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

being suddenly wanted to fill up a gap.

Mr. Thornton and Mr. Hale were both absorbed in the continuation of some

object 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 the 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 here 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

it is not? Raw, crude materials came together; men of the same level, as

regarded education and station, took suddenly the different position 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

reaction; 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 overlooker, 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 understand 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 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

were they 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.”