"I could almost wish, Margaret----" he stopped and hesitated. It was so unusual for the fluent lawyer to hesitate that Margaret looked up at him, in a little state of questioning wonder; but in an instant--from what about him she could not tell--she wished herself back with her mother--her father--anywhere away from him, for she was sure he was going to say something to which she should not know what to reply. In another moment the strong pride that was in her came to conquer her sudden agitation, which she hoped he had not perceived. Of course she could answer, and answer the right thing; and it was poor and despicable of her to shrink from hearing any speech, as if she had not power to put an end to it with her high maidenly dignity.
"Margaret," said he, taking her by surprise, and getting sudden possession of her hand, so that she was forced to stand still and listen, despising herself for the fluttering at her heart all the time; "Margaret, I wish you did not like Helstone so much--did not seem so perfectly calm and happy here. I have been hoping for these three months past to find you regretting London--and London friends, a little--enough to make you listen more kindly" (for she was quietly, but firmly, striving to extricate her hand from his grasp) "to one who has not much to offer, it is true--nothing but prospects in the future--but who does love you, Margaret, almost in spite of himself. Margaret, have I startled you too much? Speak!" For he saw her lips quivering almost as if she were going to cry. She made a strong effort to be calm; she would not speak till she had succeeded in mastering her voice, and then she said:

'I could almost wish, Margaret-' He stopped and hesitated. It was so unusual for the fluent lawyer to hesitate that Margaret looked up at him in questioning wonder; but in an instant she wished herself back with her mother - her father - anywhere away from him, for she was sure he was going to say something to which she should not know what to reply.
Her pride made her conquer her sudden agitation, which she hoped he had not perceived. Of course she could answer; and it was poor and despicable of her to shrink from hearing any speech.
'Margaret,' said he, getting sudden possession of her hand, so that she was forced to stand still and listen, despising herself for the fluttering of her heart. 'Margaret, I wish you did not like Helstone so much - did not seem so perfectly happy here. I have been hoping to find you regretting London - and London friends - enough to make you listen more kindly' (for she was quietly, but firmly, striving to remove her hand from his grasp) 'to one who has not much to offer apart from future prospects - but who does love you, Margaret, almost in spite of himself. Margaret, have I startled you too much? Speak!'
For he saw her lips quivering almost as if she were going to cry. She made a strong effort to be calm; she would not speak till she had mastered her voice, and then she said:


"I was startled. I did not know that you cared for me in that way. I have always thought of you as a friend; and, please, I would rather go on thinking of you so. I don't like to be spoken to as you have been doing. I cannot answer you as you want me to do, and yet I should feel so sorry if I vexed you."

'I was startled. I did not know that you cared for me in that way. I have always thought of you as a friend; and, please, I would rather go on thinking of you so. I cannot answer you as you want me to do, and yet I should feel so sorry if I vexed you.'

Chapter 3: "THE MORE HASTE THE WORSE SPEED"


"Margaret," said he, looking into her eyes, which met his with their open, straight look, expressive of the utmost good faith and reluctance to give pain, "Do you"--he was going to say--"love any one else?" But it seemed as if this question would be an insult to the pure serenity of those eyes. "Forgive me! I have been too abrupt. I am punished. Only let me hope. Give me the poor comfort of telling me you have never seen any one whom you could----" Again a pause. He could not end his sentence. Margaret reproached herself acutely as the cause of his distress.

'Margaret,' said he, looking into her eyes, which met his with their open, straight look. 'Do you' - he was going to say, 'love anyone else?' But it seemed as if this question would be an insult. 'Forgive me. I have been too abrupt. I am punished. Only let me hope. Tell me you have never seen anyone whom you could-' Again he could not end his sentence.
Margaret reproached herself as the cause of his distress.


"Ah! if you had but never got this fancy into your head! It was such a pleasure to think of you as a friend."
"But I may hope, may I not, Margaret, that some time you will think of me as a lover? Not yet, I see--there is no hurry--but some time----"
She was silent for a minute or two, trying to discover the truth as it was in her own heart, before replying, then she said:
"I have never thought of--you, but as a friend. I like to think of you so; but I am sure I could never think of you as anything else. Pray let us both forget that all this" ("disagreeable," she was going to say, but stopped short) "conversation has taken place."

'Ah! if only you had never got this fancy into your head! It was such a pleasure to think of you as a friend.'
'But may I not hope, Margaret, that some time you will think of me as a lover? Not yet, but some time.'
She was silent, trying to discover the truth in her own heart, before replying. Then she said:
'I could never think of you except as a friend. Pray, let us both forget that all this' ('disagreeable,' she was going to say, but stopped short) 'conversation has taken place.'


He paused before he replied. Then, in his habitual coldness of tone, he answered:
"Of course, as your feelings are so decided, and as this conversation has been so evidently unpleasant to you, it had better not be remembered. That is all very fine in theory, that plan of forgetting whatever is painful, but it will be somewhat difficult for me, at least, to carry it into execution."
"You are vexed," said she, sadly; "yet how can I help it?"
She looked so truly grieved as she said this, that he struggled for a moment with his real disappointment, and then answered more cheerfully, but still with a little hardness in his tone:
"You should make allowances for the mortification, not only of a lover, Margaret, but of a man not given to romance in general--prudent, worldly, as some people call me--who has been carried out of his usual habits by the force of a passion--well, we will say no more of that; but in the one outlet which he has formed for the deeper and better feelings of his nature, he meets with rejection and repulse. I shall have to console myself with scorning my own folly. A struggling barrister to think of matrimony!"

He paused. Then, in his habitual cold tone, he answered:
'Of course, as your feelings are so decided, and as this conversation has been so evidently unpleasant to you, it had better not be remembered. That is all very fine in theory, that plan of forgetting whatever is painful, but it will be somewhat difficult for me, at least, to carry it out.'
'You are vexed,' said she, sadly; 'yet how can I help it?'
She looked so truly grieved, that he struggled for a moment with his real disappointment, and then answered more cheerfully, but still with a little hardness in his tone:
'You should make allowances for the mortification, not only of a lover, Margaret, but of a man not given to romance in general, who has been carried out of his usual habits by the force of a passion - well, we will say no more of that; but he meets only with rejection. I shall have to console myself with scorning my own folly. A struggling barrister to think of matrimony!'


Margaret could not answer this. The whole tone of it annoyed her. It seemed to touch on and call out all the points of difference which had often repelled her in him; while yet he was the pleasantest man, the most sympathising friend, the person of all others who understood her best in Harley Street. She felt a tinge of contempt mingle itself with her pain at having refused him. Her beautiful lip curled in a slight disdain. It was well that, having made the round of the garden, they came suddenly upon Mr. Hale, whose whereabouts had been quite forgotten by them. He had not yet finished the pear, which he had delicately peeled in one long strip of silver-paper thinness, and which he was enjoying in a deliberate manner. It was like the story of the eastern king, who dipped his head into a basin of water, at the magician's command, and ere he instantly took it out went through the experience of a lifetime. Margaret felt stunned, and unable to recover her self-possession enough to join in the trivial conversation that ensued between her father and Mr. Lennox. She was grave, and little disposed to speak; full of wonder when Mr. Lennox would go, and allow her to relax into thought on the events of the last quarter of an hour.

Margaret could not answer this. The whole tone of it annoyed her. It seemed to call out the points which had often repelled her; while yet he was the pleasantest man, the most sympathising friend, the person of all others who understood her best in Harley Street. She felt a tinge of contempt mingle itself with her pain at having refused him. Her beautiful lip curled in a slight disdain.
It was well that, having made the round of the garden, they came suddenly upon Mr. Hale. He had not yet finished the pear, which he had delicately peeled in one long strip, and which he was enjoying in a deliberate manner. Margaret felt stunned, and unable to recover her self-possession enough to join in the trivial conversation between her father and Mr. Lennox. She was grave; wondering when Mr. Lennox would go, and allow her to think.


He was almost as anxious to take his departure as she was for him to leave; but a few minutes light and careless talking, carried on at whatever effort, was a sacrifice which he owed to his mortified vanity, or his self-respect. He glanced from time to time at her sad and pensive face.
"I am not so indifferent to her as she believes," thought he to himself. "I do not give up hope."
Before a quarter of an hour was over, he had fallen into a way of conversing with quiet sarcasm; speaking of life in London and life in the country, as if he were conscious of his second mocking self, and afraid of his own satire. Mr. Hale was puzzled. His visitor was a different man to what he had seen him before at the wedding-breakfast, and at dinner to-day; a lighter, cleverer, more worldly man, and, as such, dissonant to Mr. Hale. It was a relief to all three when Mr. Lennox said that he must go directly if he meant to catch the five o'clock train. They proceeded to the house to find Mrs. Hale, and wish her good-bye. At the last moment, Henry Lennox's real self broke through the crust.

He was almost as anxious to depart as she was for him to leave; but a few minutes light talking was a sacrifice which he owed to his mortified vanity, or his self-respect. He glanced at her sad and pensive face.
'She is not so indifferent to me as she believes,' thought he. 'I do not give up hope.'
He had begun conversing with quiet sarcasm, speaking of life in London and the country in a mocking manner. Mr. Hale was puzzled. His visitor was a different man to the one he had seen earlier; a lighter, cleverer, more worldly man, and, as such, dissonant to Mr. Hale. It was a relief to all three when Mr. Lennox said that he must go to catch the train. They went to the house to find Mrs. Hale, and wish her good-bye.
At the last moment, Henry Lennox's real self broke through the crust.


"Margaret, don't despise me; I have a heart, notwithstanding all this good-for-nothing way of talking. As a proof of it, I believe I love you more than ever--if I do not hate you--for the disdain with which you have listened to me during this last half-hour. Good-bye, Margaret--Margaret!"

'Margaret, don't despise me; I have a heart, despite all this good-for-nothing way of talking. I believe I love you more than ever - if I do not hate you - for the disdain with which you have listened to me during this last half-hour. Good-bye, Margaret!'


