"Then proudly, proudly up she rose, Tho' the tear was in her e'e, Whate'er ye say, think what ye may, Ye's get na word frae me!" SCOTCH BALLAD.
It was not merely that Margaret was known to Mr. Thornton to have spoken falsely,--though she imagined that for this reason only was she so turned in his opinion,--but that this falsehood of hers bore a distinct reference in his mind to some other lover. He could not forget the fond and earnest look that had passed between her and some other man--the attitude of familiar confidence, if not of positive endearment. The thought of this perpetually stung him; it was a picture before his eyes, wherever he went and whatever he was doing. In addition to this (and he ground his teeth as he remembered it), was the hour, dusky twilight; the place, so far away from home, and comparatively unfrequented. His nobler self had said at first, that all this last might be accidental, innocent, justifiable; but once allow her right to love and be beloved (and had he any reason to deny her right?--had not her words been severely explicit when she cast his love away from her?), she might easily have been beguiled into a longer walk, on to a later hour than she had anticipated. But that falsehood! which showed a fatal consciousness of something wrong, and to be concealed, which was unlike her. He did her that justice, though all the time it would have been a relief to believe her utterly unworthy of his esteem. It was this that made the misery--that he passionately loved her, and thought her, even with all her faults, more lovely and more excellent than any other woman; yet he deemed her so attached to some other man, so led away by her affection for him, as to violate her truthful nature. The very falsehood that stained her, was a proof how blindly she loved another--this dark, slight, elegant, handsome man--while he himself was rough, and stern, and strongly made. He lashed himself into an agony of fierce jealousy. He thought of that look, that attitude!--how he would have laid his life at her feet for such tender glances, such fond detention! He mocked at himself, for having valued the mechanical way in which she had protected him from the fury of the mob; now he had seen how soft and bewitching she looked when with a man she really loved. He remembered, point by point, the sharpness of her words--"There was not a man in all that crowd for whom she would not have done as much, far more readily than for him." He shared with the mob, in her desire of averting bloodshed from them; but this man, this hidden lover, shared with nobody; he had looks, words, hand-cleavings, lies, concealment, all to himself.
Mr. Thornton was conscious that he had never been so irritable as he was now, in all his life long; he felt inclined to give a short abrupt answer, more like a bark than a speech, to every one that asked him a question; and this consciousness hurt his pride: he had always piqued himself on his self-control, and control himself he would. So the manner was subdued to a quiet deliberation, but the matter was even harder and sterner than common. He was more than usually silent at home; employing his evenings in a continual pace backwards and forwards, which would have annoyed his mother exceedingly if it had been practised by any one else; and did not tend to promote any forbearance on her part even to this beloved son.
"Can you stop--can you sit down for a moment? I have something to say to you, if you would give up that everlasting walk, walk, walk."
He sat down instantly, on a chair against the wall.
"I want to speak to you about Betsy. She says she must leave us; that her lover's death has so affected her spirits she can't give her heart to her work."
"Very well. I suppose other cooks are to be met with."
"That's so like a man. It's not merely the cooking, it is that she knows all the ways of the house. Besides, she tells me something about your friend Miss Hale."
"Miss Hale is no friend of mine. Mr. Hale is my friend."
"I am glad to hear you say so, for if she had been your friend, what Betsy says would have annoyed you."
"Let me hear it," said he, with the extreme quietness of manner he had been assuming for the last few days.
"Betsy says, that the night on which her lover--I forget his name--for she always calls him 'he'----"
"Leonards."
"The night on which Leonards was last seen at the station--when he was last seen on duty, in fact--Miss Hale was there, walking about with a young man who, Bessy believes, killed Leonards by some blow or push."
"Leonards was not killed by any blow or push."
"How do you know?"
"Because I distinctly put the question to the surgeon of the Infirmary. He told me there was an internal disease of long standing, caused by Leonards' habit of drinking to excess; that the fact of his becoming rapidly worse while in a state of intoxication, settled the question as to whether the last fatal attack was caused by excess of drinking, or the fall."
"The fall! What fall?"
"Caused by the blow or push of which Betsy speaks."
"Then there was a blow or push?"
"I believe so."
"And who did it?"
"As there was no inquest, in consequence of the doctor's opinion I cannot tell you."
"But Miss Hale was there?"
No answer.
"And with a young man?"
Still no answer. At last he said: "I tell you, mother, that there was no inquest--no inquiry. No judicial inquiry, I mean."
"Betsy says that Woolmer (some man she knows, who is in a grocer's shop out at Crampton) can swear that Miss Hale was at the station at that hour, walking backwards and forwards with a young man."
"I don't see what we have to do with that. Miss Hale is at liberty to please herself."
"I'm glad to hear you say so," says Mrs. Thornton, eagerly. "It certainly signifies very little to us--not at all to you, after what has passed! but I--I made a promise to Mrs. Hale, that I would not allow her daughter to go wrong without advising and remonstrating with her. I shall certainly let her know my opinion of such conduct."
"I do not see any harm in what she did that evening," said Mr. Thornton, getting up, and coming near to his mother; he stood by the chimney-piece with his face turned away from the room.
"You would not have approved of Fanny's being seen out, after dark, in rather a lonely place, walking about with a young man. I say nothing of the taste which could choose the time, when her mother lay unburied, for such a promenade. Should you have liked your sister to have been noticed by a grocer's assistant for doing so?"
"In the first place, as it is not many years since I myself was a draper's assistant, the mere circumstance of a grocer's assistant noticing any act does not alter the character of the act to me. And in the next place, I see a great deal of difference between Miss Hale and Fanny. I can imagine that the one may have weighty reasons, which may and ought to make her overlook any seeming impropriety in her conduct. I never knew Fanny have weighty reasons for anything. Other people must guard her. I believe Miss Hale is a guardian to herself."
"A pretty character of your sister, indeed! Really, John, one would have thought Miss Hale had done enough to make you clear-sighted. She drew you on to an offer, by a bold display of pretended regard for you,--to play you off against this very young man, I've no doubt. Her whole conduct is clear to me now. You believe he is her lover, I suppose--you agree to that."
He turned round to his mother; his face was very gray and grim. "Yes, mother. I do believe he is her lover." When he had spoken, he turned round again; he writhed himself about, like one in bodily pain. He leant his face against his hand. Then before she could speak, he turned sharp again:
"Mother. He is her lover, whoever he is; but she may need help and womanly counsel;--there may be difficulties or temptations which I don't know. I fear there are. I don't want to know what they are; but as you have ever been a good--ay! and a tender mother to me, go to her, and gain her confidence, and tell her what is best to be done. I know that something is wrong; some dread, which must be a terrible torture to her."
"For God's sake, John!" said his mother, now really shocked, "what do you mean? What do you mean? What do you know?"
He did not reply to her.
"John! I don't know what I shan't think unless you speak. You have no right to say what you have done against her."
"Not against her, mother! I _could_ not speak against her."
"Well! you have no right to say what you have done, unless you say more. These half-expressions are what ruin a woman's character."
"Her character! Mother, you do not dare--" he faced about, and looked into her face with his flaming eyes. Then, drawing himself up into determined composure and dignity, he said, "I will not say any more than this, which is neither more nor less than the simple truth, and I am sure you believe me,--I have good reason to believe, that Miss Hale is in some strait and difficulty connected with an attachment which, of itself, from my knowledge of Miss Hale's character, is perfectly innocent and right. What my reason is, I refuse to tell. But never let me hear any one say a word against her, implying any more serious imputation than that she now needs the counsel of some kind and gentle woman. You promised Mrs. Hale to be that woman!"
"No!" said Mrs. Thornton. "I am happy to say, I did not promise kindness and gentleness, for I felt at the time that it might be out of my power to render these to one of Miss Hale's character and disposition. I promised counsel and advice, such as I would give to my own daughter; I shall speak to her as I would do to Fanny, if she had gone gallivanting with a young man in the dusk. I shall speak with relation to the circumstances I know, without being influenced either one way or another by the 'strong reasons' which you will not confide to me. Then I shall have fulfilled my promise, and done my duty.
"She will never bear it," said he passionately.
"She will have to bear it, if I speak in her dead mother's name."
"Well!" said he, breaking away, "don't tell me any more about it. I cannot endure to think of it. It will be better that you should speak to her any way, than that she should not be spoken to at all.--Oh! that look of love!" continued he, between his teeth, as he bolted himself into his own private room. "And that cursed lie; which showed some terrible shame in the background, to be kept from the light in which I thought she lived perpetually! Oh, Margaret, Margaret! Mother, how you have tortured me! Oh! Margaret, could you not have loved me? I am but uncouth and hard, but I would never have led you into any falsehood for me."
The more Mrs. Thornton thought over what her son had said, in pleading for a merciful judgment for Margaret's indiscretion, the more bitterly she felt inclined towards her. She took a savage pleasure in the idea of "speaking her mind" to her, in the guise of fulfilment of a duty. She enjoyed the thought of showing herself untouched by the "glamour," which she was well aware Margaret had the power of throwing over many people. She snorted scornfully over the picture of the beauty of her victim; her jet black hair, her clear smooth skin, her lucid eyes would not help to save her one word of the just and stern reproach which Mrs. Thornton spent half the night in preparing to her mind.
"Is Miss Hale within?" She knew she was, for she had seen her at the window, and she had her feet inside the little hall before Martha had half answered the question.
Margaret was sitting alone, writing to Edith, and giving her many particulars of her mother's last days. It was a softening employment, and she had to brush away the unbidden tears as Mrs. Thornton was announced.
