"Well--I suppose we must." FRIENDS IN COUNCIL.
Mr. Thornton had had some difficulty in working up his mother to the desired point of civility. She did not often make calls; and when she did, it was in heavy state that she went through her duties. Her son had given her a carriage; but she refused to let him keep horses for it; they were hired for the solemn occasions, when she paid morning or evening visits. She had had horses for three days, not a fortnight before, and had comfortably "killed off" all her acquaintances, who might now put themselves to trouble and expense in their turn. Yet Crampton was too far off for her to walk; and she had repeatedly questioned her son as to whether his wish that she should call on the Hales was strong enough to bear the expense of cab-hire. She would have been thankful if it had not; for, as she said, "she saw no use in making up friendships and intimacies with all the teachers and masters in Milton; why, he would be wanting her to call on Fanny's dancing-master's wife, the next thing!"
"And so I would, mother, if Mr. Mason and his wife were friendless in a strange place, like the Hales."
"Oh! you need not speak so hastily. I am going to-morrow. I only wanted you exactly to understand about it."
"If you are going to-morrow, I shall order horses."
"Nonsense, John. One would think you were made of money."
"Not quite, yet. But about the horses I'm determined. The last time you were out in a cab, you came home with a headache from the jolting."
"I never complained of it, I'm sure."
"No! my mother is not given to complaints," said he, a little proudly. "But so much the more I have to watch over you. Now, as for Fanny there, a little hardship would do her good."
"She is not made of the same stuff as you are, John. She could not bear it."
Mrs. Thornton was silent after this; for her last words bore relation to a subject which mortified her. She had an unconscious contempt for a weak character; and Fanny was weak in the very points in which her mother and brother were strong. Mrs. Thornton was not a woman much given to reasoning; her quick judgment and firm resolution served her in good stead of any long arguments and discussions with herself; she felt instinctively that nothing could strengthen Fanny to endure hardships patiently, or face difficulties bravely; and though she winced as she made this acknowledgment to herself about her daughter, it only gave her a kind of pitying tenderness of manner towards her; much of the same description of demeanour with which mothers are wont to treat their weak and sickly children. A stranger, a careless observer might have considered that Mrs. Thornton's manner to her children betokened far more love to Fanny than to John. But such a one would have been deeply mistaken. The very daringness with which mother and son spoke out unpalatable truths, the one to the other, showed a reliance on the firm centre of each other's souls, which the uneasy tenderness of Mrs. Thornton's manner to her daughter, the shame with which she thought to hide the poverty of her child in all the grand qualities which she herself possessed unconsciously, and which she set so high a value upon in others--this shame, I say, betrayed the want of a secure resting-place for her affection. She never called her son by any name but John; "love," and "dear," and such like terms, were reserved for Fanny. But her heart gave thanks for him day and night; and she walked proudly among women for his sake.
"Fanny dear! I shall have horses to the carriage to-day, to go and call on these Hales. Should not you go and see nurse? It's in the same direction, and she's always so glad to see you. You could go on there while I am at Mrs. Hale's."
"Oh! mamma, it's such a long way, and I am so tired."
"With what?" asked Mrs. Thornton, her brow slightly contracting.
"I don't know--the weather, I think. It is so relaxing. Couldn't you bring nurse here, mamma? The carriage could fetch her, and she could spend the rest of the day here, which I know she would like."
Mrs. Thornton did not speak; but she laid her work on the table, and seemed to think.
"It will be a long way for her to walk back at night!" she remarked, at last.
"Oh, but I will send her home in a cab. I never thought of her walking."
At this point, Mr. Thornton came in, just before going to the mill.
"Mother! I need hardly say, that if there is any little thing that could serve Mrs. Hale as an invalid, you will offer it, I'm sure."
"If I can find it out, I will. But I have never been ill myself, so I am not much up to invalids' fancies."
"Well! here is Fanny then, who is seldom without an ailment. She will be able to suggest something, perhaps--won't you, Fan?"
"I have not always an ailment," said Fanny, pettishly; "and I am not going with mamma. I have a headache to-day, and I shan't go out."
Mr. Thornton looked annoyed. His mother's eyes were bent on her work, at which she was now stitching away busily.
"Fanny! I wish you to go," said he, authoritatively. "It will do you good, instead of harm. You will oblige me by going, without my saying anything more about it."
He went abruptly out of the room after saying this.
If he had stayed a minute longer, Fanny would have cried at his tone of command, even when he used the words, "You will oblige me." As it was, she grumbled.
"John always speaks as if I fancied I was ill, and I am sure I never do fancy any such thing. Who are these Hales that he makes such a fuss about?"
"Fanny, don't speak so of your brother. He has good reasons of some kind or other, or he would not wish us to go. Make haste and put your things on."
But the little altercation between her son and her daughter did not incline Mrs. Thornton more favourably towards "these Hales." Her jealous heart repeated her daughter's question, "Who are they, that he is so anxious we should pay them all this attention?" It came up like a burden to a song, long after Fanny had forgotten all about it in the pleasant excitement of seeing the effect of a new bonnet in the looking-glass.
Mrs. Thornton was shy. It was only of late years that she had had leisure enough in her life to go into society; and as society she did not enjoy it. As dinner-giving, and as criticising other people's dinners, she took satisfaction in it. But this going to make acquaintance with strangers was a very different thing. She was ill at ease, and looked more than usually stern and forbidding as she entered the Hales' little drawing-room.
Margaret was busy embroidering a small piece of cambric for some little article of dress for Edith's expected baby--"Flimsy, useless work," as Mrs. Thornton observed to herself. She liked Mrs. Hale's double knitting far better; that was sensible of its kind. The room altogether was full of knick-knacks, which must take a long time to dust; and time to people of limited income was money.
She made all these reflections as she was talking in her stately way to Mrs. Hale, and uttering all the stereotyped commonplaces that most people can find to say with their senses blindfolded. Mrs. Hale was making rather more exertion in her answers, captivated by some real old lace which Mrs. Thornton wore; "lace," as she afterwards observed to Dixon, "of that old English point which has not been made for this seventy years, and which cannot be bought. It must have been an heir-loom, and shows that she had ancestors." So the owner of the ancestral lace became worthy of something more than the languid exertion to be agreeable to a visitor, by which Mrs. Hale's efforts at conversation would have been otherwise bounded. And presently, Margaret, racking her brain to talk to Fanny, heard her mother and Mrs. Thornton plunge into the interminable subject of servants.
"I suppose you are not musical," said Fanny, "as I see no piano."
"I am fond of hearing good music; I cannot play well myself; and papa and mamma don't care much about it; so we sold our old piano when we came here."
"I wonder how you can exist without one. It almost seems to me a necessary of life."
"Fifteen shillings a week, and three saved out of them!" thought Margaret to herself. "But she must have been very young. She probably has forgotten her own personal experience. But she must know of those days." Margaret's manner had an extra tinge of coldness in it when she next spoke.
"You have good concerts here, I believe."
"Oh, yes! Delicious! Too crowded, that is the worst. The directors admit so indiscriminately. But one is sure to hear the newest music there. I always have a large order to give to Johnson's, the day after a concert."
"Do you like new music simply for its newness, then?"
"Oh; one knows it is the fashion in London, or else the singers would not bring it down here. You have been in London, of course."
"Yes," said Margaret, "I have lived there for several years."
"Oh! London and the Alhambra are the two places I long to see!"
"London and the Alhambra!"
"Yes! ever since I read the Tales of the Alhambra. Don't you know them?"
"I don't think I do. But surely, it is a very easy journey to London."
"Yes; but somehow," said Fanny, lowering her voice, "mamma has never been to London herself, and can't understand my longing. She is very proud of Milton; dirty, smoky place as I feel it to be. I believe she admires it the more for those very qualities."
"If it has been Mrs. Thornton's home for some years, I can well understand her loving it," said Margaret, in her clear, bell-like voice.
"What are you saying about me, Miss Hale? May I inquire?"
Margaret had not the words ready for an answer to this question, which took her a little by surprise, so Miss Thornton replied:
"Oh, mamma! we are only trying to account for your being so fond of Milton."
"Thank you," said Mrs. Thornton. "I do not feel that my very natural liking for the place where I was born and brought up,--and which has since been my residence for some years, requires any accounting for."
Margaret was vexed. As Fanny had put it, it did seem as if they had been impertinently discussing Mrs. Thornton's feelings; but she also rose up against that lady's manner of showing that she was offended.
Mrs. Thornton went on after a moment's pause:
"Do you know anything of Milton, Miss Hale? Have you seen any of our factories? our magnificent warehouses?"
"No!" said Margaret. "I have not seen anything of that description as yet."
Then she felt that, by concealing her utter indifference to all such places, she was hardly speaking with truth; so she went on:
"I dare say, papa would have taken me before now if I had cared. But I really do not find much pleasure in going over manufactories."
"They are very curious places," said Mrs. Hale, "but there is so much noise and dirt always. I remember once going in a lilac silk to see candles made, and my gown was utterly ruined."