"Unwatch'd the garden bough shall sway, The tender blossom flutter down, Unloved that beech will gather brown, The maple burn itself away;
Unloved, the sun-flower, shining fair, Ray round with flames her disk of seed, And many a rose-carnation feed With summer spice the humming air;
* * * * *
Till from the garden and the wild A fresh association blow And year by year the landscape grow Familiar to the stranger's child;
As year by year the labourer tills His wonted glebe, or lops the glades; And year by year our memory fades From all the circle of the hills." TENNYSON.


The last day came; the house was full of packing-cases, which were being carted off at the front door, to the nearest railway station. Even the pretty lawn at the side of the house, was made unsightly and untidy by the straw that had been wafted upon it through the open door and windows. The rooms had a strange echoing sound in them,--and the light came harshly and strongly in through the uncurtained windows,--seeming already unfamiliar and strange. Mrs. Hale's dressing-room was left untouched to the last; and there she and Dixon were packing up clothes, and interrupting each other every now and then to exclaim at, and turn over with fond regard, some forgotten treasure, in the shape of some relic of the children while they were yet little. They did not make much progress with their work. Down-stairs, Margaret stood calm and collected, ready to counsel or advise the men who had been called in to help the cook and Charlotte. These two last, crying between whiles, wondered how the young lady could keep up so this last day, and settled it between them that she was not likely to care much for Helstone, having been so long in London. There she stood, very pale and quiet, with her large grave eyes observing everything--up to every present circumstance however small. They could not understand how her heart was aching all the time, with a heavy pressure that no sighs could lift off or relieve, and how constant exertion for her perceptive faculties was the only way to keep herself from crying out with pain. Moreover, if she gave way, who was to act?

The last day came; the house was full of packing-cases, which were being carted off to the railway station. The rooms had strange echoes, and the light came harshly and strongly in through the uncurtained windows. The house seemed already unfamiliar.
Mrs. Hale's dressing-room was left untouched to the last; there she and Dixon were packing up clothes, and now and then exclaiming fondly on some forgotten treasure, or relic of the children when they were little. They did not make much progress with their work.
Downstairs, Margaret stood calm and collected, ready to advise the men who had been called in to help the cook and Charlotte. These two, crying between whiles, wondered how the young lady could keep up so, and agreed that she probably did not care much for Helstone, having been so long in London. There she stood, very pale and quiet, with her large grave eyes observing everything. They could not understand how her heart was aching, with a heavy pressure that no sighs could relieve. Constant exertion was the only way to keep herself from crying out with pain.
Moreover, if she gave way, who was to manage?


Her father was examining papers, books, registers, what not, in the vestry with the clerk; and when he came in, there were his own books to pack up, which no one but himself could do to his satisfaction. Besides, was Margaret one to give way before strange men, or even household friends like the cook and Charlotte? Not she! But at last the four packers went into the kitchen to their tea; and Margaret moved stiffly and slowly away from the place in the hall where she had been standing so long, out through the bare echoing drawing-room, into the twilight of an early November evening. There was a filmy veil of soft dull mist obscuring, but not hiding, all objects, giving them a lilac hue, for the sun had not yet fully set; a robin was singing,--perhaps, Margaret thought, the very robin that her father had so often talked of as his winter pet, and for which he had made, with his own hands, a kind of robin-house by his study-window. The leaves were more gorgeous than ever; the first touch of frost would lay them all low on the ground. Already one or two kept constantly floating down, amber and golden in the low slanting sun-rays.

Her father was examining papers, books, registers and what not, in the vestry with the clerk; and he had his own books to pack up. Besides, was Margaret one to give way before strange men, or even household friends like the cook and Charlotte? Not she.
But at last the four packers went into the kitchen to their tea; and Margaret moved stiffly and slowly away from her place in the hall, through the bare echoing drawing-room, out into the twilight of an early November evening. There was a veil of soft dull mist obscuring all objects, giving them a lilac hue, for the sun had not yet fully set; a robin was singing. The leaves were more gorgeous than ever; the first touch of frost would lay them all low on the ground. Already one or two were floating down, amber and golden in the low slanting sun-rays.


Margaret went along the walk under the pear-tree wall. She had never been along it since she paced it at Henry Lennox's side. Here, at this bed of thyme, he began to speak of what she must not think of now. Her eyes were on that late-blowing rose as she was trying to answer; and she had caught the idea of the vivid beauty of the feathery leaves of the carrots in the very middle of his last sentence. Only a fortnight ago! And all so changed! Where was he now? In London,--going through the old round; dining with the old Harley Street set, or with gayer young friends of his own. Even now, while she walked sadly through that damp and drear garden in the dusk, with everything falling and fading, and turning to decay around her, he might be gladly putting away his law-books after a day of satisfactory toil, and freshening himself up, as he had told her he often did, by a run in the Temple Gardens, taking in the while the grand inarticulate mighty roar of tens of thousands of busy men, nigh at hand, but not seen, and catching ever, at his quick turns, glimpses of the lights of the city coming up out of the depths of the river. He had often spoken to Margaret of these hasty walks, snatched in the intervals between study and dinner.

Margaret went along the walk under the pear-tree wall. She had never been along it since she paced it at Henry Lennox's side. Here he began to speak of what she must not think of now. Only a fortnight ago! And all so changed! Where was he now? In London; dining with the Harley Street set, or with friends of his own. Even now, while she walked sadly through that damp and drear garden in the dusk, with everything falling and fading, and turning to decay around her, he might be gladly putting away his law-books, and freshening himself up, as he had told her he often did, by a run in the Temple Gardens, hearing the roar of the city and catching glimpses of its lights in the river.


At his best times and in his best moods had he spoken of them; and the thought of them had struck upon her fancy. Here there was no sound. The robin had gone away into the vast stillness of night. Now and then, a cottage door in the distance was opened and shut, as if to admit the tired labourer to his home; but that sounded very far away. A stealthy, creeping, cranching sound among the crisp fallen leaves of the forest, beyond the garden, seemed almost close at hand. Margaret knew it was some poacher. Sitting up in her bedroom this past autumn, with the light of her candle extinguished, and purely revelling in the solemn beauty of the heavens and the earth, she had many a time seen the light noiseless leap of the poachers over the garden-fence, their quick tramp across the dewy moonlit lawn, their disappearance in the black still shadow beyond. The wild adventurous freedom of their life had taken her fancy; she felt inclined to wish them success; she had no fear of them. But to-night she was afraid, she knew not why. She heard Charlotte shutting the windows, and fastening up for the night, unconscious that any one had gone out into the garden.

Here there was no sound. The robin had gone away into the vast stillness of night. Now and then, a distant cottage door opened and shut, as if to admit the tired labourer to his home. A stealthy, creeping, crunching sound among the crisp fallen leaves of the forest, beyond the garden, seemed closer. Margaret knew it was some poacher. From her bedroom, with her candle extinguished, and revelling in the solemn beauty of the heavens and earth, she had many a time seen the light noiseless leap of poachers over the garden-fence, their quick tramp across the dewy moonlit lawn to disappear in the black still shadow beyond. She had felt no fear of them. But tonight she was afraid, she knew not why. She heard Charlotte locking up for the night, unaware that anyone had gone out into the garden.


A small branch--it might be of rotten wood, or it might be broken by force--came heavily down in the nearest part of the forest; Margaret ran, swift as Camilla, down to the window, and rapped at it with a hurried tremulousness which startled Charlotte within.
"Let me in! Let me in! It is only me, Charlotte!" Her heart did not still its fluttering till she was safe in the drawing-room, with the windows fastened and bolted, and the familiar walls hemming her round, and shutting her in. She had sate down upon a packing-case; cheerless, chill was the dreary and dismantled room--no fire, nor other light, but Charlotte's long unsnuffed candle. Charlotte looked at Margaret with surprise; and Margaret, feeling it rather than seeing it, rose up.
"I was afraid you were shutting me out altogether, Charlotte," said she, half-smiling. "And then you would never have heard me in the kitchen, and the doors into the lane and churchyard are locked long ago."

A small branch came down heavily in the forest. Margaret ran to the window, and rapped at it hurriedly.
'Let me in, Charlotte!' Her heart did not stop fluttering till she was safe in the drawing-room, with the windows fastened. Chill was the dreary and dismantled room, with no fire or light but Charlotte's candle.
'I was afraid you were shutting me out, Charlotte,' said Margaret, half-smiling. 'And then you would never have heard me in the kitchen.'


"Oh, miss, I should have been sure to have missed you soon. The men would have wanted you to tell them how to go on. And I have put tea in master's study, as being the most comfortable room, so to speak."
"Thank you, Charlotte. You are a kind girl. I shall be sorry to leave you. You must try and write to me, if I can ever give you any little help or good advice. I shall always be glad to get a letter from Helstone, you know. I shall be sure and send you my address when I know it."

'Oh, miss, I should have been sure to have missed you. I have put tea in master's study, as being the most comfortable room.'
'Thank you, Charlotte. You are a kind girl. I shall be sorry to leave you. You must try and write to me. I shall always be glad to get a letter from Helstone, you know.'


The study was all ready for tea. There was a good blazing fire, and unlighted candles on the table. Margaret sat down on the rug, partly to warm herself, for the dampness of the evening hung about her dress, and over-fatigue had made her chilly. She kept herself balanced by clasping her hands together round her knees; her head dropped a little towards her chest; the attitude was one of despondency, whatever her frame of mind might be. But when she heard her father's step on the gravel outside, she started up, and hastily shaking her heavy black hair back, and wiping a few tears away that had come on her cheeks she knew not how, she went out to open the door for him. He showed far more depression than she did. She could hardly get him to talk, although she tried to speak on subjects that would interest him, at the cost of an effort every time which she thought would be her last.
"Have you been a very long walk to-day?" asked she, on seeing his refusal to touch food of any kind.

In the study, there was a good blazing fire. Margaret sat down on the rug to warm herself, clasping her hands round her knees; her head dropped a little in despondency. But when she heard her father's step outside, she started up, and hastily shaking back her heavy black hair, and wiping a few tears away, she went to open the door for him. He showed far more depression than she did. She could hardly get him to talk, despite her efforts.
'Have you been for a very long walk today?' asked she, on seeing his refusal to touch any food.