She was so gentle and ladylike in her mode of reception that her visitor was somewhat daunted; and it became impossible to utter the speech, so easy of arrangement with no one to address it to. Margaret's low rich voice was softer than usual; her manner more gracious, because in her heart she was feeling very grateful to Mrs. Thornton for the courteous attention of her call. She exerted herself to find subjects of interest for conversation; praised Martha, the servant whom Mrs. Thornton had found for them: had asked Edith for a little Greek air, about which she had spoken to Miss Thornton. Mrs. Thornton was fairly discomfited. Her sharp Damascus blade seemed out of place, and useless among rose-leaves. She was silent because she was trying to task herself up to her duty. At last she stung herself into its performance by a suspicion which, in spite of all probability, she allowed to cross her mind, that all this sweetness was put on with a view of propitiating Mr. Thornton; that, somehow, the other attachment had fallen through, and that it suited Miss Hale's purpose to recall her rejected lover. Poor Margaret! there was perhaps so much truth in the suspicion as this; that Mrs. Thornton was the mother of one whose regard she valued, and feared to have lost; and this thought unconsciously added to her natural desire of pleasing one who was showing her kindness by her visit. Mrs. Thornton stood up to go, but yet she seemed to have something more to say. She cleared her throat and began:
"Miss Hale, I have a duty to perform. I promised your poor mother that, as far as my poor judgment went, I would not allow you to act in any way wrongly, or (she softened her speech down a little here) inadvertently, without remonstrating; at least without offering advice, whether you took it or not."
Margaret stood before her, blushing like any culprit, with her eyes dilating as she gazed at Mrs. Thornton. She thought she had come to speak to her about the falsehood she had told--that Mr. Thornton had employed her to explain the danger she had exposed herself to, of being confuted in full court! and although her heart sank to think he had not rather chosen to come himself, and upbraid her, and receive her penitence, and restore her again to his good opinion, yet she was too much humbled not to bear any blame on this subject patiently and meekly.
Mrs. Thornton went on:
"At first, when I heard from one of my servants, that you had been seen walking about with a gentleman, so far from home as the Outwood station, at such a time of the evening, I could hardly believe it. But my son, I am sorry to say, confirmed her story. It was indiscreet, to say the least; many a young woman has lost her character before now----"
Margaret's eyes flashed fire. This was a new idea--this was too insulting. If Mrs. Thornton had spoken to her about the lie she had told, well and good--she would have owned it, and humiliated herself. But to interfere with her conduct--to speak of her character! she--Mrs. Thornton, a mere stranger--it was too impertinent! She would not answer her--not one word. Mrs. Thornton saw the battle-spirit in Margaret's eyes, and it called up her combativeness also.
"For your mother's sake, I have thought it right to warn you against such improprieties; they must degrade you in the long run in the estimation of the world, even if in fact they do not lead you to positive harm."
"For my mother's sake," said Margaret, in a tearful voice, "I will bear much; but I cannot bear everything. She never meant me to be exposed to insult, I am sure."
"Insult, Miss Hale!"
"Yes, madam," said Margaret more steadily, "it is insult. What do you know of me that should lead you to suspect--Oh!" said she, breaking down, and covering her face with her hands--"I know now, Mr. Thornton has told you----"
"No, Miss Hale," said Mrs. Thornton, her truthfulness causing her to arrest the confession Margaret was on the point of making, though her curiosity was itching to hear it. "Stop. Mr. Thornton has told me nothing. You do not know my son. You are not worthy to know him. He said this. Listen, young lady, that you may understand, if you can, what sort of a man you rejected. This Milton manufacturer, his great tender heart scorned as it was scorned, said to me only last night, 'Go to her. I have good reason to know that she is in some strait arising out of some attachment; and she needs womanly counsel.' I believe those were his very words. Farther than that--beyond admitting the fact of your being at the Outwood station with a gentleman, on the evening of the twenty-sixth--he has said nothing--not one word against you. If he has knowledge of anything which should make you sob so, he keeps it to himself."
Margaret's face was still hidden in her hands, the fingers of which were wet with tears. Mrs. Thornton was a little mollified.
"Come, Miss Hale. There may be circumstances, I'll allow, that, if explained, may take off from the seeming impropriety."
Still no answer. Margaret was considering what to say; she wished to stand well with Mrs. Thornton; and yet she could not, might not, give any explanation. Mrs. Thornton grew impatient.
"I shall be sorry to break off an acquaintance; but for Fanny's sake--as I told my son, if Fanny had done so we should consider it a great disgrace--and Fanny might be led away----"
"I can give you no explanation," said Margaret, in a low voice. "I have done wrong, but not in the way you think or know about. I think Mr. Thornton judges me more mercifully than you;"--she had hard work to keep herself from choking with her tears--"but, I believe, madam, you mean to do rightly."
"Thank you," said Mrs. Thornton, drawing herself up; "I was not aware that my meaning was doubted. It is the last time I shall interfere. I was unwilling to consent to do it, when your mother asked me. I had not approved of my son's attachment to you, while I only suspected it. You did not appear to me worthy of him. But when you compromised yourself as you did at the time of the riot, and exposed yourself to the comments of servants and workpeople, I felt it was no longer right to set myself against my son's wish of proposing to you--a wish, by the way, which he had always denied entertaining until the day of the riot." Margaret winced, and drew in her breath with a long, hissing sound; of which, however, Mrs. Thornton took no notice. "He came; you had apparently changed your mind. I told my son yesterday, that I thought it possible, short as was the interval, you might have heard or learnt something of this other lover----"
"What must you think of me, madam?" asked Margaret, throwing her head back with proud disdain, till her throat curved outwards like a swan's. "You can say nothing more, Mrs. Thornton. I decline every attempt to justify myself for anything. You must allow me to leave the room."
And she swept out of it with the noiseless grace of an offended princess. Mrs. Thornton had quite enough of natural humour to make her feel the ludricrousness of the position in which she was left. There was nothing for it but to show herself out. She was not particularly annoyed at Margaret's way of behaving. She did not care enough for her for that. She had taken Mrs. Thornton's remonstrance to the full as keenly to heart as that lady expected; and Margaret's passion at once mollified her visitor, far more than any silence or reserve could have done. It showed the effect of her words. "My young lady," thought Mrs. Thornton to herself; "you've a pretty good temper of your own. If John and you had come together, he would have had to keep a tight hand over you, to make you know your place. But I don't think you will go a-walking again with your beau, at such an hour of the day, in a hurry. You've too much pride and spirit in you for that. I like to see a girl fly out at the notion of being talked about. It shows they're neither giddy, nor bold by nature. As for that girl, she might be bold, but she'd never be giddy. I'll do her that justice. Now as to Fanny, she'd be giddy, and not bold. She's no courage in her, poor thing!"
Mr. Thornton was not spending the morning so satisfactorily as his mother. She, at any rate, was fulfilling her determined purpose. He was trying to understand where he stood; what damage the strike had done him. A good deal of his capital was locked up in new and expensive machinery; and he had also bought cotton largely, with a view to some great orders which he had in hand. The strike had thrown him terribly behindhand, as to the completion of these orders. Even with his own accustomed and skilled workpeople, he would have had some difficulty in fulfilling his engagements; as it was, the incompetence of the Irish hands, who had to be trained to their work, at a time requiring unusual activity, was a daily annoyance.
It was not a favourable hour for Higgins to make his request. But he had promised Margaret to do it at any cost. So, though every moment added to his repugnance, his pride, and his sullenness of temper, he stood leaning against the dead wall, hour after hour, first on one leg, then on the other. At last the latch was sharply lifted, and out came Mr. Thornton.
"I want for to speak to yo', sir."
"Can't stay now, my man. I'm too late as it is."
"Well, sir, I reckon I can wait till yo' come back."
Mr. Thornton was half way down the street. Higgins sighed. But it was no use. To catch him in the street, was his only chance of seeing "the measter!" if he had rung the lodge bell or even gone up to the house to ask for him, he would have been referred to the overlooker. So he stood still again, vouchsafing no answer, but a short nod of recognition to the few men who knew and spoke to him, as the crowd drove out the millyard at dinner-time, and scowling with all his might at the Irish "knobsticks" who had just been imported. At last Mr. Thornton returned.
"What! you there still!"
"Ay, sir, I mun speak to yo'."
"Come in here, then. Stay, we'll go across the yard; the men are not come back, and we shall have it to ourselves. These good people, I see, are at dinner;" said he, closing the door of the porter's lodge.
He stopped to speak to the overlooker. The latter said in a low tone:
"I suppose you know, sir, that that man is Higgins, one of the leaders of the Union; he that made that speech in Hurstfield."
"No, I didn't," said Mr. Thornton, looking round sharply at his follower. Higgins was known to him by name as a turbulent spirit.
"Come along," said he, and his tone was rougher than before. "It is men such as this," thought he, "who interrupt commerce and injure the very town they live in: mere demagogues, lovers of power at whatever cost to others."
"Well, sir! what do you want with me?" said Mr. Thornton, facing round at him, as soon as they were in the counting-house of the mill.
"My name is Higgins"--
"I know that," broke in Mr. Thornton. "What do you want, Mr. Higgins? That's the question."
"I want work."
"Work! You're a pretty chap to come asking me for work. You don't want impudence, that's very clear."
"I've getten enemies and backbiters, like my betters; but I ne'er heerd o' ony of them calling me o'er-modest," said Higgins. His blood was a little roused by Mr. Thornton's manner, more than by his words.
Mr. Thornton saw a letter addressed to himself on the table. He took it up and read it through. At the end, he looked up and said, "What are you waiting for?"
"An answer to th' question I axed."
"I gave it you before. Don't waste any more of your time."
"Yo' made a remark, sir, on my impudence' but I were taught that it was manners to say either 'yes' or 'no,' when I were axed a civil question. I should be thankfu' to yo' if yo'd give me work. Hamper will speak to my being a good hand."
"I've a notion you'd better not send me to Hamper to ask for a character, my man. I might hear more than you'd like."
"I'd take th' risk. Worst they could say of me is, that I did what I thought best, even to my own wrong."
"You'd better go and try them, then, and see whether they'll give you work. I've turned off upwards of a hundred of my best hands, for no other fault than following you and such as you; and d'ye think I'll take you on? I might as well put a fire-brand into the midst of the cotton-waste."
Higgins turned away: then the recollection of Boucher came over him, and he faced round with the greatest concession he could persuade himself to make.