"Very probably," said Mrs. Thornton, in a short displeased manner. "I merely thought, that as strangers newly come to reside in a town which has risen to eminence in the country, from the character and progress of its peculiar business, you might have cared to visit some of the places where it is carried on; places unique in the kingdom, I am informed. If Miss Hale changes her mind and condescends to be curious as to the manufactures of Milton, I can only say I shall be glad to procure her admission to print-works, or reed-making, or the more simple operations of spinning carried on in my son's mill. Every improvement of machinery is, I believe, to be seen there, in its highest perfection."
"I am so glad you don't like mills and manufactories, and all those kind of things," said Fanny, in a half-whisper, as she rose to accompany her mother, who was taking leave of Mrs. Hale with rustling dignity.
"I think I should like to know all about them, if I were you," replied Margaret quietly.
"Fanny!" said her mother, as they drove away, "we will be civil to these Hales: but don't form one of your hasty friendships with the daughter. She will do you no good, I see. The mother looks very ill, and seems a nice, quiet kind of person."
"I don't want to form any friendship with Miss Hale, mamma," said Fanny, pouting. "I thought I was doing my duty by talking to her, and trying to amuse her."
"Well! at any rate John must be satisfied now."

Mr. Thornton had had some difficulty in persuading his mother to visit. She did not often make calls; and when she did, it was with reluctance. Her son had given her a carriage, but she refused to keep horses; they were hired for solemn occasions. Crampton was too far off for her to walk, and she asked her son whether the visit was worth the expense of cab-hire. As she said, 'she saw no use in making friendships with all the teachers in Milton.'
'The Hales are friendless in a strange place, Mother.'
'Oh! you need not speak so hastily. I am going tomorrow.'
'Then I shall order horses.'
'Nonsense, John. One would think you were made of money.'
'The last time you were out in a cab, you came home with a headache from the jolting.'
'I never complained of it, I'm sure.'
'No. You are not given to complaints,' said he, a little proudly. 'But I have to watch over you. Now as for Fanny there, a little hardship would do her good.'
'She is not made of the same stuff as you are, John.' Mrs. Thornton fell silent. She had an unconscious contempt for a weak character; and her daughter Fanny was weak in the very points in which her mother and brother were strong.
Mrs. Thornton was not a woman much given to reasoning; her quick judgment and firm resolution served her instead of any long arguments with herself; she felt instinctively that nothing could strengthen Fanny to endure hardships patiently or bravely. Though she winced as she acknowledged this, it gave her a kind of pitying tenderness towards Fanny, as if she were a sickly child.
A stranger might have considered that Mrs. Thornton showed far more love to Fanny than to John. But this view would be mistaken. The very daringness with which mother and son spoke out unpalatable truths to each other, showed a reliance on the firm centre of each other's souls. Mrs. Thornton's uneasy tenderness to her daughter went side-by-side with shame; she thought to hide her child's poverty in all the grand qualities which she herself possessed, but this shame betrayed the want of a secure resting-place for her affection. She never called her son by any name but John; 'love' and 'dear' were reserved for Fanny. But her heart gave thanks for him day and night; and she was proud of him.
'Fanny, dear, I shall take the carriage today, to go and call on these Hales. Should not you go and see nurse? It's in the same direction, and she's always so glad to see you. You could go on there while I am at Mrs. Hale's.'
'Oh! mamma, it's such a long way, and I am so tired.'
'With what?' asked Mrs. Thornton, her brow contracting.
'I don't know - the weather, I think. Couldn't you bring nurse here, mamma? The carriage could fetch her, and she could spend the day here, which I know she would like.'
Mrs. Thornton laid her work on the table, and seemed to think.
'It will be a long way for her to walk back at night!' she remarked, at last.
'Oh, I will send her home in a cab.'
At this point, Mr. Thornton came in, on his way to the mill. 'Mother! If there is any little thing that could help Mrs. Hale, as an invalid, you will offer it, I'm sure.'
'If I can, I will. But I have never been ill myself, so I am not much up to invalids' fancies.'
'Well! here is Fanny, who is seldom without an ailment. She will be able to suggest something - won't you, Fan?'
'I have not always an ailment,' said Fanny, pettishly; 'and I am not going with mamma. I have a headache today, and I shan't go out.'
Mr. Thornton looked annoyed. His mother's eyes were bent on her needlework.
'Fanny! I wish you to go,' said he, authoritatively. 'It will do you good. You will oblige me by going, without my saying anything more about it.' He went abruptly out of the room.
'John always speaks as if I fancied I was ill,' grumbled Fanny, 'and I am sure I never fancy any such thing. Who are these Hales that he makes such a fuss about?'
'Fanny, don't speak so of your brother. Make haste and put your things on.'
But the little altercation did not make Mrs. Thornton think favourably of 'these Hales.' Her jealous heart repeated her daughter's question, 'Who are they, that we should pay them all this attention?'
Mrs. Thornton was shy. She did not enjoy going into society. She took satisfaction in dinner-giving, and criticising other people's dinners; but going to visit strangers was a very different thing. She was ill at ease, and looked more than usually stern and forbidding as she entered the Hales' little drawing-room.
Margaret was busy embroidering a small article of dress for Edith's expected baby - 'Flimsy, useless work,' as Mrs. Thornton observed to herself. She liked Mrs. Hale's double knitting far better; that was sensible of its kind. The room was full of knick-knacks, which must take a long time to dust. She made these reflections as she was talking in her stately way to Mrs. Hale, and uttering all the commonplaces that most people can say blindfolded.
Mrs. Hale was making more effort to answer, captivated by some old lace which Mrs. Thornton wore, and which, as she afterwards observed to Dixon, 'had not been made for seventy years, and cannot be bought. It must have been an heirloom.' So the owner of the ancestral lace became worthy of greater efforts at conversation. Margaret, racking her brain to talk to Fanny, heard her mother and Mrs. Thornton plunge into the interminable subject of servants.
'I suppose you are not musical,' said Fanny, 'as I see no piano.'
'I am fond of hearing good music; but I cannot play well myself, and we sold our old piano when we came here.'
'I wonder how you can exist without one. It almost seems to me a necessary of life.'
'Fifteen shillings a week, and three saved out of them!' thought Margaret. 'But she must have been very young. She has probably forgotten those days. Yet she must know of them.' Margaret's manner had an extra tinge of coldness when she spoke.
'You have good concerts here, I believe.'
'Oh, yes! Delicious! Too crowded, that is the worst. But one is sure to hear the newest music. I always have a large order to give to Johnson's, the day after a concert.'
'Do you like new music simply for its newness, then?'
'Oh; one knows it is the fashion in London. You have been in London, of course.'
'Yes,' said Margaret; 'I lived there for several years.'
'Oh! London and the Alhambra are the two places I long to see!'
'London and the Alhambra!'
'Yes! ever since I read the Tales of the Alhambra. Don't you know them?'
'I don't think I do. But surely, it is a very easy journey to London.'
'Yes; but somehow,' said Fanny, lowering her voice, 'mamma has never been to London, and can't understand my longing. She is very proud of Milton, dirty and smoky as it is. I believe she admires it for those very qualities.'
'If it has been Mrs. Thornton's home for some years, I can understand her loving it,' said Margaret, in her clear voice.
'What are you saying about me, Miss Hale? May I inquire?'
Miss Thornton replied: 'Oh, mamma! we are only trying to account for your being so fond of Milton.'
'Thank you,' said Mrs. Thornton. 'I do not feel that my very natural liking for the place where I was born and brought up requires any accounting for.'
Margaret was vexed. Fanny made it sound as if they had been impertinently discussing Mrs. Thornton's feelings; but she also resented that lady's manner.
Mrs. Thornton went on: 'Do you know anything of Milton, Miss Hale? Have you seen any of our factories? our magnificent warehouses?'
'No! Not yet,' said Margaret. Trying to be honest, she went on: 'I dare say, papa would have taken me before now if I had cared. But I really do not find much pleasure in going over factories.'
'They are very curious places,' said Mrs. Hale, 'but there is so much noise and dirt always.'
'Very probably,' said Mrs. Thornton, in a short, displeased manner. 'I merely thought, that as strangers come to reside in a newly eminent town, you might have cared to visit some of the places where its business is carried on; places unique in the kingdom. If Miss Hale changes her mind and condescends to be curious about the manufactures of Milton, I shall be glad to procure her admission to print-works, or reed-making, or the spinning carried on in my son's mill. Every improvement of machinery is, I believe, to be seen there in its highest perfection.'
'I am so glad you don't like mills and factories,' said Fanny, in a half-whisper, as she rose to accompany her mother, who was taking leave of Mrs. Hale with rustling dignity.
'I think I should like to know all about them, if I were you,' replied Margaret quietly.
'Fanny!' said her mother, as they drove away, 'we will be civil to these Hales: but don't form one of your hasty friendships with the daughter. She will do you no good. The mother seems a nice, quiet kind of person.'
'I don't want to form any friendship with Miss Hale, mamma,' said Fanny, pouting. 'I thought I was doing my duty by talking to her.'
'Well! at any rate, John must be satisfied now.'


"As angels in some brighter dreams Call to the soul when man doth sleep, So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes, And into glory peep." HENRY VAUGHAN.
