MOTHER AND SON
“I have found that holy place of rest
Still changeless.”
MRS. HEMANS.
When Mr. Thornton had left the house that morning he was almost blinded
by his baffled passion. He was as dizzy as if Margaret, instead of
looking, and speaking, and moving like a tender graceful woman, had been
a sturdy fish-wife, and given him a sound blow with her fists. He had
positive bodily pain—a violent headache, and a throbbing intermittent
pulse. He could not bear the noise, the garish light, the continued
rumble and movement of the street. He called himself a fool for
suffering so; and yet he could not, at the moment, recollect the cause
of his suffering, and whether it was adequate to the consequences it had
produced. It would have been a relief to him, if he could have sat down
and cried on a door-step by a little child, who was raging and storming,
through his passionate tears, at some injury he had received. He said to
himself, that he hated Margaret, but a wild, sharp sensation of love
cleft his dull, thunderous feeling like lightning, even as he shaped the
words expressive of hatred. His greatest comfort was in hugging his
torment and in feeling, as he had indeed said to her, that though she
might despise him, contemn him, treat him with her proud sovereign
indifference, he did not change one whit. She could not make him change.
He loved her, and would love her; and defy her, and this miserable
bodily pain.
He stood still for a moment, to make this resolution firm and clear.
There was an omnibus passing—going into the country; the conductor
thought he was wishing for a place, and stopped near the pavement. It
was too much trouble to apologise and explain; so he mounted upon it,
and was borne away—past long rows of houses—then past detached villas
with trim gardens, till they came to real country hedge-rows, and,
by-and-by, to a small country town. Then everybody got down; and so did
Mr. Thornton, and because they walked away he did so too. He went into
the fields, walking briskly, because the sharp motion relieved his mind.
He could remember all about it now; the pitiful figure he must have cut;
the absurd way in which he had gone and done the very thing he had so
often agreed with himself in thinking would be the most foolish thing in
the world; and had met with exactly the consequences which, in these
wise moods, he had always foretold were certain to follow, if he ever
did make such a fool of himself. Was he bewitched by those beautiful
eyes, that soft, half-open, sighing mouth which lay so close upon his
shoulder only yesterday? He could not even shake off the recollection
that she had been there; that her arms had been round him, once—if
never again. He only caught glimpses of her; he did not understand her
altogether. At one time she was so brave, and at another so timid; now
so tender, and then so haughty and regal proud. And then he thought
over every time he had ever seen her once again, by way of finally
forgetting her. He saw her in every dress, in every mood, and did not
know which became her best. Even this morning how magnificent she had
looked—her eyes flashing out upon him at the idea that, because she had
shared his danger yesterday, she had cared for him the least!
If Mr. Thornton was a fool in the morning, as he assured himself at
least twenty times he was, he did not grow much wiser in the afternoon.
All that he gained for his sixpenny omnibus ride, was a more vivid
conviction that there never was, never could be, any one like Margaret;
that she did not love him and never would; but that she—no! nor the
whole world—should never hinder him from loving her. And so he returned
to the little market-place, and remounted the omnibus to return to
Milton.
It was late in the afternoon when he was set down, near his warehouse.
The accustomed places brought back the accustomed habits and trains of
thought. He knew how much he had to do—more than his usual work, owing
to the commotion of the day before. He had to see his brother
magistrates; he had to complete the arrangements, only half made in the
morning, for the comfort and safety of his newly imported Irish hands;
he had to secure them from all chance of communication with the
discontented workpeople of Milton. Last of all, he had to go home and
encounter his mother.
Mrs. Thornton had sat in the dining-room all day, every moment expecting
the news of her son’s acceptance by Miss Hale. She had braced herself up
many and many a time, at some sudden noise in the house; had caught up
the half-dropped work, and begun to ply her needle diligently, though
through dimmed spectacles, and with an unsteady hand! and many times had
the door opened, and some indifferent person entered on some
insignificant errand. Then her rigid face unstiffened from its gray
frost-bound expression, and the features dropped into the relaxed look
of despondency, so unusual to their sternness. She wrenched herself away
from the contemplation of all the dreary changes that would be brought
about to herself by her son’s marriage; she forced her thoughts into the
accustomed household grooves. The newly-married couple-to-be would need
fresh household stocks of linen: and Mrs. Thornton had clothes-basket
upon clothes-basket, full of table-cloths and napkins, brought in, and
began to reckon up the store. There was some confusion between what was
hers, and consequently marked G. H. T. (for George and Hannah Thornton),
and what was her son’s—bought with his money, marked with his initials.
