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_ CHAPTER XX - MEN AND GENTLEMEN
'Old and young, boy, let 'em all eat, I have it;
Let 'em have ten tire of teeth a-piece, I care not.'
ROLLO, DUKE OF NORMANDY.
Margaret went home so painfully occupied with what she had heard
and seen that she hardly knew how to rouse herself up to the
duties which awaited her; the necessity for keeping up a constant
flow of cheerful conversation for her mother, who, now that she
was unable to go out, always looked to Margaret's return from the
shortest walk as bringing in some news.
'And can your factory friend come on Thursday to see you
dressed?'
'She was so ill I never thought of asking her,' said Margaret,
dolefully.
'Dear! Everybody is ill now, I think,' said Mrs. Hale, with a
little of the jealousy which one invalid is apt to feel of
another. 'But it must be very sad to be ill in one of those
little back streets.' (Her kindly nature prevailing, and the old
Helstone habits of thought returning.) 'It's bad enough here.
What could you do for her, Margaret? Mr. Thornton has sent me
some of his old port wine since you went out. Would a bottle of
that do her good, think you?'
'No, mamma! I don't believe they are very poor,--at least, they
don't speak as if they were; and, at any rate, Bessy's illness is
consumption--she won't want wine. Perhaps, I might take her a
little preserve, made of our dear Helstone fruit. No! there's
another family to whom I should like to give--Oh mamma, mamma!
how am I to dress up in my finery, and go off and away to smart
parties, after the sorrow I have seen to-day?' exclaimed
Margaret, bursting the bounds she had preordained for herself
before she came in, and telling her mother of what she had seen
and heard at Higgins's cottage.
It distressed Mrs. Hale excessively. It made her restlessly
irritated till she could do something. She directed Margaret to
pack up a basket in the very drawing-room, to be sent there and
then to the family; and was almost angry with her for saying,
that it would not signify if it did not go till morning, as she
knew Higgins had provided for their immediate wants, and she
herself had left money with Bessy. Mrs. Hale called her unfeeling
for saying this; and never gave herself breathing-time till the
basket was sent out of the house. Then she said:
'After all, we may have been doing wrong. It was only the last
time Mr. Thornton was here that he said, those were no true
friends who helped to prolong the struggle by assisting the turn
outs. And this Boucher-man was a turn-out, was he not?'
The question was referred to Mr. Hale by his wife, when he came
up-stairs, fresh from giving a lesson to Mr. Thornton, which had
ended in conversation, as was their wont. Margaret did not care
if their gifts had prolonged the strike; she did not think far
enough for that, in her present excited state.
Mr. Hale listened, and tried to be as calm as a judge; he
recalled all that had seemed so clear not half-an-hour before, as
it came out of Mr. Thornton's lips; and then he made an
unsatisfactory compromise. His wife and daughter had not only
done quite right in this instance, but he did not see for a
moment how they could have done otherwise. Nevertheless, as a
general rule, it was very true what Mr. Thornton said, that as
the strike, if prolonged, must end in the masters' bringing hands
from a distance (if, indeed, the final result were not, as it had
often been before, the invention of some machine which would
diminish the need of hands at all), why, it was clear enough that
the kindest thing was to refuse all help which might bolster them
up in their folly. But, as to this Boucher, he would go and see
him the first thing in the morning, and try and find out what
could be done for him.
Mr. Hale went the next morning, as he proposed. He did not find
Boucher at home, but he had a long talk with his wife; promised
to ask for an Infirmary order for her; and, seeing the plenty
provided by Mrs. Hale, and somewhat lavishly used by the
children, who were masters down-stairs in their father's absence,
he came back with a more consoling and cheerful account than
Margaret had dared to hope for; indeed, what she had said the
night before had prepared her father for so much worse a state of
things that, by a reaction of his imagination, he described all
as better than it really was.
'But I will go again, and see the man himself,' said Mr. Hale. 'I
hardly know as yet how to compare one of these houses with our
Helstone cottages. I see furniture here which our labourers would
never have thought of buying, and food commonly used which they
would consider luxuries; yet for these very families there seems
no other resource, now that their weekly wages are stopped, but
the pawn-shop. One had need to learn a different language, and
measure by a different standard, up here in Milton.'
Bessy, too, was rather better this day. Still she was so weak
that she seemed to have entirely forgotten her wish to see
Margaret dressed--if, indeed, that had not been the feverish
desire of a half-delirious state.
