CHAPTER IX.

DRESSING FOR TEA.

“Let China’s earth, enriched with coloured stains,

Pencil’d with gold, and streaked with azure veins,

The grateful flavour of the Indian leaf,

Or Mocha’s sunburnt berry glad receive.”

MRS. BARBOULD.

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 country, 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 for so

careless a 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.

Someone 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!”