"For never any thing can be amiss When simpleness and duty tender it." MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM.
Mr. Thornton went straight and clear into all the interests of the following day. There was a slight demand for finished goods; and as it affected his branch of the trade, he took advantage of it, and drove hard bargains. He was sharp to the hour at the meeting of his brother magistrates,--giving them the best assistance of his strong sense, and his power of seeing consequences at a glance, and so coming to a rapid decision. Older men, men of long standing in the town, men of far greater wealth--realised and turned into land, while his was all floating capital, engaged in his trade--looked to him for prompt, ready wisdom. He was the one deputed to see and arrange with the police--to lead in all the requisite steps. And he cared for their unconscious deference no more than for the soft west wind, that scarcely made the smoke from the great tall chimneys swerve in its straight upward course. He was not aware of the silent respect paid to him. If it had been otherwise, he would have felt it as an obstacle in his progress to the object he had in view. As it was, he looked to the speedy accomplishment of that alone. It was his mother's greedy ears that sucked in, from the womenkind of these magistrates and wealthy men, how highly Mr. This or Mr. That thought of Mr. Thornton: that if he had not been there, things would have gone on very differently,--very badly, indeed. He swept off his business right and left that day. It seemed as though his deep mortification of yesterday, and the stunned purposeless course of the hours afterwards, had cleared away all the mists from his intellect. He felt his power and revelled in it. He could almost defy his heart. If he had known it, he could have sang the song of the miller who lived by the river Dee:--
"I care for nobody-- Nobody cares for me."
The evidence against Boucher, and other ring-leaders of the riot, was taken before him: that against the three others, for conspiracy, failed. But he sternly charged the police to be on the watch; for the swift right arm of the law should be in readiness to strike, as soon as they could prove a fault. And then he left the hot reeking room in the borough court, and went out into the fresher, but still sultry street. It seemed as though he gave way all at once; he was so languid that he could not control his thoughts; they would wander to her: they would bring back the scene,--not of his repulse and rejection the day before, but the looks, the actions of the day before that. He went along the crowded streets mechanically, winding in and out among the people, but never seeing them,--almost sick with longing for that one half-hour--that one brief space of time when she clung to him, and her heart beat against his--to come once again.
"Why, Mr. Thornton! you're cutting me very coolly, I must say. And how is Mrs. Thornton? Brave weather this! We doctors don't like it, I can tell you!"
"I beg your pardon, Dr. Donaldson. I really didn't see you. My mother's quite well, thank you. It is a fine day, and good for the harvest, I hope. If the wheat is well got in, we shall have a brisk trade next year, whatever you doctors have."
"Ay, ay. Each man for himself. Your bad weather, and your bad times, are my good ones. When trade is bad, there's more undermining of health, and preparation for death, going on among you Milton men than you're aware of."
"Not with me, Doctor. I'm made of iron. The news of the very worst bad debt I ever had, never made my pulse vary. This strike, which affects me more than any one else in Milton,--more than Hamper,--never comes near my appetite. You must go elsewhere for a patient, Doctor."
"By the way, you've recommended me a good patient, poor lady! Not to go on talking in this heartless way, I seriously believe that Mrs. Hale--that lady in Crampton, you know--hasn't many weeks to live. I never had any hope of cure, as I think I told you; but I've been seeing her to-day, and I think very badly of her."
Mr. Thornton was silent. The vaunted steadiness of pulse failed him for an instant.
"Can I do anything, Doctor?" he asked, in an altered voice. "You know--you would see, that money is not very plentiful, are there any comforts or dainties she ought to have?"
"No," replied the Doctor, shaking his head. "She craves for fruit,--she has a constant fever on her; but jargonelle pears will do as well as anything, and there are quantities of them in the market."
"You will tell me if there is anything I can do, I'm sure," replied Mr. Thornton. "I rely upon you."
"Oh! never fear! I'll not spare your purse,--I know it's deep enough. I wish you'd give me a carte-blanche for all my patients, and all their wants."
But Mr. Thornton had no general benevolence,--no universal philanthropy; few even would have given him credit for strong affections. But he went straight to the first fruit-shop in Milton, and chose out the bunch of purple grapes with the most delicate bloom upon them,--the richest-coloured peaches,--the freshest vine-leaves. They were packed into a basket, and the shopman awaited the answer to his inquiry, "Where shall we send them to, sir?"
There was no reply. "To Marlborough Mills, I suppose, sir?"
"No!" Mr. Thornton said. "Give the basket to me,--I'll take it."
It took up both his hands to carry it; and he had to pass through the busiest part of the town for feminine shopping. Many a young lady of his acquaintance turned to look after him, and thought it strange to see him occupied just like a porter or an errand-boy.
He was thinking, "I will not be daunted from doing as I choose by the thought of her. I like to take this fruit to the poor mother, and it is simply right that I should. She shall never scorn me out of doing what I please. A pretty joke, indeed, if, for fear of a haughty girl, I failed in doing a kindness to a man I liked! I do it for Mr. Hale; I do it in defiance of her."
He went at an unusual pace, and was soon at Crampton. He went upstairs two steps at a time, and entered the drawing-room before Dixon could announce him,--his face flushed, his eyes shining with kindly earnestness. Mrs. Hale lay on the sofa, heated with fever. Mr. Hale was reading aloud. Margaret was working on a low stool by her mother's side. Her heart fluttered, if his did not at this interview. But he took no notice of her,--hardly of Mr. Hale himself; he went up straight with his basket to Mrs. Hale, and said, in that subdued and gentle tone, which is so touching when used by a robust man in full health, speaking to a feeble invalid,--
"I met Dr. Donaldson, ma'am, and as he said fruit would be good for you, I have taken the liberty--the great liberty--of bringing you some that seemed to me fine." Mrs. Hale was excessively pleased; quite in a tremble of eagerness. Mr. Hale with fewer words expressed a deeper gratitude.
"Fetch a plate, Margaret--a basket--anything." Margaret stood up by the table, half afraid of moving or making any noise to arouse Mr. Thornton into a consciousness of her being in the room. She thought it would be awkward for both to be brought into conscious collision: and fancied that, from her being on a low seat at first, and now standing behind her father, he had overlooked her in his haste. As if he did not feel the consciousness of her presence all over, though his eyes had never rested on her!
"I must go," said he, "I cannot stay. If you will forgive this liberty,--my rough ways,--too abrupt, I fear--but I will be more gentle next time. You will allow me the pleasure of bringing you some fruit again, if I should see any that is tempting. Good afternoon, Mr. Hale. Good-bye, ma'am."
He was gone. Not one word: not one look to Margaret. She believed that he had not seen her. She went for a plate in silence, and lifted the fruit out tenderly, with the points of her delicate taper fingers. It was good of him to bring it; and after yesterday too!
"Oh! it is so delicious!" said Mrs. Hale, in a feeble voice. "How kind of him to think of me! Margaret love, only taste these grapes! Was it not good of him?"
"Yes!" said Margaret, quietly.
"Margaret!" said Mrs. Hale, rather querulously, "you won't like anything Mr. Thornton does. I never saw anybody so prejudiced."
