"Thought fights with thought; out springs a spark oftruthFrom the collision of the sword and shield."
W. S. LANDOR.
"Margaret," said her father, the next day, "we must return Mrs. Thornton"scall. Your mother is not very well, and thinks she cannot walk so far;but you and I will go this afternoon."
As they went, Mr. Hale began about his wife"s health, with a kind ofveiled anxiety, which Margaret was glad to see awakened at last.
"Did you consult the doctor, Margaret? Did you send for him?"
"No, papa, you spoke of his corning to see me. Now I was well. But if Ionly knew of some good doctor, I would go this afternoon, and ask himto come, for I am sure mamma is seriously indisposed."
She put the truth thus plainly and strongly because her father had socompletely shut his mind against the idea, when she had last named herfears. But now the case was changed. He answered in a despondenttone:
"Do you think she has any hidden complaint? Do you think she is reallyvery ill? Has Dixon said anything? Oh, Margaret! I am haunted by thefear that our coming to Milton has killed her. My poor Maria!"
"Oh, papa! don"t imagine such things," said Margaret, shocked. "She isnot well, that is all. Many a one is not well for a time; and with goodadvice gets better and stronger than ever."
"But has Dixon said anything about her?"
"No! You know Dixon enjoys making a mystery out of trifles; and shehas been a little mysterious about mamma"s health, which has alarmedme rather, that is all. Without any reason, I dare say. You know, papa,you said the other day I was getting fanciful."
"I hope and trust you are. But don"t think of what I said then. I like youto be fanciful about your mother"s health. Don"t be afraid of telling meyour fancies. I like to hear them, though, I dare say, I spoke as if I wasannoyed. But we will ask Mrs. Thornton if she can tell us of a gooddoctor. We won"t throw away our money on any but some one first-rate.
Stay, we turn up this street."
The street did not look as if it could contain any house large enough forMrs. Thornton"s habitation. Her son"s presence never gave anyimpression as to the kind of house he lived in; but, unconsciously,Margaret had imagined that tall, massive, handsomely dressed Mrs.
Thornton must live in a house of the same character as herself. NowMarlborough Street consisted of long rows of small houses, with ablank wall here and there; at least that was all they could see from thepoint at which they entered it.
"He told me he lived in Marlborough Street, I"m sure," said Mr. Hale,with a much perplexed air.
"Perhaps it is one of the economies he still practises, to live in a verysmall house. But here are plenty of people about; let me ask."
She accordingly inquired of a passer-by, and was informed that Mr.
Thornton lived close to the mill, and had the factory lodge-door pointedout to her, at the end of the long dead wall they had noticed.
The lodge-door was like a common garden-door; on one side of it weregreat closed gates for the ingress and egress of lurries and wagons. Thelodge-keeper admitted them into a great oblong yard, on one side ofwhich were offices for the transaction of business; on the opposite, animmense many-windowed mill, whence proceeded the continual clankof machinery and the long groaning roar of the steam-engine, enough todeafen those who lived within the enclosure. Opposite to the wall, alongwhich the street ran, on one of the narrow sides of the oblong, was ahandsome stone-coped house,--blackened, to be sure, by the smoke, butwith paint, windows, and steps kept scrupulously clean. It was evidentlya house which had been built some fifty or sixty years. The stonefacings--the long, narrow windows, and the number of them--the flightsof steps up to the front door, ascending from either side, and guarded byrailing--all witnessed to its age. Margaret only wondered why peoplewho could afford to live in so good a house, and keep it in such perfectorder, did not prefer a much smaller dwelling in the country, or evensome suburb; not in the continual whirl and din of the factory. Herunaccustomed ears could hardly catch her father"s voice, as they stoodon the steps awaiting the opening of the door. The yard, too, with thegreat doors in the dead wall as a boundary, was but a dismal look-outfor the sitting-rooms of the house--as Margaret found when they hadmounted the old-fashioned stairs, and been ushered into the drawing-room, the three windows of which went over the front door and theroom on the right-hand side of the entrance. There was no one in thedrawing-room. It seemed as though no one had been in it since the daywhen the furniture was bagged up with as much care as if the house wasto be overwhelmed with lava, and discovered a thousand years hence.
The walls were pink and gold; the pattern on the carpet representedbunches of flowers on a light ground, but it was carefully covered up inthe centre by a linen drugget, glazed and colourless. The window-curtains were lace; each chair and sofa had its own particular veil ofnetting, or knitting. Great alabaster groups occupied every flat surface,safe from dust under their glass shades. In the middle of the room, rightunder the bagged-up chandelier, was a large circular table, with smartly-bound books arranged at regular intervals round the circumference of itspolished surface, like gaily-coloured spokes of a wheel. Everythingreflected light, nothing absorbed it. The whole room had a painfullyspotted, spangled, speckled look about it, which impressed Margaret sounpleasantly that she was hardly conscious of the peculiar cleanlinessrequired to keep everything so white and pure in such an atmosphere, orof the trouble that must be willingly expended to secure that effect oficy, snowy discomfort. Wherever she looked there was evidence of careand labour, but not care and labour to procure ease, to help on habits oftranquil home employment; solely to ornament, and then to preserveornament from dirt or destruction.
They had leisure to observe, and to speak to each other in low voices,before Mrs. Thornton appeared. They were talking of what all the worldmight hear; but it is a common effect of such a room as this to makepeople speak low, as if unwilling to awaken the unused echoes.