"I'd promise yo', measter, I'd not speak a word as could do harm, if so be yo' did right by us; and I'd promise more: I'd promise that when I seed yo' going wrong, and acting unfair, I'd speak to yo' in private first; and that would be a fair warning. If yo' and I did na agree in our opinion o' your conduct, yo' might turn me off at an hour's notice."
"Upon my word, you don't think small beer of yourself! Hamper has had a loss of you. How came he to let you and your wisdom go?"
"Well, we parted wi' mutual dissatisfaction. I wouldn't gi'e the pledge they were asking; and they wouldn't have me at no rate. So I'm free to make another engagement; and as I said before, though I should na' say it, I'm a good hand, measter, and a steady man--specially when I can keep fro' drink; and that I shall do now, if I ne'er did afore."
"That you may have more money laid up for another strike, I suppose?"
"No! I'd be thankful if I was free to do that; it's for to keep th' widow and childer of a man who was drove mad by them knobsticks o' yourn; put out of his place by a Paddy that did na know weft fro' warp."
"Well! you'd better turn to something else, if you've any such good intention in your head. I shouldn't advise you to stay in Milton: you're too well known here."
"If it were summer," said Higgins, "I'd take to Paddy's work, and go as a navvy, or haymaking, or summat, and ne'er see Milton again. But it's winter, and th' childer will clem."
"A pretty navvy you'd make! why you couldn't do half a day's work at digging against an Irishman."
"I'd only charge half-a-day for th' twelve hours, if I could only do half-a-day's work in th' time. Yo're not knowing of any place, where they could gi' me a trial, away fro' the mills, if I'm such a firebrand? I'd take any wage they thought I was worth, for the sake of those childer."
"Don't you see what you would be? You'd be a knobstick. You'd be taking less wages than the other labourers--all for the sake of another man's children. Think how you'd abuse any poor fellow who was willing to take what he could get to keep his own children. You and your Union would soon be down upon him. No! no! if it's only for the recollection of the way in which you've used the poor knobsticks before now, I say No! to your question. I'll not give you work. I won't say, I don't believe your pretext for coming and asking for work; I know nothing about it. It may be true, or it may not. It's a very unlikely story, at any rate. Let me pass. I'll not give you work. There's your answer."
"I hear, sir. I would na ha' troubled you', but that I were bid to come, by one as seemed to think yo'd getten some place in your heart. Hoo were mistook, and I were misled. But I'm not the first man as is misled by a woman."
"Tell her to mind her own business the next time, instead of taking up your time and mine too. I believe women are at the bottom of every plague in this world. Be off with you."
"I'm obleeged to you for a' yo'r kindness, measter, and most of a' for yo'r civil way o' saying good-bye."
Mr. Thornton did not deign a reply. But, looking out of the window a minute later, he was struck with the lean, bent figure going out of the yard; the heavy walk was in strange contrast with the resolute, clear determination of the man to speak to him. He crossed to the porter's lodge:
"How long has that man Higgins been waiting to speak to me?"
"He was outside the gate before eight o'clock, sir. I think he's been there ever since."
"And it is now--?"
"Just one, sir."
"Five hours," thought Mr. Thornton; "it's a long time for a man to wait, doing nothing but first hoping and then fearing."

It was not merely that Margaret was known to Mr. Thornton to have spoken falsely - though this was the only reason she imagined - but that her falsehood was linked in his mind to some other lover. He could not forget the fond and earnest look that had passed between her and the other man - the attitude of familiar confidence. The thought of this stung him.
In addition (and he ground his teeth as he remembered it) was the hour, dusky twilight; the place, so far away from home, and lonely. His nobler self had said at first that all this might be accidental and innocent; but once allow her the right to love and be beloved (and had he any reason to deny that right?) - she might easily have been beguiled into a longer walk, to a later hour than she had anticipated.
But that falsehood! which showed a fatal consciousness of something wrong, and to be concealed, which was unlike her. He did her that much justice, though it would have been a relief to believe her utterly unworthy of his esteem. It was this that made the misery - that he passionately loved her, and thought her, even with all her faults, more lovely and more excellent than any other woman; yet he believed her so attached to some other man that she would violate her truthful nature. The falsehood was proof of how blindly she loved another - this dark, slight, handsome man - while he himself was rough, and stern, and strongly made.
He lashed himself into an agony of fierce jealousy. He thought of that look, that attitude! He would have laid his life at her feet for such tender glances! He mocked himself, for having valued the mechanical way in which she had protected him from the fury of the mob; now he had seen how soft and bewitching she looked when with a man she really loved. This man, this hidden lover, had her looks, words, hand-cleavings, lies, concealment, all to himself.
Mr. Thornton was conscious that he had never been so irritable in his life as he was now. He felt inclined to give a short abrupt answer, like a bark, to every question; and this hurt his pride, for he had always piqued himself on his self-control. So he subdued his manner, but it was a hard task. He was more than usually silent at home; spending his evenings pacing backwards and forwards, which would have annoyed his mother exceedingly if it had been done by anyone else; and was tiresome even in this beloved son.
'Can you sit down for a moment? I have something to say to you, if you would give up that everlasting walk, walk, walk.'
He sat down instantly.
'I want to speak to you about Betsy. She says she must leave us; that her lover's death has so affected her spirits she can't work.'
'Very well. I suppose other cooks are to be found.'
'That's so like a man. It's not merely the cooking, it is that she knows all the ways of the house. Besides, she tells me something about your friend Miss Hale.'
'Miss Hale is no friend of mine. Mr. Hale is my friend.'
'I am glad to hear you say so, for if she had been your friend, what Betsy says would have annoyed you.'
'Let me hear it,' said he, with the extreme quietness of manner he had been assuming for the last few days.
'Betsy says, that the night on which her lover - I forget his name-'
'Leonards.'
'The night on which Leonards was last seen at the station - Miss Hale was there, walking with a young man who, Betsy believes, killed Leonards by some blow or push.'
'Leonards was not killed by any blow or push.'
'How do you know?'
'Because I distinctly put the question to the surgeon of the Infirmary. He told me there was a long-standing disease, caused by Leonards' habit of drinking to excess; that his last fatal attack was caused by drinking, not the fall.'
'The fall! What fall?'
'Caused by the blow or push of which Betsy speaks.'
'Then there was a blow or push?'
'I believe so.'
'And who did it?'
'As there was no inquest, I cannot tell you.'
'But Miss Hale was there?'
No answer.
'And with a young man?'
Still no answer. At last he said: 'I tell you, mother, that there was no judicial inquiry.'
'Betsy says that some man who is in a grocer's shop at Crampton can swear that Miss Hale was at the station, walking with a young man.'
'I don't see what we have to do with that. Miss Hale is at liberty to please herself.'
'I'm glad to hear you say so,' said Mrs. Thornton, eagerly. 'It certainly means nothing to you, after what has passed! but I promised Mrs. Hale that I would not allow her daughter to go wrong without advising her. I shall certainly let her know my opinion of such conduct.'
'I do not see any harm in what she did that evening,' said Mr. Thornton, getting up, and standing by the chimney-piece with his face turned away from the room.
'You would not have approved of Fanny's being seen out, after dark, in a lonely place, with a young man. I say nothing of the choice of time, when her mother lay unburied, for such a promenade. Should you have liked your sister to have been noticed by a grocer's assistant for doing so?'
'In the first place, as it is not many years since I myself was a draper's assistant, that circumstance does not alter the nature of the act to me. And in the next place, I see a great deal of difference between Miss Hale and Fanny. I can imagine that the one may have weighty reasons, which might make her overlook any seeming impropriety in her conduct. I never knew Fanny have weighty reasons for anything.'
'A pretty character of your sister, indeed! Really, John, one would have thought Miss Hale had done enough to make you clear-sighted. She drew you on to an offer, by a bold display of pretended regard - to play you off against this very young man, I've no doubt. Her whole conduct is clear to me now. You believe he is her lover, I suppose?'
He turned round to his mother; his face was very grey and grim. 'Yes, mother. I do believe he is her lover.' When he had spoken, he turned again and leant his face against his hand. Then before she could speak, he added:
'Mother. He is her lover; but she may need help and womanly counsel; there may be difficulties or temptations which I don't know. I fear there are. I don't want to know what they are; but as you have always been a good and tender mother to me, go to her, and gain her confidence, and tell her what is best to be done. I know that something is wrong; and it must be a terrible torture to her.'
'For God's sake, John!' said his mother, now really shocked, 'what do you mean? What do you know?'
He did not reply.
'John! I don't know what to think unless you speak. You must explain. These half-expressions are what ruin a woman's character.'
'Her character! Mother, you do not dare-' He looked her in the face with flaming eyes. Then, drawing himself up with determined composure, he said, 'I will not say any more than this: that I have good reason to believe that Miss Hale is in some difficulty connected with an attachment which of itself, from my knowledge of Miss Hale's character, is perfectly innocent and right. I refuse to tell my reason. But never let me hear anyone say a word against her, implying anything more serious than that she now needs the counsel of some kind and gentle woman. You promised Mrs. Hale to be that woman!'
'No!' said Mrs. Thornton. 'I am happy to say, I did not promise kindness and gentleness, for I felt that it might be out of my power to offer these to one of Miss Hale's character. I promised counsel and advice, such as I would give to my own daughter. I shall speak to her as I would do to Fanny, if she had gone gallivanting with a young man in the dusk. Then I shall have fulfilled my promise, and done my duty.'
'She will never bear it,' said he passionately.
'She will have to bear it, if I speak in her dead mother's name.'
'Well!' said he, breaking away, 'don't tell me any more about it. I cannot endure to think of it.'
As he shut himself into his private room, he continued. 'Oh! that look of love! And that cursed lie; which showed some terrible shame to be kept dark! Oh, Margaret, Margaret! Could you not have loved me? I am uncouth and hard, but I would never have led you into any falsehood for me.'
