Chapter 10

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