"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 wasanxious not to slight his new friend by any disrespectful unpunctuality.
The church-clock struck half-past seven as he stood at the door awaitingDixon"s slow movements; always doubly tardy when she had to degradeherself by answering the door-bell. He was ushered into the littledrawing-room, and kindly greeted by Mr. Hale, who led him up to hiswife, whose pale face, and shawl-draped figure made a silent excuse forthe cold languor of her greeting. Margaret was lighting the lamp whenhe entered, for the darkness was coming on. The lamp threw a prettylight into the centre of the dusky room, from which, with countryhabits, they did not exclude the night-skies, and the outer darkness ofair. Somehow, that room contrasted itself with the one he had lately left;handsome, ponderous, with no sign of feminine habitation, except in theone spot where his mother sate, and no convenience for any otheremployment 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. Butthe 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 scrapof glass to reflect the light, and answer the same purpose as water in alandscape; no gilding; a warm, sober breadth of colouring, well relievedby the dear old Helstone chintz-curtains and chair covers. An opendavenport stood in the window opposite the door; in the other there wasa stand, with a tall white china vase, from which drooped wreaths ofEnglish ivy, pale-green birch, and copper-coloured beech-leaves. Prettybaskets of work stood about in different places: and books, not cared foron account of their binding solely, lay on one table, as if recently putdown. Behind the door was another table, decked out for tea, with awhite tablecloth, on which flourished the cocoa-nut cakes, and a basketpiled with oranges and ruddy American apples, heaped on leaves.
It appeared to Mr. Thornton that all these graceful cares were habitualto the family; and especially of a piece with Margaret. She stood by thetea-table in a light-coloured muslin gown, which had a good deal ofpink about it. She looked as if she was not attending to theconversation, but solely busy with the tea-cups, among which her roundivory hands moved with pretty, noiseless, daintiness. She had a braceleton one taper arm, which would fall down over her round wrist. Mr.
Thornton watched the replacing of this troublesome ornament with farmore attention than he listened to her father. It seemed as if it fascinatedhim to see her push it up impatiently, until it tightened her soft flesh;and then to mark the loosening--the fall. He could almost haveexclaimed--"There it goes, again!" There was so little left to be doneafter he arrived at the preparation for tea, that he was almost sorry theobligation of eating and drinking came so soon to prevent his watchingMargaret. She handed him his cup of tea with the proud air of anunwilling slave; but her eye caught the moment when he was ready foranother cup; and he almost longed to ask her to do for him what he sawher compelled to do for her father, who took her little finger and thumbin his masculine hand, and made them serve as sugar-tongs. Mr.
Thornton saw her beautiful eyes lifted to her father, full of light, half-laughter and half-love, as this bit of pantomime went on between thetwo, unobserved, as they fancied, by any. Margaret"s head still ached, asthe paleness of her complexion, and her silence might have testified; butshe was resolved to throw herself into the breach, if there was any longuntoward pause, rather than that her father"s friend, pupil, and guestshould have cause to think himself in any way neglected. But theconversation went on; and Margaret drew into a corner, near hermother, with her work, after the tea-things were taken away; and feltthat she might let her thoughts roam, without fear of being suddenlywanted to fill up a gap.
Mr. Thornton and Mr. Hale were both absorbed in the continuation ofsome subject which had been started at their last meeting. Margaret wasrecalled to a sense of the present by some trivial, low-spoken remark ofher mother"s; and on suddenly looking up from her work, her eye wascaught by the difference of outward appearance between her father andMr. Thornton, as betokening such distinctly opposite natures. Her fatherwas of slight figure, which made him appear taller than he really was,when not contrasted, as at this time, with the tall, massive frame ofanother. The lines in her father"s face were soft and waving, with afrequent undulating kind of trembling movement passing over them,showing every fluctuating emotion; the eyelids were large and arched,giving to the eyes a peculiar languid beauty which was almost feminine.
The brows were finely arched, but were, by the very size of the dreamylids, raised to a considerable distance from the eyes. Now, in Mr.
Thornton"s face the straight brows fell low over the clear, deep-setearnest eyes, which, without being unpleasantly sharp, seemed intentenough to penetrate into the very heart and core of what he was lookingat. The lines in the face were few but firm, as if they were carved inmarble, and lay principally about the lips, which were slightlycompressed over a set of teeth so faultless and beautiful as to give theeffect of sudden sunlight when the rare bright smile, coming in aninstant and shining out of the eyes, changed the whole look from thesevere and resolved expression of a man ready to do and dareeverything, to the keen honest enjoyment of the moment, which isseldom shown so fearlessly and instantaneously except by children.
Margaret liked this smile; it was the first thing she had admired in thisnew friend of her father"s; and the opposition of character, shown in allthese details of appearance she had just been noticing, seemed toexplain the attraction they evidently felt towards each other.