Mrs. Hale was curiously amused and interested by the idea of the Thornton dinner party. She kept wondering about the details, with something of the simplicity of a little child, who wants to have all its anticipated pleasure described beforehand. But the monotonous life led by invalids often makes them like children, inasmuch as they have neither of them any sense of proportion in events, and seem each to believe that the walls and curtains which shut in their world, and shut out everything else, must of necessity be larger than anything hidden beyond. Besides Mrs. Hale had had her vanities as a girl; had perhaps unduly felt their mortification when she became a poor clergyman's wife;--they had been smothered and kept down; but they were not extinct; and she liked to think of seeing Margaret dressed for a party, and discussed what she should wear, with an unsettled anxiety that amused Margaret, who had been more accustomed to society in her one year in Harley Street than her mother in five and twenty years of Helstone.
"Then you think you shall wear your white silk. Are you sure it will fit? It's nearly a year since Edith was married!"
"Oh, yes, mamma! Mrs. Murray made it, and it's sure to be right; it may be a straw's breadth shorter or longer-waisted, according to my having grown fat or thin. But I don't think I've altered in the least."
"Hadn't you better let Dixon see it? It may have gone yellow with lying by."
"If you like, mamma. But if the worst comes to the worst, I've a very nice pink gauze which Aunt Shaw gave me, only two or three months before Edith was married. That can't have gone yellow."
"No! but it may have faded."
"Well! then I've a green silk. I feel more as if it was the embarrassment of riches."
"I wish I knew what you ought to wear," said Mrs. Hale, nervously.
Margaret's manner changed instantly. "Shall I go and put them on one after another, mamma, and then you could see which you liked best?"
"But--yes! perhaps that will be best."
So off Margaret went. She was very much inclined to play some pranks when she was dressed up at such an unusual hour; to make her rich white silk balloon out into a cheese, to retreat backwards from her mother as if she were the queen; but when she found that these freaks of hers were regarded as interruptions to the serious business, and as such annoyed her mother, she became grave and sedate. What had possessed the world (her world) to fidget so about her dress, she could not understand; but that very afternoon, on naming her engagement to Bessy Higgins (apropos of the servant that Mrs. Thornton had promised to enquire about), Bessy quite roused up at the intelligence.
"Dear! and are you going to dine at Thornton's at Marlborough Mills?"
"Yes, Bessy. Why are you so surprised?"
"Oh, I dunno. But they visit wi' a' th' first folk in Milton."
"And you don't think we're quite the first folk in Milton, eh, Bessy?"
Bessy's cheeks flushed a little at her thought being thus easily read.
"Well," said she, "yo' see, they thinken a deal o' money here; and I reckon yo've not getten much."
"No," said Margaret, "that's very true. But we are educated people, and have lived amongst educated people. Is there anything so wonderful, in our being asked out to dinner by a man who owns himself inferior to my father by coming to him to be instructed? I don't mean to blame Mr. Thornton. Few drapers' assistants, as he was once, could have made themselves what he is."
"But can yo' give dinners back, in yo're small house? Thornton's house is three times as big."
"Well, I think we could manage to give Mr. Thornton a dinner back, as you call it. Perhaps not in such a large room, nor with so many people. But I don't think we've thought about it at all in that way."
"I never thought yo'd be dining with Thorntons," repeated Bessy. "Why, the mayor hissel' dines there; and the members of Parliament and all."
"I think, I could support the honour of meeting the mayor of Milton."
"But them ladies dress so grand!" said Bessy, with an anxious look at Margaret's print gown, which her Milton eyes appraised at sevenpence a yard.
Margaret's face dimpled up into a merry laugh. "Thank you, Bessy, for thinking so kindly about my looking nice among all the smart people. But I've plenty of grand gowns,--a week ago, I should have said they were far too grand for anything I should ever want here. But as I'm to dine at Mr. Thornton's, and perhaps to meet the mayor, I shall put on my very best gown, you may be sure."
"What win yo' wear?" asked Bessy, somewhat relieved.
"White silk," said Margaret. "A gown I had for a cousin's wedding, a year ago."
"That'll do!" said Bessy, falling back in her chair. "I should be loth to have yo' looked down upon."
"Oh! I'll be fine enough, if that will save me from being looked down upon in Milton."
"I wish I could see you dressed up," said Bessy. "I reckon, yo're not what folk would ca' pretty; yo've not red and white enough for that. But dun yo' know, I ha' dreamt of yo', long afore ever I seed yo'."
"Nonsense, Bessy!"
"Ay, but I did. Yo'r very face,--looking wi' yo'r clear steadfast eyes out o' th' darkness, wi' yo'r hair blown off from yo'r brow, and going out like rays round yo'r forehead, which was just as smooth and straight as it is now,--and yo' always came to give me strength, which I seemed to gather out o' yo'r deep comforting eyes,--and yo' was drest in shining raiment--just as yo'r going to be drest. So, yo' see, it was yo'!"
"Nay, Bessy," said Margaret, gently, "it was but a dream."
"And why might na I dream a dream in my affliction as well as others? Did not many a one i' the Bible? Ay, and see visions too! Why, even my father thinks a deal o' dreams! I tell yo' again, I saw yo' as plainly, coming swiftly towards me, wi' yo'r hair blown back wi' the very swiftness o' the motion, just like the way it grows, a little standing off like; and the white shining dress on yo've getten to wear. Let me come and see yo' in it. I want to see yo' and touch yo' as in very deed yo' were in my dream."
"My dear Bessy, it is quite a fancy of yours."
"Fancy or no fancy,--yo've come, as I knew yo' would, when I saw yo'r movement in my dream,--and when yo're here about me, I reckon I feel easier in my mind, and comforted, just as a fire comforts one on a dree day. Yo' said it were on th' twenty-first; please God, I'll come and see yo'."
"Oh Bessy! you may come and welcome; but don't talk so--it really makes me sorry. It does indeed."
"Then I'll keep it to mysel', if I bite my tongue out. Not but what it's true for all that."
Margaret was silent. At last she said, "Let us talk about it sometimes, if you think it true. But not now. Tell me, has your father turned out?"
"Ay!" said Bessy heavily--in a manner very different from that she had spoken in but a minute or two before. "He and many another,--all Hamper's men,--and many a one besides. Th' women are as bad as th' men, in their savageness, this time. Food is high,--and they mun have food for their childer, I reckon. Suppose Thorntons sent 'em their dinner out,--th' same money, spent on potatoes and meal, would keep many a crying baby quiet, and hush up its mother's heart for a bit!"
"Don't speak so!" said Margaret. "You'll make me feel wicked and guilty in going to this dinner."
"No!" said Bessy. "Some's pre-elected to sumptuous feasts, and purple and fine linen,--may be yo're one on 'em. Others toil and moil all their lives long--and the very dogs are not pitiful in our days, as they were in the days of Lazarus. But if yo' ask me to cool yo're tongue wi' th' tip of my finger, I'll come across the great gulf to yo' just for th' thought o' what yo've been to me here."
"Bessy; you're very feverish! I can tell it in the touch of your hand, as well us in what you're saying. It won't be division enough, in that awful day, that some of us have been beggars here, and some of us have been rich,--we shall not be judged by that poor accident, but by our faithful following of Christ."
Margaret got up, and found some water; and soaking her pocket-handkerchief in it, she laid the cool wetness on Bessy's forehead, and began to chafe the stone-cold feet. Bessy shut her eyes, and allowed herself to be soothed. At last she said,
"Yo'd ha' been deaved out o' yo'r five wits, as well as me, if yo'd had one body after another coming in to ask for father, and staying to tell me each one their tale. Some spoke o' deadly hatred, and made my blood run cold wi' the terrible things they said o' th' masters,--but more, being women, kept plaining, plaining (wi' the tears running down their cheeks, and never wiped away, nor heeded), of the price o' meat, and how their childer could na sleep at nights for th' hunger."
"And do they think the strike will mend this?" asked Margaret.
"They say so," replied Bessy. "They do say trade has been good for long, and the masters has made no end o' money; how much father doesn't know, but, in course, th' Union does; and, as it is natural, they wanted their share o' th' profits, now that food is getting dear; and th' Union says they'll not be doing their duty if they don't make th' masters give 'em their share. But masters has getten th' upper hand somehow; and I'm feared they'll keep it now and evermore. It's like th' great battle o' Armageddon, the way they keep on, grinning and fighting at each other, till even while they fight, they are picked off into the pit."
Just then, Nicholas Higgins came in. He caught his daughter's last words.
"Ay! and I'll fight on too; and I'll got it this time. It'll not take long for to make 'em give in, for they've getten a pretty lot of orders, all under contract; and they'll soon find out they'd better give us our five per cent. than lose the profit they'll gain; let alone the fine for not fulfilling the contract. Aha my masters! I know who'll win."
Margaret fancied from his manner that he must have been drinking, not so much from what he said, as from the excited way in which he spoke; and she was rather confirmed in this idea by the evident anxiety Bessie showed to hasten her departure. Bessy said to her,--
"The twenty-first--that's Thursday week. I may come and see yo' dressed for Thornton's, I reckon. What time is yo'r dinner?"