Mr. Hale had been peeling a peach for his wife; and, cutting off a small piece for himself, he said:
"If I had any prejudices, the gift of such delicious fruit as this would melt them away. I have not tasted such fruit--no! not even in Hampshire--since I was a boy; and, to boys, I fancy, all fruit is good. I remember eating sloes and crabs with a relish. Do you remember the matted-up currant bushes, Margaret, at the corner of the west-wall at the garden at home?"
Did she not? Did she not remember every weather-stain on the old stone wall; the gray and yellow lichens that marked it like a map; the little crane's-bill that grew in the crevices? She had been shaken by the events of the last two days; her whole life just now was a strain upon her fortitude; and, somehow, these careless words of her father's, touching on the remembrance of the sunny times of old, made her start up, and, dropping her sewing on the ground, she went hastily out of the room into her own little chamber. She had hardly given way to the first choking sob, when she became aware of Dixon standing at her drawers, and evidently searching for something.
"Bless me, miss! How you startled me! Missus is not worse, is she? Is anything the matter?"
"No, nothing. Only I'm silly, Dixon, and want a glass of water. What are you looking for? I keep my muslins in that drawer."
Dixon did not speak, but went on rummaging. The scent of lavender came out and perfumed the room.
At last Dixon found what she wanted; what it was Margaret could not see. Dixon faced round, and spoke to her:
"Now I don't like telling what I wanted, because you've fretting enough to go through, and I know you'll fret about this. I meant to have kept it from you till night, may be, or such times as that."
"What is the matter? Pray, tell me, Dixon, at once."
"That young woman you go to see--Higgins I mean."
"Well?"
"Well! she died this morning, and her sister is here--come to beg a strange thing. It seems, the young woman who died had a fancy for being buried in something of yours, and so the sister's come to ask for it,--and I was looking for a night-cap that wasn't too good to give away."
"Oh! let me find one," said Margaret, in the midst of her tears. "Poor Bessy! I never thought I should not see her again."
"Why, that's another thing. This girl downstairs wanted me to ask you, if you would like to see her."
"But she's dead!" said Margaret, turning a little pale. "I never saw a dead person. No! I would rather not."
"I should never have asked you, if you hadn't come in. I told her you wouldn't."
"I will go down and speak to her," said Margaret, afraid lest Dixon's harshness of manner might wound the poor girl. So, taking the cap in her hand, she went to the kitchen. Mary's face was all swollen with crying, and she burst out afresh when she saw Margaret.
"Oh, ma'am, she loved yo', she loved yo', she did indeed!" And for a long time, Margaret could not get her to say anything more than this. At last, her sympathy, and Dixon's scolding, forced out a few facts. Nicholas Higgins had gone out in the morning, leaving Bessy as well as on the day before. But in an hour she was taken worse; some neighbour ran to the room where Mary was working; they did not know where to find her father; Mary had only come in a few minutes before she died.
"It were a day or two ago she axed to be buried in somewhat o' yourn. She were never tired o' talking o' yo'. She used to say yo' were the prettiest thing she ever clapped eyes on. She loved yo' dearly. Her last words were 'Give her my affectionate respects; and keep father fro' drink.' Yo'll come and see her ma'am. She would ha' thought it a great compliment, I know."
Margaret shrank a little from answering.
"Yes, perhaps I may. Yes, I will. I'll come before tea. But where's your father, Mary?"
Mary shook her head, and stood up to be going.
"Miss Hale," said Dixon, in a low voice, "where's the use o' your going to see the poor thing laid out? I'd never say a word against it, if it could do the girl any good; and I wouldn't mind a bit going myself, if that would satisfy her. They've just a notion, these common folks, of its being a respect to the departed. Here," said she, turning sharply round, "I'll come and see your sister. Miss Hale is busy, and she can't come, or else she would."
The girl looked wistfully at Margaret. Dixon's coming might be a compliment, but it was not the same thing to the poor sister, who had had her little pangs of jealousy, during Bessy's lifetime, at the intimacy between her and the young lady.
"No, Dixon!" said Margaret with decision. "I will go. Mary, you shall see me this afternoon." And for fear of her own cowardice, she went away, in order to take from herself any chance of changing her determination.

Mr. Thornton went straight and clear into all the interests of the following day. There was a slight demand for goods; he took advantage of it, and drove hard bargains. He met his brother magistrates, aiding them with his strong sense, and his power of seeing consequences at a glance, and so coming to a rapid decision. Older men of long standing and far greater wealth looked to him for ready wisdom and leadership. And he cared nothing for their unconscious deference. He was not aware of the silent respect paid to him. If he had been, he would have felt it as an obstacle to all he wished to accomplish alone.
He swept off his business right and left that day. It seemed as though his deep mortification of yesterday, and the stunned purposeless hours afterwards, had cleared away the mists from his intellect. He felt his power and revelled in it. He could almost defy his heart, and vow that he did not care for anybody.
The evidence against Boucher, and the ringleaders of the riot, was taken before him, as a magistrate. The evidence against others, for conspiracy, failed; but he sternly charged the police to be on the watch for any fault that they could prove. And then he left the hot reeking room of the borough court, and went out into the sultry street.
It seemed as though he gave way all at once. He could not control his thoughts; they would wander to her; they would bring back the scene of the riot, when she clung to him. He went along the crowded streets mechanically, winding amongst people without seeing them - almost sick with longing for that one brief space of time when her heart beat against his.
'Why, Mr. Thornton! How is Mrs. Thornton? Brave weather this! We doctors don't like it, I can tell you.'
'I beg your pardon, Dr. Donaldson. I didn't see you. My mother's quite well, thank you. It is a good day for the harvest, I hope. If the wheat is well got in, we shall have a brisk trade next year, whatever you doctors have.'
'Ay, ay. Each man for himself. Your bad times are my good ones. When trade is bad, there's more undermining of health going on among you Milton men than you're aware of.'
'Not with me, Doctor. I'm made of iron. This strike, which affects me more than anyone else in Milton, harms neither my pulse nor my appetite. You must go elsewhere for a patient.'
'By the way, you've recommended me a good patient, poor lady! Not to go on talking in this heartless way, I seriously believe that Mrs. Hale hasn't many weeks to live. I never had any hope of cure, as I told you; but I've seen her today, and she is very ill.'
Mr. Thornton was silent. The vaunted steadiness of pulse failed him for an instant.
'Can I do anything, Doctor?' he asked, in an altered voice. 'You will have seen that money is not very plentiful; are there any comforts or dainties she ought to have?'
'She craves for fruit - she has a constant fever; but pears will do as well as anything, and there are quantities of them in the market.'
'You will tell me, if there is anything I can do, I'm sure,' replied Mr. Thornton.
'Oh! never fear! I know your purse is deep enough. I wish you'd give me carte-blanche for all my patients' wants.'
However, Mr. Thornton had no general benevolence. But he went straight to the best fruit-shop in Milton, and chose the most perfect bunch of purple grapes - the richest-coloured peaches - the freshest vine-leaves. They were packed into a basket.
'Where shall we send them to, sir?' the shopman asked. 'To Marlborough Mills?'
'No!' Mr. Thornton said. 'Give the basket to me.'
