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_ 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 feminine
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
tablecloth, 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 his 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-tongs. 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 being suddenly wanted to fill
up a gap.
Mr. Thornton and Mr. Hale were both absorbed in the continuation
of some subject which had been started at their last meeting.
Margaret was recalled to a sense of the present by some trivial,
low-spoken remark of her mother's; and on suddenly looking up
from her work, her eye was caught by the difference of outward
appearance between her father and Mr. Thornton, as betokening
such distinctly opposite natures. Her father was of slight
figure, which made him appear taller than he really was, when not
contrasted, as at this time, with the tall, massive frame of
another. The lines in her father's face were soft and waving,
with a frequent undulating kind of trembling movement passing
over them, showing every fluctuating emotion; the eyelids were
large and arched, giving to the eyes a peculiar languid beauty
which was almost feminine. The brows were finely arched, but
were, by the very size of the dreamy lids, raised to a
considerable distance from the eyes. Now, in Mr. Thornton's face
the straight brows fell low over the clear, deep-set earnest
eyes, which, without being unpleasantly sharp, seemed intent
enough to penetrate into the very heart and core of what he was
looking at. The lines in the face were few but firm, as if they
were carved in marble, and lay principally about the lips, which
were slightly compressed over a set of teeth so faultless and
beautiful as to give the effect of sudden sunlight when the rare
bright smile, coming in an instant and shining out of the eyes,
changed the whole look from the severe and resolved expression of
a man ready to do and dare everything, to the keen honest
enjoyment of the moment, which is seldom shown so fearlessly and
instantaneously except by children. Margaret liked this smile; it
was the first thing she had admired in this new friend of her
father's; and the opposition of character, shown in all these
details of appearance she had just been noticing, seemed to
explain the attraction they evidently felt towards each other.
She rearranged her mother's worsted-work, and fell back into her
own thoughts--as completely forgotten by Mr. Thornton as if she
had not been in the room, so thoroughly was he occupied in
explaining to Mr. Hale the magnificent power, yet delicate
adjustment of the might of the steam-hammer, which was recalling
to Mr. Hale some of the wonderful stories of subservient genii in
the Arabian Nights--one moment stretching from earth to sky and
filling all the width of the horizon, at the next obediently
compressed into a vase small enough to be borne in the hand of a
child.
'And this imagination of power, this practical realisation of a
gigantic thought, came out of one man's brain in our good town.
That very man has it within him to mount, step by step, on each
wonder he achieves to higher marvels still. And I'll be bound to
say, we have many among us who, if he were gone, could spring
into the breach and carry on the war which compels, and shall
compel, all material power to yield to science.'
'Your boast reminds me of the old lines--"I've a hundred
captains in England," he said, "As good as ever was he."'
At her father's quotation Margaret looked suddenly up, with
inquiring wonder in her eyes. How in the world had they got from
cog-wheels to Chevy Chace?
'It is no boast of mine,' replied Mr. Thornton; 'it is plain
matter-of-fact. I won't deny that I am proud of belonging to a
town--or perhaps I should rather say a district--the necessities
of which give birth to such grandeur of conception. I would
rather be a man toiling, suffering--nay, failing and
successless--here, than lead a dull prosperous life in the old
worn grooves of what you call more aristocratic society down in
the South, with their slow days of careless ease. One may be
clogged with honey and unable to rise and fly.'
'You are mistaken,' said Margaret, roused by the aspersion on her
beloved South to a fond vehemence of defence, that brought the
colour into her cheeks and the angry tears into her eyes. 'You do
not know anything about the South. If there is less adventure or
less progress--I suppose I must not say less excitement--from the
gambling spirit of trade, which seems requisite to force out
these wonderful inventions, there is less suffering also. I see
men h ere going about in the streets who look ground down by some
pinching sorrow or care--who are not only sufferers but haters.
Now, in the South we have our poor, but there is not that
terrible expression in their countenances of a sullen sense of
injustice which I see here. You do not know the South, Mr.
Thornton,' she concluded, collapsing into a determined silence,
and angry with herself for having said so much.
'And may I say you do not know the North?' asked he, with an
inexpressible gentleness in his tone, as he saw that he had
really hurt her. She continued resolutely silent; yearning after
the lovely haunts she had left far away in Hampshire, with a
passionate longing that made her feel her voice would be unsteady
and trembling if she spoke.
