North and South
her eyes full of eager light. She held her breath to hear the end of his
speech.
“Honest men are ruined by a rogue,” said he gloomily. “As I stand now,
my creditors’ money is safe—every farthing of it; but I don’t know
where to find my own—it may be all gone, and I penniless at this
moment. Therefore, it is my creditors’ money that I should risk.”
“But if it succeeded, they need never know. Is it so desperate a
speculation? I am sure it is not, or you would never have thought of it.
If it succeeded—”
“I should be a rich man, and my peace of conscience would be gone!”
“Why! You would have injured no one.”
“No; but I should have run the risk of ruining many for my own paltry
aggrandisement. Mother, I have decided! You won’t much grieve over our
leaving this house, shall you, dear mother?”
“No! but to have you other than what you are will break my heart. What
can you do?”
“Be always the same John Thornton in whatever circumstances;
endeavouring to do right, and making great blunders; and then trying to
be brave in setting to afresh. But it is hard, mother. I have worked and
planned. I have discovered new powers in my situation too late—and now
all is over. I am too old to begin again with the same heart. It is
hard, mother.”
He turned away from her, and covered his face with his hands.
“I can’t think,” said she, with gloomy defiance in her tone, “how it
comes about. Here is my boy—good son, just man, tender heart—and he
fails in all he sets his mind upon: he finds a woman to love, and she
cares no more for his affection than if he had been a common man; he
labours, and his labour comes to nought. Other people grow rich, and
hold their paltry names high and dry above shame.”
“Shame never touched me,” said he, in a low tone: but she went on.
“I sometimes have wondered where justice was gone to, and now I don’t
believe there is such a thing in the world—now you are come to this;
you, my own John Thornton, though you and I may be beggars together—my
own dear son!”
She fell upon his neck, and kissed him through her tears.
“Mother!” said he, holding her gently in his arms, “who has sent me my
lot in life, both of good and evil?”
She shook her head. She would have nothing to do with religion just
then.
“Mother,” he went on, seeing that she would not speak. “I, too, have
been rebellious; but I’m striving to be so no longer. Help me, as you
helped me when I was a child. Then you said many good words—when my
father died, and we were sometimes sorely short of comforts—which we
shall never be now; you said brave, noble, trustful words then, mother,
which I have never forgotten, though they may have lain dormant. Speak
to me again in the old way, mother. Do not let us have to think that the
world has too much hardened our hearts. If you would say the old good
words, it would make me feel something of the pious simplicity of my
childhood. I say them to myself, but they would come differently from
you, remembering all the cares and trials you have had to bear.”
“I have had a many,” said she, sobbing, “but none so sore as this. To
see you cast down from your rightful place! I could say it for myself,
John, but not for you. Not for you! God has seen fit to be very hard on
you, very.”
She shook with the sobs that come so convulsively when an old person
weeps. The silence around her struck her at last; and she quieted
herself to listen. No sound. She looked. Her son sate by the table, his
arms thrown half across it, his head bent face downwards.
“Oh, John!” she said, and she lifted his face up. Such a strange, pallid
look of gloom was on it, that for a moment it struck her that this look
was the forerunner of death; but as the rigidity melted out of the
countenance and the natural colour returned, and she saw that he was
himself once again, all worldly mortification sank to nothing before the
consciousness of the great blessing that he himself, by his simple
existence was to her. She thanked God for this, and this alone, with a
fervour that swept away all rebellious feelings from her mind.
He did not speak readily; but he went and opened the shutters, and let
the ruddy light of dawn flood the room. But the wind was in the east;
the weather was piercing cold, as it had been for weeks; there would be
no demand for light summer goods this year. That hope for the revival of
trade must utterly be given up.
It was a great comfort to have had this conversation with his mother;
and to feel sure that, however they might henceforward keep silence on
all these anxieties, they yet understood each other’s feelings, and
were, if not in harmony, at least in discord with each other, in their
way of viewing them. Fanny’s husband was vexed at Thornton’s refusal to
take any share in the speculation which he had offered to him, and
withdrew from any possibility of being supposed able to assist him with
the ready money, which indeed the speculator needed for his own venture.
There was nothing for it at last, but that which Mr. Thornton had
dreaded for many weeks; he had to give up the business in which he had
been so long engaged with so much honour and success; and look out for a
subordinate situation. Marlborough Mills and the adjacent dwelling were
held under a long lease; they must if possible be relet. There was an
immediate choice of situations offered to Mr. Thornton. Mr. Hamper would
have been only too glad to have secured him as a steady and experienced
partner for his son, whom he was setting up with a large capital in a
neighbouring town; but the young man was half-educated as regarded
information, and wholly uneducated as regarded any other responsibility
than that of getting money, and brutalised both as to his pleasures and
his pains. Mr. Thornton declined having any share in a partnership,
which would frustrate what few plans he had that survived the wreck of
his fortunes. He would sooner consent to be only a manager, where he
could have a certain degree of power beyond the mere money-getting part,
than have to fall in with the tyrannical humours of a moneyed partner
with whom he felt sure that he should quarrel in a few months.