It took both his hands to carry it; and he had to pass through the busiest shopping streets of the town. Many a young lady he knew turned to look after him, on seeing him occupied like an errand-boy.
He was thinking, 'I will not be daunted from doing as I choose by the thought of her. I like to take this fruit to the poor mother, and it is right that I should. She shall never scorn me out of doing what I please. A pretty joke, indeed, if, for fear of a haughty girl, I failed in doing a kindness to a man I liked! I do it for Mr. Hale; I do it in defiance of her.'
He went at an unusual pace, and was soon at Crampton. He went upstairs two steps at a time, and entered the drawing-room before Dixon could announce him - his face flushed, his eyes shining with kindly earnestness.
Mrs. Hale lay on the sofa. Mr. Hale was reading aloud. Margaret was sewing on a low stool by her mother's side. Her heart fluttered; but he took no notice of her. He went straight with his basket to Mrs. Hale, and said, in that subdued and gentle tone, which is so touching when used by a robust man speaking to an invalid:
'I met Dr. Donaldson, ma'am, and as he said fruit would be good for you, I have taken the great liberty of bringing you some.'
Mrs. Hale was excessively surprised and pleased; Mr. Hale expressed deep gratitude.
'Fetch a plate, Margaret.'
Margaret stood up, half afraid of moving or causing any noise to make Mr. Thornton aware that she was in the room. She thought it would be awkward for both; and fancied that, from her being on a low seat behind her father, he had overlooked her in his haste. As if he did not feel the consciousness of her presence all over!
'I must go,' said he. 'I cannot stay. If you will forgive this liberty - my rough ways - too abrupt, I fear - I will be more gentle next time. You will allow me the pleasure of bringing you some fruit again, if I should see any that is tempting. Good afternoon, Mr. Hale. Good-bye, ma'am.'
He was gone. Not one word: not one look to Margaret. She believed that he had not seen her. She went for a plate in silence, and lifted the fruit out tenderly, with her delicate fingers. It was good of him to bring it; and after yesterday too!
'Oh! it is so delicious!' said Mrs. Hale, in a feeble voice. 'Margaret love, only taste these grapes! Was it not good of him?'
'Yes,' said Margaret, quietly.
'Margaret!' said Mrs. Hale, rather querulously, 'you won't like anything Mr. Thornton does. I never saw anybody so prejudiced.'
Mr. Hale peeled a peach for his wife; and, cutting off a small piece for himself, he said:
'I have not tasted such fruit since I was a boy; and to boys, I fancy, all fruit is good. I remember eating sloes and crab-apples with relish. Do you remember the currant bushes, Margaret, in the garden at home?'
Did she not? Did she not remember every weather-stain on the old stone wall; the grey and yellow lichens that marked it like a map; the little crane's-bill that grew in the crevices? She had been shaken by the events of the last two days; and, somehow, these careless words of her father's, about the sunny times of old, made her start up.
Dropping her sewing, she went hastily out of the room into her own little chamber. She had hardly given way to the first choking sob, when she became aware of Dixon standing at her chest of drawers, searching for something.
'Bless me, miss! How you startled me! Missus is not worse, is she? Is anything the matter?'
'No, nothing. Only I'm silly, Dixon, and want a glass of water. What are you looking for? I keep my muslins in that drawer.'
Dixon did not speak, but went on rummaging. The scent of lavender came out and perfumed the room.
At last Dixon found what she wanted; what it was, Margaret could not see. Dixon tuned, and spoke to her:
'Now I don't like telling you what I wanted, because you're fretting enough, and I know you'll fret about this. I meant to have kept it from you till night.'
'What is the matter? Pray, tell me.'
'That young woman you go to see - Higgins, I mean.'
'Well?'
'Well! she died this morning, and her sister is here - come to beg a strange thing. It seems the young woman had a fancy for being buried in something of yours, and so the sister's come to ask for it; and I was looking for a night-cap that wasn't too good to give away.'
'Oh! let me find one,' said Margaret, in the midst of her tears. 'Poor Bessy! I never thought I should not see her again.'
'Why, that's another thing. This girl downstairs wanted me to ask you if you would like to see her.'
'But she's dead!' said Margaret, turning a little pale. 'I never saw a dead person. No! I would rather not.'
'I told her you wouldn't.'
'I will go down and speak to her,' said Margaret. Taking the cap in her hand, she went to the kitchen. Mary's face was swollen with crying, and she burst out afresh when she saw Margaret.
'Oh, ma'am, she loved yo', she loved yo', she did indeed!' And for a long time, Margaret could not get her to say anything more than this.
At last, she learned a few facts. Nicholas Higgins had gone out in the morning, leaving Bessy as well as on the day before. But in an hour she was taken worse; a neighbour ran to the room where Mary was working; they did not know where to find her father. Mary had only come in a few minutes before she died.
'It were a day or two ago she axed to be buried in somewhat o' yourn. She were never tired o' talking o' yo'. She used to say yo' were the prettiest thing she'd ever clapped eyes on. She loved yo' dearly. Her last words were, "Give her my affectionate respects; and keep father fro' drink." Yo'll come and see her, ma'am. She would ha' thought it a great compliment, I know.'
Margaret shrank a little from answering. 'Yes, I will. I'll come before tea. But where's your father, Mary?'
Mary shook her head, and stood up to go.
'Miss Hale,' said Dixon, in a low voice, 'where's the use o' your going to see the poor thing laid out? I'd never say a word against it, if it could do the girl any good; but I'd go myself, if that would satisfy her. They've just a notion, these folks, of its being a respect to the departed. Here,' said she, turning sharply, 'I'll come and see your sister. Miss Hale is busy.'
The girl looked wistfully at Margaret. Dixon's coming might be a compliment, but it was not the same thing to the poor sister, who had had her little pangs of jealousy at the intimacy between Bessy and the young lady.
'No, Dixon!' said Margaret with decision. 'Mary, I will come this afternoon.' And for fear of her own cowardice, she went away, so that she could not change her mind.


"Experience, like a pale musician, holds A dulcimer of patience in his hand; Whence harmonies we cannot understand, Of God's will in His worlds, the strain unfolds In sad, perplexed minors." MRS. BROWNING.