'At any rate, Mr. Thornton,' said Mrs. Hale, 'you will allow that
Milton is a much more smoky, dirty town than you will ever meet
with in the South.'
'I'm afraid I must give up its cleanliness,' said Mr. Thornton,
with the quick gleaming smile. 'But we are bidden by parliament
to burn our own smoke; so I suppose, like good little children,
we shall do as we are bid--some time.'
'But I think you told me you had altered your chimneys so as to
consume the smoke, did you not?' asked Mr. Hale.
'Mine were altered by my own will, before parliament meddled with
the affair. It was an immediate outlay, but it repays me in the
saving of coal. I'm not sure whether I should have done it, if I
had waited until the act was passed. At any rate, I should have
waited to be informed against and fined, and given all the
trouble in yielding that I legally could. But all laws which
depend for their enforcement upon informers and fines, become
inert from the odiousness of the machinery. I doubt if there has
been a chimney in Milton informed against for five years past,
although some are constantly sending out one-third of their coal
in what is called here unparliamentary smoke.'
'I only know it is impossible to keep the muslin blinds clean
here above a week together; and at Helstone we have had them up
for a month or more, and they have not looked dirty at the end of
that time. And as for hands--Margaret, how many times did you say
you had washed your hands this morning before twelve o'clock?
Three times, was it not?'
'Yes, mamma.'
'You seem to have a strong objection to acts of parliament and
all legislation affecting your mode of management down here at
Milton,' said Mr. Hale.
'Yes, I have; and many others have as well. And with justice, I
think. The whole machinery--I don't mean the wood and iron
machinery now--of the cotton trade is so new that it is no wonder
if it does not work well in every part all at once. Seventy years
ago what was it? And now what is it not? Raw, crude materials
came together; men of the same level, as regarded education and
station, took suddenly the different positions of masters and
men, owing to the motherwit, as regarded opportunities and
probabilities, which distinguished some, and made them far-seeing
as to what great future lay concealed in that rude model of Sir
Richard Arkwright's. The rapid development of what might be
called a new trade, gave those early masters enormous power of
wealth and command. I don't mean merely over the workmen; I mean
over purchasers--over the whole world's market. Why, I may give
you, as an instance, an advertisement, inserted not fifty years
ago in a Milton paper, that so-and-so (one of the half-dozen
calico-printers of the time) would close his warehouse at noon
each day; therefore, that all purchasers must come before that
hour. Fancy a man dictating in this manner the time when he would
sell and when he would not sell. Now, I believe, if a good
customer chose to come at midnight, I should get up, and stand
hat in hand to receive his orders.'
Margaret's lip curled, but somehow she was compelled to listen;
she could no longer abstract herself in her own thoughts.
'I only name such things to show what almost unlimited power the
manufacturers had about the beginning of this century. The men
were rendered dizzy by it. Because a man was successful in his
ventures, there was no reason that in all other things his mind
should be well-balanced. On the Contrary, his sense of justice,
and his simplicity, were often utterly smothered under the glut
of wealth that came down upon him; and they tell strange tales of
the wild extravagance of living indulged in on gala-days by those
early cotton-lords. There can be no doubt, too, of the tyranny
they exercised over their work-people. You know the proverb, Mr.
Hale, "Set a beggar on horseback, and he'll ride to the
devil,"--well, some of these early manufacturers did ride to the
devil in a magnificent style--crushing human bone and flesh under
their horses' hoofs without remorse. But by-and-by came a
re-action, there were more factories, more masters; more men were
wanted. The power of masters and men became more evenly balanced;
and now the battle is pretty fairly waged between us. We will
hardly submit to the decision of an umpire, much less to the
interference of a meddler with only a smattering of the knowledge
of the real facts of the case, even though that meddler be called
the High Court of Parliament.
'Is there necessity for calling it a battle between the two
classes?' asked Mr. Hale. 'I know, from your using the term, it
is one which gives a true idea of the real state of things to
your mind.'