The more Mrs. Thornton thought over what her son had said, in pleading for a merciful judgment on Margaret, the more bitter she felt towards her. She took a savage pleasure in the idea of 'speaking her mind' to her, in the guise of fulfilling her duty. She enjoyed the thought of showing herself untouched by the enchantment which she felt Margaret had thrown over many people. She snorted scornfully over her victim's beauty; her jet black hair, her smooth skin, her lucid eyes would not save her one word of the just and stern reproach which Mrs. Thornton spent half the night preparing in her mind.
'Is Miss Hale within?' She knew she was, for she had seen her at the window, and she had her feet inside the little hall before Martha had answered.
Margaret was sitting alone, writing to Edith about her mother's last days. She had to brush away unbidden tears as Mrs. Thornton was announced.
She was so gentle and ladylike that her visitor was somewhat daunted; and it became impossible to utter the speech, so easy to prepare with no one to address it to. Margaret's low rich voice was softer than usual; her manner more gracious, because she was feeling very grateful to Mrs. Thornton for the courteous attention of her call. She exerted herself to make conversation; and praised Martha, the servant whom Mrs. Thornton had found for them.
Mrs. Thornton was fairly discomfited. Her sharp blade seemed out of place, and useless among rose-leaves. She was silent until she stung herself into performing her duty by reflecting that all this sweetness was probably put on just to propitiate her. She suspected that the other attachment had fallen through, and Miss Hale hoped to recall her rejected lover.
Poor Margaret! It was true that Mrs. Thornton was the mother of one whose regard she valued, and feared to have lost; and this thought unconsciously added to her natural desire of pleasing her. Mrs. Thornton cleared her throat and began:
'Miss Hale, I have a duty to perform. I promised your poor mother that I would not allow you to act in any way wrongly, or (she softened her speech a little here) inadvertently, without remonstrating; at least, without offering advice, whether you took it or not.'
Margaret stood blushing, with her eyes dilating. She thought Mrs. Thornton had come to speak to her about the falsehood she had told - that Mr. Thornton had employed her to explain the danger she had exposed herself to, of being confuted in court. Although her heart sank to think he had not chosen to come himself, yet she was too much humbled not to listen patiently and meekly.
Mrs. Thornton went on:
'At first, when I heard from one of my servants, that you had been seen walking about with a gentleman, at the Outwood station, late in the evening, I could hardly believe it. But my son, I am sorry to say, confirmed her story. It was indiscreet, to say the least; many a young woman has lost her character before now-'
Margaret's eyes flashed fire. This was a new idea - this was insulting. If Mrs. Thornton had spoken to her about the lie, well and good - she would have owned up to it. But to speak of her character! Mrs. Thornton, a mere stranger - it was too impertinent! She would not answer her - not one word.
Mrs. Thornton saw the battle-spirit in Margaret's eyes, and it called up her combativeness also.
'For your mother's sake, I thought it right to warn you against such improprieties; they must degrade you in the long run in the world's eyes, even if they do not lead you to positive harm.'
'For my mother's sake,' said Margaret tearfully, 'I will bear much; but she never meant me to be exposed to insult, I am sure.'
'Insult, Miss Hale!'
'Yes, madam,' said Margaret more steadily, 'it is insult. What do you know of me that should lead you to suspect - Oh!' said she, breaking down, and covering her face with her hands - 'I know now, Mr. Thornton has told you-'
'No, Miss Hale,' said Mrs. Thornton, her truthfulness causing her to break in. 'Stop. Mr. Thornton has told me nothing. You do not know my son. You are not worthy to know him. He said this. Listen, young lady, and understand, if you can, what sort of a man you rejected. He said to me last night, "Go to her. I have good reason to know that she is in some difficulty, arising out of an attachment; and she needs womanly counsel." Beyond that - and your being at the station with a gentleman - he has said not one word against you. If he has knowledge of anything which should make you sob so, he keeps it to himself.'
Margaret's face was still hidden in her hands. Mrs. Thornton was a little mollified.
'Come, Miss Hale. There may be circumstances, I'll allow, that, if explained, may lessen the impropriety.'
Still no answer. Margaret was considering what to say; she wished to stand well with Mrs. Thornton; and yet she could not explain. Mrs. Thornton grew impatient.
'I shall be sorry to break off an acquaintance; but for Fanny's sake-'
'I can give you no explanation,' said Margaret, in a low voice. 'I have done wrong, but not in the way you think. Mr. Thornton judges me more mercifully than you;' - she had hard work to keep herself from choking with her tears - 'but, I believe, madam, you mean to do rightly.'
'Thank you,' said Mrs. Thornton, drawing herself up; 'I was not aware that my meaning was doubted. It is the last time I shall interfere. I did not approve of my son's attachment to you. You did not appear to me worthy of him. But when you compromised yourself at the time of the riot, and exposed yourself to the comments of servants and workpeople, I felt it was no longer right to set myself against my son's wish of proposing to you - a wish, by the way, which he had always denied having until the day of the riot.' Margaret winced, and drew in her breath. Mrs. Thornton went on. 'He came; you had apparently changed your mind. I told my son yesterday, that I thought it possible, short as was the interval, you might have learnt something of this other lover-'
'What must you think of me, madam?' asked Margaret, throwing her head back with proud disdain. 'You can say nothing more, Mrs. Thornton. I decline every attempt to justify myself. You must allow me to leave the room.'
And she swept out of it with the noiseless grace of an offended princess. Mrs. Thornton had enough natural humour to make her feel the ludicrousness of the position in which she was left. There was nothing for it but to show herself out. She was not particularly annoyed; she did not care enough about Margaret for that. Margaret's passion had mollified her visitor, far more than any silence could have done. It showed the effect of her words.
'My young lady,' thought Mrs. Thornton, 'you've a pretty good temper of your own. If John and you had come together, he would have had to keep a tight hand over you. But I don't think you will go a-walking again with your beau, at such an hour. You've too much pride for that. I like to see a girl fly out at the notion of being talked about. It shows they're neither giddy, nor bold. As for that girl, she might be bold, but she'd never be giddy. Now as for Fanny, she'd be giddy, and not bold. She's no courage, poor thing!'
Mr. Thornton was not spending the morning so satisfactorily as his mother. He was trying to understand what damage the strike had done him. A good deal of his capital was locked up in new and expensive machinery; and he had also bought in cotton with a view to some large orders. The strike had thrown him terribly behindhand in the completion of these orders. Even with his own skilled workpeople, he would have had some difficulty in fulfilling them; as it was, the incompetence of the Irish hands, who had to be trained, was an annoyance.
It was not a favourable hour for Higgins to make his request. But he had promised Margaret to do it. So, though every moment added to his repugnance, pride and sullenness, he stood leaning against the wall, hour after hour, first on one leg, then on the other. At last Mr. Thornton came out.
'I want for to speak to yo', sir.'
'Can't stay now, my man. I'm late as it is.'
'Well, sir, I reckon I can wait till yo' come back.'
Mr. Thornton was half way down the street. Higgins sighed. It was no use. To catch him in the street was his only chance of seeing 'the measter;' if he had rung the lodge bell, he would have been referred to the overlooker. So he stood still again as the crowd drove out of the millyard at dinner-time, scowling at the imported Irish 'knobsticks'. At last Mr. Thornton returned.
'What! you there still!'
'Ay, sir. I mun speak to yo'.'
'We'll go across the yard; the men are not come back, and we shall have it to ourselves.' He stopped to speak to the overlooker, who said in a low tone:
'I suppose you know, sir, that that man is Higgins, one of the leaders of the Union.'
'No, I didn't,' said Mr. Thornton, looking round sharply. Higgins was known to him by name as a turbulent spirit.
'Come along,' said he, more roughly than before. 'It is men such as this,' he thought, 'who interrupt commerce and injure the very town they live in: mere demagogues, lovers of power, at whatever cost to others.'
'Well, sir! what do you want?' he said, as soon as they were in the counting-house.
'My name is Higgins-'
'I know that,' broke in Mr. Thornton. 'What do you want, Mr. Higgins?'
'I want work.'
'Work! You don't lack impudence, that's very clear.'
'I've getten enemies, like my betters; but I ne'er heerd o' ony of them calling me o'er-modest,' said Higgins. His blood was a little roused by Mr. Thornton's manner.
Mr. Thornton took up a letter from the table and read it through. At the end, he looked up and said, 'What are you waiting for?'
'An answer.'
'I gave it you before. Don't waste any more of your time.'
'Yo' made a remark, sir, on my impudence: but I were taught that it was manners to say either "yes" or "no," when axed a civil question. I should be thankfu' to yo' if yo'd give me work. Hamper will speak to my being a good hand.'
'You'd better not send me to Hamper to ask for a character, my man. I might hear more than you'd like.'
'I'd take th' risk. Worst they could say of me is, that I did what I thought best, even to my own wrong.'
'You'd better go and try them, then, and see whether they'll give you work. I've turned off a hundred of my best hands, for no other fault than following such as you. D'ye think I'll take you on? I might as well put a firebrand into the midst of the cotton-waste.'
Higgins turned away; then he remembered Boucher, and tried once more.
'I'd promise yo', measter, I'd not speak a word as could do harm, if yo' did right by us; and I'd promise more: I'd promise that when I seed yo' going wrong, and acting unfair, I'd speak to yo' in private first; and that would be a fair warning. If yo' and I did na agree in our opinion, yo' might turn me off at an hour's notice.'
'Upon my word, you don't think small beer of yourself! Hamper has had a loss of you. How came he to let you and your wisdom go?'
'Well, we parted wi' mutual dissatisfaction. I wouldn't agree to their pledge; and they wouldn't have me. But I'm a good hand, measter, and a steady man - specially when I can keep fro' drink; and that I shall do now, if I ne'er did afore.'
'So that you may save money for another strike, I suppose?'
'No! It's for to keep th' widow and childer of a man who was drove mad by them knobsticks o' yourn; put out of his place by a Paddy that did na know weft fro' warp.'
'Well! you'd better turn to something else.'
