North and South
observation; and he contrasted them uneasily with the large soft eyes
that looked forth steadily at one object, as if from out their light
beamed some gentle influence of repose: the curving lines of the red
lips, just parted in the interest of listening to what her companion
said—the head a little bent forwards, so as to make a long sweeping
line from the summit, where the light caught on the glossy raven hair,
to the smooth ivory tip of the shoulder; the round white arms, and taper
hands, laid lightly across each other, but perfectly motionless in their
pretty attitude. Mr. Thornton sighed as he took in all this with one of
his sudden comprehensive glances. And then he turned his back to the
young ladies, and threw himself, with an effort, but with all his heart
and soul, into a conversation with Mr. Hale.
More people came—more and more. Fanny left Margaret’s side and helped
her mother to receive her guests. Mr. Thornton felt that in this influx
no one was speaking to Margaret, and was restless under this apparent
neglect. But he never went near her himself; he did not look at her.
Only, he knew what she was doing—or not doing—better than he knew the
movements of any one else in the room. Margaret was so unconscious of
herself, and so much amused by watching other people, that she never
thought whether she was left unnoticed or not. Somebody took her down to
dinner; she did not catch the name; nor did he seem much inclined to
talk to her. There was a very animated conversation going on among the
gentlemen; the ladies, for the most part, were silent, employing
themselves in taking notes of the dinner and criticising each other’s
dresses. Margaret caught the clue to the general conversation, grew
interested and listened attentively. Mr. Horsfall, the stranger, whose
visit to the town was the original germ of the party, was asking
questions relative to the trade and manufactures of the place; and the
rest of the gentlemen—all Milton men—were giving him answers and
explanations. Some dispute arose, which was warmly contested; it was
referred to Mr. Thornton, who had hardly spoken before; but who now
gave an opinion, the grounds of which were so clearly stated that even
the opponents yielded. Margaret’s attention was thus called to her host;
his whole manner, as master of the house, and entertainer of his
friends, was so straightforward, yet simple and modest, as to be
thoroughly dignified. Margaret thought she had never seen him to so much
advantage. When he had come to their house, there had been always
something, either of over-eagerness or of that kind of vexed annoyance
which seemed ready to pre-suppose that he was unjustly judged, and yet
felt too proud to try and make himself better understood. But now, among
his fellows, there was no uncertainty as to his position. He was
regarded by them as a man of great force of character; of power in many
ways. There was no need to struggle for their respect. He had it, and he
knew it; and the security of this gave a fine grand quietness to his
voice and ways, which Margaret had missed before.
He was not in the habit of talking to ladies; and what he did say was a
little formal. To Margaret herself he hardly spoke at all. She was
surprised to think how much she enjoyed this dinner. She knew enough now
to understand many local interests—nay, even some of the technical
words employed by the eager millowners. She silently took a very decided
part in the question they were discussing. At any rate, they talked in
desperate earnest,—not in the used-up style that wearied her so in the
old London parties. She wondered that, with all this dwelling on the
manufacturers and trade of the place, no allusion was made to the strike
then pending. She did not yet know how coolly such things were taken by
the masters, as having only one possible end. To be sure, the men were
cutting their own throats, as they had done many a time before; but if
they would be fools, and put themselves into the hands of a rascally set
of paid delegates, they must take the consequence. One or two thought
Thornton looked out of spirits; and, of course, he must lose by this
turn-out. But it was an accident that might happen to themselves any
day; and Thornton was as good to manage a strike as any one; for he was
as iron a chap as any in Milton. The hands had mistaken their man in
trying that dodge on him. And they chuckled inwardly at the idea of the
workmen’s discomfiture and defeat, in their attempt to alter one iota of
what Thornton had decreed.
It was rather dull for Margaret after dinner. She was glad when the
gentlemen came, not merely because she caught her father’s eye to
brighten her sleepiness up; but because she could listen to something
larger and grander than the petty interests which the ladies had been
talking about. She liked the exultation in the sense of power which
these Milton men had. It might be rather rampant in its display, and
savour of boasting; but still they seemed to defy the old limits of
possibility, in a kind of fine intoxication, caused by the recollection
of what had been achieved, and what yet should be. If in her cooler
moments she might not approve of the spirit in all things, still there
was much to admire in their forgetfulness of themselves and the present,
in their anticipated triumphs over all inanimate matter at some future
time which none of them would live to see. She was rather startled when
Mr. Thornton spoke to her close at her elbow:
“I could see you were on our side in our discussion at dinner,—were you
not, Miss Hale?”
“Certainly. But then I know so little about it. I was surprised,
however, to find from what Mr. Horsfall said, that there were others who
thought in so diametrically opposite a manner, as the Mr. Morison he
spoke about. He cannot be a gentleman—is he?”
“I am not quite the person to decide on another’s gentlemanliness, Miss
Hale. I mean, I don’t quite understand your application of the word. But
I should say that this Morison is no true man. I don’t know who he is; I
merely judge him from Mr. Horsfall’s account.”