About this time Dixon returned from Milton, and assumed her post as Margaret's maid. She brought endless pieces of Milton gossip: How Martha had gone to live with Miss Thornton, on the latter's marriage; with an account of the bridesmaids, dresses and breakfasts, at that interesting ceremony; how people thought that Mr. Thornton had made too grand a wedding of it, considering he had lost a deal by the strike, and had had to pay so much for the failure of his contracts; how little money articles of furniture--long cherished by Dixon--had fetched at the sale, which was a shame considering how rich folks were at Milton; how Mrs. Thornton had come one day and got two or three good bargains, and Mr. Thornton had come the next, and in his desire to obtain one or two things, had bid against himself, much to the enjoyment of the bystanders, so as Dixon observed, that made things even; if Mrs. Thornton paid too little, Mr. Thornton paid too much. Mr. Bell had sent all sorts of orders about the books; there was no understanding him, he was so particular; if he had come himself it would have been all right, but letters always were and always will be more puzzling than they are worth. Dixon had not much to tell about the Higginses. Her memory had an aristocratic bias, and was very treacherous whenever she tried to recall any circumstance connected with those below her in life. Nicholas was very well she believed. He had been several times at the house asking for news of Miss Margaret--the only person who ever did ask, except once Mr. Thornton. And Mary? oh! of course she was very well, a great, stout, slatternly thing! She did hear, or perhaps it was only a dream of hers, though it would be strange if she had dreamt of such people as the Higginses, that Mary had gone to work at Mr. Thornton's mill, because her father wished her to know how to cook; but what nonsense that could mean she didn't know. Margaret rather agreed with her that the story was incoherent enough to be like a dream. Still it was pleasant to have some one now with whom she could talk of Milton, and Milton people. Dixon was not over-fond of the subject, rather wishing to leave that part of her life in shadow. She liked much more to dwell upon speeches of Mr. Bell's, which had suggested an idea to her of what was really his intention--making Margaret his heiress. But her young lady gave her no encouragement, nor in any way gratified her insinuating enquiries, however disguised in the form of suspicions or assertions.
All this time Margaret had a strange undefined longing to hear that Mr. Bell had gone to pay one of his business visits to Milton; for it had been well understood between them, at the time of their conversation at Helstone, that the explanation she had desired should only be given to Mr. Thornton by word of mouth, and even in that manner should be in nowise forced upon him. Mr. Bell was no great correspondent, but he wrote from time to time long or short letters, as the humour took him, and although Margaret was not conscious of any definite hope, on receiving them, yet she always put away his notes with a little feeling of disappointment. He was not going to Milton; he said nothing about it at any rate. Well! she must be patient. Sooner or later the mists would be cleared away. Mr. Bell's letters were hardly like his usual self; they were short, and complaining, with every now and then a little touch of bitterness that was unusual. He did not look forward to the future; he rather seemed to regret the past, and be weary of the present. Margaret fancied that he could not be well; but in answer to some enquiry of hers as to his health, he sent her a short note, saying there was an oldfashioned complaint called the spleen; that he was suffering from that, and it was for her to decide if it was more mental or physical; but that he should like to indulge himself in grumbling, without being obliged to send a bulletin every time.
In consequence of this note, Margaret made no more enquiries about his health. One day Edith let out accidentally a fragment of a conversation which she had had with Mr. Bell, when he was last in London, which possessed Margaret with the idea that he had some notion of taking her to pay a visit to her brother and new sister-in-law, at Cadiz, in the autumn. She questioned and cross-questioned Edith, till the latter was weary, and declared that there was nothing more to remember; all he had said was that he half-thought he should go, and hear for himself what Frederick had to say about the mutiny; and that it would be a good opportunity for Margaret to become acquainted with her new sister-in-law; that he always went somewhere during the long vacation, and did not see why he should not go to Spain as well as anywhere else. That was all. Edith hoped Margaret did not want to leave them, that she was so anxious about all this. And then, having nothing else particular to do, she cried, and said that she knew she cared much more for Margaret than Margaret did for her. Margaret comforted her as well as she could, but she could hardly explain to her how this idea of Spain, mere Chteau en Espagne as it might be, charmed and delighted her. Edith was in the mood to think that any pleasure enjoyed away from her was a tacit affront, or at best a proof of indifference. So Margaret had to keep her pleasure to herself, and could only let it escape by the safety-valve of asking Dixon, when she dressed for dinner, if she would not like to see Master Frederick and his new wife very much indeed?
"She's a Papist, Miss, isn't she?"
"I believe--oh yes, certainly!" said Margaret, a little damped for an instant at this recollection.
"And they live in a Popish country?"
"Yes."
"Then I'm afraid I must say, that my soul is dearer to me than even Master Frederick, his own dear self. I should be in a perpetual terror, Miss, lest I should be converted."
"Oh," said Margaret, "I do not know that I am going; and if I go, I am not such a fine lady as to be unable to travel without you. No! dear old Dixon, you shall have a long holiday, if we go. But I'm afraid it is a long 'if.'"
Now Dixon did not like this speech. In the first place, she did not like Margaret's trick of calling her 'dear old Dixon' whenever she was particularly demonstrative. She knew that Miss Hale was apt to call all people that she liked "old," as a sort of term of endearment; but Dixon always winced away from the application of the word to herself, who, being not much past fifty, was, she thought, in the very prime of life. Secondly, she did not like being so easily taken at her word; she had, with all her terror, a lurking curiosity about Spain, the Inquisition, and Popish mysteries. So, after clearing her throat, as if to show her willingness to do away with difficulties, she asked Miss Hale whether she thought, if she took care never to see a priest, or enter into one of their churches, there would be so very much danger of her being converted? Master Frederick, to be sure, had gone over unaccountably.
"I fancy it was love that first predisposed him to conversion," said Margaret, sighing.
"Indeed, Miss!" said Dixon; "well! I can preserve myself from priests, and from churches; but love steals in unawares! I think it's as well I should not go."
Margaret was afraid of letting her mind run too much upon this Spanish plan. But it took off her thoughts from too impatiently dwelling upon her desire to have all explained to Mr. Thornton. Mr. Bell appeared for the present to be stationary at Oxford, and to have no immediate purpose of going to Milton, and some secret restraint seemed to hang over Margaret, and prevent her from even asking, or alluding again to any probability of such a visit on his part. Nor did she feel at liberty to name what Edith had told her of the idea he had entertained,--it might be but for five minutes,--of going to Spain. He had never named it at Helstone, during all that sunny day of leisure; it was very probably but the fancy of a moment,--but if it were true, what a bright outlet it would be from the monotony of her present life, which was beginning to fall upon her.
One of the great pleasures of Margaret's life at this time was in Edith's boy. He was the pride and plaything of both father and mother, as long as he was good; but he had a strong will of his own, and as soon as he burst out into one of his stormy passions, Edith would throw herself back in despair and fatigue, and sigh out, "Oh dear, what shall I do with him! Do, Margaret, please ring the bell for Hanley."
But Margaret almost liked him better in these manifestations of character than in his good blue-sashed moods. She would carry him off into a room, where they two alone battled it out; she with a firm power which subdued him into peace, while every sudden charm and wile she possessed was exerted on the side of right, until he would rub his little hot and tear-smeared face all over hers, kissing and caressing till he often fell asleep in her arms or on her shoulder. Those were Margaret's sweetest moments. They gave her a taste of the feeling that she believed would be denied to her for ever.
Mr. Henry Lennox added a new and not disagreeable element to the course of the household life by his frequent presence. Margaret thought him colder, if more brilliant than formerly; but there were strong intellectual tastes, and much and varied knowledge, which gave flavour to the otherwise rather insipid conversation. Margaret saw glimpses in him of a slight contempt for his brother and sister-in-law, and for their mode of life, which he seemed to consider as frivolous and purposeless. He once or twice spoke to his brother, in Margaret's presence, in a pretty sharp tone of enquiry, as to whether he meant entirely to relinquish his profession; and on Captain Lennox's reply, that he had quite enough to live upon, she had seen Mr. Lennox's curl of the lip as he said, "And is that all you live for?"