Before Margaret could answer, Higgins broke out,--
"Thornton's! Ar' t' going to dine at Thornton's? Ask him to give yo' a bumper to the success of his orders. By th' twenty-first, I reckon, he'll be pottered in his brains how to get 'em done in time. Tell him, there's seven hundred 'll come marching into Marlborough Mills, the morning after he gives the five per cent., and will help him through his contract in no time. You'll have 'em all there. My master, Hamper. He's one o' th' oud-fashioned sort. Ne'er meets a man bout an oath or a curse; I should think he were going to die if he spoke me civil; but arter all, his bark's waur than his bite, and yo' may tell him one o' his turn-outs said so, if yo' like. Eh! but yo'll have a lot of prize mill-owners at Thornton's! I should like to get speech o' them, when they're a bit inclined to sit still after dinner, and could na run for the life on 'em. I'd tell 'em my mind. I'd speak up again th' hard way they're driving on us!"
"Good-bye!" said Margaret, hastily. "Good-bye, Bessy! I shall look to see you on the twenty-first, if you're well enough."
The medicines and treatment which Dr. Donaldson had ordered for Mrs. Hale, did her so much good at first that not only she herself, but Margaret, began to hope that he might have been mistaken, and that she could recover permanently. As for Mr. Hale, although he had never had an idea of the serious nature of their apprehensions, he triumphed over their fears with an evident relief, which proved how much his glimpse into the nature of them had affected him. Only Dixon croaked for ever into Margaret's ear. However, Margaret defied the raven, and would hope.
They needed this gleam of brightness in-doors, for out-of-doors, even to their uninstructed eyes, there was a gloomy brooding appearance of discontent. Mr. Hale had his own acquaintances among the working men, and was depressed with their earnestly-told tales of suffering and long-endurance. They would have scorned to speak of what they had to bear to any one who might, from his position, have understood it without their words. But here was this man, from a distant county, who was perplexed by the workings of a system into the midst of which he was thrown, and each was eager to make him a judge, and to bring witness of his own causes for irritation. Then Mr. Hale brought all his budget of grievances, and laid it before Mr. Thornton, for him, with his experience as a master, to arrange them, and explain their origin; which he always did, on sound economical principles; showing that, as trade was conducted, there must always be a waxing and waning of commercial prosperity; and that in the waning a certain number of masters, as well as of men, must go down into ruin, and be no more seen among the ranks of the happy and prosperous. He spoke as if this consequence were so entirely logical, that neither employers nor employed had any right to complain if it became their fate: the employer to turn aside from the race he could no longer run, with a bitter sense of incompetency and failure--wounded in the struggle--trampled down by his fellows in their haste to get rich--slighted where he was once honoured--humbly asking for, instead of bestowing, employment with a lordly hand. Of course, speaking so of the fate that, as a master, might be his own in the fluctuations of commerce, he was not likely to have more sympathy with that of the workmen, who were passed by in the swift merciless improvement or alteration; who would fain lie down and quietly die out of the world that needed them not, but felt as they could never rest in their graves for the clinging cries of the beloved and helpless they would leave behind; who envied the power of the wild bird, that can feed her young with her very heart's blood. Margaret's whole soul rose up against him while he reasoned in this way--as if commerce were everything and humanity nothing. She could hardly thank him for the individual kindness, which brought him that very evening to offer her--for the delicacy which made him understand that he must offer her privately--every convenience for illness that his own wealth or his mother's foresight had caused them to accumulate in their household, and which, as he learnt from Dr. Donaldson, Mrs. Hale might possibly require. His presence, after the way he had spoken--his bringing before her the doom, which she was vainly trying to persuade herself might yet be averted from her mother--all conspired to set Margaret's teeth on edge, as she looked at him, and listened to him. What business had he to be the only person, except Dr. Donaldson and Dixon, admitted to the awful secret, which she held shut up in the most dark and sacred recess of her heart--not daring to look at it, unless she invoked heavenly strength to bear the sight--that, some day soon, she should cry aloud for her mother, and no answer would come out of the blank, dumb darkness? Yet he knew all. She saw it in his pitying eyes. She heard it in his grave and tremulous voice. How reconcile those eyes, that voice, with the hard, reasoning, dry, merciless way in which he laid down axioms of trade, and serenely followed them out to their full consequences? The discord jarred upon her inexpressibly. The more because of the gathering woe of which she heard from Bessy. To be sure, Nicholas Higgins, the father, spoke differently. He had been appointed a committee-man, and said that he knew secrets of which the exoteric knew nothing. He said this more expressly and particularly, on the very day before Mrs. Thornton's dinner-party. When Margaret, going in to speak to Bessy, found him arguing the point with Boucher, the neighbour of whom she had frequently heard mention, as by turns exciting Higgins's compassion, as an unskilful workman with a large family depending upon him for support, and at other times enraging his more energetic and sanguine neighbour by his want of what the latter called spirit. It was very evident that Higgins was in a passion when Margaret entered. Boucher stood, with both hands on the rather high mantelpiece, swaying himself a little on the support which his arms, thus placed, gave him, and looking wildly into the fire, with a kind of despair that irritated Higgins, even while it went to his heart. Bessy was rocking herself violently backwards and forwards, as was her wont (Margaret knew by this time) when she was agitated. Her sister Mary was tying on her bonnet (in great clumsy bows, as suited her great clumsy fingers), to go to her fustian-cutting, blubbering out loud the while, and evidently longing to be away from a scene that distressed her.
Margaret came in upon this scene. She stood for a moment at the door--then, her finger on her lips, she stole to a seat on the squab near Bessy. Nicholas saw her come in, and greeted her with a gruff, but not unfriendly nod. Mary hurried out of the house, catching gladly at the open door, and crying aloud when she got away from her father's presence. It was only John Boucher that took no notice whatever who came in and who went out.
"It's no use, Higgins. Hoo cannot live long a' this'n. Hoo's just sinking away--not for want o' meat hersel'--but because hoo cannot stand th' sight o' the little ones clemming. Ay, clemming! Five shilling a week may do well enough for thee, wi' but two mouths to fill, and one on 'em a wench who can well earn her own meat. But it's clemming to us. An' I tell thee plain--if hoo dies, as I'm 'feard hoo will afore we've getten th' five per cent., I'll fling the money back i' th' master's face, and say, 'Be domned to yo'; be domned to th' whole cruel world o' yo'; that could na leave me th' best wife that ever bore childer to a man. An' look thee lad, I'll hate thee, and th' whole pack o' th' Union. Ay, an' chase yo' through heaven wi' my hatred,--I will, lad! I will,--if yo're leading me astray i' this matter. Thou saidst, Nicholas, on Wednesday sennight--and it's now Tuesday i' th' second week--that afore a fortnight we'd ha' the masters coming a-begging to us to take back our work, at our own wage--and time's nearly up,--and there's our lile Jack lying a-bed, too weak to cry, but just every now and then sobbing up his heart for want o' food,--our lile Jack, I tell thee, lad! Hoo's never looked up sin' he were born, and hoo loves him as if he were her very life,--as he is,--for I reckon he'll ha' cost me that precious price,--our lile Jack, who wakened me each morn wi' putting his sweet little lips to my great rough fou' face, a-seeking a smooth place to kiss,--an' he lies clemming." Here the deep sobs choked the poor man and Nicholas looked up, with eyes brimful of tears, to Margaret, before he could gain courage to speak.
"Hou'd up, man. Thy lile Jack shall na' clem. I ha' gotten brass, and we'll go buy the chap a sup o' milk an' a good four-pounder this very minute. What's mine's thine, sure enough, i' thou'st i' want. Only, dunnot lose heart, man!" continued he, as he fumbled in a tea-pot for what money he had. "I lay yo my heart and soul we'll win for a' this: it's but bearing on one more week, and yo' just see th' way th' masters 'll come round, praying on us to come back to our mills. An' the Union--that's to say, I--will take care yo've enough for th' childer and th' missus. So dunnot turn faint-heart, and go to th' tyrants a-seeking work."
The man turned round at these words,--turned round a face so white, and gaunt, and tear-furrowed, and hopeless, that its very calm forced Margaret to weep.
"Yo' know well, that a worser tyrant than e'er th' masters were says, 'Clem to death, and see 'em a' clem to death, ere yo' dare go again th' Union.' Yo' know it well, Nicholas, for a' yo're one on e'm. Yo' may be kind hearts, each separate; but once banded together, yo've no more pity for a man than a wild hunger-maddened wolf."
Nicholas had his hand on the lock of the door--he stopped and turned round on Boucher, close following:
"So help me God! man alive--if I think not I'm doing best for thee, and for all on us. If I'm going wrong when I think I'm going right, it's their sin, who ha' left me where I am, in my ignorance. I ha' thought till my brains ached,--Beli' me, John, I have. An' I say again, there's no help for us but having faith i' th' Union. They'll win the day, see if they dunnot!"
Not one word had Margaret or Bessy spoken. They had hardly uttered the sighing, that the eyes of each called to the other to bring up from the depths of her heart. At last Bessy said,
"I never thought to hear father call on God again. But yo' heard him say, 'So help me God!'"
"Yes!" said Margaret. "Let me bring you what money I can spare,--let me bring you a little food for that poor man's children. Don't let them know it comes from any one but your father. It will be but little."
Bessy lay back without taking any notice of what Margaret said. She did not cry--she only quivered up her breath.