So he waited, and stood on one side with profound humility, as the news
swept through the Exchange of the enormous fortune which his
brother-in-law had made by his daring speculation. It was a nine days’
wonder. Success brought with it its worldly consequence of extreme
admiration. No one was considered so wise and far-seeing as Mr. Watson.
CHAPTER LI.
MEETING AGAIN.
“Bear up, brave heart! we will be calm and strong;
Sure, we can master eyes, or cheek, or tongue,
Nor let the smallest tell-tale sign appear
She ever was, and is, and will be dear.”
RHYMING PLAY.
It was a hot summer’s evening. Edith came into Margaret’s bed-room, the
first time in her habit, the second ready dressed for dinner. No one was
there at first; the next time Edith found Dixon laying out Margaret’s
dress on the bed; but no Margaret. Edith remained to fidget about.
“Oh, Dixon! not those horrid blue flowers to that dead gold-coloured
gown. What taste! Wait a minute, and I will bring you some pomegranate
blossoms.”
“It’s not a dead gold-colour ma’am. It’s a straw-colour. And blue always
goes with straw-colour.” But Edith had brought the brilliant scarlet
flowers before Dixon had got half through her remonstrance.
“Where is Miss Hale?” asked Edith, as soon as she had tried the effect
of the garniture. “I can’t think,” she went on, pettishly, “how my aunt
allowed her to get into such rambling habits in Milton! I’m sure I’m
always expecting to hear of her having met with something horrible among
all those wretched places she pokes herself into. I should never dare to
go down some of those streets without a servant. They’re not fit for
ladies.”
Dixon was still huffed about her despised taste; so she replied rather
shortly:
“It’s no wonder to my mind, when I hear ladies talk such a deal about
ladies—and when they’re such fearful, delicate, dainty ladies too—I
say it’s no wonder to me that there are no longer any saints on
earth——”
“Oh, Margaret! here you are! I have been so wanting you. But how your
cheeks are flushed with the heat, poor child! But only think what that
tiresome Henry has done; really, he exceeds brother-in-law’s limits.
Just when my party was made up so beautifully—fitted in so precisely
for Mr. Colthurst—there has Henry come, with an apology it is true, and
making use of your name for an excuse, and asked me if he may bring that
Mr. Thornton of Milton—your tenant, you know—who is in London about
some law business. It will spoil my number, quite.”
“I don’t mind dinner. I don’t want any,” said Margaret, in a low voice.
“Dixon can get me a cup of tea here, and I will be in the drawing-room
by the time you come up. I shall really be glad to lie down.”
“No, no! that will never do. You do look wretchedly white, to be sure;
but that is just the heat, and we can’t do without you possibly. (Those
flowers a little lower, Dixon. They look glorious flames, Margaret, in
your black hair.) You know we planned you to talk about Milton to Mr.
Colthurst. Oh! to be sure! and this man comes from Milton. I believe it
will be capital, after all. Mr. Colthurst can pump him well on all the
subjects in which he is interested, and it will be great fun to trace
out your experiences, and this Mr. Thornton’s wisdom, in Mr. Colthurst’s
next speech in the House. Really, I think it is a happy hit of Henry’s.
I asked him if he was a man one would be ashamed of; and he replied,
‘Not if you’ve any sense in you, my little sister.’ So I suppose he is
able to sound his h’s, which is not a common Darkshire
accomplishment—eh, Margaret?”
“Mr. Lennox did not say why Mr. Thornton was come up to town? Was it law
business connected with the property?” asked Margaret, in a constrained
voice.
“Oh! he’s failed, or something of the kind, that Henry told you of that
day you had such a headache—what was it? (There, that’s capital, Dixon.
Miss Hale does us credit, does she not?) I wish I was as tall as a
queen, and as brown as a gipsy, Margaret.”
“But about Mr. Thornton?”
“Oh! I really have such a terrible head for law business. Henry will
like nothing better than to tell you all about it. I know the impression
he made upon me was, that Mr. Thornton is very badly off, and a very
respectable man, and that I’m to be very civil to him: and as I did not
know how, I came to you to ask you to help me. And now come down with
me, and rest on the sofa for a quarter of an hour.”
The privileged brother-in-law came early; and Margaret, reddening as she
spoke, began to ask him the questions she wanted to hear answered about
Mr. Thornton.
“He came up about this sub-letting the property—Marlborough Mills, and
the house and premises adjoining, I mean. He is unable to keep it on;
and there are deeds and leases to be looked over and agreements to be
drawn up. I hope Edith will receive him properly; but she was rather put
out, as I could see, by the liberty I had taken in begging for an
invitation for him. But I thought you would like to have some attention
shown him: and one would be particularly scrupulous in paying every
respect to a man who is going down in the world.” He had dropped his
voice to speak to Margaret, by whom he was sitting; but as he ended he
sprang up, and introduced Mr. Thornton, who had that moment entered, to
Edith and Captain Lennox.
Margaret looked with an anxious eye at Mr. Thornton while he was thus
occupied. It was considerably more than a year since she had seen him;
and events had occurred to change him much in that time. His fine figure
yet bore him above the common height of men; and gave him a