"As far as Fordham Beeches. I went to see Widow Maltby; she is sadly grieved at not having wished you good-bye. She says little Susan has kept watch down the lane for days past.--Nay, Margaret, what is the matter, dear?" The thought of the little child watching for her, and continually disappointed--from no forgetfulness on her part, but from sheer inability to leave home--was the last drop in poor Margaret's cup, and she was sobbing away as if her heart would break. Mr. Hale was distressingly perplexed. He rose, and walked nervously up and down the room. Margaret tried to check herself, but would not speak until she could do so with firmness. She heard him talking, as if to himself.

'To Fordham Beeches. I went to see Widow Maltby; she is sadly grieved at not having wished you good-bye. She says little Susan has kept watch down the lane for days past. - Nay, Margaret, what is the matter, dear?'
The thought of the child watching for her, and continually disappointed - from no forgetfulness on her part, but from sheer inability to leave home - was the last drop in poor Margaret's cup, and she was sobbing as if her heart would break. Mr. Hale was perplexed. Margaret tried to check herself, but could not yet speak. She heard him talking to himself.


"I cannot bear it. I cannot bear to see the sufferings of others. I think I could go through my own with patience. Oh, is there no going back?"
"No, father," said Margaret, looking straight at him, and speaking low and steadily. "It is bad to believe you in error. It would be infinitely worse to have known you a hypocrite." She dropped her voice at the last few words, as if entertaining the idea of hypocrisy for a moment in connection with her father savoured of irreverence.

'I cannot bear it. I cannot bear to see the sufferings of others. Oh, is there no going back?'
'No, father,' said Margaret, looking straight at him, and speaking low and steadily. 'It is bad to believe you in error, but it would be infinitely worse to think you a hypocrite.


"Besides," she went on, "it is only that I am tired to-night; don't think that I am suffering from what you have done, dear papa. We can't either of us talk about it to-night, I believe," said she, finding that tears and sobs would come in spite of herself. "I had better go and take mamma up this cup of tea. She had hers very early, when I was too busy to go to her, and I am sure she will be glad of another now."
Railroad time inexorably wrenched them away from lovely, beloved Helstone, the next morning. They were gone; they had seen the last of the long low parsonage home, half-covered with China-roses and pyracanthus--more homelike than ever in the morning sun that glittered on its windows, each belonging to some well-loved room. Almost before they had settled themselves into the car, sent from Southampton to fetch them to the station, they were gone away to return no more. A sting at Margaret's heart made her strive to look out to catch the last glimpse of the old church tower at the turn where she knew it might be seen above a wave of the forest trees; but her father remembered this too, and she silently acknowledged his greater right to the one window from which it could be seen. She leant back and shut her eyes, and the tears welled forth, and hung glittering for an instant on the shadowing eyelashes before rolling slowly down her cheeks, and dropping, unheeded, on her dress.

It is only that I am tired tonight; I am not suffering from what you have done, dear papa.' Finding that tears would come in spite of herself, she added, 'I had better go and take mamma this cup of tea.'
The next morning they were wrenched away from beloved Helstone. They had seen the last of the long low parsonage, half-covered with China-roses and pyracanthus. In the carriage to the station, Margaret strove to catch the last glimpse of the old church tower above the forest trees; but her father was looking for it too, and she silently acknowledged his greater right to the window from which it could be seen. She leant back and shut her eyes, the tears rolling slowly down her cheeks.


They were to stop in London all night at some quiet hotel. Poor Mrs. Hale had cried in her way nearly all day long; and Dixon showed her sorrow by extreme crossness, and a continual irritable attempt to keep her petticoats from even touching the unconscious Mr. Hale, whom she regarded as the origin of all this suffering.
They went through the well-known streets, past houses which they had often visited, past shops in which she had lounged, impatient, by her aunt's side, while that lady was making some important and interminable decision--nay, absolutely passed acquaintances in the streets; for though the morning had been of an incalculable length to them, and they felt as if it ought long ago to have closed in for the repose of darkness, it was the very busiest time of a London afternoon in November when they arrived there. It was long since Mrs. Hale had been in London; and she roused up, almost like a child, to look about her at the different streets, and to gaze after and exclaim at the shops and carriages,--
"Oh, there's Harrison's, where I bought so many of my wedding things. Dear! how altered! They've got immense plate-glass windows, larger than Crawford's in Southampton. Oh, and there, I declare--no, it is not--yes, it is--Margaret, we have just passed Mr. Henry Lennox. Where can he be going, among all these shops?"

They were to stop in London overnight. Poor Mrs. Hale had cried nearly all day; and Dixon showed her sorrow by extreme crossness, and an irritable attempt to keep her skirts from touching Mr. Hale, whom she regarded as the cause of all this suffering.
It was the very busiest time of a London afternoon in November when they arrived. It was long since Mrs. Hale had been in London; and she roused up, almost like a child, to look at the streets, and exclaim at the shops and carriages.
'Oh, there's Harrison's, where I bought so many of my wedding-things. Dear! how altered! They've got immense plate-glass windows, larger than Crawford's in Southampton. Oh, I declare - Margaret, we have just passed Mr. Henry Lennox. Where can he be going, among all these shops?'


Margaret started forwards, and as quickly fell back, half-smiling at herself for the sudden motion. They were a hundred yards away by this time; but he seemed like a relic of Helstone--he was associated with a bright morning, an eventful day, and she should have liked to have seen him, without his seeing her,--without the chance of their speaking.
The evening, without employment, passed in a room high up in an hotel, was long and heavy. Mr. Hale went out to his bookseller's, and to call on a friend or two. Every one they saw, either in the house or out in the streets, appeared hurrying to some appointment, expected by, or expecting somebody. They alone seemed strange and friendless, and desolate. Yet within a mile, Margaret knew of house after house, where she for her own sake, and her mother for her aunt Shaw's, would be welcomed, if they came in gladness, or even in peace of mind. If they came sorrowing, and wanting sympathy in a complicated trouble like the present, then they would be felt as a shadow in all these houses of intimate acquaintances, not friends. London life is too whirling and full to admit of even an hour of that deep silence of feeling which the friends of Job showed, when "they sat with him on the ground seven days and seven nights, and none spake a word unto him; for they saw that his grief was very great."

Margaret started forwards, and then quickly fell back, half-smiling at herself. They were a hundred yards away by this time; but he seemed like a relic of Helstone - he was associated with a bright morning, an eventful day, and she should have liked to have seen him, without his seeing her.
The long evening was passed in an hotel. Everyone they saw appeared hurrying to some appointment. They alone seemed friendless and desolate. Yet within a mile, Margaret knew of house after house where she and her mother would be welcomed, if they came in gladness. But if they came sorrowing, and wanting sympathy in their complicated trouble, then they would be felt as a shadow in all these acquaintances' homes. London life is too whirling and full to allow that deep silence of feeling which the friends of Job showed, when 'they sat with him on the ground seven days and seven nights, and none spake a word unto him; for they saw that his grief was very great.'


"Old and young, boy, let 'em all eat, I have it; Let 'em have ten tire of teeth a-piece, I care not. ROLLO, DUKE OF NORMANDY.
Margaret went home so painfully occupied with what she had heard and seen that she hardly knew how to rouse herself up to the duties which awaited her; the necessity for keeping up a constant flow of cheerful conversation for her mother, who, now that she was unable to go out, always looked to Margaret's return from the shortest walk as bringing in some news.
"And can your factory friend come on Thursday to see you dressed?"
"She was so ill I never thought of asking her," said Margaret, dolefully.

Margaret went home so painfully occupied with what she had heard that she could hardly keep up a flow of cheerful conversation for her mother, who, now that she was unable to go out, always looked to Margaret to bring some news.
'And can your factory friend come on Thursday to see you dressed?'
'She was so ill I never thought of asking her,' said Margaret, dolefully.


"Dear! Everybody is ill now, I think," said Mrs. Hale, with a little of the jealousy which one invalid is apt to feel of another. "But it must be very sad to be ill in one of those little back streets." (Her kindly nature prevailing, and the old Helstone habits of thought returning.) "It's bad enough here. What could you do for her, Margaret? Mr. Thornton has sent me some of his old port wine since you went out. Would a bottle of that do her good, think you?"

'Dear! Everybody is ill now, I think,' said Mrs. Hale, with a little of the jealousy which one invalid is apt to feel of another. 'But it must be very sad to be ill in one of those little back streets.' (Her kindly nature prevailing.) 'Mr. Thornton has sent me some old port wine. Would a bottle of that do her good, think you?'


"No, mamma! I don't believe they are very poor,--at least, they don't speak as if they were; and, at any rate, Bessy's illness is consumption--she won't want wine. Perhaps, I might take her a little preserve, made of our dear Helstone fruit. No! there's another family to whom I should like to give--Oh mamma, mamma! how am I to dress up in my finery, and go off and away to smart parties, after the sorrow I've seen to-day?" exclaimed Margaret, bursting the bounds she had preordained for herself before she came in, and telling her mother what she had seen and heard at Higgins's cottage.

'No, mamma. I don't believe they are very poor; and Bessy's illness is consumption - she won't want wine. Perhaps I might take her a little fruit preserve. No! there's another family to whom I should like to give - Oh mamma! how am I to dress up in my finery, and go to smart parties, after the sorrow I have seen today?' exclaimed Margaret, bursting the bounds she had set for herself, and telling her mother about John Boucher.


It distressed Mrs. Hale excessively. It made her restlessly irritated till she could do something. She directed Margaret to pack up a basket in the very drawing-room, to be sent there and then to the family; and was almost angry with her for saying, that it would not signify if it did not go till morning, as she knew Higgins had provided for their immediate wants, and she herself had left money with Bessy. Mrs. Hale called her unfeeling for saying this; and never gave herself breathing-time till the basket was sent out of the house. Then she said:
"After all, we may have been doing wrong. It was only the last time Mr. Thornton was here that he said, those were no true friends who helped to prolong the struggle by assisting the turn-outs. And this Boucher-man was a turn-out, was he not?"
The question was referred to Mr. Hale by his wife, when he came upstairs, fresh from giving a lesson to Mr. Thornton, which had ended in conversation, as was their wont. Margaret did not care if their gifts had prolonged the strife; she did not think far enough for that, in her present excited state.

