than himself, daughter of a Derbyshire squire. He expected to get at
least ten thousand pounds with her. In which he was disappointed, for
he got only eight hundred. Being of a romantic-commercial nature, he
never forgave her, but always treated her with the most elegant
courtesy. To seehim peel and prepare an apple for her was an exquisite
sight. But that peeled and quartered apple was her portion. This
elegant Adam of commerce gave Eve her own back, nicely cored, and had
no more to do with her. Meanwhile Alvina was born.
Before all this, however, before his marriage, James Houghton had
built Manchester House. It was a vast square building--vast, that
is, for Woodhouse--standing on the main street and high-road of the
small but growing town. The lower front consisted of two fine shops,
one for Manchester goods, one for silk and woollens. This was James
Houghton's commercial poem.
For James Houghton was a dreamer, and something of a poet: commercial,
be it understood. He liked the novels of George Macdonald, and the
fantasies of that author, extremely. He wove one continual fantasy for
himself, a fantasy of commerce. He dreamed of silks and poplins,
luscious in texture and of unforeseen exquisiteness: he dreamed of
carriages of the "County" arrested before his windows, of exquisite
women ruffling charmed, entranced to his counter. And charming,
entrancing, he served them his lovely fabrics, which only he and they
could sufficiently appreciate. His fame spread, until Alexandra,
Princess of Wales, and Elizabeth, Empress of Austria, the two
best-dressed women in Europe, floated down from heaven to the shop in
Woodhouse, and sallied forth to show what could be done by purchasing
from James Houghton.
We cannot say why James Houghton failed to become the Liberty or the
Snelgrove of his day. Perhaps he had too much imagination. Be that as
it may, in those early days when he brought his wife to her new home,
his window on the Manchester side was a foam and a may-blossom of
muslins and prints, his window on the London side was an autumn evening
of silks and rich fabrics. What wife could fail to be dazzled! But she,
poor darling, from her stone hall in stony Derbyshire, was a little bit
repulsed by the man's dancing in front of his stock, like David before
the ark.
The home to which he brought her was a monument. In the great bedroom
over the shop he had his furniture _built_: built of solid mahogany: oh
too, too solid. No doubt he hopped or skipped himself with satisfaction
into the monstrous matrimonial bed: it could only be mounted by means
of a stool and chair. But the poor, secluded little woman, older than
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