But the brothers were much attached to each other, in the way that any two persons are, when the one is cleverer and always leads the other, and this last is patiently content to be led. Mr. Lennox was pushing on in his profession; cultivating, with profound calculation, all those connections that might eventually be of service to him; keen-sighted, far-seeing, intelligent, sarcastic, and proud. Since the one long conversation relating to Frederick's affairs, which she had with him the first evening in Mr. Bell's presence, she had had no great intercourse with him, further than that which arose out of their close relations with the same household. But this was enough to wear off the shyness on her side, and any symptoms of mortified pride and vanity on his. They met, continually, of course, but she thought that he rather avoided being alone with her; she fancied that he, as well as she, perceived that they had drifted strangely apart from their former anchorage, side by side, in many of their opinions, and all their tastes.
And yet, when he had spoken unusually well, or with remarkable epigrammatic point, she felt that his eye sought the expression of her countenance first of all, if but for an instant; and that, in the family intercourse which constantly threw them together, her opinion was the one to which he listened with a deference,--the more complete, because it was reluctantly paid, and concealed as much as possible.

About this time Dixon returned from Milton, bringing endless pieces of gossip: how Martha had gone to live with Miss Thornton, on the latter's marriage, with an account of bridesmaids, dresses and breakfasts; how people thought that Mr. Thornton had made too grand a wedding of it, considering he had lost a deal by the strike, and had had to pay so much for the failure of his contracts; how little money the Hales' furniture had fetched at the sale; how Mrs. Thornton had come one day and got two or three good bargains, and Mr. Thornton had come the next, and in his desire to buy one or two things, had bid against himself, much to the enjoyment of the bystanders. Mr. Bell had sent all sorts of orders about the books which she could not understand, his letters were so puzzling.
Dixon had not much to tell about the Higginses. Her memory had an aristocratic bias. Nicholas was very well, she believed. He had been several times at the house asking for news of Miss Margaret - the only person who ever did ask, except once Mr. Thornton. And Mary? oh! she was very well, a great, stout, slatternly thing! She did hear that Mary had gone to work at Mr. Thornton's mill, because her father wished her to know how to cook; but what nonsense that could mean she didn't know. Margaret rather agreed with her that the story was incoherent.
Still, it was pleasant to have someone with whom she could talk of Milton. Dixon was not over-fond of the subject, preferring to dwell upon speeches of Mr. Bell's which had suggested that he would make Margaret his heiress. But her young lady gave her no encouragement in her enquiries.
All this time, Margaret had a strange undefined longing to hear that Mr. Bell had gone to pay one of his business visits to Milton, and had been able to speak to Mr. Thornton about her explanation. Mr. Bell was no great correspondent, and when he wrote she read his notes with a little feeling of disappointment. He was not going to Milton; he said nothing about it at any rate.
Well! she must be patient. Mr. Bell's letters were hardly like his usual self; they were short, and complaining, with an unusual touch of bitterness and weariness. Margaret thought that he could not be well; but when she enquired about his health, he sent her a short note, saying there was an old-fashioned complaint called the spleen; that he was suffering from that, and it was for her to decide if it was more mental or physical; but that he should like to indulge himself in grumbling, without being obliged to send a bulletin every time. After this note, Margaret made no more enquiries about his health.
One day Edith let out accidentally a fragment of a conversation which she had had with Mr. Bell, which implied that he had some notion of taking Margaret to see Frederick at Cadiz in the autumn. She cross-questioned Edith, till the latter was weary, and declared that there was nothing more to remember; all he had said was that he half-thought he should go. Edith hoped Margaret did not want to leave them. And then, having nothing else particular to do, she cried, and said that she knew she cared much more for Margaret than Margaret did for her. Margaret comforted her, but she could hardly explain how this idea of Spain delighted her. Edith was in the mood to think that any pleasure enjoyed away from her was an affront.
So Margaret resorted to asking Dixon if she would not like to see Master Frederick and his new wife?
'She's a Papist, Miss, isn't she?'
'I believe so,' said Margaret, a little damped.
'And they live in a Popish country?'
'Yes.'
'Then I'm afraid I must say that my soul is dearer to me than even Master Frederick. I should be in a perpetual terror, Miss, lest I should be converted.'
'Oh' said Margaret, 'If I go, I can travel without you. Dear old Dixon, you shall have a long holiday, if we go. But I'm afraid it is a big "if."'
Now Dixon did not like this speech. In the first place, she did not like being called 'dear old Dixon'. She knew that Miss Hale used 'old' as a term of endearment; but Dixon winced away from it, thinking herself, at not much past fifty, to be in the very prime of life. Secondly, she had a secret lurking curiosity about Spain, and Popish mysteries. So, after clearing her throat, she asked Miss Hale whether she might be safe from conversion if she took care never to enter one of their churches? Master Frederick, to be sure, had gone over unaccountable.
'I fancy that was because of love,' said Margaret, sighing.
'Indeed, Miss!' said Dixon. 'I can protect myself from churches; but love steals in unawares! I think it's as well I should not go.'
Margaret was afraid of thinking too much about this Spanish trip. But it took her mind off Mr. Thornton. Mr. Bell appeared to have no immediate plan to go to Milton, and some secret restraint prevented Margaret from asking him when he might visit. Nor did she feel at liberty to ask about his idea of visiting Spain; for he had never mentioned it at Helstone. It was probably just the fancy of a moment - but what a bright fancy!
One of the great pleasures of Margaret's life at this time was Edith's boy. He was the pride and plaything of both father and mother, as long as he was good; but he had a strong will, and as soon as he burst out into a stormy passion, Edith would throw herself back in despair and fatigue, sighing, 'Oh dear, what shall I do with him! Do, Margaret, please ring the bell for Hanley.'
But Margaret almost liked him better in these moods. She would carry him off into a room, where they two alone battled it out; she with a firm power which subdued him into peace, exerting every charm and wile she possessed on the side of right, until he would rub his little tear-smeared face all over hers, caressing her till he often fell asleep on her shoulder. Those were Margaret's sweetest moments. They gave her a taste of the feeling that she believed would be denied to her for ever.
Mr. Henry Lennox's frequent presence added a new element to the household life. Margaret thought him colder, if more brilliant than formerly; but his intellectual tastes and knowledge gave flavour to the otherwise rather insipid conversation. Margaret saw glimpses in him of a slight contempt for his brother and sister-in-law, and for their mode of life, which he seemed to consider as frivolous and purposeless. He once asked his brother, in Margaret's presence, whether he meant entirely to give up his profession. On Captain Lennox's reply, that he had quite enough to live upon, Mr. Lennox's lip curled as he said, 'And is that all you live for?'
But the brothers were much attached to each other. Mr. Lennox was pushing on in his profession; cultivating all those connections that might be of use to him; keen-sighted, sarcastic, and proud. Since their one long conversation about Frederick's affairs, she had made only small talk with him. But this was enough to wear off the shyness on her side, and any mortified vanity on his. She thought that he rather avoided being alone with her; she fancied that he perceived that they had drifted strangely apart in many of their opinions, and all their tastes.