Margaret could not help comparing this strange dressing of hers,
to go where she did not care to be--her heart heavy with various
anxieties--with the old, merry, girlish toilettes that she and
Edith had performed scarcely more than a year ago. Her only
pleasure now in decking herself out was in thinking that her
mother would take delight in seeing her dressed. She blushed when
Dixon, throwing the drawing-room door open, made an appeal for
admiration.
'Miss Hale looks well, ma'am,--doesn't she? Mrs. Shaw's coral
couldn't have come in better. It just gives the right touch of
colour, ma'am. Otherwise, Miss Margaret, you would have been too
pale.'
Margaret's black hair was too thick to be plaited; it needed
rather to be twisted round and round, and have its fine silkiness
compressed into massive coils, that encircled her head like a
crown, and then were gathered into a large spiral knot behind.
She kept its weight together by two large coral pins, like small
arrows for length. Her white silk sleeves were looped up with
strings of the same material, and on her neck, just below the
base of her curved and milk-white throat, there lay heavy coral
beads.
'Oh, Margaret! how I should like to be going with you to one of
the old Barrington assemblies,--taking you as Lady Beresford used
to take me.' Margaret kissed her mother for this little burst of
maternal vanity; but she could hardly smile at it, she felt so
much out of spirits.
'I would rather stay at home with you,--much rather, mamma.'
'Nonsense, darling! Be sure you notice the dinner well. I shall
like to hear how they manage these things in Milton. Particularly
the second course, dear. Look what they have instead of game.'
Mrs. Hale would have been more than interested,--she would have
been astonished, if she had seen the sumptuousness of the
dinner-table and its appointments. Margaret, with her London
cultivated taste, felt the number of delicacies to be oppressive
one half of the quantity would have been enough, and the effect
lighter and more elegant. But it was one of Mrs. Thornton's
rigorous laws of hospitality, that of each separate dainty enough
should be provided for all the guests to partake, if they felt
inclined. Careless to abstemiousness in her daily habits, it was
part of her pride to set a feast before such of her guests as
cared for it. Her son shared this feeling. He had never
known--though he might have imagined, and had the capability to
relish--any kind of society but that which depended on an
exchange of superb meals and even now, though he was denying
himself the personal expenditure of an unnecessary sixpence, and
had more than once regretted that the invitations for this dinner
had been sent out, still, as it was to be, he was glad to see the
old magnificence of preparation. Margaret and her father were the
first to arrive. Mr. Hale was anxiously punctual to the time
specified. There was no one up-stairs in the drawing-room but
Mrs. Thornton and Fanny. Every cover was taken off, and the
apartment blazed forth in yellow silk damask and a
brilliantly-flowered carpet. Every corner seemed filled up with
ornament, until it became a weariness to the eye, and presented a
strange contrast to the bald ugliness of the look-out into the
great mill-yard, where wide folding gates were thrown open for
the admission of carriages. The mill loomed high on the left-hand
side of the windows, casting a shadow down from its many stories,
which darkened the summer evening before its time.
'My son was engaged up to the last moment on business. He will be
here directly, Mr. Hale. May I beg you to take a seat?'
Mr. Hale was standing at one of the windows as Mrs. Thornton
spoke. He turned away, saying,
'Don't you find such close neighbourhood to the mill rather
unpleasant at times?'
She drew herself up:
'Never. I am not become so fine as to desire to forget the source
of my son's wealth and power. Besides, there is not such another
factory in Milton. One room alone is two hundred and twenty
square yards.'
'I meant that the smoke and the noise--the constant going out and
coming in of the work-people, might be annoying!'
'I agree with you, Mr. Hale!' said Fanny. 'There is a continual
smell of steam, and oily machinery--and the noise is perfectly
deafening.'
'I have heard noise that was called music far more deafening. The
engine-room is at the street-end of the factory; we hardly hear
it, except in summer weather, when all the windows are open; and
as for the continual murmur of the work-people, it disturbs me no
more than the humming of a hive of bees. If I think of it at all,
I connect it with my son, and feel how all belongs to him, and
that his is the head that directs it. Just now, there are no
sounds to come from the mill; the hands have been ungrateful
enough to turn out, as perhaps you have heard. But the very
business (of which I spoke, when you entered), had reference to
the steps he is going to take to make them learn their place.'