'If it were summer,' said Higgins, 'I'd do Paddy's work, and go as a navvy, or haymaking, or summut. But it's winter, and th' childer will clem.'
'A pretty navvy you'd make! why, you couldn't do half a day's digging against an Irishman.'
'I'd only charge half-a-day for twelve hours, if I could only do half-a-day's work in th' time. Yo're not knowing of any place, where they could gi' me a trial? I'd take any wage they thought I was worth, for the sake of those childer.'
'Don't you see what you would be? You'd be a knobstick. You'd be taking less wages than the other labourers - all for the sake of another man's children. Think how you'd abuse any poor fellow who was willing to take what he could get. You and your Union would soon be down upon him. No! if only because of the way in which you've used the poor knobsticks before now, I say No! I'll not give you work. As for your pretext for coming and asking for work, it may be true, or it may not. It's a very unlikely story, at any rate. Let me pass. I'll not give you work. There's your answer.'
'I hear, sir. I would na ha' troubled yo', but that I were bid to come, by one as seemed to think yo'd getten some soft place in your heart. Hoo were mistook, and I were misled. But I'm not the first man as is misled by a woman.'
'Tell her to mind her own business the next time. I believe women are at the bottom of every plague in this world. Be off with you.'
'I'm obleeged to yo' for your kindness, measter, and for your civil way o' saying good-bye.'
Mr. Thornton did not deign to reply. But, looking out of the window a minute after, he was struck with the lean, bent figure going out of the yard: the heavy walk was in strange contrast with the resolute determination of the man to speak to him. He crossed to the porter's lodge.
'How long has that man Higgins been waiting to speak to me?'
'He was outside the gate before eight o'clock, sir.'
'And it is now-?'
'Just one, sir.'
'Five hours,' thought Mr. Thornton; 'it's a long time for a man to wait, doing nothing but hoping and fearing.'


"What! remain to be. Denounced--dragged, it may be, in chains." WERNER.
All the next day they sate together--they three. Mr. Hale hardly ever spoke but when his children asked him questions, and forced him, as it were, into the present. Frederick's grief was no more to be seen or heard; the first paroxysm had passed over, and now he was ashamed of having been so battered down by emotion; and though his sorrow for the loss of his mother was a deep real feeling, and would last out his life, it was never to be spoken of again. Margaret, not so passionate at first, was more suffering now. At times she cried a good deal; and her manner, even when speaking on different things, had a mournful tenderness about it, which was deepened whenever her looks fell upon Frederick, and she thought of his rapidly approaching departure. She was glad he was going, on her father's account, however much she might grieve over it on her own. The anxious terror in which Mr. Hale lived lest his son should be detected and captured, far outweighed the pleasure he derived from his presence. The nervousness had increased since Mrs. Hale's death, probably because he dwelt upon it more exclusively. He started at every unusual sound, and was never comfortable unless Frederick sate out of the immediate view of any one entering the room. Towards evening he said:
"You will go with Frederick to the station, Margaret? I shall want to know he is safely off. You will bring me word that he is clear of Milton, at any rate?"
"Certainly," said Margaret. "I shall like it, if you won't be lonely without me, papa."
"No, no! I should always be fancying some one had known him, and that he had been stopped, unless you could tell me you had seen him off. And go to the Outwood station. It is quite as near, and not so many people about. Take a cab there. There is less risk of his being seen. What time is your train, Fred?"
"Ten minutes past six; very nearly dark. So what will you do, Margaret?"
"Oh, I can manage. I am getting very brave and very hard. It is a well-lighted road all the way home, if it should be dark. But I was out last week much later."
Margaret was thankful when the parting was over--the parting from the dead mother and the living father. She hurried Frederick into the cab, in order to shorten a scene which she saw was so bitterly painful to her father, who would accompany his son as he took his last look at his mother. Partly in consequence of this, and partly owing to one of the very common mistakes in the "Railway Guide" as to the times when trains arrive at the smaller stations, they found, on reaching Outwood, that they had nearly twenty minutes to spare. The booking-office was not open, so they could not even take the ticket. They accordingly went down the flight of steps that led to the level of the ground below the railway. There was a broad cinder-path diagonally crossing a field which lay alongside of the carriage-road, and they went there to walk backwards and forwards for the few minutes they had to spare.
Margaret's hand lay in Frederick's arm. He took hold of it affectionately.
"Margaret! I am going to consult Mr. Lennox as to the chance of exculpating myself so that I may return to England whenever I choose, more for your sake than for the sake of anyone else. I can't bear to think of your lonely position if any thing should happen to my father. He looks sadly changed--terribly shaken. I wish you could get him to think of the Cadiz plan, for many reasons. What could you do if he were taken away? You have no friend near. We are curiously bare of relations."
Margaret could hardly keep from crying at the tender anxiety with which Frederick was bringing before her an event which she herself felt was not very improbable, so severely had the cares of the last few months told upon Mr. Hale. But she tried to rally as she said:
"There have been such strange unexpected changes in my life during these last two years, that I feel more than ever that it is not worth while to calculate too closely what I should do if any future event took place. I try to think only upon the present." She paused; they were standing still for a moment, close on the field side of the stile leading into the road; the setting sun fell on their faces. Frederick held her hand in his, and looked with wistful anxiety into her face, reading there more care and trouble than she would betray by words. She went on:
"We shall write often to one another, and I will promise--for I see it will set your mind at ease--to tell you every worry I have. Papa is"--she started a little, a hardly visible start--but Frederick felt the sudden motion of the hand he held, and turned his full face to the road, along which a horseman was slowly riding, just passing the very stile where they stood. Margaret bowed; her bow was stiffly returned.
"Who is that?" said Frederick, almost before he was out of hearing.
Margaret was a little drooping, a little flushed, as she replied: "Mr. Thornton; you saw him before, you know."
"Only his back. He is an unprepossessing-looking fellow. What a scowl he has!"
"Something has happened to vex him," said Margaret apologetically. "You would not have thought him unprepossessing if you had seen him with mamma."
"I fancy it must be time to go and take my ticket. If I had known how dark it would be, we wouldn't have sent back the cab, Margaret."
"Oh, don't fidget about that. I can take a cab here, if I like; or go back by the rail-road, when I should have shops and people and lamps all the way from the Milton station-house. Don't think of me; take care of yourself. I am sick with the thought that Leonards may be in the same train with you. Look well into the carriage before you get in."
They went back to the station. Margaret insisted on going into the full light of the flaring gas inside to take the ticket. Some idle-looking young men were lounging about with the station-master. Margaret thought she had seen the face of one of them before, and returned him a proud look of offended dignity for his somewhat impertinent stare of undisguised admiration. She went hastily to her brother, who was standing outside, and took hold of his arm. "Have you got your bag? Let us walk about here on the platform," said she, a little flurried at the idea of so soon being left alone, and her bravery oozing out rather faster than she liked to acknowledge even to herself. She heard a step following them along the flags; it stopped when they stopped, looking out along the line and hearing the whizz of the coming train. They did not speak; their hearts were too full. Another moment, and the train would be here; a minute more, and he would be gone. Margaret almost repented the urgency with which she had entreated him to go to London; it was throwing more chances of detection in his way. If he had sailed for Spain by Liverpool, he might have been off in two or three hours.
Frederick turned round, right facing the lamp, where the gas darted up in vivid anticipation of the train. A man in the dress of a railway porter started forward; a bad-looking man, who seemed to have drunk himself into a state of brutality, although his senses were in perfect order.
"By your leave, miss!" said he, pushing Margaret rudely on one side, and seizing Frederick by the collar.
"Your name is Hale, I believe?"
In an instant, how, Margaret did not see, for everything danced before her eyes--but by some sleight of wrestling, Frederick had tripped him up, and he fell from the height of three or four feet, which the platform was elevated above the space of soft ground, by the side of the railroad. There he lay.
"Run, run!" gasped Margaret. "The train is here. It was Leonards, was it? oh, run! I will carry your bag." And she took him by the arm to push him along with all her feeble force. A door was opened in a carriage--he jumped in; and as he leant out to say, "God bless you, Margaret!" the train rushed past her; and she was left standing alone. She was so terribly sick and faint that she was thankful to be able to turn into the ladies' waiting-room, and sit down for an instant. At first she could do nothing but gasp for breath. It was such a hurry; such a sickening alarm; such a near chance. If the train had not been there at the moment, the man would have jumped up again and called for assistance to arrest him. She wondered if the man had got up: she tried to remember if she had seen him move: she wondered if he could have been seriously hurt. She ventured out; the platform was all alight, but still quite deserted; she went to the end, and looked over, somewhat fearfully. No one was there; and then she was glad she had made herself go, and inspect, for otherwise terrible thoughts would have haunted her dreams. And even as it was, she was so trembling and affrighted that she felt she could not walk home along the road, which did indeed seem lonely and dark, as she gazed down upon it from the blaze of the station. She would wait till the down train passed and take her seat in it. But what if Leonards recognized her as Frederick's companion! She peered about, before venturing into the booking-office to take her ticket. There were only some railway officials standing about; and talking loud to one another.
"So Leonards has been drinking again!" said one, seemingly in authority. "He'll need all his boasted influence to keep his place this time."
"Where is he?" asked another, while Margaret, her back towards them, was counting her change with trembling fingers, not daring to turn round until she heard the answer to this question.
"I don't know. He came in not five minutes ago, with some long story or other about a fall he'd had, swearing awfully: and wanted to borrow some money from me to go to London by the next up-train. He made all sorts of tipsy promises, but I'd something else to do than listen to him; I told him to go about his business; and he went off at the front door."
"He's at the nearest vaults, I'll be bound," said the first speaker. "Your money would have gone there too, if you'd been such a fool as to lend it."
"Catch me! I knew better what his London meant. Why, he has never paid me off that five shillings"--and so they went on.
And now all Margaret's anxiety was for the train to come. She hid herself once more in the ladies' waiting-room, and fancied every noise was Leonards' step--every loud and boisterous voice was his. But no one came near her until the train drew up; when she was civilly helped into a carriage by a porter, into whose face she durst not look till they were in motion, and then she saw that it was not Leonards'.