It distressed Mrs. Hale excessively. She told Margaret to pack up a basket, to be sent there and then to the family; and was almost angry with her for saying that it would wait till morning, as she knew Higgins had provided for their immediate wants, and she herself had left money with Bessy. Mrs. Hale called her unfeeling, and ordered the basket to be sent out of the house. Then she said:
'After all, we may have been doing wrong. Mr. Thornton said, those were no true friends who helped to prolong the struggle by assisting the turn-outs. And this Boucher-man was a turn-out, was he not?'
She asked this of Mr. Hale when he came upstairs, after giving a lesson to Mr. Thornton.


Mr. Hale listened, and tried to be as calm as a judge; he recalled all that had seemed so clear not half-an-hour before, as it came out of Mr. Thornton's lips; and then he made an unsatisfactory compromise. His wife and daughter had not only done quite right in this instance, but he did not see for a moment how they could have done otherwise. Nevertheless, as a general rule, it was very true what Mr. Thornton said, that as the strike, if prolonged, must end in the masters bringing hands from a distance (if, indeed, the final result were not, as it had often been before, the invention of some machine which would diminish the need of hands at all), why, it was clear enough that the kindest thing was to refuse all help which might bolster them up in their folly. But as to this Boucher, he would go and see him the first thing in the morning, and try and find out what could be done for him.
Mr. Hale went the next morning, as he proposed. He did not find Boucher at home, but he had a long talk with his wife; promised to ask for an Infirmary order for; and, seeing the plenty provided by Mrs. Hale, and somewhat lavishly used by the children, who were masters downstairs in their father's absence, he came back with a more consoling and cheerful account than Margaret had dared to hope for; indeed, what she had said the night before had prepared her father for so much worse a state of things that, by a re-action of his imagination, he described all as better than it really was.
"But I will go again, and see the man himself," said Mr. Hale. "I hardly know as yet how to compare one of these houses with our Helstone cottages. I see furniture here which our labourers would never have thought of buying, and food commonly used which they would consider luxuries; yet for these very families there seems no other resource now that their weekly wages are stopped, but the pawn-shop. One had need to learn a different standard, up here in Milton."

Mr. Hale listened, and tried to judge calmly; he recalled all that had seemed so clear not half-an-hour before, as it came out of Mr. Thornton's lips; and then he made an unsatisfactory compromise. He did not see how his wife and daughter could have done otherwise. Nevertheless, it was very true what Mr. Thornton said; that the strike, if prolonged, must end in the masters' bringing hands from a distance, so the kindest thing was to refuse all help which might bolster them up in their folly. But, as to this Boucher, he would go and see him first thing in the morning, and try and find out what could be done for him.
Mr. Hale went the next morning. He did not find Boucher at home, but he had a long talk with his wife; promised to ask for an Infirmary order for her; and, seeing the plenty provided by Mrs. Hale, and somewhat lavishly used by the children, who were masters in their father's absence, he came back with a more cheerful account than Margaret had hoped for.
'But I will go again, and see the man himself,' said Mr. Hale. 'I hardly know how to compare these houses with our Helstone cottages. I see furniture here which our labourers would never have thought of buying, and food which they would consider luxuries; yet for these very families there seems no other resource, now that their wages are stopped, but the pawn-shop. One needs to measure by a different standard, up here in Milton.'


Bessy, too, was rather better this day. Still she was so weak that she seemed to have entirely forgotten her wish to see Margaret dressed--if, indeed, that had not been the feverish desire of a half delirious state.
Margaret could not help comparing this strange dressing of hers, to go where she did not care to be--her heart heavy with various anxieties--with the old, merry, girlish toilettes that she and Edith had performed scarcely more than a year ago. Her only pleasure now in decking herself out was in thinking that her mother would take delight in seeing her dressed. She blushed when Dixon, throwing the drawing-room door open, made an appeal for admiration.
"Miss Hale looks well, ma'am,--doesn't she? Mrs. Shaw's coral couldn't have come in better. It just gives the right touch of colour, ma'am. Otherwise, Miss Margaret, you would have been too pale."

Bessy, too, was rather better this day; although still so weak that she seemed to have entirely forgotten her wish to see Margaret dressed up.
Margaret could not help comparing this strange dressing of hers - her heart heavy with anxieties - with the old, merry preparations that she and Edith had performed scarcely more than a year ago. Her only pleasure now in decking herself out was in thinking that her mother would take delight in seeing her dressed. She blushed when Dixon admired her.
'Miss Hale looks well, ma'am, doesn't she? Mrs. Shaw's coral gives the right touch of colour. Otherwise, Miss Margaret, you would have been too pale.'


Margaret's black hair was too thick to be plaited; it needed rather to be twisted round and round, and have its fine silkiness compressed into massive coils, that encircled her head like a crown, and then were gathered into a large spiral knot behind. She kept its weight together by two large coral pins, like small arrows for length. Her white silk sleeves were looped up with strings of the same material, and on her neck, just below the base of her curved and milk-white throat, there lay heavy coral beads.
"Oh, Margaret! how I should like to be going with you to one of the old Barrington assemblies,--taking you as Lady Beresford used to take me."
Margaret kissed her mother for this little burst of maternal vanity; but she could hardly smile at it, she felt so much out of spirits.
"I would rather stay at home with you,--much rather, mamma."

Margaret's black hair was too thick to be plaited; it needed rather to be twisted round into massive silky coils, that encircled her head like a crown, and then were gathered into a spiral knot behind. She kept its weight together by two large coral pins. On her neck, just below her curved white throat, there lay heavy coral beads.
'Oh, Margaret! how I should like to be going with you to one of the old Barrington assemblies.'
Margaret kissed her mother, but said, 'I would rather stay at home with you, mamma.'


"Nonsense, darling! Be sure you notice the dinner well. I shall like to hear how they manage these things in Milton. Particularly the second course, dear. Look what they have instead of game."

'Nonsense, darling! Be sure you take note of the dinner. I shall like to hear how they manage these things in Milton.'


Mrs. Hale would have been more than interested,--she would have been astonished, if she had seen the sumptuousness of the dinner-table and its appointments. Margaret, with her London cultivated taste, felt the number of delicacies to be oppressive; one half of the quantity would have been enough, and the effect tighter and more elegant. But it was one of Mrs. Thornton's rigorous laws of hospitality, that of each separate dainty enough should be provided for all the guests to partake, if they felt inclined. Careless to abstemiousness in her daily habits, it was part of her pride to set a feast before such of her guests as cared for it. Her son shared this feeling. He had never known--though he might have imagined, and had the capability to relish--any kind of society but that which depended on an exchange of superb meals: and even now, though he was denying himself the personal expenditure of an unnecessary sixpence, and had more than once regretted that the invitations for this dinner had been sent out, still, as it was to be, he was glad to see the old magnificence of preparation.

Mrs. Hale would have been astonished if she had seen the sumptuousness of the dinner-table. Margaret felt the number of delicacies to be oppressive; half would have been enough, and the effect more elegant. But it was one of Mrs. Thornton's rigorous laws of hospitality that enough should be provided of each separate dainty for all the guests to partake, if they wished. Abstemious herself, it was part of her pride to set a feast before her guests.
Her son shared this feeling. He had never known any kind of society but that which depended on an exchange of superb meals; and even though he was denying himself any unnecessary personal expense, and had regretted that the invitations for this dinner had been sent out, still he was glad to see the old magnificence.


Margaret and her father were the first to arrive. Mr. Hale was anxiously punctual to the time specified. There was no one upstairs in the drawing-room but Mrs. Thornton and Fanny. Every cover was taken off, and the apartment blazed forth in yellow silk damask and a brilliantly flowered carpet. Every corner seemed filled up with ornament, until it became a weariness to the eye, and presented a strange contrast to the bald ugliness of the look-out into the great mill-yard, where wide folding gates were thrown open for the admission of carriages. The mill loomed high on the left-hand side of the windows, casting a shadow down from its many stories, which darkened the summer evening before its time.
"My son was engaged up to the last moment on business. He will be here directly, Mr. Hale. May I beg you to take a seat?"

Mr. Hale was anxiously punctual, and Margaret and her father were the first to arrive. There was no one in the drawing-room but Mrs. Thornton and Fanny. The covers were taken off, and the apartment blazed forth in yellow silk damask and a brilliantly-flowered carpet. Every corner seemed filled up with ornament, until it wearied the eye, and presented a strange contrast to the bald ugliness of the view into the great mill-yard, where the gates were thrown open to admit carriages. The mill loomed high on the left, casting a long shadow which darkened the summer evening.
'My son will be here directly, Mr. Hale. May I beg you to take a seat?'


Mr. Hale was standing at one of the windows as Mrs. Thornton spoke. He turned away, saying,
"Don't you find such close neighbourhood to the mill rather unpleasant at times?"
She drew herself up:
"Never. I am not become so fine as to desire to forget the source of my son's wealth and power. Besides, there is not such another factory in Milton. One room alone is two hundred and twenty square yards."
"I meant that the smoke and the noise--the constant going out and coming in of the workpeople, might be annoying!"

Mr. Hale was standing at one of the windows as Mrs. Thornton spoke. He turned away, saying,
'Don't you find such close neighbourhood to the mill rather unpleasant at times?'
She drew herself up. 'Never. I am not become so fine as to desire to forget the source of my son's wealth and power. Besides, there is not another such factory in Milton. One room alone is two hundred and twenty square yards.'
'I meant that the smoke and the noise - the constant going in and out of people, might be annoying.'


"I agree with you, Mr. Hale!" said Fanny. "There is a continual smell of steam and oily machinery--and the noise is perfectly deafening."

'I agree with you, Mr. Hale!' said Fanny. 'There is a continual smell of steam and oil - and the noise is perfectly deafening.'


