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    Chapter 9

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    Chapter 10
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    '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.'


    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!'
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