All the next day they sat together - they three. Mr. Hale hardly spoke except when his children asked him questions, and forced him, as it were, into the present. Frederick's grief was no more to be seen or heard; for now he was ashamed of having been so battered down by emotion; and though his sorrow was deep and real, and would last out his life, it was never to be spoken of again.
Margaret, not so passionate at first, was suffering more now. At times she cried a good deal; and her mournful tenderness was deepened whenever she looked at Frederick, and thought of his rapidly approaching departure. She was glad he was going, however, on her father's account. The anxious terror in which Mr. Hale lived lest his son should be detected far out-weighed the pleasure he took from his presence. He started at every unusual sound; and was not comfortable unless Frederick sat out of view of anyone entering the room. Towards evening he said:
'You will go with Frederick to the station, Margaret? I shall want to know he is safely off - I should be fancying someone had recognised him, and stopped him, unless you could tell me you had seen him off. And go to the Outwood station. There are not so many people about. What time is your train, Fred?'
'Ten minutes past six; very nearly dark.'
'But it is a well-lit road all the way home,' said Margaret. 'I was out last week much later.'
Margaret was thankful when Frederick's parting with his father was over. She hurried Frederick into the cab, in order to shorten a scene which she saw was bitterly painful to her father. In consequence they found, on reaching Outwood, that they had nearly twenty minutes to spare. The booking-office was not open, so they could not even buy the ticket. So they went down the flight of steps below the railway, where there was a path crossing a field alongside the road, and walked backwards and forwards for a few minutes.
Frederick took his sister's hand affectionately.
'Margaret! I will consult Mr. Lennox as to the chance of exculpating myself, so that I may return to England whenever I choose. I can't bear to think of your lonely position if anything should happen to my father. He looks sadly changed - terribly shaken. I wish you could get him to think of the Cadiz plan. What could you do if he were taken away? You have no friend near.'
Margaret could hardly keep from crying. Frederick was bringing before her an event which she herself felt was not improbable, so severely had the cares of the last few months affected Mr. Hale. But she said:
'There have been such unexpected changes in my life during these last two years, that it is not worth while trying to predict the future. I try to think only of the present.' She paused; they stood still for a moment, by the stile leading into the road; the setting sun fell on their faces. Frederick held her hand, and looked with wistful anxiety into her face, as she went on:
'We shall write often to one another, and I will promise to tell you every worry I have. Papa is' - she started a little, and Frederick turned to look at the road, along which a horseman was slowly riding, just passing the stile where they stood. Margaret bowed; her bow was stiffly returned.
'Who is that?' said Frederick, once he was past. Margaret was a little drooping, a little flushed, as she replied:
'Mr. Thornton; you saw him before, you know.'
'Only his back. He is an unprepossessing-looking fellow. What a scowl he has!'
'Something has happened to vex him,' said Margaret, apologetically.
'It must be time to go and get my ticket. If I had known how dark it would be, we wouldn't have sent away the cab.'
'Oh, don't fidget about that. I can take a cab here, if I like; or go back by train, when I should have people and lamps all the way from Milton Station. Don't think of me; take care of yourself. I am sick with the thought that Leonards may be in the same train with you. Check the carriage before you get in.'
They went back to the station, and Margaret bought the ticket. Some idle-looking young men were lounging about. Margaret thought she had seen one of them before, and returned him a proud look of offended dignity for his impertinent stare of admiration. She went hastily outside to her brother, and took hold of his arm.
'Have you got your bag? Let us walk about here on the platform,' said she, a little flurried, her bravery oozing out rather faster than she liked to acknowledge even to herself. She heard a step following them along the flagstones; it stopped when they stopped, looking out along the line and hearing the whizz of the coming train.
They did not speak; their hearts were too full. Another moment, and the train would be here, and he would be gone. Margaret almost repented entreating him to go to London; it was throwing more chances of detection in his way. If he had sailed for Spain from Liverpool, he might have been off in two or three hours.
Frederick turned round, facing the gas-lamp. A man dressed as a railway porter started forward; a bad-looking man, who seemed to have drunk himself into a state of brutality.
'By your leave, miss!' said he, pushing Margaret rudely aside, and seizing Frederick by the collar. 'Your name is Hale, I believe?'
In an instant - how, Margaret did not see, for everything danced before her eyes - Frederick had tripped him up, and he fell three or four feet from the platform to the soft ground below. There he lay.
'Run, run!' gasped Margaret. 'The train is here. It was Leonards, was it? oh, run! I will carry your bag.' A door opened in a carriage - he jumped in; and as he leant out to say, 'God bless you!' the train rushed past her; and she was left standing alone.
She was terribly sick and faint. She was thankful to be able to turn into the ladies' waiting-room, and sit down for an instant. At first she could do nothing but gasp for breath. It was such a hurry; such a sickening alarm. If the train had not arrived, the man would have jumped up again and called for assistance to arrest Frederick. She wondered if the man had got up; she wondered if he could have been seriously hurt.
She ventured out; the platform was lit, but quite deserted. She went to the end, and looked over, somewhat fearfully. No one was there; and then she was glad she had made herself go and inspect it, for otherwise terrible thoughts would have haunted her dreams. Even as it was, she was so frightened that she felt she could not walk home. She would wait for the down train.
But what if Leonards recognised her as Frederick's companion! She peered about, before venturing into the booking-office to buy her ticket. There were only some railway officials standing about, talking loudly.
'So Leonards has been drinking again!' said one. 'He'll need all his boasted influence to keep his place this time.'
'Where is he?' asked another, while Margaret, her back towards them, was counting her change with trembling fingers, not daring to turn round until she heard the answer.
'I don't know. He came in not five minutes ago, with some story or other about a fall he'd had, swearing awfully; and wanted to borrow some money to go to London by the next up-train. I'd better things to do than listen to him; so I told him to go about his business; and he went off.'
'He's at the nearest inn, I'll be bound,' said the first speaker. 'Your money would have gone there too, if you'd been such a fool as to lend it.'
'Catch me doing that! I know better. Why, he has never paid me back that five shillings' - and so they went on.
Now all Margaret's anxiety was for the train to come. She hid once more in the ladies' waiting-room, and fancied every noise was Leonards' step - every loud and boisterous voice was his. But the train drew up; she was civilly helped into a carriage by a porter, at whom she dared not look till they were in motion, and then she saw that it was not Leonards.


"There's iron, they say, in all our blood, And a grain or two perhaps is good; But his, he makes me harshly feel, Has got a little too much of steel." ANON.
"Margaret!" said Mr. Hale as he returned from showing his guest downstairs; "I could not help watching your face with some anxiety, when Mr. Thornton made his confession of having been a shop-boy. I knew it all along from Mr. Bell; so I was aware of what was coming; but I half expected to see you get up and leave the room."
"Oh, papa! you don't mean that you thought me so silly? I really liked that account of himself better than anything else he said. Everything else revolted me, from its hardness; but he spoke about himself so simply--with so little of the pretence that makes the vulgarity of shop-people, and with such tender respect for his mother, that I was less likely to leave the room then than when he was boasting about Milton, as if there was not such another place in the world; or quietly professing to despise people for careless, wasteful improvidence, without ever seeming to think it his duty to try to make them different,--to give them anything of the training which his mother gave him, and to which he evidently owes his position, whatever that may be. No! his statement of having been a shop-boy was the thing I liked best of all."
"I am surprised at you, Margaret," said her mother. "You who were always accusing people of being shoppy at Helstone! I don't think, Mr. Hale, you have done quite right in introducing such a person to us without telling us what he had been. I really was very much afraid of showing him how much shocked I was at some parts of what he said. His father 'dying in miserable circumstances.' Why it might have been in the workhouse."
"I am not sure it was not worse than being in the workhouse," replied her husband. "I heard a good deal of his previous life from Mr. Bell before we came here; and as he has told you a part, I will fill up what he left out. His father speculated wildly, failed, and then killed himself, because he could not bear the disgrace. All his former friends shrunk from the disclosures that had to be made of his dishonest gambling--wild, hopeless struggles, made with other people's money, to regain his own moderate portion of wealth. No one came forward to help the mother and this boy. There was another child, I believe, a girl; too young to earn money, but of course she had to be kept. At least, no friend came forward immediately, and Mrs. Thornton is not one, I fancy, to wait till tardy kindness comes to find her out. So they left Milton. I knew he had gone into a shop, and that his earnings, with some fragment of property secured to his mother, had been made to keep them for a long time. Mr. Bell said they absolutely lived upon water-porridge for years--how, he did not know; but long after the creditors had given up hope of any payment of old Mr. Thornton's debts (if, indeed, they ever had hoped at all about it, after his suicide), this young man returned to Milton, and went quietly round to each creditor, paying him the first instalment of the money owing to him. No noise--no gathering together of creditors--it was done very silently and quietly, but all was paid at last; helped on materially by the circumstance of one of the creditors, a crabbed old fellow (Mr. Bell says), taking in Mr. Thornton as a kind of partner."
"That really is fine," said Margaret. "What a pity such a nature should be tainted by his position as a Milton manufacturer."
"How tainted?" asked her father.
"Oh, papa, by that testing everything by the standard of wealth. When he spoke of the mechanical powers, he evidently looked upon them only as new ways of extending trade and making money. And the poor men around him--they were poor because they were vicious--out of the pale of his sympathies because they had not his iron nature, and the capabilities that it gives him for being rich."
"Not vicious; he never said that. Improvident and self-indulgent were his words."
Margaret was collecting her mother's working materials, and preparing to go to bed. Just as she was leaving the room, she hesitated--she was inclined to make an acknowledgment which she thought would please her father, but which to be full and true must include a little annoyance. However, out it came.
"Papa, I do think Mr. Thornton a very remarkable man; but personally I don't like him at all."
"And I do!" said her father laughing. "Personally, as you call it, and all. I don't set him up for a hero, or anything of that kind. But good-night, child. Your mother looks sadly tired to-night, Margaret."