"My heart's drained dry o' tears," she said. "Boucher's been in these days past, a telling me of his fears and his troubles. He's but a weak kind of chap, I know, but he's a man for a' that; and tho' I've been angry, many a time afore now, wi' him an' his wife, as knew no more nor him how to manage, yet yo' see, all folks isn't wise, yet God lets 'em live--ay, an' gives 'em some one to love, and be loved by, just as good as Solomon. An' if sorrow comes to them they love, it hurts 'em as sore as e'er it did Solomon. I can't make it out. Perhaps it's as well such a one as Boucher has th' Union to see after him. But I'd just like for to see th' men as make th' Union, and put 'em one by one face to face wi' Boucher. I reckon, if they heard him, the'd tell him (if I cotched 'em one by one), he might go back and get what he could for his work, even if it weren't so much as they ordered."
Margaret sat utterly silent. How was she ever to go away into comfort and forget that man's voice, with the tone of unutterable agony, telling more by far than his words of what he had to suffer? She took out her purse; she had not much in it of what she could call her own, but what she had she put into Bessy's hands without speaking.
"Thank yo'. There's many on 'em gets no more, and is not so bad off,--leastways does not show it as he does. But father won't let 'em want, now he knows. Yo' see, Boucher's been pulled down wi' his childer,--and her being so cranky, and a' they could pawn has gone this last twelvemonth. Yo're not to think we'd ha' letten 'em clem, for all we're a bit pressed oursel'; if neighbours doesn't see after neighbours, I dunno who will." Bessy seemed almost afraid lest Margaret should think they had not the will, and, to a certain degree, the power of helping one whom she evidently regarded as having a claim upon them. "Besides," she went on, "father is sure and positive the masters must give in within these next few days,--that they canna hould on much longer. But I thank yo' all the same,--I thank yo' for mysel', as much as for Boucher, for it jus makes my heart warm to yo' more and more."
Bessy seemed much quieter to-day, but fearfully languid and exhausted. As she finished speaking, she looked so faint and weary that Margaret became alarmed.
"It's nout," said Bessy. "It's not death yet. I had a fearfu' night wi' dreams--or somewhat like dreams, for I were wide awake--and I'm all in a swounding daze to-day,--only yon poor chap made me alive again. No! it's not death yet, but death is not far off. Ay. Cover me up, and I'll may be sleep, if th' cough will let me. Good night--good afternoon, m'appen I should say--but th' light is dim an' misty to-day."

Mrs. Hale was curiously interested by the idea of the Thornton dinner party. She kept wondering about the details, with the simplicity of a child. But the monotonous life led by invalids often makes them like children, who think their own world is so much greater than anything beyond. Besides, Mrs. Hale liked to think of seeing Margaret dressed for a party, and discussed what she should wear with an anxiety that amused Margaret, who had become more accustomed to society in Harley Street than her mother had in five and twenty years of Helstone.
'Are you sure your white silk will fit? It's nearly a year since Edith was married!'
'Oh yes, mamma! I don't think I've altered in the least.'
'Hadn't you better let Dixon see it? It may have gone yellow.'
'If you like, mamma. But if the worst comes to the worst, I've a very nice pink gauze which aunt Shaw gave me, only two or three months before Edith was married. That can't have gone yellow.'
'No! but it may have faded.'
'Well! then I've a green silk.'
'I wish I knew what you ought to wear,' said Mrs. Hale nervously.
'Shall I go and put them on, mamma, and then you could see which you liked most?'
'Yes! perhaps that will be best.'
So off Margaret went. When dressed up, she was inclined to play the fool; but finding that her pranks annoyed her mother, she became grave and sedate. What had possessed the world to fidget so about her dress, she could not understand. That very afternoon, on her mentioning the matter to Bessy Higgins, Bessy quite roused up at the news.
'Are you going to dine at Thornton's at Marlborough Mills?'
'Yes, Bessy. Why are you so surprised?'
'Oh, I dunno. But they visit wi' all th' first folk in Milton.'
'And you don't think we're quite the first folk in Milton, eh, Bessy?'
Bessy's cheeks flushed a little. 'Well, they thinken a deal o' money here, and I reckon yo've not getten much.'
'No,' said Margaret, 'that's very true. But we are educated people. Is there anything so strange in our being asked out to dinner by a man who comes to my father to learn? I don't mean to blame Mr. Thornton. Few drapers' assistants, as he was once, could have made themselves what he is.'
'But can yo' give dinners back, in your small house?'
'Well, I think we could manage to give Mr. Thornton a dinner back. Perhaps not in such a large room, nor with so many people.'
'I never thought yo'd be dining with Thorntons,' repeated Bessy. 'Why, the mayor hissel' dines there. And them ladies dress so grand!' She gave an anxious look at Margaret's print gown, which her Milton eyes appraised at sevenpence a yard.
Margaret's face dimpled up into a merry laugh. 'Thank you, Bessy, for your concern! But I've plenty of grand gowns. I shall put on my very best gown, you may be sure.'
'What will yo' wear?' asked Bessy, somewhat relieved.
'White silk,' said Margaret. 'A gown I had for a cousin's wedding. I'll be fine enough.'
'I wish I could see you dressed up,' said Bessy. 'I reckon, you're not what folk would call pretty. But yo' know, I ha' dreamt of yo', long afore ever I seed yo'.'
'Nonsense, Bessy!'
'Ay, but I did. Your very face - looking wi' your clear steadfast eyes out o' th' darkness, wi' your hair blown off from your brow, and going out like rays round your forehead - and yo' always came to give me strength, which I seemed to gather out o' your deep comforting eyes - and yo' were drest in shining raiment - just as you're going to be drest. So, yo' see, it was yo'!'
'Nay, Bessy,' said Margaret, gently, 'it was but a dream.'
'Did not many a one i' the Bible dream, and see visions too? Why, even father thinks a deal o' dreams! I tell yo' again, I saw yo' coming swiftly towards me, wi' your hair blown back, and the white shining dress on. Let me come and see yo' in it, and touch yo' as yo' were in my dream.'
'My dear Bessy, it is quite a fancy of yours.'
'Fancy or no fancy - yo've come, as I knew yo' would, when I saw yo' in my dream - and when yo're here I feel easier in my mind, and comforted, just as a fire comforts one on a dree day. Please God, if I'm spared, I'll come and see yo'.'
'Oh Bessy! you may come and welcome; but don't talk so - it really makes me sorry.'
'Then I'll keep it to mysel'. But it's true for all that.'
Margaret was silent. At last she said,
'Let us talk about it sometime, if you think it true. But not now. Tell me, has your father turned out on strike?'
'Ay!' said Bessy, more heavily. 'He and many another. Th' women are as bad as th' men, in their savageness. Food is dear, and they must have food for their childer. Suppose Thorntons sent 'em their dinner out - th' same money, spent on potatoes and flour, would keep many a crying babby quiet, and hush up its mother's heart for a bit!'
'Don't speak so!' said Margaret. 'You'll make me feel wicked and guilty in going to this dinner.'
'No!' said Bessy. 'Some's pre-elected to sumptuous feasts, like you. Others toil and moil all their lives - and the very dogs are not pitiful in our days, as they were in the days of Lazarus. But if yo' ask, I'll come across the great gulf to yo' just for th' thought o' what yo've been to me here.'
'Bessy! you're very feverish! On that judgement day, it won't matter that some of us have been beggars here, and some of us have been rich - we shall not be judged by that, but by our faithful following of Christ.' Margaret got up, and soaking her handkerchief in water, she laid it on Bessy's forehead. Bessy shut her eyes, and allowed herself to be soothed. At last she said,
'Yo'd ha' been deaved out o' your five wits, as well as me, if yo'd heard father's friends telling their tales. Some spoke o' deadly hatred, and made my blood run cold wi' the terrible things they said o' th' masters - but the women kept plaining, plaining (wi' the tears running down their cheeks) of the price o' meat, and how their childer could na sleep at nights for th' hunger.'
'And do they think the strike will mend this?' asked Margaret.
'They say so,' replied Bessy. 'They do say trade has been good for long, and the masters has made no end o' money; and, as is natural, they want their share o' th' profits, now that food is getting dear; and th' Union says they should make the masters give 'em their share. But masters has getten th' upper hand somehow. It's like th' great battle o' Armageddon, the way they keep on, grinning and fighting at each other, till even while they fight, they are picked off into the pit.'
Just then, Nicholas Higgins came in. He caught his daughter's last words.
'Ay! and I'll fight on too. It'll not take long to make 'em give in, for they've getten a pretty lot of orders; and they'll soon find out they'd better give us our five per cent than lose their profit. Aha, my masters! I know who'll win.'
Margaret fancied from his excited manner that he must have been drinking; and she was confirmed in this idea by Bessy's anxiety for her to depart. Bessy said:
'I may come and see yo' dressed for Thornton's on th' twenty-first. What time is your dinner?'
Higgins broke out, 'Thornton's! Ar't' going to dine at Thornton's? Ask him to drink to the success of his orders. By th' twenty-first he'll be pottered in his brains how to get 'em done in time. Tell him, as soon as he gives the five per cent, there's seven hundred men'll come marching into Marlborough Mills, and will help him through his contract. Eh! yo'll have a lot of prize mill-owners at Thornton's! I should like to talk to 'em, after dinner when they could na run. I'd tell 'em my mind about th' hard way they're driving on us!'
'Good-bye!' said Margaret hastily. 'Good-bye, Bessy! I shall see you on the twenty-first.'