And yet, when he had spoken unusually well, she felt that his eye sought her out first of all, if but for an instant; and that, in the family discussion, her opinion was the one to which he listened with deference - the more complete, because it was reluctantly paid, and concealed as much as possible.


"Bear up, brave heart! we will be calm and strong; Sure, we can master eyes, or cheek, or tongue, Nor let the smallest tell-tale sign appear She ever was, and is, and will be dear." RHYMING PLAY.
It was a hot summer's evening. Edith came into Margaret's bed-room, the first time in her habit, the second ready dressed for dinner. No one was there at first; the next time Edith found Dixon laying out Margaret's dress on the bed; but no Margaret. Edith remained to fidget about.
"Oh, Dixon! not those horrid blue flowers to that dead gold-coloured gown. What taste! Wait a minute, and I will bring you some pomegranate blossoms."
"It's not a dead gold-colour ma'am. It's a straw-colour. And blue always goes with straw-colour." But Edith had brought the brilliant scarlet flowers before Dixon had got half through her remonstrance.
"Where is Miss Hale?" asked Edith, as soon as she had tried the effect of the garniture. "I can't think," she went on, pettishly, "how my aunt allowed her to get into such rambling habits in Milton! I'm sure I'm always expecting to hear of her having met with something horrible among all those wretched places she pokes herself into. I should never dare to go down some of those streets without a servant. They're not fit for ladies."
Dixon was still huffed about her despised taste; so she replied rather shortly:
"It's no wonder to my mind, when I hear ladies talk such a deal about ladies--and when they're such fearful, delicate, dainty ladies too--I say it's no wonder to me that there are no longer any saints on earth----"
"Oh, Margaret! here you are! I have been so wanting you. But how your cheeks are flushed with the heat, poor child! But only think what that tiresome Henry has done; really, he exceeds brother-in-law's limits. Just when my party was made up so beautifully--fitted in so precisely for Mr. Colthurst--there has Henry come, with an apology it is true, and making use of your name for an excuse, and asked me if he may bring that Mr. Thornton of Milton--your tenant, you know--who is in London about some law business. It will spoil my number, quite."
"I don't mind dinner. I don't want any," said Margaret, in a low voice. "Dixon can get me a cup of tea here, and I will be in the drawing-room by the time you come up. I shall really be glad to lie down."
"No, no! that will never do. You do look wretchedly white, to be sure; but that is just the heat, and we can't do without you possibly. (Those flowers a little lower, Dixon. They look glorious flames, Margaret, in your black hair.) You know we planned you to talk about Milton to Mr. Colthurst. Oh! to be sure! and this man comes from Milton. I believe it will be capital, after all. Mr. Colthurst can pump him well on all the subjects in which he is interested, and it will be great fun to trace out your experiences, and this Mr. Thornton's wisdom, in Mr. Colthurst's next speech in the House. Really, I think it is a happy hit of Henry's. I asked him if he was a man one would be ashamed of; and he replied, 'Not if you've any sense in you, my little sister.' So I suppose he is able to sound his h's, which is not a common Darkshire accomplishment--eh, Margaret?"
"Mr. Lennox did not say why Mr. Thornton was come up to town? Was it law business connected with the property?" asked Margaret, in a constrained voice.
"Oh! he's failed, or something of the kind, that Henry told you of that day you had such a headache--what was it? (There, that's capital, Dixon. Miss Hale does us credit, does she not?) I wish I was as tall as a queen, and as brown as a gipsy, Margaret."
"But about Mr. Thornton?"
"Oh! I really have such a terrible head for law business. Henry will like nothing better than to tell you all about it. I know the impression he made upon me was, that Mr. Thornton is very badly off, and a very respectable man, and that I'm to be very civil to him: and as I did not know how, I came to you to ask you to help me. And now come down with me, and rest on the sofa for a quarter of an hour."
The privileged brother-in-law came early; and Margaret, reddening as she spoke, began to ask him the questions she wanted to hear answered about Mr. Thornton.
"He came up about this sub-letting the property--Marlborough Mills, and the house and premises adjoining, I mean. He is unable to keep it on; and there are deeds and leases to be looked over and agreements to be drawn up. I hope Edith will receive him properly; but she was rather put out, as I could see, by the liberty I had taken in begging for an invitation for him. But I thought you would like to have some attention shown him: and one would be particularly scrupulous in paying every respect to a man who is going down in the world." He had dropped his voice to speak to Margaret, by whom he was sitting; but as he ended he sprang up, and introduced Mr. Thornton, who had that moment entered, to Edith and Captain Lennox.
Margaret looked with an anxious eye at Mr. Thornton while he was thus occupied. It was considerably more than a year since she had seen him; and events had occurred to change him much in that time. His fine figure yet bore him above the common height of men; and gave him a distinguished appearance, from the ease of motion which arose out of it, and was natural to him; but his face looked older and careworn; yet a noble composure sate upon it, which impressed those who had just been hearing of his changed position, with a sense of inherent dignity and manly strength. He was aware, from the first glance he had given round the room, that Margaret was there; he had seen her intent look of occupation as she listened to Mr. Henry Lennox; and he came up to her with the perfectly regulated manner of an old friend. With his first calm words a vivid colour flashed into her cheeks, which never left them again during the evening. She did not seem to have much to say to him. She disappointed him by the quiet way in which she asked what seemed to him to be the merely necessary questions respecting her old acquaintances, in Milton; but others came in--more intimate in the house than he--and he fell into the background, where he and Mr. Lennox talked together from time to time.
"You think Miss Hale looking well," said Mr. Lennox, "don't you? Milton didn't agree with her, I imagine; for when she first came to London, I thought I had never seen any one so much changed. To-night she is looking radiant. But she is much stronger. Last autumn she was fatigued with a walk of a couple of miles. On Friday evening we walked up to Hampstead and back. Yet on Saturday she looked as well as she does now."
"We!" Who? They two alone?
Mr. Colthurst was a very clever man, and a rising member of Parliament. He had a quick eye at discerning character, and was struck by a remark which Mr. Thornton made at dinner-time. He enquired from Edith who that gentleman was; and, rather to her surprise, she found, from the tone of his "Indeed!" that Mr. Thornton of Milton was not such an unknown name to him as she had imagined it would be. Her dinner was going off well. Henry was in good humour, and brought out his dry caustic wit admirably. Mr. Thornton and Mr. Colthurst found one or two mutual subjects of interest, which they could only touch upon then, reserving them for more private after-dinner talk. Margaret looked beautiful in the pomegranate flowers; and if she did lean back in her chair and speak but little, Edith was not annoyed, for the conversation flowed on smoothly without her. Margaret was watching Mr Thornton's face. He never looked at her: so she might study him unobserved, and note the changes which even this short time had wrought in him. Only at some unexpected mot of Mr. Lennox's, his face flashed out into the old look of intense enjoyment: the merry brightness returned to his eyes, the lips just parted to suggest the brilliant smile of former days; and for an instant, his glance instinctively sought hers, as if he wanted her sympathy. But when their eyes met, his whole countenance changed; he was grave and anxious once more; and he resolutely avoided even looking near her again during dinner.