“I suspect my ‘gentleman’ includes your ‘true man.’”
“And a great deal more, you would imply. I differ from you. A man is to
me a higher and a completer being than a gentleman.”
“What do you mean?” asked Margaret. “We must understand the words
differently.”
“I take it that ‘gentleman’ is a term that only describes a person in
his relation to others; but when we speak of him as ‘a man,’ we consider
him not merely with regard to his fellow-men, but in relation to
himself,—to life—to time—to eternity. A cast-away lonely as Robinson
Crusoe—a prisoner immured in a dungeon for life—nay, even a saint in
Patmos, has his endurance, his strength, his faith, best described by
being spoken of as ‘a man.’ I am rather weary of this word
‘gentlemanly,’ which seems to me to be often inappropriately used, and
often, too, with such exaggerated distortion of meaning, while the full
simplicity of the noun ‘man,’ and the adjective ‘manly’ are
acknowledged—that I am induced to class it with the cant of the day.”
Margaret thought a moment—but before she could speak her slow
conviction, he was called away by some of the eager manufacturers, whose
speeches she could not hear, though she could guess at their import by
the short clear answers Mr. Thornton gave, which came steady and firm as
the boom of a distant minute gun. They were evidently talking of the
turn-out, and suggesting what course had best be pursued. She heard Mr.
Thornton say:
“That has been done.” Then came a hurried murmur, in which two or three
joined.
“All those arrangements have been made.”
Some doubts were implied, some difficulties named by Mr. Slickson, who
took hold of Mr. Thornton’s arm, the better to impress his words. Mr.
Thornton moved slightly away, lifted his eyebrows a very little, and
then replied:
“I take the risk. You need not join in it unless you choose.” Still some
more fears were urged.
“I’m not afraid of anything so dastardly as incendiarism. We are open
enemies; and I can protect myself from any violence that I apprehend.
And I will assuredly protect all others who come to me for work. They
know my determination by this time, as well and as fully as you do.”
Mr. Horsfall took him a little on one side, as Margaret conjectured, to
ask him some other question about the strike; but, in truth, it was to
inquire who she herself was—so quiet, so stately, and so beautiful.
“A Milton lady?” asked he, as the name was given.
“No! from the south of England—Hampshire, I believe,” was the cold,
indifferent answer.
Mrs. Slickson was catechising Fanny on the same subject.
“Who is that fine distinguished-looking girl? a sister of Mr.
Horsfall’s?”
“Oh dear, no! That is Mr. Hale, her father, talking now to Mr. Stephens.
He gives lessons; that is to say, he reads with young men. My brother
John goes to him twice a week, and so he begged mamma to ask them here,
in hopes of getting him known. I believe we have some of their
prospectuses, if you would like to have one.”
“Mr. Thornton! Does he really find time to read with a tutor, in the
midst of all his business,—and this abominable strike in hand as well?”
Fanny was not sure, from Mrs. Slickson’s manner, whether she ought to be
proud or ashamed of her brother’s conduct; and, like all people who try
and take other people’s “ought” for the rule of their feelings, she was
inclined to blush for any singularity of action. Her shame was
interrupted by the dispersion of the guests.
CHAPTER XXI.
THE DARK NIGHT.
“On earth is known to none
The smile that is not sister to a tear.”
ELLIOTT.
Margaret and her father walked home. The night was fine, the streets
clean, and with her pretty white silk, like Leezie Lindsay’s gown o’
green satin, in the ballad, “kilted up to her knee,” she was off with
her father—ready to dance along with the excitement of the cool, fresh
night air.
“I rather think Thornton is not quite easy in his mind about this
strike. He seemed very anxious to-night.”
“I should wonder if he were not. But he spoke with his usual coolness to
the others, when they suggested different things, just before we came
away.”
“So he did after dinner as well. It would take a good deal to stir him
from his cool manner of speaking; but his face strikes me as anxious.”
“I should be, if I were he. He must know of the growing anger and hardly
smothered hatred of his workpeople, who all looked upon him as what the
Bible calls a ‘hard man,’—not so much unjust as unfeeling; clear in
judgment, standing upon his ‘rights’ as no human being ought to stand,
considering what we and all our petty rights are in the sight of the
Almighty. I am glad you think he looks anxious. When I remember
Boucher’s half mad words and ways, I cannot bear to think how coolly Mr.
Thornton spoke.”
“In the first place, I am not so convinced as you are about that man
Boucher’s utter distress; for the moment, he was badly off, I don’t
doubt. But there is always a mysterious supply of money from these
Unions; and, from what you said, it was evident the man was of a
passionate, demonstrative nature, and gave strong expression to all he
felt.”
“Oh, papa!”
“Well! I only want you to do justice to Mr. Thornton, who is, I suspect,
of an exactly opposite nature—a man who is far too proud to show his
feelings. Just the character I should have thought beforehand, you would
have admired, Margaret.”
“So I do—so I should; but I don’t feel quite so sure as you do of the
existence of those feelings. He is a man of great strength of
character—of unusual intellect, considering the few advantages he has
had.”