The medicines which Dr. Donaldson had ordered for Mrs. Hale did her so much good at first that not only she herself, but Margaret, began to hope that he might have been mistaken, and that she could recover permanently. As for Mr. Hale, he triumphed over their fears with relief. Only Dixon croaked like the raven. However, Margaret had hope.
They needed this gleam of brightness indoors, for out-of-doors there was a gloomy, brooding discontent. Mr. Hale had acquaintances among the working men, and was depressed with their tales of suffering. Mr. Hale laid these grievances before Mr. Thornton, for him to explain their origin; which he did, on sound economical principles, showing that in trade there must always be a waxing and waning of commercial prosperity; and that in the waning a certain number of masters, as well as of men, must go down into ruin.
He spoke as if this consequence were so entirely logical, that no one had any right to complain if it became their fate. He had no sympathy for the masters who might get trampled down, nor for the workmen who would fain lie down and die, but felt as if they could never rest in their graves for the cries of the beloved and helpless they would leave behind.
Margaret's whole soul rose up against him while he reasoned in this way - as if commerce were everything and humanity nothing. She could hardly thank him for the kindness and delicacy which had brought him that evening to offer her every convenience for illness which Mrs. Hale might require. His presence, his speech - his bringing before her the doom which she was trying to persuade herself might yet be averted from her mother - all set Margaret's teeth on edge. What business had he to be admitted to the awful secret? She held it shut up in the most dark and sacred recess of her heart - not daring to look at it - the secret that, some day soon, she should cry aloud for her mother, and no answer would come out of the darkness.
Yet he knew all. She saw it in his pitying eyes. She heard it in his grave voice. How reconcile those eyes, that voice, with the hard, dry, merciless way in which he laid down axioms of trade, and their consequences? The discord jarred upon her - the more because of the gathering woe of which she heard from Bessy.
To be sure, Nicholas Higgins spoke differently. He had been appointed a committee-man, and said that he knew secrets. He said this expressly on the day before Mrs. Thornton's dinner-party, when Margaret, going to see Bessy, found him arguing with Boucher, the neighbour whom she had frequently heard him mention as an unskilful workman with a large family.
Higgins was in a passion when Margaret entered. Boucher stood swaying a little and looking wildly into the fire, with a despair that irritated Higgins, even while it went to his heart. Bessy was rocking herself violently backwards and forwards, as was her wont (Margaret knew by this time) when she was agitated. Her sister Mary was clumsily tying on her bonnet to go to her work of fustian-cutting, blubbering out loud, and evidently longing to be away from a scene that distressed her.
Margaret stood for a moment at the door - then she stole to a seat near Bessy. Nicholas saw her, and greeted her with a gruff, but not unfriendly nod. Mary hurried out of the house, crying. John Boucher took no notice of who came in and who went out.
'It's no use, Higgins. Hoo cannot live long. Hoo's just sinking away - not for want o' meat hersel' - but because hoo cannot stand th' sight o' the little ones clemming. Ay, clemming! Five shilling a week may do well enough for thee, wi' only two mouths to fill. But it's clemming to us. An' I tell thee plain - if hoo dies afore we've getten th' five per cent, I'll fling th' money back i' th' master's face, and say, "Be domned to yo'; that could na leave me th' best wife that ever bore childer to a man!" An' look thee, lad, I'll hate thee, and th' Union - I will, lad! if yo're leading me astray. Thou saidst, Nicholas, near two weeks ago, that afore a fortnight we'd ha' the masters begging us to come back, at our own wage. Time's nearly up - and there's our Jack lying a-bed, too weak to cry - I tell thee, lad! Hoo loves him as if he were her very life - our lile Jack, who wakened me each morn wi' putting his sweet little lips to kiss my great rough face - an' he lies clemming.'
Here deep sobs choked the poor man, and Nicholas looked up, with eyes brimful of tears.
'Hold up, man. Thy lile Jack shall na' clem. I have brass, and we'll go buy the chap a sup o' milk an' a loaf this very minute. What's mine is thine. Only, dunnot lose heart, man!' continued he, fumbling in a tea-pot for money. 'Just one more week, and yo'll see how th' masters'll come round, praying us to come back to our mills. An' th' Union - that's to say, I will take care yo've enough for th' childer and th' missus.'
The man turned a face so white, and gaunt, and tear-furrowed, and hopeless, that its very calm forced Margaret to weep. 'Yo' know well that the Union's a worser tyrant than th' masters. It says "Clem to death, before yo' dare go against th' Union." Yo' know it well, Nicholas. Yo' may be kind hearts separately; but banded together, yo've no more pity than a wolf.'
'So help me God!' said Nicholas, 'I think I'm doing best for thee. If I'm going wrong when I think I'm going right, it's their sin, who ha' left me in ignorance. I ha' thought till my brains ached. An' I say again, there's no help for us but having faith i' th' Union. They'll win the day, see if they dunnot!'
They both went out. Not one word had Margaret or Bessy spoken. At last Bessy said,
'I never thought to hear father call on God again. But yo' heard him say, "So help me God!"'
'Yes,' said Margaret. 'Let me bring you what money I can spare, and some food for that poor man's children. Don't let them know it comes from anyone but your father.'
Bessy lay back, her breath quivering. 'My heart's drained dry o' tears,' she said. 'Boucher's been a telling me of his fears and troubles. He's but a weak chap, I know, but he's a man for a' that; and tho' I've been angry many a time wi' him an' his wife, as knew no more than him how to manage - yet, yo' see, all folks isn't wise, yet God lets 'em live - ay, an' gives 'em some one to love, and be loved by, just as good as Solomon. An' if sorrow comes to them they love, it hurts 'em as sore as it did Solomon. Perhaps it's as well Boucher has th' Union to see after him. But I'd just like for to see th' Union men face to face wi' Boucher. I reckon they'd tell him he might go back to work.'
Margaret sat silent. How was she to go away into comfort and forget that man's agonised voice? She took out her purse; what little money she had, she put into Bessy's hand.
'Thank yo'. There's many on 'em gets no more, and is not so bad off. Yo' see, Boucher's been pulled down wi' his childer - and her being so cranky, and all they could pawn has gone. You're not to think we'd let 'em clem; if neighbours doesn't see after neighbours, I dunno who will.' Bessy seemed almost afraid lest Margaret should think they had not the will and the power of helping Boucher. 'Besides,' she went on, 'father is sure the masters must give in soon - they canna hould on much longer. But I thank yo' all the same; it just makes my heart warm to yo' more and more.'
As she finished speaking, Bessy looked so faint and exhausted that Margaret became alarmed.
'It's nout,' said Bessy. 'It's not death yet. I had a fearfu' night wi' dreams - or somewhat like dreams, for I were wide awake - and I'm all in a daze today, only yon poor chap made me alive again. No! it's not death yet, but death is not far off. I'll maybe sleep, if th' cough will let me. Good night.'


"Which when his mother saw, she in her mind Was troubled sore, he wist well what to ween." SPENSER.
Margaret had not been gone five minutes when Mr. Thornton came in, his face all a-glow.
"I could not come sooner: the superintendent would---- Where is she?" He looked round the dining-room, and then almost fiercely at his mother, who was quietly re-arranging the disturbed furniture, and did not instantly reply. "Where is Miss Hale?" asked he again.
"Gone home," said she, rather shortly.
"Gone home!"
"Yes. She was a great deal better. Indeed, I don't believe it was so very much of a hurt; only some people faint at the least thing."
"I am sorry she has gone home," said he, walking uneasily about. "She could not have been fit for it."
"She said she was; and Mr. Lowe said she was. I went for him myself."
"Thank you, mother." He stopped, and partly held out his hand to give her a grateful shake. But she did not notice the movement.
"What have you done with your Irish people?"
"Sent to the Dragon, for a good meal for them, poor wretches. And then, luckily, I caught Father Grady, and I've asked him in to speak to them, and dissuade them from going off in a body. How did Miss Hale go home? I'm sure she could not walk."
"She had a cab. Everything was done properly, even to the paying. Let us talk of something else. She has caused disturbance enough."
"I don't know where I should have been but for her."
"Are you become so helpless as to have to be defended by a girl?" asked Mrs. Thornton scornfully.
He reddened. "Not many girls would have taken the blows on herself which were meant for me;--meant with right down goodwill, too."
"A girl in love will do a good deal," replied Mrs. Thornton, shortly.
"Mother!" He made a step forwards; stood still; heaved with passion.
She was a little startled at the evident force he used to keep himself calm. She was not sure of the nature of the emotions she had provoked. It was only their violence that was clear. Was it anger? His eyes glowed, his figure was dilated, his breath came thick and fast. It was a mixture of joy, of anger, of pride, of glad surprise, of panting doubt; but she could not read it. Still it made her uneasy,--as the presence of all strong feeling, of which the cause is not fully understood or sympathised in, always has this effect. She went to the side-board, opened a drawer, and took out a duster, which she kept there for any occasional purpose. She had seen a drop of eau de Cologne on the polished arm of the sofa, and instinctively sought to wipe it off. But she kept her back turned to her son much longer than was necessary; and when she spoke, her voice seemed unusual and constrained.
"You have taken some steps about the rioters, I suppose? You don't apprehend anymore violence, do you? Where were the police? Never at hand when they're wanted!"