'It is true; and I believe it to be as much a necessity as that
prudent wisdom and good conduct are always opposed to, and doing
battle with ignorance and improvidence. It is one of the great
beauties of our system, that a working-man may raise himself into
the power and position of a master by his own exertions and
behaviour; that, in fact, every one who rules himself to decency
and sobriety of conduct, and attention to his duties, comes over
to our ranks; it may not be always as a master, but as an
over-looker, a cashier, a book-keeper, a clerk, one on the side
of authority and order.'
'You consider all who are unsuccessful in raising themselves in
the world, from whatever cause, as your enemies, then, if I
under-stand you rightly,' said Margaret' in a clear, cold voice.
'As their own enemies, certainly,' said he, quickly, not a little
piqued by the haughty disapproval her form of expression and tone
of speaking implied. But, in a moment, his straightforward
honesty made him feel that his words were but a poor and
quibbling answer to what she had said; and, be she as scornful as
she liked, it was a duty he owed to himself to explain, as truly
as he could, what he did mean. Yet it was very difficult to
separate her interpretation, and keep it distinct from his
meaning. He could best have illustrated what he wanted to say by
telling them something of his own life; but was it not too
personal a subject to speak about to strangers? Still, it was the
simple straightforward way of explaining his meaning; so, putting
aside the touch of shyness that brought a momentary flush of
colour into his dark cheek, he said:
'I am not speaking without book. Sixteen years ago, my father
died under very miserable circumstances. I was taken from school,
and had to become a man (as well as I could) in a few days. I had
such a mother as few are blest with; a woman of strong power, and
firm resolve. We went into a small country town, where living was
cheaper than in Milton, and where I got employment in a draper's
shop (a capital place, by the way, for obtaining a knowledge of
goods). Week by week our income came to fifteen shillings, out of
which three people had to be kept. My mother managed so that I
put by three out of these fifteen shillings regularly. This made
the beginning; this taught me self-denial. Now that I am able to
afford my mother such comforts as her age, rather than her own
wish, requires, I thank her silently on each occasion for the
early training she gave me. Now when I feel that in my own case
it is no good luck, nor merit, nor talent,--but simply the habits
of life which taught me to despise indulgences not thoroughly
earned,--indeed, never to think twice about them,--I believe that
this suffering, which Miss Hale says is impressed on the
countenances of the people of Milton, is but the natural
punishment of dishonestly-enjoyed pleasure, at some former period
of their lives. I do not look on self-indulgent, sensual people
as worthy of my hatred; I simply look upon them with contempt for
their poorness of character.'
'But you have had the rudiments of a good education,' remarked
Mr. Hale. 'The quick zest with which you are now reading Homer,
shows me that you do not come to it as an unknown book; you have
read it before, and are only recalling your old knowledge.'
'That is true,--I had blundered along it at school; I dare say, I
was even considered a pretty fair classic in those days, though
my Latin and Greek have slipt away from me since. But I ask you,
what preparation they were for such a life as I had to lead? None
at all. Utterly none at all. On the point of education, any man
who can read and write starts fair with me in the amount of
really useful knowledge that I had at that time.'
'Well! I don't agree with you. But there I am perhaps somewhat of
a pedant. Did not the recollection of the heroic simplicity of
the Homeric life nerve you up?'
'Not one bit!' exclaimed Mr. Thornton, laughing. 'I was too busy
to think about any dead people, with the living pressing
alongside of me, neck to neck, in the struggle for bread. Now
that I have my mother safe in the quiet peace that becomes her
age, and duly rewards her former exertions, I can turn to all
that old narration and thoroughly enjoy it.'
'I dare say, my remark came from the professional feeling of
there being nothing like leather,' replied Mr. Hale.
When Mr. Thornton rose up to go away, after shaking hands with
Mr. and Mrs. Hale, he made an advance to Margaret to wish her
good-bye in a similar manner. It was the frank familiar custom of
the place; but Margaret was not prepared for it. She simply bowed
her farewell; although the instant she saw the hand, half put
out, quickly drawn back, she was sorry she had not been aware of
the intention. Mr. Thornton, however, knew nothing of her sorrow,
and, drawing himself up to his full height, walked off, muttering
as he left the house--
'A more proud, disagreeable girl I never saw. Even her great
beauty is blotted out of one's memory by her scornful ways.' _
Read next: CHAPTER XI - FIRST IMPRESSIONS
Read previous: CHAPTER IX - DRESSING FOR TEA
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