THE DECLINE OF MANCHESTER HOUSE 9
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tradesman. He courted a small, dark woman, older thanhimself, daughter of a Derbyshire squire. He expected toget at least ten thousand pounds with her. In which he wasdisappointed, for he got only eight hundred. Being of aromantic-commercial nature, he never forgave her, but al-ways treated her with the most elegant courtesy. To see himpeel and prepare an apple for her was an exquisite sight.But that peeled and quartered apple was her portion. Thiselegant Adam of commerce gave Eve her own back, nicelycored, and had no more to do with her. Meanwhile Alvinawas born. Before all this, however, before his marriage, James Hough-ton had built Manchester House. It was a vast square build-ing — vast, that is, for Woodhouse — standing on the mainstreet and highroad of the small but growing town. Thelower front consisted of two fine shops, one for Manchestergoods, one for silk and woollens. This was James Houghton’scommercial poem. For James Houghton was a dreamer, and something of apoet: commercial, be it understood. He liked the novels ofGeorge Macdonald, and the fantasies of that author, extremely.He wove one continual fantasy for himself, a fantasy of com-merce. He dreamed of silks and poplins, luscious in tex-ture and of unforeseen exquisiteness: he dreamed of carriagesof the “County” arrested before his windows, of exquisitewomen ruffling charmed, entranced to his counter. And charm-ing, entrancing, he served them his lovely fabrics, which onlyhe and they could sufficiently appreciate. His fame spread,until Alexandra, Princess of Wales, and Elizabeth, Empressof Austria, the two best-dressed women in Europe, floateddown from heaven to the shop in Woodhouse, and sallied forthto show what could be done by purchasing from James Hough-ton. We cannot say why James Houghton failed to become theLiberty or the Snelgrove of his day. Perhaps he had toomuch imagination. Be that as it may, in those early dayswhen he brought his wife to her new home, his window onthe Manchester side was a foam and a mayblossom of mus-lins and prints, his window on the London side was anautumn evening of silks and rich fabrics. What wife couldfail to be dazzled! But she, poor darling, from her stonehall in stony Derbyshire, was a little bit repulsed by the
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