_ 'Let China's earth, enrich'd with colour'd stains,
Pencil'd with gold, and streak'd with azure veins,
The grateful flavour of the Indian leaf,
Or Mocho's sunburnt berry glad receive.'
MRS. BARBAULD.
The day after this meeting with Higgins and his daughter, Mr.
Hale came upstairs into the little drawing-room at an unusual
hour. He went up to different objects in the room, as if
examining them, but Margaret saw that it was merely a nervous
trick--a way of putting off something he wished, yet feared to
say. Out it came at last--
'My dear! I've asked Mr. Thornton to come to tea to-night.'
Mrs. Hale was leaning back in her easy chair, with her eyes shut,
and an expression of pain on her face which had become habitual
to her of late. But she roused up into querulousness at this
speech of her husband's.
'Mr. Thornton!--and to-night! What in the world does the man want
to 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 county, 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 so
for a careless 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. Some one 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!' _