The expression on her face, always stern, deepened into dark
anger, as she said this. Nor did it clear away when Mr. Thornton
entered the room; for she saw, in an instant, the weight of care
and anxiety which he could not shake off, although his guests
received from him a greeting that appeared both cheerful and
cordial. He shook hands with Margaret. He knew it was the first
time their hands had met, though she was perfectly unconscious of
the fact. He inquired after Mrs. Hale, and heard Mr. Hale's
sanguine, hopeful account; and glancing at Margaret, to
understand how far she agreed with her father, he saw that no
dissenting shadow crossed her face. And as he looked with this
intention, he was struck anew with her great beauty. He had never
seen her in such dress before and yet now it appeared as if such
elegance of attire was so befitting her noble figure and lofty
serenity of countenance, that she ought to go always thus
apparelled. She was talking to Fanny; about what, he could not
hear; but he saw his sister's restless way of continually
arranging some part of her gown, her wandering eyes, now glancing
here, now there, but without any purpose in her observation; and
he contrasted them uneasily with the large soft eyes that looked
forth steadily at one object, as if from out their light beamed
some gentle influence of repose: the curving lines of the red
lips, just parted in the interest of listening to what her
companion said--the head a little bent forwards, so as to make a
long sweeping line from the summit, where the light caught on the
glossy raven hair, to the smooth ivory tip of the shoulder; the
round white arms, and taper hands, laid lightly across each
other, but perfectly motionless in their pretty attitude. Mr.
Thornton sighed as he took in all this with one of his sudden
comprehensive glances. And then he turned his back to the young
ladies, and threw himself, with an effort, but with all his heart
and soul, into a conversation with Mr. Hale.
More people came--more and more. Fanny left Margaret's side, and
helped her mother to receive her guests. Mr. Thornton felt that
in this influx no one was speaking to Margaret, and was restless
under this apparent neglect. But he never went near her himself;
he did not look at her. Only, he knew what she was doing--or not
doing--better than he knew the movements of any one else in the
room. Margaret was so unconscious of herself, and so much amused
by watching other people, that she never thought whether she was
left unnoticed or not. Somebody took her down to dinner; she did
not catch the name; nor did he seem much inclined to talk to her.
There was a very animated conversation going on among the
gentlemen; the ladies, for the most part, were silent, employing
themselves in taking notes of the dinner and criticising each
other's dresses. Margaret caught the clue to the general
conversation, grew interested and listened attentively. Mr.
Horsfall, the stranger, whose visit to the town was the original
germ of the party, was asking questions relative to the trade and
manufactures of the place; and the rest of the gentlemen--all
Milton men,--were giving him answers and explanations. Some
dispute arose, which was warmly contested; it was referred to Mr.
Thornton, who had hardly spoken before; but who now gave an
opinion, the grounds of which were so clearly stated that even
the opponents yielded. Margaret's attention was thus called to
her host; his whole manner as master of the house, and
entertainer of his friends, was so straightforward, yet simple
and modest, as to be thoroughly dignified. Margaret thought she
had never seen him to so much advantage. When he had come to
their house, there had been always something, either of
over-eagerness or of that kind of vexed annoyance which seemed
ready to pre-suppose that he was unjustly judged, and yet felt
too proud to try and make himself better understood. But now,
among his fellows, there was no uncertainty as to his position.
He was regarded by them as a man of great force of character; of
power in many ways. There was no need to struggle for their
respect. He had it, and he knew it; and the security of this gave
a fine grand quietness to his voice and ways, which Margaret had
missed before.
He was not in the habit of talking to ladies; and what he did say
was a little formal. To Margaret herself he hardly spoke at all.
She was surprised to think how much she enjoyed this dinner. She
knew enough now to understand many local interests--nay, even
some of the technical words employed by the eager mill-owners.
She silently took a very decided part in the question they were
discussing. At any rate, they talked in desperate earnest,--not
in the used-up style that wearied her so in the old London
parties. She wondered that with all this dwelling on the
manufactures and trade of the place, no allusion was made to the
strike then pending. She did not yet know how coolly such things
were taken by the masters, as having only one possible end. To be
sure, the men were cutting their own throats, as they had done
many a time before; but if they would be fools, and put
themselves into the hands of a rascally set of paid delegates,'
they must take the consequence. One or two thought Thornton
looked out of spirits; and, of course, he must lose by this
turn-out. But it was an accident that might happen to themselves
any day; and Thornton was as good to manage a strike as any one;
for he was as iron a chap as any in Milton. The hands had
mistaken their man in trying that dodge on him. And they chuckled
inwardly at the idea of the workmen's discomfiture and defeat, in
their attempt to alter one iota of what Thornton had decreed. It
was rather dull for Margaret after dinner. She was glad when the
gentlemen came, not merely because she caught her father's eye to
brighten her sleepiness up; but because she could listen to
something larger and grander than the petty interests which the
ladies had been talking about. She liked the exultation in the
sense of power which these Milton men had. It might be rather
rampant in its display, and savour of boasting; but still they
seemed to defy the old limits of possibility, in a kind of fine
intoxication, caused by the recollection of what had been
achieved, and what yet should be. If in her cooler moments she
might not approve of their spirit in all things, still there was
much to admire in their forgetfulness of themselves and the
present, in their anticipated triumphs over all inanimate matter
at some future time which none of them should live to see. She
was rather startled when Mr. Thornton spoke to her, close at her
elbow:
'I could see you were on our side in our discussion at
dinner,--were you not, Miss Hale?'