Margaret had noticed her mother's jaded appearance with anxiety for some time past, and this remark of her father's sent her up to bed with a dim fear lying like a weight on her heart. The life in Milton was so different from what Mrs. Hale had been accustomed to live in Helstone, in and out perpetually into the fresh and open air; the air itself was so different, deprived of all revivifying principle as it seemed to be here; the domestic worries pressed so very closely, and in so new and sordid a form, upon all the women in the family, that there was good reason to fear that her mother's health might be becoming seriously affected. There were several other signs of something wrong about Mrs. Hale. She and Dixon held mysterious consultations in her bedroom, from which Dixon would come out crying and cross, as was her custom when any distress of her mistress called upon her sympathy. Once Margaret had gone into the chamber soon after Dixon left it, and found her mother on her knees, and as Margaret stole out she caught a few words which were evidently a prayer for strength and patience to endure severe bodily suffering. Margaret yearned to re-unite the bond of intimate confidence which had been broken by her long residence at her aunt Shaw's, and strove by gentle caresses and softened words to creep into the warmest place in her mother's heart. But though she received caresses and fond words back again, in such profusion as would have gladdened her formerly, yet she felt that there was a secret withheld from her, and she believed it bore serious reference to her mother's health. She lay awake very long this night, planning how to lessen the evil influence of their Milton life on her mother. A servant to give Dixon permanent assistance should be got, if she gave up her whole time to the search; and then, at any rate, her mother might have all the personal attention she required, and had been accustomed to her whole life.
Visiting register offices, seeing all manner of unlikely people, and very few in the least likely, absorbed Margaret's time and thoughts for several days. One afternoon she met Bessy Higgins in the street, and stopped to speak to her.
"Well, Bessy, how are you? Better, I hope, now the wind has changed."
"Better and not better, if yo' know what that means."
"Not exactly," replied Margaret, smiling.
"I'm better in not being torn to pieces by coughing o' nights, but I'm weary and tired o' Milton, and longing to get away to the land o' Beulah? and when I think I'm farther and farther off, my heart sinks, and I'm no better; I'm worse."
Margaret turned round to walk alongside of the girl in her feeble progress homeward. But for a minute or two she did not speak. At last she said in a low voice,
"Bessy, do you wish to die?" For she shrank from death herself, with all the clinging to life so natural to the young and healthy.
Bessy was silent in her turn for a minute or two. Then she replied,
"If yo'd led the life I have, and getten as weary of it as I have, and thought at times, 'maybe it'll last for fifty or sixty years--it does wi' some,'--and got dizzy and dazed, and sick, as each of them sixty years seemed to spin about me, and mock me with its length of hours and minutes, and endless bits o' time--oh, wench! I tell thee thou'd been glad enough when th' doctor said he feared thou'd never see another winter."
"Why, Bessy, what kind of a life has yours been?"
"Nought worse than many others,' I reckon. Only I fretted against it, and they didn't."
"But what was it? You know, I'm a stranger here, so perhaps I'm not so quick at understanding what you mean as if I'd lived all my life at Milton."
"If yo'd ha' come to our house when yo' said yo' would, I could maybe ha' told you. But father says yo're just like th' rest on 'em; its out o' sight out o' mind wi' you."
"I don't know who the rest are; and I've been very busy; and, to tell the truth, I had forgotten my promise--"
"Yo' offered it; we asked none of it."
"I had forgotten what I said for the time," continued Margaret quietly. "I should have thought of it again when I was less busy. May I go with you now?"
Bessy gave a quick glance at Margaret's face, to see if the wish expressed was really felt. The sharpness in her eye turned to a wistful longing as she met Margaret's soft and friendly gaze.
"I ha' none so many to care for me; if yo' care yo' may come."
So they walked on together in silence. As they turned up into a small court, out of a squalid street, Bessy said,
"Yo'll not be daunted if father's at home, and speaks a bit gruffish at first. He took a mind to ye, yo' see, and he thought a deal o' your coming to see us; and just because he liked yo' he was vexed and put about."
"Don't fear, Bessy."
But Nicholas was not at home when they entered. A great slatternly girl, not so old as Bessy, but taller and stronger, was busy at the wash-tub, knocking about the furniture in a rough capable way, but altogether making so much noise that Margaret shrunk, out of sympathy with poor Bessy, who had sat down on the first chair, as if completely tired out with her walk. Margaret asked the sister for a cup of water, and while she ran to fetch it (knocking down the fire-irons, and tumbling over a chair in her way), she unloosed Bessy's bonnet strings, to relieve her catching breath.
"Do you think such life as this is worth caring for?" gasped Bessy, at last. Margaret did not speak, but held the water to her lips. Bessy took a long and feverish draught, and then fell back and shut her eyes. Margaret heard her murmur to herself: "They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more: neither shall the sun light on them, nor any heat."
Margaret bent over and said, "Bessy don't be impatient with your life, whatever it is--or may have been. Remember who gave it you, and made it what it is!"
She was startled by hearing Nicholas speak behind her; he had come in without her noticing him.
"Now, I'll not have my wench preached to. She's bad enough, as it is, with her dreams and her methodee fancies, and her visions of cities with goulden gates and precious stones. But if it amuses her I let it abe, but I'm none going to have more stuff poured into her."
"But surely," said Margaret, facing round, "you believe in what I said, that God gave her life, and ordered what kind of life it was to be?"
"I believe what I see, and no more. That's what I believe, young woman. I don't believe all I hear--no! not by a big deal. I did hear a young lass make an ado about knowing where we lived, and coming to see us. And my wench here thought a deal about it, and flushed up many a time, when hoo little knew as I was looking at her, at the sound of a strange step. But hoo's come at last,--and hoo's welcome, as long as hoo'll keep from preaching on what hoo knows nought about."
Bessy had been watching Margaret's face; she half sate up to speak now, laying her hand on Margaret's arm with a gesture of entreaty. "Don't be vexed wi' him--there's many a one thinks like him: many and many a one here. If yo' could hear them speak, yo'd not be shocked at him; he's a rare good man, is father--but oh!" said she, falling back in despair, "what he says at times makes me long to die more than ever, for I want to know so many things, and am so tossed about wi' wonder."
"Poor wench--poor old wench--I'm loth to vex thee, I am; but a man mun speak out for the truth, and when I see the world going all wrong at this time o' day, bothering itself wi' things it knows nought about, and leaving undone all the things that lie in disorder close at its hand--why, I say, leave a' this talk about religion alone, and set to work on what yo' see and know. That's my creed. It's simple, and not far to fetch, nor hard to work."
But the girl only pleaded the more with Margaret.
"Don't think hardly on him--he's a good man, he is. I sometimes think I shall be moped wi' sorrow even in the City of God, if father is not there." The feverish colour came into her cheek, and the feverish flame into her eye. "But you will be there, father! you shall! Oh! my heart!" She put her hand to it, and became ghastly pale.
Margaret held her in her arms, and put the weary head to rest upon her bosom. She lifted the thin soft hair from off the temples, and bathed them with water. Nicholas understood all her signs for different articles with the quickness of love, and even the round-eyed sister moved with laborious gentleness at Margaret's "hush!" Presently the spasm that foreshadowed death had passed away, and Bessy roused herself and said,--
"I'll go to bed,--it's best place; but," catching at Margaret's gown, "yo'll come again,--I know yo' will--but just say it!"
"I will come again to-morrow," said Margaret.
Bessy leant back against her father, who prepared to carry her upstairs; but as Margaret rose to go, he struggled to say something; "I could wish there were a God, if it were only to ask Him to bless thee."
Margaret went away very sad and thoughtful.
She was late for tea at home. At Helstone unpunctuality at meal-times was a great fault in her mother's eyes; but now this, as well as many other little irregularities, seemed to have lost their power of irritation, and Margaret almost longed for the old complainings.
"Have you met with a servant, dear?"
"No, mamma; that Anne Buckley would never have done."
"Suppose I try," said Mr. Hale. "Everybody else has had their turn at this great difficulty. Now let me try. I may be the Cinderella to put on the slipper after all."
Margaret could hardly smile at this little joke, so oppressed was she by her visit to the Higginses.
"What would you do, papa? How would you set about it?"
"Why, I should apply to some good house-mother to recommend me one known to herself or her servants."
"Very good. But we must first catch our house-mother."
"You have caught her. Or rather she is coming into the snare, and you will catch her to-morrow, if you're skilful."
"What do you mean, Mr. Hale?" asked his wife, her curiosity aroused.
"Why, my paragon pupil (as Margaret calls him) has told me that his mother intends to call on Mrs. and Miss Hale to-morrow."
"Mrs. Thornton!" exclaimed Mrs. Hale.
"The mother of whom he spoke to us?" said Margaret.
"Mrs. Thornton; the only mother he has, I believe," said Mr. Hale, quietly.
"I shall like to see her. She must be an uncommon person," her mother added. "Perhaps she may have a relation who might suit us, and be glad of our place. She sounded to be such a careful economical person, that I should like any one out of the same family."
"My dear," said Mr. Hale alarmed. "Pray don't go off on that idea. I fancy Mrs. Thornton is as haughty and proud in her way as our little Margaret here is in hers, and that she completely ignores that old time of trial, and poverty, and economy, of which he speaks so openly. I am sure, at any rate, she would not like strangers to know anything about it."
"Take notice that is not my kind of haughtiness, papa, if I have any at all; which I don't agree to, though you're always accusing me of it."
"I don't know positively that it is hers either; but from little things I have gathered from him, I fancy so."
They cared too little to ask in what manner her son had spoken about her. Margaret only wanted to know if she must stay in to receive this call, as it would prevent her going to see how Bessy was, until late in the day, since the early morning was always occupied in household affairs; and then she recollected that her mother must not be left to have the whole weight of entertaining her visitor.

'Margaret!' said Mr. Hale, as he returned from showing his guest downstairs; 'I could not help watching your face with some anxiety, when Mr. Thornton confessed to having been a shop-boy. I half expected you to get up and leave the room.'