"I have heard noise that was called music far more deafening. The engine-room is at the street-end of the factory; we hardly hear it, except in summer weather, when all the windows are open; and as for the continual murmur of the workpeople, it disturbs me no more than the humming of a hive of bees. If I think of it at all, I connect it with my son, and feel how all belongs to him, and that his is the head that directs it. Just now, there are no sounds to come from the mill; the hands have been ungrateful enough to turn out, as perhaps you have heard. But the very business (of which I spoke when you entered), had reference to the steps he is going to take to make them learn their place." The expression on her face, always stern, deepened into dark anger, as she said this. Nor did it clear away when Mr. Thornton entered the room; for she saw in an instant, the weight of care and anxiety which he could not shake off, although his guests received from him a greeting that appeared both cheerful and cordial. He shook hands with Margaret. He knew it was the first time their hands had met, though she was perfectly unconscious of the fact. He inquired after Mrs. Hale, and heard Mr. Hale's sanguine, hopeful account; and, glancing to Margaret, to understand how far she agreed with her father, he saw that no dissenting shadow crossed her face.

'I have heard noise that was called music far more deafening. The engine-room is at the other end of the factory; we hardly hear it, except when all the windows are open. As for the work-people, they disturb me no more than the humming of a hive of bees. Just now, there are no sounds from the mill; the hands have been ungrateful enough to turn out, as perhaps you have heard. But my son is going to make them learn their place.' The expression on her face, always stern, deepened into dark anger as she said this. Nor did it clear when Mr. Thornton entered the room; for she saw, in an instant, the weight of care which he could not shake off, although his guests received a cheerful greeting.
He shook hands with Margaret. He knew it was the first time their hands had met, though she was perfectly unconscious of the fact. He inquired after Mrs. Hale, and heard Mr. Hale's hopeful account; and glancing at Margaret, he saw that no dissenting shadow crossed her face.


And as he looked with this intention, he was struck anew with her great beauty. He had never seen her in such dress before; and yet now it appeared that such elegance of attire was so befitting her noble figure and lofty serenity of countenance that she ought to go always thus apparelled. She was talking to Fanny; about what he could not hear; but he saw his sister's restless way of continually arranging some part of her gown, her wandering eyes, now glancing here, now there, but without any purpose in her observation; and he contrasted them uneasily with the large soft eyes that looked forth steadily at one object, as if from out their light beamed some gentle influence of repose: the curving lines of the red lips, just parted in the interest of listening to what her companion said--the head a little bent forwards, so as to make a long sweeping line from the summit, where the light caught on the glossy raven hair, to the smooth ivory tip of the shoulder; the round white arms, and taper hands, laid lightly across each other, but perfectly motionless in their pretty attitude. Mr. Thornton sighed as he took in all this with one of his sudden comprehensive glances. And then he turned his back to the young ladies, and threw himself, with an effort, but with all his heart and soul, into a conversation with Mr. Hale.

As he looked, he was struck anew with her great beauty. He had never seen her in such dress before; her elegant attire befitted her noble figure and serene face. She was talking to Fanny; about what, he could not hear. He saw his sister's restless way of constantly re-arranging her gown, her eyes wandering without any purpose; and he contrasted them uneasily with the large soft eyes that looked steadily at one object; the curving red lips, just parted in listening - the head a little bent forwards, so as to make a long sweeping line from the glossy raven hair to the smooth ivory tip of the shoulder; the round white arms, and hands laid lightly across each other. Mr. Thornton sighed as he took in all this with a sudden comprehensive glance. And then he turned his back on the young ladies, and threw himself, with an effort, into a conversation with Mr. Hale.


More people came--more and more. Fanny left Margaret's side and helped her mother to receive her guests. Mr. Thornton felt that in this influx no one was speaking to Margaret, and was restless under this apparent neglect. But he never went near her himself; he did not look at her. Only, he knew what she was doing--or not doing--better than he knew the movements of any one else in the room. Margaret was so unconscious of herself, and so much amused by watching other people, that she never thought whether she was left unnoticed or not. Somebody took her down to dinner; she did not catch the name; nor did he seem much inclined to talk to her. There was a very animated conversation going on among the gentlemen; the ladies, for the most part, were silent, employing themselves in taking notes of the dinner and criticising each other's dresses. Margaret caught the clue to the general conversation, grew interested and listened attentively. Mr. Horsfall, the stranger, whose visit to the town was the original germ of the party, was asking questions relative to the trade and manufactures of the place; and the rest of the gentlemen--all Milton men--were giving him answers and explanations.

More people came. Fanny left Margaret's side, and helped her mother to receive her guests. Mr. Thornton felt that no one was speaking to Margaret, and was restless; but he did not look at her. Only, he knew what she was doing better than he knew the movements of anyone else in the room.
Margaret was so unconscious of herself, and so much amused by watching other people, that she never thought whether she was left unnoticed. Somebody took her down to dinner; she did not catch the name; nor did he seem much inclined to talk to her. There was a very animated conversation going on among the gentlemen; Margaret grew interested and listened attentively. Mr. Horsfall, a stranger to the town, was asking about Milton's trade and manufactures; and the rest of the gentlemen were giving him answers and explanations.


Some dispute arose, which was warmly contested; it was referred to Mr. Thornton, who had hardly spoken before; but who now gave an opinion, the grounds of which were so clearly stated that even the opponents yielded. Margaret's attention was thus called to her host; his whole manner, as master of the house, and entertainer of his friends, was so straightforward, yet simple and modest, as to be thoroughly dignified. Margaret thought she had never seen him to so much advantage. When he had come to their house, there had been always something, either of over-eagerness or of that kind of vexed annoyance which seemed ready to pre-suppose that he was unjustly judged, and yet felt too proud to try and make himself better understood. But now, among his fellows, there was no uncertainty as to his position. He was regarded by them as a man of great force of character; of power in many ways. There was no need to struggle for their respect. He had it, and he knew it; and the security of this gave a fine grand quietness to his voice and ways, which Margaret had missed before.

Some dispute arose, and was referred to Mr. Thornton, who had hardly spoken; but who now gave an opinion so clearly that the opponents yielded.
His whole manner as master of the house, and entertainer of his friends, was so straightforward, yet simple and modest, as to be thoroughly dignified. Margaret thought she had never seen him to so much advantage. When he had come to their house, there had been always some over-eagerness or vexed annoyance which seemed ready to pre-suppose that he was unjustly judged. But now, among his fellows, there was no uncertainty as to his position. He was regarded by them as a man of great force of character; of power in many ways. He had their respect, and he knew it; and the security of this gave a fine grand quietness to his voice and manner.


He was not in the habit of talking to ladies; and what he did say was a little formal. To Margaret herself he hardly spoke at all. She was surprised to think how much she enjoyed this dinner. She knew enough now to understand many local interests--nay, even some of the technical words employed by the eager millowners. She silently took a very decided part in the question they were discussing. At any rate, they talked in desperate earnest,--not in the used-up style that wearied her so in the old London parties. She wondered that, with all this dwelling on the manufacturers and trade of the place, no allusion was made to the strike then pending. She did not yet know how coolly such things were taken by the masters, as having only one possible end. To be sure, the men were cutting their own throats, as they had done many a time before; but if they would be fools, and put themselves into the hands of a rascally set of paid delegates, they must take the consequence. One or two thought Thornton looked out of spirits; and, of course, he must lose by this turn-out.

Margaret was surprised at how much she enjoyed this dinner. She knew enough now to understand many local interests - even some of the technical words used by the eager mill-owners. They talked in desperate earnest, not in the used-up style that wearied her so in the old London parties.
She wondered that no one mentioned the strike. She did not yet know how coolly such things were taken by the masters, as having only one possible end. To be sure, the men were cutting their own throats; but if they would be fools, they must take the consequence. One or two thought Thornton looked out of spirits; of course, he must lose by this turn-out.


But it was an accident that might happen to themselves any day; and Thornton was as good to manage a strike as any one; for he was as iron a chap as any in Milton. The hands had mistaken their man in trying that dodge on him. And they chuckled inwardly at the idea of the workmen's discomfiture and defeat, in their attempt to alter one iota of what Thornton had decreed.
It was rather dull for Margaret after dinner. She was glad when the gentlemen came, not merely because she caught her father's eye to brighten her sleepiness up; but because she could listen to something larger and grander than the petty interests which the ladies had been talking about. She liked the exultation in the sense of power which these Milton men had. It might be rather rampant in its display, and savour of boasting; but still they seemed to defy the old limits of possibility, in a kind of fine intoxication, caused by the recollection of what had been achieved, and what yet should be. If in her cooler moments she might not approve of the spirit in all things, still there was much to admire in their forgetfulness of themselves and the present, in their anticipated triumphs over all inanimate matter at some future time which none of them would live to see. She was rather startled when Mr. Thornton spoke to her close at her elbow:
"I could see you were on our side in our discussion at dinner,--were you not, Miss Hale?"

But Thornton could manage a strike, for he was as iron a chap as any in Milton. And they chuckled inwardly at the idea of the workmen's discomfiture and defeat, in their attempt to alter one iota of what Thornton had decreed.
It was rather dull for Margaret after dinner. She was glad when the gentlemen came, because she could listen to something larger than the petty interests which the ladies had been talking about. She liked the exultation in the sense of power which these Milton men had. It might savour of boasting; but still they seemed to defy the old limits of possibility, in a kind of fine intoxication caused by what had been achieved, and what yet should be. If she might not approve of their spirit in all things, still there was much to admire in their forgetfulness of themselves and the present, in their anticipated triumphs over all inanimate matter at some future time. She was rather startled when Mr. Thornton spoke to her, close at her elbow:
'I could see you were on our side in our discussion at dinner - were you not, Miss Hale?'


"Certainly. But then I know so little about it. I was surprised, however, to find from what Mr. Horsfall said, that there were others who thought in so diametrically opposite a manner, as the Mr. Morison he spoke about. He cannot be a gentleman--is he?"
"I am not quite the person to decide on another's gentlemanliness, Miss Hale. I mean, I don't quite understand your application of the word. But I should say that this Morison is no true man. I don't know who he is; I merely judge him from Mr. Horsfall's account."
"I suspect my 'gentleman' includes your 'true man.'"

'Certainly. But then I know so little about it. I was surprised, however, to find from what Mr. Horsfall said, that there were others who thought so differently, like the Mr. Morison he mentioned. He cannot be a gentleman - is he?'
'I cannot decide on another's gentlemanliness, Miss Hale. I mean, I don't quite understand your application of the word. But I should say that this Morison is no true man. I don't know him; I merely judge him from Mr. Horsfall's account.'
'I suspect my "gentleman" includes your "true man."'