"On the contrary, I saw three or four of them, when the gates gave way, struggling and beating about in fine fashion; and more came running up just when the yard was clearing. I might have given some of the fellows in charge then, if I had had my wits about me. But there will be no difficulty, plenty of people can identify them."
"But won't they come back to-night?"
"I'm going to see about a sufficient guard for the premises. I have appointed to meet Captain Hanbury in half an hour at the station."
"You must have some tea first."
"Tea! Yes, I suppose I must. It's half-past six, and I may be out for some time. Don't sit up for me, mother."
"You expect me to go to bed before I have seen you safe, do you?"
"Well, perhaps not." He hesitated for a moment. "But if I've time, I shall go round by Crampton, after I've arranged with the police and seen Hamper and Clarkson." Their eyes met; they looked at each other intently for a minute. Then she asked:
"Why are you going round by Crampton?"
"To ask after Miss Hale."
"I will send. Williams must take the water-bed she came to ask for. He shall inquire how she is."
"I must go myself."
"Not merely to ask how Miss Hale is?"
"No, not merely for that. I want to thank her for the way in which she stood between me and the mob."
"What made you go down at all? It was putting your head into the lion's mouth!"
He glanced sharply at her; saw that she did not know what had passed between him and Margaret in the drawing-room: and replied by another question:
"Shall you be afraid to be left without me, until I can get some of the police; or had we better send Williams for them now, and they could be here by the time we have done tea? There's no time to be lost. I must be off in a quarter of an hour."
Mrs. Thornton left the room. Her servants wondered at her directions, usually so sharply-cut and decided, now confused and uncertain. Mr. Thornton remained in the dining-room, trying to think of the business he had to do at the police-office, and in reality thinking of Margaret. Everything seemed dim and vague beyond--behind--besides the touch of her arms round his neck--the soft clinging which made the dark colour come and go in his cheek as he thought of it.
The tea would have been very silent, but for Fanny's perpetual description of her own feelings; how she had been alarmed--and then thought they were gone--and then felt sick and faint and trembling in every limb.
"There, that's enough," said her brother, rising from the table. "The reality was enough for me." He was going to leave the room, when his mother stopped him with her hand upon his arm.
"You will come back here before you go to the Hales'," said she, in a low, anxious voice.
"I know what I know," said Fanny to herself.
"Why? Will it be too late to disturb them?"
"John, come back to me for this one evening. It will be late for Mrs. Hale. But that is not it. To-morrow, you will---- Come back to-night, John!" She had seldom pleaded with her son at all--she was too proud for that; but she had never pleaded in vain.
"I will return straight here after I have done my business. You will be sure to enquire after them?--after her?"
Mrs. Thornton was by no means a talkative companion to Fanny, nor yet a good listener while her son was absent. But on his return, her eyes and ears were keen to see and to listen to all the details which he could give, as to the steps he had taken to secure himself, and those whom he chose to employ, from any repetition of the day's outrages. He clearly saw his object. Punishment and suffering, were the natural consequences to those who had taken part in the riot. All that was necessary, in order that property should be protected, and that the will of the proprietor might cut to his end, clean and sharp as a sword.
"Mother! You know what I have got to say to Miss Hale, to-morrow?"
The question came upon her suddenly, during a pause in which she, at least, had forgotten Margaret.
She looked up at him.
"Yes! I do. You can hardly do otherwise."
"Do otherwise! I don't understand you."
"I mean that, after allowing her feelings so to overcome her, I consider you bound in honour--"
"Bound in honour," said he scornfully. "I'm afraid honour has nothing to do with it. 'Her feelings overcome her!' What feelings do you mean?"
"Nay, John, there is no need to be angry. Did she not rush down and cling to you to save you from danger?"
"She did!" said he. "But, mother," continued he, stopping short in his walk right in front of her. "I dare not hope. I never was faint-hearted before; but I cannot believe such a creature cares for me."
"Don't be foolish, John. Such a creature! Why, she might be a duke's daughter, to hear you speak. And what proof more would you have, I wonder, of her caring for you? I can believe she has had a struggle with her aristocratic way of viewing things; but I like her the better for seeing clearly at last. It is a good deal for me to say," said Mrs. Thornton, smiling slowly, while the tears stood in her eyes; "for after to-night, I stand second. It was to have you to myself, all to myself, a few hours longer, that I begged you not to go till to-morrow."
"Dearest mother!" (Still love is selfish, and in an instant he reverted to his own hopes and fears in a way that drew the cold creeping shadow over Mrs. Thornton's heart.) "But I know she does not care for me. I shall put myself at her feet--I must. If it were but one chance in a thousand--or a million--I should do it."
"Don't fear!" said his mother, crushing down her own personal mortification at the little notice he had taken of the rare ebullition of her maternal feelings--of the pang of jealousy that betrayed the intensity of her disregarded love. "Don't be afraid," she said, coldly. "As far as love may go she may be worthy of you. It must have taken a good deal to overcome her pride. Don't be afraid, John," said she, kissing him, as she wished him good-night. And she went slowly and majestically out of the room. But when she got into her own, she locked the door, and sate down to cry unwonted tears.
* * * * *
Margaret entered the room (where her father and mother still sat, holding low conversation together), looking very pale and white. She came close up to them before she could trust herself to speak.
"Mrs. Thornton will send the water-bed, mamma."
"Dear, how tired you look! Is it very hot, Margaret?"
"Very hot, and the streets are rather rough with the strike."
Margaret's colour came back vivid and bright as ever; but it faded away instantly.
"Here has been a message from Bessy Higgins, asking you to go to her," said Mrs. Hale. "But I'm sure you look too tired."
"Yes!" said Margaret. "I am tired, I cannot go."
She was very silent and trembling while she made tea. She was thankful to see her father so much occupied with her mother as not to notice her looks. Even after her mother went to bed, he was not content to be absent from her, but undertook to read her to sleep. Margaret was alone.
"Now I will think of it--now I will remember it all. I could not before--I dared not." She sat still in her chair, her hands clasped on her knees, her lips compressed, her eyes fixed as one who sees a vision. She drew a deep breath.
"I, who hate scenes--I, who have despised people for showing emotion--who have thought them wanting in self-control--I went down and must needs throw myself into the mele, like a romantic fool! Did I do any good? They would have gone away without me, I dare say." But this was overleaping the rational conclusion,--as in an instant her well-poised judgment felt. "No, perhaps they would not. I did some good. But what possessed me to defend that man as if he were a helpless child! Ah!" said she, clenching her hands together, "it is no wonder those people thought I was in love with him, after disgracing myself in that way. I in love--and with him too!" Her pale cheeks suddenly became one flame of fire; and she covered her face with her hands. When she took them away, her palms were wet with scalding tears.
"Oh how low I am fallen that they should say that of me! I could not have been so brave for any one else, just because he was so utterly indifferent to me--if, indeed, I do not positively dislike him. It made me the more anxious that there should be fair play on each side; and I could see what fair play was. It was not fair," said she vehemently, "that he should stand there--sheltered, awaiting the soldiers, who might catch those poor maddened creatures as in a trap--without an effort on his part, to bring them to reason. And it was worse than unfair for them to set on him as they threatened. I would do it again, let who will say what they like of me. If I saved one blow, one cruel, angry action that might otherwise have been committed, I did a woman's work. Let them insult my maiden pride as they will--I walk pure before God!"
She looked up, and a noble peace seemed to descend and calm her face, till it was "stiller than chiselled marble."
Dixon came in:
"If you please, Miss Margaret, here's the water-bed from Mrs. Thornton's. It's too late for to-night, I'm afraid, for missus is nearly asleep: but it will do nicely for to-morrow."
"Very," said Margaret. "You must send our best thanks."
Dixon left the room for a moment.
"If you please, Miss Margaret, he says he's to ask particular how you are. I think he must mean missus; but he says his last words were, to ask how Miss Hale was."
"Me!" said Margaret, drawing herself up. "I am quite well. Tell him I am perfectly well." But her complexion was as deadly white as her handkerchief; and her head ached intensely.
Mr. Hale now came in. He had left his sleeping wife; and wanted, as Margaret saw, to be amused and interested by something that she was to tell him. With sweet patience did she bear her pain, without a word of complaint; and rummaged up numberless small subjects for conversation--all except the riot, and that she never named once. It turned her sick to think of it.
"Good-night, Margaret. I have every chance of a good night myself, and you are looking very pale with your watching. I shall call Dixon if your mother needs anything. Do you go to bed and sleep like a top; for I'm sure you need it, poor child!"
"Good-night, papa!"
She let her colour go--the false smile fade away--the eyes grow dull with heavy pain. She released her strong will from its laborious task. Till morning she might feel ill and weary.
She lay down and never stirred. To move hand or foot, or even so much as one finger, would have been beyond the powers of either volition or motion. She was so tired, so stunned, that she thought she never slept at all; her feverish thoughts passed and repassed the boundary between sleeping and waking, and kept their own miserable identity. She could not be alone, prostrate, powerless as she was,--a cloud of faces looked up at her, giving her no idea of fierce vivid anger, or of personal danger, but a deep sense of shame that she should thus be the object of universal regard--a sense of shame so acute that it seemed as if she would fain have burrowed into the earth to hide herself, and yet she could not escape out of that unwinking glare of many eyes.

