“Liberal, not lavish, is kind Nature’s hand.”
In the mean time, Mr. Draper had taken his pencil, and on the back of a letter was making lines and dashes. “Look here,” said he to Howard. “See how perfectly this natural ledge
of rocks may be converted into a dam: it seems precisely made for it: then, by digging a canal to conduct the water a little to the left, there is a fine site for a cotton-manufactory, which, built of granite, would add much to the beauty of the prospect. Just here, where that old tree is thrown across the stream, a bridge may be built, in the form of an arch, which also must be of stone. It will make the view altogether perfect.”
“I cannot think,” said Howard, “the view would be improved; you would have a great stone building, with its countless windows and abutments, but you would lose the still, tranquil effect of the prospect, and take much from the beauty of the stream.”
“Not as I shall manage it,” said Mr. Draper. “I am sure Frances herself will agree with me that it adds fifty per cent. to the beauty of the prospect when she sees it completed.”
In vain Frances protested she was satisfied with it as it was; the month that she had hoped was to be given to leisure was one of the busiest of her husband’s life. Contracts were made—an association formed. Mr. Draper
was continually driving to the city, and mechanics were passing to and fro. Clyde Farm began to wear the appearance of a business place. A manufacturing company was incorporated under the title of the Clyde Mills. The stillness of the spot was exchanged for the strokes of the pickaxe, the human voice urging on oxen and horses, the blasting of rocks; the grass was trampled down, the trees were often wantonly injured, and, where they obstructed the tracks of wheels, laid prostrate. Frances no longer delighted to walk at noon day under the thick foliage that threw its shadow on the grass as vividly as a painting. All was changed! It is true she now saw her husband, but she had but little more of his society; his mind and time were wholly engrossed; he came often, and certainly did not, as formerly, confine his visits to the Sabbath.
All went on with wonderful rapidity; story rose upon story, till it seemed as if the new manufactory, with its windows and abutments, was destined to become another Babel. When Charlotte came to Clyde, she gazed with astonishment. “All this,” said she to Howard,
“is the project of a speculator! Grown men now-a-days remind me of the story of the boy who planted his bean at night, and went out in the morning to see how it grew; he found it had nearly reached the chamber windows; he went out the next morning, and it was up to the eaves of the house; on the third morning, it had shot up to the clouds, and he descried a castle, or a manufactory, I don’t know which, on the top of it. Then it was high time to scale it; so up, up, he went, and when he arrived at the building, he put his foot into it, and then he perceived it was made of vapor; and down came bean, castle, and boy, headlong, in three seconds, though it had taken three whole days to complete the work.”
“You must tell your story to my brother,” said Howard.