slowly from one decided expression to another equally decided.
There was no great variety in her countenance; but those who looked at
it once, generally looked at it again; even the passers by in the
street, half-turned their heads to gaze an instant longer at the firm,
severe, dignified woman, who never gave way in street-courtesy, or
paused in her straight-onward course to the clearly defined end which
she proposed to herself.
She was handsomely dressed in stout black silk, of which not a thread
was worn or discoloured. She was mending a large, long table-cloth of
the finest texture, holding it up against the light occasionally to
discover thin places, which required her delicate care. There was not a
book about in the room, with the exception of Matthew Henry’s Bible
commentaries, six volumes of which lay in the centre of the massive
side-board, flanked by a tea-urn on one side, and a lamp on the other.
In some remote apartment, there was exercise upon the piano going on.
Someone was practising up a morceau de salon, playing it very rapidly,
every third note, on an average, being either indistinct, or wholly
missed out, and the loud chords at the end being half of them false, but
not the less satisfactory to the performer. Mrs. Thornton heard a step,
like her own in its decisive character, pass the dining-room door.
“John! Is that you?”
Her son opened the door, and showed himself.
“What has brought you home so early? I thought you were going to tea
with that friend of Mr. Bell’s; that Mr. Hale?”
“So I am, mother. I am come home to dress!”
“Dress! humph! When I was a girl, young men were satisfied with dressing
once in a day. Why should you dress to go and take a cup of tea with an
old parson?”
“Mr. Hale is a gentleman, and his wife and daughter are ladies.”
“Wife and daughter! Do they teach too? What do they do? You have never
mentioned them.”
“No! mother, because I have never seen Mrs. Hale; I have only seen Miss
Hale for half an hour.”
“Take care you don’t get caught by a penniless girl, John.”
“I am not easily caught, mother, as I think you know. But I must not
have Miss Hale spoken of in that way, which, you know, is offensive to
me. I never was aware of any young lady trying to catch me yet, nor do I
believe that any one has ever given themselves that useless trouble.”
Mrs. Thornton did not choose to yield the point to her son; or else she
had, in general, pride enough for her sex.
“Well! I only say, take care. Perhaps our Milton girls have too much
spirit and good feeling to go angling after husbands; but this Miss Hale
comes out of the aristocratic counties, where, if all tales be true,
rich husbands are reckoned prizes.”
Mr. Thornton’s brow contracted, and he came a step forward into the
room.
“Mother” (with a short scornful laugh), “you will make me confess. The
only time I saw Miss Hale, she treated me with a haughty civility which
had a strong flavour of contempt in it. She held herself aloof from me
as if she had been a queen, and I her humble, unwashed vassal. Be easy,
mother.”
“No! I am not easy nor content either. What business had she, a renegade
clergyman’s daughter, to turn up her nose at you! I would dress for none
of them—a saucy set! if I were you.” As he was leaving the room he
said:—
“Mr. Hale is good, and gentle, and learned. He is not saucy. As for Mrs.
Hale, I will tell you what she is like to-night, if you care to hear.”
He shut the door, and was gone.
“Despise my son! treat him as her vassal, indeed! Humph! I should like
to know where she could find such another! Boy and man, he’s the
noblest, stoutest heart I ever knew. I don’t care if I am his mother; I
can see what’s what, and not be blind. I know what Fanny is; and I know
what John is. Despise him! I hate her!”
CHAPTER X.
WROUGHT IRON AND GOLD.
“We are the trees whom shaking fastens more.”
GEORGE HERBERT.
Mr. Thornton left the house without coming into the dining-room again.
He was rather late, and walked rapidly out to Crampton. He was anxious
not to slight his new friend by any disrespectful unpunctuality. The
church-clock struck half-past seven as he stood at the door awaiting
Dixon’s slow movements; always doubly tardy when she had to degrade
herself by answering the door-bell. He was ushered into the little
drawing-room, and kindly greeted by Mr. Hale, who led him up to his
wife, whose pale face, and shawl-draped figure made a silent excuse for
the cold languor of her greeting. Margaret was lighting the lamp when he
entered, for the darkness was coming on. The lamp threw a pretty light
into the centre of the dusky room, from which, with country habits, they
did not exclude the night-skies, and the outer darkness of air. Somehow,
that room contrasted itself with the one he had lately left; handsome,
ponderous, with no sign of female habitation, except in the one spot
where his mother sate, and no convenience for any other employment than
eating and drinking. To be sure, it was a dining-room; his mother
preferred to sit in it; and her will was a household law. But the
drawing-room was not like this. It was twice—twenty times as fine; not
one quarter as comfortable. Here were no mirrors, not even a scrap of
glass to reflect the light, and answer the same purpose as water in a
landscape; no gilding; a warm, sober breadth of colouring, well relieved
by the dear old Helstone chintz-curtains and chair covers. An open
davenport stood in the window opposite the door; in the other there was
a stand, with a tall white china vase, from which drooped wreaths of
English ivy, pale green birch, and copper-coloured beech-leaves. Pretty
baskets of work stood about in different places: and books, not cared
for on account of their binding solely, lay on one table, as if recently
put down. Behind the door was another table decked out for tea, with a
white table-cloth, on which flourished the cocoa-nut cakes, and a basket
piled with oranges and ruddy American apples, heaped on leaves.
It appeared to Mr. Thornton that all these graceful cares were habitual
to the family; and especially of a piece with Margaret. She stood by the
tea-table in a light-coloured muslin gown, which had a good deal of pink
about it. She looked as if she was not attending to the conversation,
but solely busy with the tea-cups, among which her round ivory hands
moved with pretty, noiseless, daintiness. She had a bracelet on one
taper arm, which would fall down over her round wrist. Mr. Thornton
watched the replacing of this troublesome ornament with far more
attention than he listened to her father. It seemed as if it fascinated
him to see her push it up impatiently until it tightened her soft flesh;
and then to mark the loosening—the fall. He could almost have
exclaimed—“There it goes again!” There was so little left to be done
after he arrived at the preparation for tea, that he was almost sorry
the obligation of eating and drinking came so soon to prevent him
watching Margaret. She handed him his cup of tea with the proud air of
an unwilling slave; but her eye caught the moment when he was ready for
another cup; and he almost longed to ask her to do for him what he saw
her compelled to do for her father, who took her little finger and thumb
in his masculine hand, and made them serve as sugar-tongues. Mr.
Thornton saw her beautiful eyes lifted to her father, full of light,
half-laughter, and half-love, as this bit of pantomime went on between
the two, unobserved as they fancied, by any. Margaret’s head still
ached, as the paleness of her complexion, and her silence might have
testified; but she was resolved to throw herself into the breach, if
there was any long untoward pause, rather than that her father’s friend,
pupil, and guest should have cause to think himself in any way
neglected. But the conversation went on; and Margaret drew into a
corner, near her mother, with her work, after the tea-things were taken
away; and felt that she might let her thoughts roam, without fear of