Some of those marked G. H. T. were Dutch damask of the old kind,
exquisitely fine; none were like them now. Mrs. Thornton stood looking
at them long,—they had been her pride when she was first married. Then
she knit her brows, and pinched and compressed her lips tight, and
carefully unpicked the G.H. She went so far as to search for the
Turkey-red marking-thread to put in the new initials; but it was all
used,—and she had no heart to send for any more just yet. So she looked
fixedly at vacancy; a series of visions passing before her, in all of
which her son was the principal, the sole object,—her son, her pride,
her property. Still he did not come. Doubtless he was with Miss Hale.
The new love was displacing her already from her place as first in his
heart. A terrible pain—a pang of vain jealousy—shot through her: she
hardly knew whether it was more physical or mental; but it forced her to
sit down. In a moment, she was up again as straight as ever,—a grim
smile upon her face for the first time that day, ready for the door
opening, and the rejoicing triumphant one, who should never know the
sore regret his mother felt at his marriage. In all this, there was
little thought enough of the future daughter-in-law as an individual.
She was to be John’s wife. To take Mrs. Thornton’s place as mistress of
the house, was only one of the rich consequences which decked out the
supreme glory: all household plenty and comfort, all purple and fine
linen, honour, love, obedience, troops of friends, would all come as
naturally as jewels on a king’s robe, and be as little thought of for
their separate value. To be chosen by John, would separate a
kitchen-wench from the rest of the world. And Miss Hale was not so bad.
If she had been a Milton lass, Mrs. Thornton would have positively liked
her. She was pungent, and had taste, and spirit, and flavour in her.
True, she was sadly prejudiced, and very ignorant; but that was to be
expected from her southern breeding. A strange sort of mortified
comparison of Fanny with her, went on in Mrs. Thornton’s mind; and for
once she spoke harshly to her daughter; abused her roundly; and then, by
way of penance, she took up Henry’s Commentaries, and tried to fix her
attention on it, instead of pursuing the employment she took pride in,
and continuing her inspection of the table-linen.
_His_ step at last! She heard him, even while she thought she was
finishing a sentence; while her eye did pass over it, and her memory
could mechanically have repeated it word for word, she heard him come in
at the hall-door. Her quickened sense could interpret every sound of
motion: now he was at the hat-stand—now at the very room-door. Why did
he pause? Let her know the worst.
Yet her head was down over the book; she did not look up. He came close
to the table, and stood still there, waiting till she should have
finished the paragraph which apparently absorbed her. By an effort she
looked up. “Well, John?”
He knew what that little speech meant. But he had steeled himself. He
longed to reply with a jest; the bitterness of his heart could have
uttered one, but his mother deserved better of him. He came round behind
her, so that she could not see his looks, and, bending back her gray,
stony face, he kissed it, murmuring:
“No one loves me,—no one cares for me, but you, mother.”
He turned away and stood leaning his head against the mantelpiece, tears
forcing themselves into his manly eyes. She stood up,—she tottered. For
the first time in her life, the strong woman tottered. She put her hands
on his shoulders; she was a tall woman. She looked into his face: she
made him look at her.
“Mother’s love is given by God, John. It holds fast for ever and ever.
A girl’s love is like a puff of smoke,—it changes with every wind. And
she would not have you, my own lad, would not she?” She set her teeth;
she showed them like a dog for the whole length of her mouth. He shook
his head.
“I am not fit for her, mother; I knew I was not.”
She ground out words between her closed teeth. He could not hear what
she said; but the look in her eyes interpreted it to be a curse,—if not
as coarsely worded, as fell in intent as ever was uttered. And yet her
heart leapt up light, to know he was her own again.
“Mother!” said he, hurriedly, “I cannot hear a word against her. Spare
me,—spare me! I am very weak in my sore heart;—I love her yet; I love
her more than ever.”
“And I hate her,” said Mrs. Thornton, in a low fierce voice. “I tried
not to hate her, when she stood between you and me, because,—I said to
myself,—she will make him happy; and I would give my heart’s blood to
do that. But now, I hate her for your misery’s sake. Yes, John, it’s no
use hiding up your aching heart from me. I am the mother that bore you,
and your sorrow is my agony; and if you don’t hate her, I do.”
“Then, mother, you make me love her more. She is unjustly treated by
you, and I must make the balance even. But why do we talk of love or
hatred? She does not care for me, and that is enough, too much. Let us
never name the subject again. It is the only thing you can do for me in
the matter. Let us never name her.”
“With all my heart. I only wish that she, and all belonging to her, were
swept back to the place they came from.”
He stood still, gazing into the fire for a minute or two longer. Her dry
dim eyes filled with unwonted tears as she looked at him; but she seemed
just as grim and quiet as usual when he next spoke.
“Warrants are out against three men for conspiracy, mother. The riot
yesterday helped to knock up the strike.”
And Margaret’s name was no more mentioned between Mrs. Thornton and her
son. They fell back into their usual mode of talk,—about facts, not
opinions, far less feelings. Their voices and tones were calm and cold;
a stranger might have gone away and thought that he had never seen such
frigid indifference of demeanour between such near relations.