“Thank you,” said Mrs. Thornton, drawing herself up; “I was not aware that my meaning was doubted. It is the last time I shall interfere. I was unwilling to consent to do it, when your mother asked me. I had not approved of my son’s attachment to you, while I only suspected it. You did not appear to me worthy of him. But when you compromised yourself as you did at the time of the riot, and exposed yourself to the comments of servants and workpeople, I felt it was no longer right to set myself against my son’s wish of proposing to you—a wish, by the way, which he had always denied entertaining until the day of the riot.” Margaret winced, and drew in her breath with a long, hissing sound; of which, however, Mrs. Thornton took no notice. “He came; you had apparently changed your mind. I told my son yesterday, that I thought it possible, short as was the interval, you might have heard or learnt something of this other lover—”
“What must you think of me, madam?” asked Margaret, throwing her head back with proud disdain, till her throat curved outwards like a swan’s. “You can say nothing more, Mrs. Thornton. I decline every attempt to justify myself for anything. You must allow me to leave the room.”
And she swept out of it with the noiseless grace of an offended princess. Mrs. Thornton had quite enough of natural humour to make her feel the ludricrousness of the position in which she was left. There was nothing for it but to show herself out. She was not particularly annoyed at Margaret’s way of behaving. She did not care enough for her for that. She had taken Mrs. Thornton’s remonstrance to the full as keenly to heart as that lady expected; and Margaret’s passion at once mollified her visitor, far more than any silence or reserve could have done. It showed the effect of her words. “My young lady,” thought Mrs. Thornton to herself; “you’ve a pretty good temper of your own. If John and you had come together, he would have had to keep a tight hand over you, to make you know your place. But I don’t think you will go a-walking again with your beau, at such an hour of the day, in a hurry. You’ve too much pride and spirit in you for that. I like to see a girl fly out at the notion of being talked about. It shows they’re neither giddy, nor bold by nature. As for that girl, she might be bold, but she’d never be giddy. I’ll do her that justice. Now as to Fanny, she’d be giddy, and not bold. She’s no courage in her, poor thing!”
Mr. Thornton was not spending the morning so satisfactorily as his mother. She, at any rate, was fulfilling her determined purpose. He was trying to understand where he stood; what damage the strike had done him. A good deal of his capital was locked up in new and expensive machinery; and he had also bought cotton largely, with a view to some great orders which he had in hand. The strike had thrown him terribly behindhand, as to the completion of these orders. Even with his own accustomed and skilled workpeople, he would have had some difficulty in fulfilling his engagements; as it was, the incompetence of the Irish hands, who had to be trained to their work, at a time requiring unusual activity, was a daily annoyance.
It was not a favourable hour for Higgins to make his request. But he had promised Margaret to do it at any cost. So, though every moment added to his repugnance, his pride, and his sullenness of temper, he stood leaning against the dead wall, hour after hour, first on one leg, then on the other. At last the latch was sharply lifted, and out came Mr. Thornton.
“I want for to speak to yo’, sir.”
“Can’t stay now, my man. I’m too late as it is.”
“Well, sir, I reckon I can wait till yo’ come back.”
Mr. Thornton was halfway down the street. Higgins sighed. But it was no use. To catch him in the street, was his only chance of seeing “the measter!” if he had rung the lodge bell or even gone up to the house to ask for him, he would have been referred to the overlooker. So he stood still again, vouchsafing no answer, but a short nod of recognition to the few men who knew and spoke to him, as the crowd drove out the mill-yard at dinnertime, and scowling with all his might at the Irish “knobsticks” who had just been imported. At last Mr. Thornton returned.
“What! you there still!”
“Ay, sir, I mun speak to yo’.”
“Come in here, then. Stay, we’ll go across the yard; the men are not come back, and we shall have it to ourselves. These good people, I see, are at dinner;” said he, closing the door of the porter’s lodge.
He stopped to speak to the overlooker. The latter said in a low tone:
“I suppose you know, sir, that that man is Higgins, one of the leaders of the Union; he that made that speech in Hurstfield.”
“No, I didn’t,” said Mr. Thornton, looking round sharply at his follower. Higgins was known to him by name as a turbulent spirit.
“Come along,” said he, and his tone was rougher than before. “It is men such as this,” thought he, “who interrupt commerce and injure the very town they live in: mere demagogues, lovers of power at whatever cost to others.”
“Well, sir! what do you want with me?” said Mr. Thornton, facing round at him, as soon as they were in the countinghouse of the mill.
“My name is Higgins—”
“I know that,” broke in Mr. Thornton. “What do you want, Mr. Higgins? That’s the question.”
“I want work.”
“Work! You’re a pretty chap to come asking me for work. You don’t