'Certainly. But then I know so little about it. I was surprised,
however, to find from what Mr. Horsfall said, that there were
others who thought in so diametrically opposite a manner, as the
Mr. Morison he spoke about. He cannot be a gentleman--is he?'
'I am not quite the person to decide on another's
gentlemanliness, Miss Hale. I mean, I don't quite understand your
application of the word. But I should say that this Morison is no
true man. I don't know who he is; I merely judge him from Mr.
Horsfall's account.'
'I suspect my "gentleman" includes your "true man."'
'And a great deal more, you would imply. I differ from you. A man
is to me a higher and a completer being than a gentleman.'
'What do you mean?' asked Margaret. 'We must understand the words
differently.'
'I take it that "gentleman" is a term that only describes a
person in his relation to others; but when we speak of him as "a
man," we consider him not merely with regard to his fellow-men,
but in relation to himself,--to life--to time--to eternity. A
cast-away lonely as Robinson Crusoe--a prisoner immured in a
dungeon for life--nay, even a saint in Patmos, has his endurance,
his strength, his faith, best described by being spoken of as "a
man." I am rather weary of this word "gentlemanly," which seems
to me to be often inappropriately used, and often, too, with such
exaggerated distortion of meaning, while the full simplicity of
the noun "man," and the adjective "manly" are
unacknowledged--that I am induced to class it with the cant of
the day.'
Margaret thought a moment,--but before she could speak her slow
conviction, he was called away by some of the eager
manufacturers, whose speeches she could not hear, though she
could guess at their import by the short clear answers Mr.
Thornton gave, which came steady and firm as the boom of a
distant minute gun. They were evidently talking of the turn-out,
and suggesting what course had best be pursued. She heard Mr.
Thornton say:
'That has been done.' Then came a hurried murmur, in which two or
three joined.
'All those arrangements have been made.'
Some doubts were implied, some difficulties named by Mr.
Slickson, who took hold of Mr. Thornton's arm, the better to
impress his words. Mr. Thornton moved slightly away, lifted his
eyebrows a very little, and then replied:
'I take the risk. You need not join in it unless you choose.'
Still some more fears were urged.
'I'm not afraid of anything so dastardly as incendiarism. We are
open enemies; and I can protect myself from any violence that I
apprehend. And I will assuredly protect all others who come to me
for work. They know my determination by this time, as well and as
fully as you do.'
Mr. Horsfall took him a little on one side, as Margaret
conjectured, to ask him some other question about the strike;
but, in truth, it was to inquire who she herself was--so quiet,
so stately, and so beautiful.
'A Milton lady?' asked he, as the name was given.
'No! from the south of England--Hampshire, I believe,' was the
cold, indifferent answer.
Mrs. Slickson was catechising Fanny on the same subject.
'Who is that fine distinguished-looking girl? a sister of Mr.
Horsfall's?'
'Oh dear, no! That is Mr. Hale, her father, talking now to Mr.
Stephens. He gives lessons; that is to say, he reads with young
men. My brother John goes to him twice a week, and so he begged
mamma to ask them here, in hopes of getting him known. I believe,
we have some of their prospectuses, if you would like to have
one.'
'Mr. Thornton! Does he really find time to read with a tutor, in
the midst of all his business,--and this abominable strike in
hand as well?'
Fanny was not sure, from Mrs. Slickson's manner, whether she
ought to be proud or ashamed of her brother's conduct; and, like
all people who try and take other people's 'ought' for the rule
of their feelings, she was inclined to blush for any singularity
of action. Her shame was interrupted by the dispersion of the
guests. _
Read next: CHAPTER XXI - THE DARK NIGHT
Read previous: CHAPTER XIX - ANGEL VISITS
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