"And a great deal more, you would imply. I differ from you. A man is to me a higher and a completer being than a gentleman."
"What do you mean?" asked Margaret. "We must understand the words differently."
"I take it that 'gentleman' is a term that only describes a person in his relation to others; but when we speak of him as 'a man,' we consider him not merely with regard to his fellow-men, but in relation to himself,--to life--to time--to eternity. A cast-away lonely as Robinson Crusoe--a prisoner immured in a dungeon for life--nay, even a saint in Patmos, has his endurance, his strength, his faith, best described by being spoken of as 'a man.' I am rather weary of this word 'gentlemanly,' which seems to me to be often inappropriately used, and often, too, with such exaggerated distortion of meaning, while the full simplicity of the noun 'man,' and the adjective 'manly' are acknowledged--that I am induced to class it with the cant of the day."

'And a great deal more, you would imply. I differ from you. A man is to me a higher and a completer being than a gentleman.'
'What do you mean?' asked Margaret.
'I take it that "gentleman" is a term that only describes a person in his relation to others; but when we speak of him as "a man," we consider him not merely with regard to his fellow-men, but in relation to himself - to life - to eternity. I am rather weary of this word "gentlemanly," which seems to me to be often inappropriately used, and with much distortion of meaning, while the full simplicity of "man" and "manly" are unacknowledged.'


Margaret thought a moment--but before she could speak her slow conviction, he was called away by some of the eager manufacturers, whose speeches she could not hear, though she could guess at their import by the short clear answers Mr. Thornton gave, which came steady and firm as the boom of a distant minute gun. They were evidently talking of the turn-out, and suggesting what course had best be pursued. She heard Mr. Thornton say:
"That has been done." Then came a hurried murmur, in which two or three joined.
"All those arrangements have been made."
Some doubts were implied, some difficulties named by Mr. Slickson, who took hold of Mr. Thornton's arm, the better to impress his words. Mr. Thornton moved slightly away, lifted his eyebrows a very little, and then replied:

Margaret thought a moment - but before she could speak, he was called away by the eager manufacturers. Although she could not hear their questions, she could guess at them by the short, firm answers Mr. Thornton gave. They were evidently talking of the turn-out, and suggesting what course to take. She heard Mr. Thornton say:
'That has been done. All those arrangements have been made.'
Some doubts were implied by Mr. Slickson, who took hold of Mr. Thornton's arm. Mr. Thornton moved slightly away, lifted his eyebrows, and replied:


"I take the risk. You need not join in it unless you choose." Still some more fears were urged.
"I'm not afraid of anything so dastardly as incendiarism. We are open enemies; and I can protect myself from any violence that I apprehend. And I will assuredly protect all others who come to me for work. They know my determination by this time, as well and as fully as you do."
Mr. Horsfall took him a little on one side, as Margaret conjectured, to ask him some other question about the strike; but, in truth, it was to inquire who she herself was--so quiet, so stately, and so beautiful.
"A Milton lady?" asked he, as the name was given.

'I take the risk. You need not join in it unless you choose. I'm not afraid; I can protect myself from any violence. And I will assuredly protect all others who come to me for work. They know my determination by this time.'
Mr. Horsfall took him on one side. Margaret assumed it was to ask him some question about the strike; but, in truth, it was to inquire who she herself was - so quiet, so stately, and so beautiful.
'A Milton lady?' asked he.


"No! from the south of England--Hampshire, I believe," was the cold, indifferent answer.
Mrs. Slickson was catechising Fanny on the same subject.
"Who is that fine distinguished-looking girl? a sister of Mr. Horsfall's?"
"Oh dear, no! That is Mr. Hale, her father, talking now to Mr. Stephens. He gives lessons; that is to say, he reads with young men. My brother John goes to him twice a week, and so he begged mamma to ask them here, in hopes of getting him known. I believe we have some of their prospectuses, if you would like to have one."

'No! from the south - Hampshire, I believe,' was the cold, indifferent answer.
Mrs. Slickson was questioning Fanny on the same subject. 'Who is that fine distinguished-looking girl?'
'Oh! Mr. Hale there is her father. He gives lessons; my brother John goes to him twice a week, and so he begged mamma to ask them here, in hopes of getting him known.'


"Mr. Thornton! Does he really find time to read with a tutor, in the midst of all his business,--and this abominable strike in hand as well?"
Fanny was not sure, from Mrs. Slickson's manner, whether she ought to be proud or ashamed of her brother's conduct; and, like all people who try and take other people's "ought" for the rule of their feelings, she was inclined to blush for any singularity of action. Her shame was interrupted by the dispersion of the guests.

'Does Mr. Thornton really find time to read with a tutor, in the midst of all his business - and this abominable strike as well?'
Fanny was not sure, from Mrs. Slickson's manner, whether she ought to be proud or ashamed of her brother; she was inclined to blush. Her shame was interrupted by the dispersion of the guests.


"My heart revolts within me, and two voices Make themselves audible within my bosom." WALLENSTEIN.
On Margaret's return home she found two letters on the table: one was a note for her mother,--the other, which had come by the post, was evidently from her aunt Shaw--covered with foreign post-marks--thin, silvery, and rustling. She took up the other, and was examining it, when her father came in suddenly:
"So your mother is tired, and gone to bed early! I'm afraid, such a thundery day was not the best in the world for the doctor to see her. What did he say? Dixon tells me he spoke to you about her."
Margaret hesitated. Her father's looks became more grave and anxious:

On Margaret's return home she found two letters on the table. One was a note for her mother; the other was from her Aunt Shaw, covered with foreign post-marks. She was examining it when her father came in.
'So your mother is tired, and gone to bed early! I'm afraid such a thundery day was not the best for the doctor to see her. What did he say?'
Margaret hesitated.


"He does not think her seriously ill?"
"Not at present; she needs care, he says; he was very kind, and he said he would call again, and see how his medicines worked."
"Only care?--he did not recommend change of air?--he did not say this smoky town was doing her any harm, did he, Margaret?"
"No! not a word," she replied, gravely. "He was anxious, I think."
"Doctors have that anxious manner; its professional," said he.
Margaret saw, in her father's nervous ways, that the first impression of possible danger was made upon his mind, in spite of all his making light of what she told him. He could not forget the subject,--could not pass from it to other things; he kept recurring to it through the evening, with an unwillingness to receive even the slightest unfavourable idea, which made Margaret inexpressibly sad.

'He does not think her seriously ill?' asked her father.
'Not at present; she needs care, he says; he was very kind, and said he would call again.'
'He did not recommend change of air? - he did not say this smoky town was doing her any harm, did he, Margaret?'
'Not a word,' she replied, gravely. 'He was anxious, I think.'
'Doctors have that anxious manner; it's professional.'
Margaret saw that the first impression of possible danger was made upon his mind, in spite of his making light of what she told him. He kept recurring to the subject through the evening, with an unwillingness to receive even the slightest unfavourable idea, which made Margaret inexpressibly sad.


"This letter is from Aunt Shaw, papa. She has got to Naples, and finds it too hot, so she has taken apartments at Sorrento. But I don't think she likes Italy."
"He did not say anything about diet, did he?"
"It was to be nourishing, and digestible. Mamma's appetite is pretty good, I think."
"Yes! and that makes it all the more strange he should have thought of speaking about diet."

'This letter is from Aunt Shaw, papa. She has got to Naples, and finds it too hot. I don't think she likes Italy.'
'He did not say anything about diet, did he?'
'It was to be nourishing. Mamma's appetite is pretty good, I think.'
'Yes! that makes it all the more strange he should have spoken about diet.'


"I asked him, papa." Another pause. Then Margaret went on: "Aunt Shaw says she has sent me some coral ornaments, papa: but," added Margaret, half smiling, "she's afraid the Milton dissenters won't appreciate them. She has got all her ideas of Dissenters from the Quakers, has she not?"
"If ever you hear or notice that your mother wishes for anything, be sure you let me know. I am so afraid she does not tell me always what she would like. Pray, see after that girl Mrs. Thornton named. If we had a good, efficient house-servant, Dixon could be constantly with her, and I'd answer for it we'd soon set her up amongst us, if care will do it. She's been very much tired of late, with the hot weather, and the difficulty of getting a servant. A little rest will put her quite to rights--eh, Margaret?"

'I asked him, papa.' Margaret went on: 'Aunt Shaw says, she has sent me some coral ornaments, papa; but she's afraid the Milton Dissenters won't appreciate them.'
'If ever you hear that your mother wishes for anything, be sure you let me know. I am afraid she does not always tell me what she would like. Pray, see about that girl Mrs. Thornton named. If we had a good house-servant, Dixon could be constantly with your mother. We could soon set her up. She's been very tired of late, with the hot weather, but a little rest will put her to rights - eh, Margaret?'


"I hope so," said Margaret,--but so sadly, that her father took notice of it. He pinched her cheek.
"Come; if you look so pale as this, I must rouge you up a little. Take care of yourself, child, or you'll be wanting the doctor next."
But he could not settle to anything that evening. He was continually going backwards and forwards, on laborious tiptoe, to see if his wife was still asleep. Margaret's heart ached at his restlessness--his trying to stifle and strangle the hideous fear that was looming out of the dark places of his heart.
He came back at last, somewhat comforted.

'I hope so,' said Margaret sadly. Her father pinched her cheek.
'Come; you must take care of yourself, child, or you'll be wanting the doctor next.'
But he could not settle to anything that evening. He was continually going backwards and forwards, on laborious tiptoe, to see if his wife was still asleep. Margaret's heart ached at his restlessness. He came back at last, somewhat comforted.


"She's awake now, Margaret. She quite smiled as she saw me standing by her. Just her old smile. And she says she feels refreshed, and ready for tea. Where's the note for her? She want's to see it. I'll read it to her while you make tea."

'She's awake now, Margaret. She smiled as she saw me - just her old smile. And she says she feels refreshed, and ready for tea. Where's the note for her? She wants to see it.'