'Oh, papa! you don't mean that you thought me so silly? I really liked that account of himself better than anything else he said. Everything else revolted me, from its hardness; but he spoke about himself so simply - with so little vulgar pretence, and with such tender respect for his mother, that I was less likely to leave the room then than when he was boasting about Milton; or quietly professing to despise people for improvidence. He did not seem to think it his duty to try to make them different, to give them any of the training which his mother gave him. No! his statement of having been a shop-boy was the thing I liked best of all.'
'I am surprised at you, Margaret,' said her mother. 'You, who were always accusing people of being shoppy at Helstone! I don't think, Mr. Hale, you have done quite right in introducing such a person to us without telling us what he had been. I was shocked when he said his father died "in miserable circumstances." Why, it might have been in the workhouse.'
'I heard a good deal about his previous life from Mr. Bell,' replied her husband; 'so I can tell you that his father speculated wildly, failed, and then killed himself, because he could not bear the disgrace. All his former friends shrunk from the family. No one came forwards to help the mother and this boy. There was another child too, I believe, a younger girl. So they left Milton. I knew he had gone into a shop, and that his earnings supported them. Mr. Bell said they absolutely lived upon water-porridge for years; but long after the creditors had given up hope of receiving any payment of old Mr. Thornton's debts, this young man returned to Milton, and went quietly round to each creditor, paying him the first instalment of the money owing. It was done very silently, but all was paid at last; helped because one of the creditors, a crabbed old fellow, took in Mr. Thornton as a kind of partner.'
'That really is fine,' said Margaret. 'What a pity such a nature should be tainted by his position as a manufacturer.'
'How tainted?' asked her father.
'Oh, papa, by that testing everything by the standard of wealth. He spoke of mechanical power only as a way of making money. And the poor men around him - they were poor because they were vicious, and had not his iron nature.'
'Not vicious; he never said that. Improvident and self-indulgent were his words.'
Margaret was about to leave the room and go to bed; but she hesitated. She wanted to say something which she thought would please her father, but which to be true must include a little annoyance. However, out it came.
'Papa, I do think Mr. Thornton a very remarkable man; but personally I don't like him at all.'
'And I do!' said her father laughing. 'I don't set him up for a hero, though. Good night, child. Your mother looks sadly tired tonight.'
Margaret had noticed her mother's appearance with anxiety for some time, and this remark of her father's sent her up to bed with a dim fear weighing on her heart. The life in Milton was so different from what Mrs. Hale had been used to in Helstone, with its fresh and open air, and domestic worries pressed so closely, that she feared that her mother's health might be becoming seriously affected.
There were other signs of something wrong with Mrs. Hale. She and Dixon held mysterious consultations in her bedroom, from which Dixon would come out crying and cross. Once Margaret had gone into the chamber soon after Dixon left it, and found her mother on her knees. As Margaret stole out again, she caught a few words of a prayer for strength to endure severe bodily suffering.
Margaret yearned for the intimate confidence which had been broken by her long residence at her aunt Shaw's, and strove by gentle caresses and soft words to creep into the warmest place in her mother's heart. But though she received caresses and fond words back in plenty, yet she felt that there was a secret withheld from her, and she believed it was about her mother's health.
She lay awake very long this night, planning how to lessen the evil influence of their Milton life on her mother. A servant to help Dixon should be got, if she gave up her whole time to the search; and then, at any rate, her mother might have all the personal attention she required. Visiting agencies and interviewing unlikely people absorbed Margaret's time and thoughts for several days.
One afternoon she met Bessy Higgins in the street, and stopped to speak to her.
'Well, Bessy, how are you? Better, I hope.'
'Better and not better, if yo' know what that means.'
'Not exactly,' replied Margaret, smiling.
'I'm better in not being torn to pieces by coughing o'nights, but I'm weary and tired o' Milton, and longing to get away to heaven; and when I think I'm farther off, my heart sinks, and I'm no better; I'm worse.'
Margaret turned silently to walk alongside the girl in her feeble progress homeward. At last she said in a low voice,
'Bessy, do you wish to die?'
Bessy was silent in her turn for a minute or two. Then she replied,
'If yo'd led the life I have, and getten as weary of it as I have, and thought "maybe it'll last for fifty or sixty years," and got dizzy and sick, as each of them sixty years seemed to spin about me, and mock me with its endless time - oh, wench! Thou'd been glad enough when th' doctor said he feared thou'd never see another winter.'
'Why, Bessy, what kind of a life has yours been?'
'Nought worse than many others, I reckon.'
'But what was it? You know, I'm a stranger here, so perhaps I'm not so quick at understanding life in Milton.'
'If yo'd ha' come to our house when yo' said yo' would, I could maybe ha' told you. But father says yo're just like th' rest of 'em; out o' sight, out o' mind.'
'I don't know who the rest are; and I've been very busy; and, to tell the truth, I had forgotten my promise-'
'Yo' offered it! we asked none of it.'
'I had forgotten what I said,' continued Margaret quietly. 'I should have remembered it when I was less busy. May I go with you now?'
Bessy gave a quick glance at Margaret's face. The sharpness in her eye turned to a wistful longing as she met Margaret's soft and friendly gaze.
'If yo' care yo' may come.'
So they walked on together in silence. As they turned up into a small court, opening out of a squalid street, Bessy said,
'Yo'll not be daunted if father's at home, and speaks a bit gruffish at first. He took a mind to ye, yo' see, and he thought a deal o' your coming to see us; and just because he liked yo' he were vexed.'
'Don't fear, Bessy.'
But Nicholas was not at home when they entered. A slatternly girl, not so old as Bessy, but taller and stronger, was busy at the wash-tub, knocking about the furniture in a rough capable way. Bessy sat down, exhausted, and Margaret asked this sister for a cup of water. While she ran to fetch it (tumbling over a chair in her way), Margaret unloosed Bessy's bonnet strings, to let her catch her breath.
'Do you think such life as this is worth caring for?' gasped Bessy, at last. Margaret did not speak, but held the water to her lips. Bessy took a long drink, and then fell back and shut her eyes. Margaret heard her murmur: 'They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more; neither shall the sun light on them, nor any heat.'
Margaret said, 'Bessy, don't be impatient with your life. Remember who gave it you, and made it what it is!' She was startled by hearing Nicholas speak behind her; he had come in without her noticing.
'Now, I'll not have my wench preached to. She's bad enough as it is, with her dreams and her fancies, and her visions of cities with golden gates. If it amuses her I let it be, but I'm not going to have more stuff poured into her.'
'But surely,' said Margaret, facing him, 'you believe that God gave her life, and ordered what kind of life it was to be?'
'I believe what I see, and no more, young woman. I don't believe all I hear! For I did hear a young lass make an ado about knowing where we lived, and coming to see us. And my wench here thought a deal about it, and flushed up many a time at the sound of a strange step. But hoo's come at last - and hoo's welcome, as long as hoo'll keep from preaching on what hoo knows nought about.'
Bessy had been watching Margaret's face; she half sat up, laying her hand on Margaret's arm. 'Don't be vexed wi' him - there's many a one thinks like him; and he's a rare good man, is father - but oh!' said she, falling back in despair, 'what he says at times makes me long to die more than ever, for I want to know so many things, and am so tossed about wi' wonder.'
'Poor wench - I'm sorry to vex thee, I am; but a man mun speak out for the truth, and when I see the world going all wrong, bothering itself wi' things it knows nought about, and leaving undone all the things that lie in disorder close at hand - why, I say, leave this talk about religion alone, and set to work on what yo' see and know. That's my creed. It's simple.'
But the girl only pleaded again: 'Don't think badly of him - he's a good man. I sometimes think I shall be moped wi' sorrow even in the City of God, if father is not there.' A feverish flame came into her eye. 'But you will be there, father! you shall! Oh! my heart!' She put her hand to it, and became ghastly pale.
Margaret held her in her arms, and lifted the thin soft hair from off the temples. Nicholas understood her signs for water with the quickness of love, and even the round-eyed sister moved with laborious gentleness.
Presently the spasm passed away. Bessy roused herself and said, 'I'll go to bed - it's best place; but,' catching at Margaret's gown, 'yo'll come again - say it!'
'I will come tomorrow,' said Margaret.
Bessy leant back against her father, who prepared to carry her upstairs; but first he struggled to say something: 'I could wish there were a God, if only to ask Him to bless thee.'
Margaret went away very sad and thoughtful. She was late for tea at home. At Helstone unpunctuality at meal-times was a great fault in her mother's eyes; but no more, and Margaret almost longed for the old complainings.
'Have you found a servant, dear?'
'No, mamma, not yet.'
'Suppose I try,' said Mr. Hale. 'Everybody else has had their turn. I may be the Cinderella to put on the slipper after all.'
Margaret could hardly smile at this little joke, so oppressed was she by her visit to the Higginses.
'How would you set about it, Papa?'
'Why, I would apply to some good house-mother to recommend me someone.'
'Very good. But we must first catch our house-mother.'
'You have caught her. Or rather, you will catch her tomorrow, if you're skilful.'
'What do you mean, Mr. Hale?' asked his wife curiously.
'Why, my paragon pupil has told me that his mother intends to call on you both tomorrow.'
'Mrs. Thornton!' exclaimed Mrs. Hale. 'I shall like to see her. She must be an uncommon person. Perhaps she may have a relation who might suit us, and be glad of the job.'
'My dear,' said Mr. Hale, alarmed. 'Pray don't think that! I fancy Mrs. Thornton is as haughty and proud in her way, as our little Margaret is in hers, and that she completely ignores that old time of poverty of which her son speaks so openly. I am sure she would not like strangers to know anything about It.'
'Note that that is not my kind of haughtiness, papa, if I have any at all; which I don't agree to. Must I stay in to receive this call?' Margaret thought it would prevent her going to see Bessy until late in the day; and then she recollected that her mother must not be left to have the whole weight of entertaining her visitor.