There were only two ladies beside their own party, and as these were occupied in conversation by her aunt and Edith, when they went up into the drawing-room, Margaret languidly employed herself about some work. Presently the gentlemen came up, Mr. Colthurst and Mr. Thornton in close conversation. Mr. Lennox drew near to Margaret, and said in a low voice:
"I really think Edith owes me thanks for my contribution to her party. You've no idea what an agreeable, sensible fellow this tenant of yours is. He has been the very man to give Colthurst all the facts he wanted coaching in. I can't conceive how he contrived to mismanage his affairs."
"With his powers and opportunities you would have succeeded," said Margaret. He did not quite relish the tone in which she spoke, although the words but expressed a thought which had passed through his own mind. As he was silent, they caught a swell in the sound of conversation going on near the fire-place between Mr. Colthurst and Mr. Thornton.
"I assure you, I heard it spoken of with great interest--curiosity as to its result, perhaps I should rather say. I heard your name frequently mentioned during my short stay in the neighbourhood." Then they lost some words; and when next they could hear Mr. Thornton was speaking.
"I have not the elements for popularity--if they spoke of me in that way, they were mistaken. I fall slowly into new projects; and I find it difficult to let myself be known, even by those whom I desire to know, and with whom I would fain have no reserve. Yet, even with all these drawbacks, I felt that I was on the right path, and that, starting from a kind of friendship with one, I was becoming acquainted with many. The advantages were mutual: we were both unconsciously and consciously teaching each other."
"You say 'were.' I trust you are intending to pursue the same course?"
"I must stop Colthurst," said Henry Lennox, hastily. And by an abrupt, yet apropos question, he turned the current of the conversation, so as not to give Mr. Thornton the mortification of acknowledging his want of success and consequent change of position. But as soon as the newly-started subject had come to a close, Mr. Thornton resumed the conversation just where it had been interrupted, and gave Mr. Colthurst the reply to his inquiry.
"I have been unsuccessful in business, and have had to give up my position as a master. I am on the look-out for a situation in Milton, where I may meet with employment under some one who will be willing to let me go along my own way in such matters as these. I can depend upon myself for having no go-ahead theories that I would rashly bring into practice. My only wish is to have the opportunity of cultivating some intercourse with the hands beyond the mere 'cash nexus.' But it might be the point Archimedes sought from which to move the earth, to judge by the importance attached to it by some of our manufacturers, who shake their heads and look grave as soon as I name the one or two experiments that I should like to try."
"You call them 'experiments' I notice," said Mr. Colthurst, with a delicate increase of respect in his manner.
"Because I believe them to be such. I am not sure of the consequences that may result from them. But I am sure they ought to be tried. I have arrived at the conviction that no mere institutions, however wise, and however much thought may have been required to organise and arrange them, can attach class to class as they should be attached, unless the working out of such institutions bring the individuals of the different classes into actual personal contact. Such intercourse is the very breath of life. A working man can hardly be made to feel and know how much his employer may have laboured in his study at plans for the benefit of his workpeople. A complete plan emerges like a piece of machinery, apparently fitted for every emergency. But the hands accept it as they do machinery, without understanding the intense mental labour and forethought required to bring it to such perfection. But I would take an idea, the working out of which would necessitate personal intercourse; it might not go well at first, but at every hitch interest would be felt by an increasing number of men, and at last its success in working come to be desired by all, as all had borne a part in the formation of the plan; and even then I am sure that it would lose its vitality, cease to be living, as soon as it was no longer carried on by that sort of common interest which invariably makes people find means and ways of seeing each other, and becoming acquainted with each others' characters and persons, and even tricks of temper and modes of speech. We should understand each other better, and I'll venture to say we should like each other more."
"And you think they may prevent recurrence of strikes?"
"Not at all. My utmost expectation only goes as far as this--that they may render strikes not the bitter, venomous sources of hatred they have hitherto been. A more hopeful man might imagine that a closer and more genial intercourse between classes might do away with strikes. But I am not a hopeful man."
Suddenly, as if a new idea had struck him, he crossed over to where Margaret was sitting, and began, without preface, as if he knew she had been listening to all that had passed:
"Miss Hale, I had a round-robin from some of my men--I suspect in Higgins' handwriting--stating their wish to work for me, if ever I was in a position to employ men again on my own behalf. That was good, wasn't it?"
"Yes. Just right. I am glad of it," said Margaret, looking up straight into his face with her speaking eyes, and then dropping them under his eloquent glance. He gazed back at her for a minute, as if he did not know exactly what he was about. Then sighed; and saying, "I knew you would like it," he turned away, and never spoke to her again until he bid her a formal "good night."
As Mr. Lennox took his departure, Margaret said, with a blush that she could not repress, and with some hesitation,
"Can I speak to you to-morrow? I want your help about--something."
"Certainly. I will come at whatever time you name. You cannot give me a greater pleasure than by making me of any use. At eleven? Very well."
His eye brightened with exultation. How she was learning to depend upon him! It seemed as if any day now might give him the certainty, without having which he had determined never to offer to her again.

It was a hot summer's evening. Edith came into Margaret's bedroom, dressed for dinner. She found Dixon laying out Margaret's dress on the bed; but no Margaret.
'Oh, Dixon! not those horrid blue flowers with that dead gold-coloured gown. What taste! Wait a minute, and I will bring you some pomegranate blossoms.'
'It's not a dead gold-colour, ma'am. It's a straw-colour. And blue always goes with straw-colour.' But Edith had brought the scarlet flowers before Dixon had finished.
'Where is Miss Hale?' asked Edith pettishly. 'I can't think how my aunt Hale allowed her to get into such rambling habits when she was in Milton! I'm always expecting to hear of her having met with something horrible in those wretched places she pokes herself into. I should never dare to go down some of those streets without a servant. They're not fit for ladies.'
Dixon was still huffed about her despised taste; so she replied, rather shortly:
'It's no wonder to my mind, when they're such fearful, delicate, dainty ladies - it's no wonder to me that there are no longer any saints on earth-'
'Oh, Margaret! here you are! I have been so wanting you. Only think what that tiresome Henry has done. Just when my party was made up so beautifully - there has Henry come, with an apology it is true, and using your name for an excuse, has asked me if he may bring that Mr. Thornton of Milton - your tenant, you know - who is in London about some law business. It will spoil my number at dinner.'
'I don't mind dinner. I don't want any,' said Margaret, in a low voice. 'Dixon can get me a cup of tea here, and I will be in the drawing-room by the time you come up. I shall really be glad to lie down.'
'No, no! that will never do. You do look wretchedly white, to be sure; but that is just the heat, and we can't do without you. You know we planned you to talk about Milton to Mr. Colthurst. Oh! and this man comes from Milton. I believe it will be capital, after all. Mr. Colthurst can pump him, and it will be great fun to trace out your experiences, and this Mr. Thornton's wisdom, in Mr. Colthurst's next speech in parliament. Really, it is a happy hit of Henry's. I asked him if Mr. Thornton was a man one would be ashamed of; and he replied, "Not if you've any sense, my little sister." So I suppose he is able to sound his h's - eh, Margaret?'
