Rain pattered on Mr. Thornton’s hat as he briskly weaved his way through the throng of people rushing to their destinations. Nothing would dissuade him, however, from walking the remaining mile to the Crampton row house. Nor would a little rain wipe away the trace of a smile on his face as he headed closer to the place he most wanted to be.
This would be the first time he would see her in her own surroundings, for she never appeared when he came for his lessons on Thursdays—although each time he hoped he would catch a glimpse of her.
And now, he would be at leisure to converse at length with her to see how she was finding Milton—if she could be satisfied to make her home here, far from the calm and beauty of the countryside which she had known all her life.
Arriving at last at their doorstep, his ringing of the bell brought not the object of his attraction but the lumbering maid, who ushered him in and took his dripping hat and overcoat.
“They’re expecting you upstairs, in the drawing room—if you please,” Dixon said, directing him with a gesture to the stairs as she hung his things in the hallway.
His anticipation of a pleasant evening rose uncontrollably as he ascended the creaking stairs of their simple home.
Mr. Hale welcomed him into the warm room, where a crackling fire cast shadows on the walls. The smell of sugary sweetness and candle wax filled the air. The curtains were not drawn closed, perhaps a country habit left unaltered by their new location.
Margaret was busy at the tea table. Their eyes met briefly, but she turned quickly back to her teacups, and he smiled to notice her cheeks turning pink. He was so fascinated by the way a tendril of hair brushed her cheek as she leaned to pour that he scarcely understood what Mrs. Hale was saying to him.
Mrs. Hale mentioned the inclement weather, and he replied politely about his hardiness. But his attention returned to Margaret, who was now serving her father tea. In a gesture that must have been a playful custom between them, Mr. Hale took his daughter’s hand in his and used her forefinger and thumb as his tongs to pick up a sugar cube. The look of love and laughter she gave to him made Mr. Thornton’s whole being pulse with a deep yearning to earn such a look from her.
Next, she poured for him. Their eyes met again, and he took in the full measure of her beauty, her full lips just parted and the lithe neck, the soft curve of her nose and the shapely form of her figure. He took pains to refrain from touching her as she handed him his tea, but her own finger brushed his by chance, and he heard the quick intake of breath at her surprise at this briefest of contact.
He could not help imagining her pouring tea in his own home, with the right to reach up and sweep his thumb across the delicate skin of her cheek to brush that tendril of hair back.
A question Mr. Hale had asked him about machinery jolted him back to the present situation.
“My looms are new. I invested in the latest advances to be prepared for the future. If the American market will not flood ours, we will be in a position to do very well,” he answered, stepping into a discussion of business with alacrity. “Of course, there is always risk involved in any business enterprise, and I may just as well find myself deposed of all my hard labor if circumstances abruptly change the market. Such is the natural cycle of markets,” he continued.
“If I may ask,” Mrs. Hale began, “How did you come to be in the cotton-making business? Did your father run the mill before you?” she innocently asked.
Mr. Hale shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
Margaret looked up from her teacup to study Mr. Thornton, who only smiled calmly at the question.
“My father was a clerk. He died when I was still in school. And so I was left to provide for my family.”
“Mr. Bell says you learned your trade from the Master before you at your mill,” Margaret interjected, meeting his eyes a moment to signal her awareness of the deeper story.
“Yes,” he answered slowly, comprehending her desire to keep the conversation on a lighter strain for her mother’s sake.
“I am sorry you had such trouble,” Mrs. Hale offered with an expression of sympathy.
“Thank you. However, grave circumstances give men an opportunity to strive to better themselves. My mother was a rock for me at this time, giving me a path forward in practicing diligence, self-control, and determination with such efficiency as to enable me to take hold of the position of power which I now possess. Had I had a life of relative ease, I would not be where I am today,” he explained.
“I can see that you present a model for others to follow, where they may look to you for how to conduct their own lives,” Mr. Hale added.
“This is exactly so. And I do not mean to suggest that I possess abilities beyond the common man, but I propose to be only proof that any man might utilize his own natural capacity to govern himself in such a way as to adhere to the strict principles which may free him from the destructive paths of careless ease, self-indulgence, and aimless purpose,” Mr. Thornton replied in earnestness.
“But not every man, surely, can rise to become a master as you have,” Margaret countered. Something in her rose up against his confident testament of how success could be gained. “There are hundreds, nay thousands, of common laborers here. Do youimply that they have found themselves in such roles by their lack of principles and self-government?”
A shadow crossed his face at her rebuke. “For some, I do believe they have created their own lot. "I maintain only that a man can be master of himself, which is the highest attainment one can gain in this world, which will ultimately lead to betterment of some manner,” he answered uncomfortably, watching her downcast, doubtful gaze.
“I am certain you understand that there must be many who work for you who are struggling to lift themselves from circumstances they have little control over. I should think that those with power over so many lives would take a greater concern over the moral obligation that their position carries,” she replied.
“I don’t believe I understand you. I am honest and deal with my workers openly, and pay them what the forces of the market will allow me to pay. I don’t see what other obligations I might have. They are responsible for their own conduct outside my mill. I cannot govern them beyond my purview.”
Mr. Hale looked at his daughter with some alarm, fearing her reply at the burgeoning argument.
“I confess I know nothing of business, but you must allow me to have religious convictions that make me believe we are here on earth to improve the lives of others, and must find a way to do so. You have a great deal of power over several hundred people—which affects their families: women and children. And speaking of children, can you tell me what the children in your factory are doing, scrabbling underneath moving machinery to gather up fragments?” she asked pointedly.
Mrs. Hale now also wore an expression of some surprise at her daughter’s bold questioning.