The note proved to be a formal invitation from Mrs. Thornton, to Mr., Mrs., and Miss Hale to dinner, on the twenty-first instant. Margaret was surprised to find an acceptance contemplated, after all she had learnt of sad probabilities during the day. But so it was. The idea of her husband's and daughter's going to this dinner had quite captivated Mrs. Hale's fancy, even before Margaret had heard the contents of the note. It was an event to diversify the monotony of the invalid's life; and she clung to the idea of their going, with even fretful pertinacity, when Margaret objected.
"Nay, Margaret: if she wishes it, I'm sure we'll both go willingly. She never would wish it unless she felt herself really stronger--really better than we thought she was, eh, Margaret?" said Mr. Hale, anxiously, as she prepared to write the note of acceptance, the next day.

The note was a formal invitation from Mrs. Thornton, to dinner on the twenty-first. Margaret was surprised to find an acceptance was contemplated. But so it was. The idea of her husband's and daughter's going to this dinner quite captivated Mrs. Hale's fancy. She clung to the idea of their going, even when Margaret objected.
'She wouldn't wish it unless she really felt stronger - would she, Margaret?' said Mr. Hale anxiously, as she prepared to write the note of acceptance the next day.


"Eh! Margaret?" questioned he, with a nervous motion of his hands. It seemed cruel to refuse him the comfort he craved for. And besides, his passionate refusal to admit the existence of fear, almost inspired Margaret herself with hope.
"I do think she is better since last night," said she. "Her eyes look brighter, and her complexion clearer."

It seemed cruel to refuse him the comfort he craved for.
'I do think she is better since last night,' said she. 'Her eyes look brighter, and her complexion clearer.'


"God bless you," said her father earnestly. "But is it true? Yesterday was so sultry every one felt ill. It was a most unlucky day for Mr. Donaldson to see her on."
So he went away to his day's duties, now increased by the preparation of some lectures he had promised to deliver to the working people at a neighbouring Lyceum. He had chosen Ecclesiastical Architecture as his subject, rather more in accordance with his own taste and knowledge than as falling in with the character of the place or the desire for particular kinds of information among those to whom he was to lecture. And the institution itself, being in debt, was only too glad to get a gratis course from an educated and accomplished man like Mr. Hale, let the subject be what it might.
"Well, mother," asked Mr. Thornton that night, "who have accepted your invitations for the twenty-first?"

'God bless you,' said her father, earnestly. 'Yesterday was so sultry everyone felt ill. It was a most unlucky day for Mr. Donaldson to see her.' So he went away to his day's duties, which were now increased by some lectures he had promised to deliver on Church Architecture.
'Well, mother,' asked Mr. Thornton that night, 'who have accepted your invitations for the twenty-first?'


"Fanny, where are the notes? The Slicksons accept, Collingbrooks accept, Stephenses accept, Browns decline. Hales--father and daughter come--mother too great an invalid--Macphersons come, and Mr. Horsfall, and Mr. Young. I was thinking of asking the Porters, as the Browns can't come."
"Very good. Do you know, I'm really afraid Mrs. Hale is very far from well, from what Dr. Donaldson says."
"It's strange of them to accept a dinner-invitation if she's very ill," said Fanny.

'Fanny, where are the notes? The Slicksons accept, Collingbrooks accept, Stephenses accept, Browns decline. Hales - father and daughter come - mother too great an invalid - Macphersons come, and Mr. Horsfall, and Mr. Young.'
'Very good. Do you know, I'm really afraid Mrs. Hale is very far from well, from what Dr. Donaldson says.'
'It's strange of them to accept a dinner-invitation if she's very ill,' said Fanny.


"I didn't say very ill," said her brother, rather sharply. "I only said far from well. They may not know it either." And then he suddenly remembered that, from what Dr. Donaldson had told him, Margaret, at any rate, must be aware of the exact state of the case.
"Very probably they are quite aware of what you said yesterday, John--of the great advantage it would be to them--to Mr. Hale, I mean, to be introduced to such people as the Stephenses and the Collingbrooks."
"I'm sure that motive would not influence them. No! I think I understand how it is."

'I didn't say very ill,' said her brother, rather sharply. 'I only said very far from well. They may not know it either.' Then he remembered that, from what Dr. Donaldson had told him, Margaret, at any rate, must be aware of the exact state of the case.
'Very probably they know the great advantage it would be to them, to be introduced to such people as the Stephenses and the Collingbrooks.'
'I'm sure that motive would not influence them. No! I think I understand how it is.'


"John!" said Fanny, laughing in her little, weak, nervous way. "How you profess to understand these Hales, and how you never will allow that we can know anything about them. Are they really so very different to most people one meets with?"
She did not mean to vex him; but if she had intended it, she could not have done it more thoroughly. He chafed in silence, however, not deigning to reply to her question.

'John!' said Fanny, laughing in her little, weak, nervous way. 'How you profess to understand these Hales, and yet make out they are so different to most people.'
She did not mean to vex him; but she could not have done it more thoroughly. He was silent.


"They do not seem to me out of the common way," said Mrs. Thornton. "He appears a worthy kind of man enough; rather too simple for trade--so it's perhaps as well he should have been a clergyman first, and now a teacher. She's a bit of a fine lady, with her invalidism; and as for the girl--she's the only one who puzzles me when I think about her,--which I don't often do. She seems to have a great notion of giving herself airs; and I can't make out why. I could almost fancy she thinks herself too good for her company at times. And yet they're not rich; from all I can hear they never have been."
"And she's not accomplished, mamma. She can't play."
"Go on, Fanny. What else; does she want to bring her up to your standard?"

'They do not seem to me out of the common way,' said Mrs. Thornton. 'He appears a worthy kind of man enough. She's a bit of a fine lady, with her invalidism; and as for the girl - she's the one who puzzles me. She seems to have a great notion of giving herself airs; and I can't make out why. I could almost fancy she thinks herself too good for her company. And yet they're not rich.'
'And she's not accomplished, mamma. She can't play.'
'Go on, Fanny. What else does she want to bring her up to your standard?'


"Nay! John," said his mother, "that speech of Fanny's did no harm. I myself heard Miss Hale say she could not play. If you would let us alone, we could perhaps like her, and see her merits."
"I'm sure I never could!" murmured Fanny, protected by her mother. Mr. Thornton heard, but did not care to reply. He was walking up and down the dining-room, wishing that his mother would order candles, and allow him to set to work at either reading or writing, and so put a stop to the conversation. But he never thought of interfering in any of the small domestic regulations that Mrs. Thornton observed, in habitual remembrance of her old economies.
"Mother," said he, stopping, and bravely speaking out the truth, "I wish you would like Miss Hale."

'Nay! John,' said his mother, 'I myself heard Miss Hale say she could not play. If you would let us alone, we could perhaps like her, and see her merits.'
'I'm sure I never could!' murmured Fanny. Mr. Thornton heard her, but did not reply. He walked up and down the dining-room, wishing that his mother would order candles, and allow him to read or write, and so end the conversation. But he never thought of interfering in any of the small domestic rules that Mrs. Thornton observed, in remembrance of her old economies.
'Mother,' said he, stopping, and bravely speaking out the truth, 'I wish you would like Miss Hale.'


"Why," asked she, startled by his earnest, yet tender manner. "You're never thinking of marrying her?--a girl without a penny."
"She would never have me," said he, with a short laugh.
"No, I don't think she would," answered his mother. "She laughed in my face, when I praised her for speaking out something Mr. Bell had said in your favour. I liked the girl for doing so frankly, for it made me sure she had no thought of you; and the next minute she vexed me so by seeming to think---- Well, never mind! Only you're right in saying she's too good an opinion of herself to think of you! The saucy jade! I should like to know where she'd find a better!"

'Why?' asked she, startled by his earnest, yet tender manner. 'You're never thinking of marrying her? - a girl without a penny.'
'She would never have me,' said he, with a short laugh.
'No, I don't think she would,' answered his mother. 'She laughed in my face, when I praised her for repeating something Mr. Bell had said in your favour. I liked the girl for doing it so frankly, for it made me sure she had no thought of you; and the next minute she vexed me so by- Well, never mind! But she's too good an opinion of herself to think of you. The saucy jade! I should like to know where she'd find a better!'


"Well, as I'm just as much convinced of the truth of what you have been saying as you can be; and as I have no thought or expectation of ever asking her to be my wife, you'll believe me for the future that I'm quite disinterested in speaking about her. I foresee trouble for that girl--perhaps, want of motherly care--and I only wish you to be ready to be a friend to her, in case she needs one. Now, Fanny," said he, "I trust you have delicacy enough to understand, that it is as great an injury to Miss Hale as to me--in fact, she would think it a greater--to suppose that I have any reason, more than I now give, for begging you and my mother to show her every kindly attention."
"I cannot forgive her her pride," said his mother; "I will befriend her, if there is need, for your asking, John. I would befriend Jezebel herself if you asked me. But this girl, who turns up her nose at us all--who turns up her nose at you----"
"Nay, mother; I have never yet put myself, and I mean never to put myself, within reach of her contempt."

If these words hurt her son, the dusky light prevented him from showing it. He came up quite cheerfully to his mother, and putting one hand on her shoulder, said:
'Well, as I have no thought of ever asking her to be my wife, you'll believe that I'm quite disinterested in speaking about her. I foresee trouble for that girl - perhaps want of motherly care. I only wish you to be ready to be a friend to her, if she needs one. Now, Fanny, I trust you understand that I have no other reason for begging you and my mother to be kind to her.'
'I cannot forgive her pride,' said his mother. 'I will befriend her, if there is need, John. I would befriend Jezebel herself if you asked me. But this girl, who turns up her nose at us-'


"Contempt, indeed!"--(One of Mrs. Thornton's expressive snorts.)--"Don't go on speaking of Miss Hale, John, if I've to be kind to her. When I'm with her, I don't know if I like or dislike her most; but when I think of her, and hear you talk of her, I hate her. I can see she's given herself airs to you as well as if you'd told me out."
"And if she has," said he--and then he paused for a moment--then went on: "I'm not a lad, to be cowed by a proud look from a woman, or to care for her misunderstanding me and my position. I can laugh at it!"
"To be sure! and at her too, with her fine notions, and haughty tosses!"