Margaret had not been gone five minutes when Mr. Thornton came in, his face a-glow.
'I could not come sooner: the superintendent would - where is she?' He looked round the dining-room, and then almost fiercely at his mother. 'Where is Miss Hale?
'Gone home,' said she, rather shortly.
'Gone home!'
'Yes. She was a great deal better. Indeed, I don't believe it was much of a hurt; only some people faint at the least thing.'
'I am sorry she is gone home,' said he, uneasily. 'She could not have been fit for it.'
'She said she was; and Mr. Lowe said she was. I went for him myself.'
'Thank you, mother.'
'What have you done with your Irish people?'
'Sent to the Dragon for a good meal for them, poor wretches. And I've asked Father Grady in to speak to them, and dissuade them from going off. How did Miss Hale go home? I'm sure she could not walk.'
'She had a cab. Let us talk of something else. She has caused disturbance enough.'
'I don't know where I should have been but for her.'
'Are you become so helpless as to have to be defended by a girl?' asked Mrs. Thornton, scornfully.
He reddened. 'Not many girls would have taken the blows on herself which were meant for me.'
'A girl in love will do a good deal,' replied Mrs. Thornton.
'Mother!' He made a step forwards; stood still; heaved with passion.
She was a little startled at the evident force he used to keep himself calm. She was not sure of the nature of the emotions she had provoked. Anger? His eyes glowed, his breath came thick and fast. It was a mixture of joy, anger, pride, of glad surprise, of panting doubt; but she could not read it. Still it made her uneasy. She went to the sideboard, keeping her back turned to her son much longer than was necessary; and when she spoke, her voice seemed unusual and constrained.
'You have taken some steps about the rioters, I suppose? Where were the police? Never at hand when they're wanted!'
'On the contrary, I saw three or four of them, when the gates gave way, beating about in fine fashion; and more came running up just when the yard was clearing.'
'But won't the rioters come back tonight?'
'I'm going to see about a guard for the premises. I am to meet Captain Hanbury in half an hour.'
'You must have some tea first.'
'Tea! Yes, I suppose I must. I may be out for some time. Don't sit up for me, mother.'
'You expect me to go to bed before I have seen you safe, do you?'
'Well, perhaps not.' He hesitated for a moment. 'But if I've time, I shall go round by Crampton, after I've arranged with the police and seen Hamper and Clarkson.' Their eyes met. Then she asked:
'Why are you going round by Crampton?'
'To ask after Miss Hale.'
'I will send a servant. Williams must take the water-bed she came to ask for. He shall inquire how she is.'
'I must go myself. I want to thank her for the way in which she stood between me and the mob.'
'What made you go down at all? It was putting your head into the lion's mouth!'
He glanced sharply at her; saw that she did not know what had passed between him and Margaret in the drawing-room; and replied with another question:
'Shall you be afraid to be left without me until the police arrive, or had we better send Williams for them now? There's no time to be lost. I must be off in a quarter of an hour.'
Mrs. Thornton left the room. Her servants wondered at her directions, usually so sharply-cut and decided, now confused and uncertain.
Mr. Thornton remained in the dining-room, thinking of Margaret. Everything seemed dim and vague beyond the touch of her arms round his neck - the soft clinging which made the dark colour come and go in his cheek as he thought of it.
The tea would have been very silent, but for Fanny's perpetual description of her own feelings; how she had been alarmed - and thought they were gone - and then felt sick and faint and trembling.
'That's enough,' said her brother, rising from the table. 'The reality was enough for me.' He was going to leave the room, when his mother stopped him.
'You will come back here before you go to the Hales',' said she, in a low voice.
'I know what I know,' said Fanny to herself.
'Why?'
'John, come back to me this evening. It will be late for Mrs. Hale. But that is not it. Come back tonight, John!' She had seldom pleaded with her son at all; she was too proud.
'I will return straight here after I have done my business,' said he. 'You will be sure to inquire after them? - after her?'
Mrs. Thornton was by no means a talkative companion to Fanny that day, nor a good listener. But on her son's return, she was keen to hear him list the steps he had taken to secure himself from any repetition of the day's outrages. He clearly saw his object. Punishment and suffering were the natural consequences to the rioters. That was necessary, in order that property should be protected, and that the will of the proprietor might cut as clean and sharp as a sword.
'Mother! You know what I have got to say to Miss Hale, tomorrow?'
She looked up at him. 'Yes, I do. You can hardly do otherwise.'
'Do otherwise! I don't understand you.'
'I mean that, after allowing her feelings so to overcome her, I consider you bound in honour-'
'Bound in honour,' said he, scornfully. 'I'm afraid honour has nothing to do with it. "Her feelings overcome her!" What feelings do you mean?'
'John, there is no need to be angry. Did she not rush down, and cling to you to save you from danger?'
'She did! But, mother,' continued he, stopping in front of her, 'I dare not hope. I never was fainthearted before; but I cannot believe such a creature cares for me.'
'Don't be foolish, John. Why, she might be a duke's daughter, to hear you speak. And what proof more would you have of her caring for you? I can believe she felt herself too aristocratic for you; but I like her the better for seeing clearly at last. It is a good deal for me to say,' said Mrs. Thornton, smiling slowly, with tears in her eyes; 'for after tonight, I stand second with you. It was to have you to myself for a few hours longer, that I begged you not to go till tomorrow!'
'Dearest mother! But I know she does not care for me. I shall put myself at her feet - I must. If it were but one chance in a thousand - or a million - I should do it.'
'Don't fear!' said his mother, crushing down her mortification at the little notice he had taken of her rare outburst of maternal feeling. 'Don't be afraid,' she said, coldly. 'As far as love goes she may be worthy of you. It must have taken a good deal to overcome her pride.'
Kissing him, she wished him good-night, and went slowly and majestically out of the room. But once in her own room, she locked the door, and sat down to cry unwonted tears.
Margaret, on arriving home, had entered looking very pale and white. She came close up to her parents before she could trust herself to speak.
'Mrs. Thornton will send the water-bed, mamma.'
'Dear, how tired you look! Is it very hot, Margaret?'
'Very hot, and the streets are rather rough with the strike.'
'There has been a message from Bessy Higgins, asking you to go to her,' said Mrs. Hale. 'But I'm sure you look too tired.'
'Yes!' said Margaret. 'I am tired, I cannot go.'
She was very silent and trembling while she made tea. She was thankful to see her father so much occupied with her mother as not to notice her looks. When her mother went to bed, he undertook to read her to sleep. Margaret was alone.
'Now I will think of it - now I will remember it all. I could not before - I dared not.' She sat still in her chair, her hands clasped on her knees, her eyes fixed as one who sees a vision. She drew a deep breath.
'I, who hate scenes - who have despised people for showing emotion - who have thought them wanting in self-control - I must needs throw myself into the melee, like a romantic fool! Did I do any good? They would have gone away without me, I dare say.' But this was over-leaping the rational conclusion, as in an instant her well-poised judgement felt.
'No, perhaps they would not. I did some good. But what possessed me to defend that man as if he were a helpless child! Ah!' said she, clenching her hands together, 'it is no wonder those people thought I was in love with him, after disgracing myself in that way. I, in love - and with him too!' Her pale cheeks suddenly became one flame of fire; and she covered her face with her hands. When she took them away, her palms were wet with tears.
'Oh, how low I am fallen that they should say that of me! I could be so brave for him, just because he was so utterly indifferent to me - if, indeed, I do not positively dislike him. It made me anxious that there should be fair play on each side; and it was not fair,' said she, vehemently, 'that he should stand there awaiting the soldiers, who might catch those poor maddened creatures as in a trap - without any effort on his part to bring them to reason. And it was worse than unfair for them to attack him. I would do it again. If I saved one blow, one cruel, angry action, I did a woman's work. Let them insult me as they will - I walk pure before God!'
She looked up, and a noble peace seemed to calm her face.
Dixon came in. 'If you please, Miss Margaret, here's the water-bed from Mrs. Thornton's. It's too late for tonight, I'm afraid, for missus is nearly asleep: but it will do nicely for tomorrow.'
'You must send our best thanks.'
'If you please, Miss Margaret, he says he's to ask particular how you are. I think he must mean missus; but he says to ask how Miss Hale was.'
'Me!' said Margaret, drawing herself up. 'Tell him I am perfectly well.' But her complexion was as white as her handkerchief; and her head ached intensely.
Mr. Hale now came in. He had left his sleeping wife; and wanted, as Margaret saw, to be amused. With sweet patience she bore her pain, without a word of complaint, and rummaged up numberless small subjects for conversation - all except the riot, for it turned her sick to think of it.
'Good-night, Margaret. You are looking very pale. Do go to bed and sleep like a top; for I'm sure you need it, poor child!'
'Good-night, papa.'
She let the forced smile fade away, releasing her strong will from its laborious task. She lay down and never stirred. To move hand or foot, or even one finger, would have been beyond her power. She was so tired, so stunned, that she thought she never slept at all; her feverish thoughts passed and repassed the boundary between sleeping and waking, and kept their own miserable identity. A cloud of faces looked up at her, giving her a deep sense of shame - a sense so acute that she would fain have burrowed into the earth to hide herself, and yet she could not escape that unwinking glare of many eyes.