'Mr. Lennox did not say why Mr. Thornton was come up to town? Was it connected with the property?' asked Margaret, in a constrained voice.
'Oh! he's failed, or something of the kind, as Henry told you that day you had such a headache. There, that's capital, Dixon. Miss Hale does us credit, does she not? I wish I was as tall as a queen, and as brown as a gipsy, Margaret.'
'But about Mr. Thornton?'
'Oh, I really have such a terrible head for law business. Henry will tell you all about it. I gathered that Mr. Thornton is very badly off, and a very respectable man, and that I'm to be very civil to him; so I came to ask you to help me. And now come down with me.'
Henry Lennox arrived early. Margaret, reddening, began to ask him about Mr. Thornton.
'He came to London about sub-letting the property - Marlborough Mills, and the house and premises. He is unable to keep it on; and there are leases to be looked over, and agreements to be drawn up. I hope Edith will receive him properly; she was rather put out when I begged an invitation for him. But I thought you would like to have some attention shown him: and one would wish to be scrupulous in paying every respect to a man who is going down in the world.'
As he ended he sprang up, and introduced Mr. Thornton, who had that moment entered, to Edith and Captain Lennox.
Margaret looked anxiously at Mr. Thornton. It was more than a year since she had seen him; and he had changed in that time. His fine figure and his height gave him a distinguished appearance, with a natural ease of motion; but his face looked older and care-worn. Yet a noble composure sat upon it, indicating an inner dignity and manly strength.
He was aware from his first glance that Margaret was there; he had seen her intent look as she listened to Mr. Henry Lennox; and he came up to her with the perfectly regulated manner of an old friend. With his first calm words a vivid colour flashed into her cheeks, which never left them again during the evening. She did not seem to have much to say to him. She disappointed him by the quiet way in which she asked the necessary questions about her old acquaintances in Milton. Others came in, and he fell back to talk to Mr. Lennox.
'You think Miss Hale looking well,' said Mr. Lennox, 'don't you? Milton didn't agree with her, I imagine; for when she first came to London, I had never seen anyone so much changed. Tonight she is looking radiant. But she is much stronger. Last autumn she was fatigued with a walk of a couple of miles. On Friday evening we walked up to Hampstead and back.'
'We!' Who? They two alone?
Mr. Colthurst was a very clever man, and a rising member of parliament. He was struck by a remark which Mr. Thornton made at dinner, and enquired of Edith who that gentleman was. To her surprise, she found that Mr. Thornton of Milton was not such an unknown name to him as she had imagined. Her dinner was going off well. Henry was in good humour, and displayed his dry caustic wit admirably. Mr. Thornton and Mr. Colthurst found one or two mutual subjects of interest. Margaret looked beautiful in the pomegranate flowers; and if she spoke little, Edith was not annoyed, for the conversation flowed on smoothly without her.
Margaret was watching Mr. Thornton's face. He never looked at her; so she might study him unobserved, and note the changes in him. Only once, at some witty remark of Mr. Lennox's, his face flashed out into the old look of intense enjoyment; the merry brightness returned to his eyes, the lips just parted to suggest the brilliant smile of former days; and for an instant, his glance instinctively sought hers. But when their eyes met, his whole countenance changed; he was grave and anxious once more. He resolutely avoided looking near her again during dinner.
When the gentlemen joined the ladies in the drawing-room, Mr. Colthurst and Mr. Thornton were in close conversation. Mr. Lennox drew near to Margaret, and said in a low voice:
'I really think Edith owes me thanks. You've no idea what an agreeable, sensible fellow this tenant of yours is. He has been the very man to give Colthurst the facts he wanted. I can't conceive how he contrived to mismanage his affairs.'
'With his powers and opportunities you would have succeeded,' said Margaret. He did not quite relish the tone in which she spoke, although the words echoed his own thought. As he was silent, they caught some of the conversation going on between Mr. Colthurst and Mr. Thornton.
'I assure you, I heard it spoken of with great interest as to its result. I heard your name frequently mentioned during my stay in the neighbourhood.' Then they lost some words; and when next they could hear, Mr. Thornton was speaking.
'I have not the elements for popularity. I fall slowly into new projects; and I find it difficult to let myself be known, even by those whom I desire to know. Yet, even with all these drawbacks, I felt that I was on the right path, and that, starting from a kind of friendship with one, I was becoming acquainted with many. The advantages were mutual: we were both unconsciously and consciously teaching each other.'
'You say "were." I trust you are intending to pursue the same course?'
'I must stop Colthurst,' said Henry Lennox, hastily. And by an abrupt question, he turned the current of the conversation, so as not to give Mr. Thornton the mortification of acknowledging his failure. But as soon as the newly-started subject had come to a close, Mr. Thornton resumed the conversation just where it had been interrupted, and gave Mr. Colthurst his reply.
'I have been unsuccessful in business, and have had to give up my position as a master. I am on the look out for a situation in Milton, where I may be employed by someone who will be willing to let me go my own way in such matters as these. I have no rash go-ahead theories. I wish only to have consultation with the hands beyond the mere "cash nexus." But I might as well be attempting to move the earth, to judge by the way some of our manufacturers shake their heads and look grave as soon as I mention the experiments that I should like to try.'
'You call them "experiments"?' said Mr. Colthurst.
'Because I believe them to be such. I am not sure of the consequences that may result from them. But I am sure they ought to be tried. I believe that no mere institutions, however wise, can attach class to class as they should be attached, unless the individuals of the different classes come into actual personal contact. A working man can hardly know how much his employer may have laboured in his study at plans for the benefit of his workpeople. A complete plan emerges like a piece of machinery, and the hands accept without understanding the intense effort required to bring it to perfection. But I would take an idea, which should be worked out through personal discussion; it might not go well at first, but at every hitch interest would be felt by an increasing number of men, and at last its success would be desired by all who had helped to form the plan. We should understand each other better, and I'll venture to say we should like each other more.'
'And you think this may prevent the recurrence of strikes?'
'Not at all. At best, it may render strikes less bitter and venomous than they have hitherto been. A more hopeful man might imagine that closer communication between classes might do away with strikes. But I am not a hopeful man.'
Suddenly, as if a new idea had struck him, he crossed over to where Margaret was sitting, and began, without preface, as if he knew she had been listening to all that had passed:
'Miss Hale, I had a round-robin from some of my men - I suspect in Higgins's handwriting - stating their wish to work for me, if ever I was in a position to employ men again on my own behalf. That was good, wasn't it?'
'Yes. I am glad of it,' said Margaret, looking up straight into his face with her speaking eyes, and then dropping them under his eloquent glance. He gazed back at her for a minute, as if he did not know exactly what he was about.
Then he sighed; and saying, 'I knew you would like it,' he turned away, and never spoke to her again until he bid her a formal 'good night.'
As Mr. Lennox took his departure, Margaret said hesitantly, with a blush that she could not repress, 'Can I speak to you tomorrow? I want your help about - something.'
'Certainly. It will be a pleasure. At eleven? Very well.'
Henry Lennox's eye brightened with exultation. How she was learning to depend upon him! It seemed as if any day now might give him the certainty that she would accept him. Without that, he had determined never to offer to her again.