'If she does,' said he, 'I'm not a lad to be cowed by a proud look from a woman, or to care for her misunderstanding me. I can laugh at it!'


"I only wonder why you talk so much about her, then," said Fanny. "I'm sure, I'm tired enough of the subject."
"Well!" said her brother, with a shade of bitterness. "Suppose we find some more agreeable subject. What do you say to a strike, by way of something pleasant to talk about?"
"Have the hands actually turned out?" asked Mrs. Thornton, with vivid interest.

'I only wonder why you talk so much about her, then,' said Fanny. 'I'm sure, I'm tired of the subject.'
'Well!' said her brother, with a shade of bitterness. 'Suppose we find some more agreeable subject - like a strike?'
'Have the hands actually turned out?' asked Mrs. Thornton.


"Hamper's men are actually out. Mine are working out their week, through fear of being prosecuted for breach of contract. I'd have had every one of them up and punished for it, that left his work before his time was out."
"The law expenses would have been more than the hands themselves were worth--a set of ungrateful naughts!" said his mother.
"To be sure. But I'd have shown them how to keep my word, and how I mean them to keep their's. They know me by this time. Slickson's men are off--pretty certain he won't spend money in getting them punished. We're in for a turn-out, mother."

'Hamper's men are out. Mine are working out their week, through fear of being prosecuted for breach of contract. I'd have had every one of them up for that, if they left their work before time.'
'The law fees would have been more than the hands themselves were worth - the ungrateful naughts!' said his mother.
'To be sure. But I'd have shown them how I keep my word, and how I mean them to keep theirs. They know me. Slickson's men are off - we're in for a turn-out, mother.'


"I hope there are not many orders in hand?"
"Of course there are. They know that well enough. But they don't quite understand all, though they think they do."
"What do you mean, John?"
Candles had been brought, and Fanny had taken up her interminable piece of worsted-work, over which she was yawning; throwing herself back in her chair, from time to time to gaze at vacancy, and think of nothing at her ease.

'I hope there are not many orders in hand?'
'Of course there are. They know that well enough. But they don't quite understand all, though they think they do.'
'What do you mean, John?'
Candles had been brought, and Fanny was sewing and yawning in turn; throwing herself back in her chair, from time to time, to gaze at vacancy, and think of nothing.


"Why," said he, "the Americans are getting their yarns so into the general market, that our only chance is producing them at a lower rate. If we can't, we may shut up shop at once, and hands and masters alike go on tramp. Yet these fools go back to the prices paid three years ago--nay, some of their leaders quote Dickinson's price now--though they know as well as we do that, what with fines pressed out of their wages, as no honourable man would extort them, the real rate of wage paid at Dickinson's is less than at ours. Upon my word, mother, I wish the old combination laws were in force. It is too bad to find out that fools--ignorant, wayward men like these--just by uniting their silly heads, are to rule over the fortunes of those who bring all the wisdom that knowledge and experience, and often painful thought and anxiety, can give. The next thing will be--indeed, we've all but come to it now--that we shall have to go and ask--stand hat in hand--and humbly ask the secretary of the Spinner's Union to be so kind as to furnish us with labour at their own price. That's what they want--they, who haven't the sense to see that, if we don't get a fair share of the profits to compensate us for our wear and tear here in England, we can move off to some other country; and that, what with home and foreign competition, we are none of us likely to make above a fair share, and may be thankful enough if we can get that, in an average number of years."
"Can't you get hands from Ireland? I wouldn't keep these fellows a day. I'd teach them that I was master, and could employ what servants I liked."

'Why,' said he, 'the Americans are selling so many yarns, that our only chance is producing them at a lower rate. If we can't, we may shut up shop at once. Yet these fools go back to the prices paid three years ago - nay, some of their leaders quote Dickinson's prices now, though they know as well as we do that, what with fines taken out of their wages, and other fees, the real rate of wage paid at Dickinson's is less than at ours. Upon my word, mother, it is too bad to find that ignorant fools like these are to rule over the fortunes of those with knowledge and experience. The next thing, we shall have to go hat in hand and humbly ask the Spinners' Union to kindly give us labour at their own price. That's what they want. They haven't the sense to see that, if we don't get enough profit here in England, we can move off to some other country.'
'Can't you get hands from Ireland? I wouldn't keep these fellows a day. I'd teach them that I could employ what servants I liked.'


"Yes! to be sure, I can; and will, too, if they go on long. It will be trouble and expense, and I fear there will be some danger; but I will do it, rather than give in."
"If there is to be all this extra expense, I'm sorry we're giving a dinner just now."
"So am I,--not because of the expense, but because I shall have much to think about, and many unexpected calls on my time. But we must have had Mr. Horsfall, and he does not stay in Milton long. And as for the others, we owe them dinners, and it's all one trouble."

'Yes! to be sure, I can; and I will, too, if they go on long. It will be trouble and expense; but I will do it, rather than give in.'
'If there is to be all this extra expense, I'm sorry we're giving a dinner just now.'
'So am I - not because of the expense, but because I shall have much to think about, and many calls on my time. But we owe the dinners.'


He kept on with his restless walk--not speaking any more, but drawing a deep breath from time to time, as if endeavouring to throw off some annoying thought. Fanny asked her mother numerous small questions, all having nothing to do with the subject, which a wiser person would have perceived was occupying her attention. Consequently, she received many short answers. She was not sorry when, at ten o'clock, the servants filed in to prayers. These her mother always read,--first reading a chapter. They were now working steadily through the Old Testament. When prayers were ended, and his mother had wished him good-night, with that long steady look of hers which conveyed no expression of the tenderness that was in her heart, but yet had the intensity of a blessing, Mr. Thornton continued his walk. All his business plans had received a check, a sudden pull-up, from this approaching turn-out. The forethought of many anxious hours was thrown away, utterly wasted by their insane folly, which would injure themselves even more than him, though no one could set any limit to the mischief they were doing. And these were the men who thought themselves fitted to direct the masters in the disposal of their capital; Hamper had said, only this very day, that if he were ruined by the strike, he would start life again, comforted by the conviction that those who had brought it on were in a worse predicament than he himself,--for he had head as well as hands, while they had only hands; and if they drove away their market, they could not follow it, nor turn to anything else.

He kept on with his restless walk, drawing a deep breath from time to time, as if trying to throw off some annoying thought. Fanny was not sorry when, at ten o'clock, the servants filed in to prayers, which her mother read.
When prayers were ended, his mother wished him goodnight, with a long steady look which conveyed none of the tenderness in her heart, but yet had the intensity of a blessing. Mr. Thornton continued his walk. All his business plans had received a check from this approaching turn-out. The forethought of many anxious hours was thrown away, utterly wasted by their insane folly, which would injure themselves even more than him.
And these were the men who thought themselves fitted to direct the masters in the use of their money! Hamper had said that if he were ruined by the strike, he would start again, comforted by the conviction that the strikers were in a worse predicament - for he had head as well as hands, while they had only hands, and could turn to nothing else.


But this thought was no consolation to Mr. Thornton. It might be that revenge gave him no pleasure; it might be that he valued the position he had earned with the sweat of his brow, so much that he keenly felt its being endangered by the ignorance or folly of others,--so keenly that he had no thoughts to spare for what would be the consequences of their conduct to themselves. He paced up and down, setting his teeth now and then. At last it struck two. The candles were flickering in their sockets. He lighted his own, muttering to himself:

But this thought was no consolation to Mr. Thornton. It might be that revenge gave him no pleasure; it might be that he felt keenly that all his efforts were endangered by the folly of others - so keenly that he had no thoughts to spare for what would happen to them. He paced up and down until the clock struck two. The candles were flickering in their sockets. He muttered to himself:


"Once for all they shall know whom they have got to deal with. I can give them a fortnight,--no more. If they don't see their madness before the end of that time, I must have hands from Ireland. I believe it's Slickson's doing,--confound him and his dodges! He thought he was overstocked; so he seemed to yield at first, when the deputation came to him,--and of course, he only confirmed them in their folly, as he meant to do. That's where it spread from."

'Once for all, they shall know whom they have got to deal with. I can give them a fortnight. If they don't see their madness before the end of that time, I must have hands from Ireland.'


"Revenge may have her own; Roused discipline aloud proclaims their cause, And injured navies urge their broken laws." BYRON.


Margaret began to wonder whether all offers were as unexpected beforehand,--as distressing at the time of their occurrence, as the two she had had. An involuntary comparison between Mr. Lennox and Mr. Thornton arose in her mind. She had been sorry, that an expression of any other feeling than friendship had been lured out by circumstances from Henry Lennox. That regret was the predominant feeling, on the first occasion of her receiving a proposal. She had not felt so stunned--so impressed as she did now, when echoes of Mr. Thornton's voice yet lingered about the room. In Lennox's case, he seemed for a moment to have slid over the boundary between friendship and love; and the instant afterwards, to regret it nearly as much as she did, although for different reasons. In Mr. Thornton's case, as far as Margaret knew, there was no intervening stage of friendship. Their intercourse had been one continued series of opposition. Their opinions clashed; and indeed, she had never perceived that he had cared for her opinions, as belonging to her, the individual. As far as they defied his rock-like power of character, his passion-strength, he seemed to throw them off from him with contempt, until she felt the weariness of the exertion of making useless protests; and now, he had come, in this strange wild passionate way, to make known his love!

Margaret began to wonder whether all offers were as unexpected and distressing as the two she had had. She compared Mr. Lennox and Mr. Thornton in her mind. When Mr. Lennox proposed, her main feeling had been regret that he had expressed a feeling other than friendship. She had not felt so stunned - so impressed as she did now, when echoes of Mr. Thornton's voice yet lingered about the room.
In Lennox's case, he seemed for a moment to have slid over the boundary between friendship and love; and the instant afterwards, to regret it nearly as much as she did. In Mr. Thornton's case there was no stage of friendship, only opposition. Their opinions clashed; and indeed, she had never perceived that he had cared for her opinions. He seemed to throw them off with contempt, until she felt weary of the exertion of making useless protests; and now he had come, in this strange wild passionate way, to make known his love.