“It was what Mr. Thornton said himself, that made us know the kind of man he was. Was it not, Margaret?”
Mrs. Thornton drew herself up, and said—
“My son is not the one to tell of his own doings. May I again ask you, Miss Hale, from whose account you formed your favourable opinion of him? A mother is curious and greedy of commendation of her children, you know.”
Margaret replied, “It was as much from what Mr. Thornton withheld of that which we had been told of his previous life by Mr. Bell—it was more that than what he said, that made us all feel what reason you have to be proud of him.”
“Mr. Bell! What can he know of John? He, living a lazy life in a drowsy college. But I’m obliged to you, Miss Hale. Many a missy young lady would have shrunk from giving an old woman the pleasure of hearing that her son was well spoken of.”
“Why?” asked Margaret, looking straight at Mrs. Thornton, in bewilderment.
“Why! because I suppose they might have consciences that told them how surely they were making the old mother into an advocate for them, in case they had any plans on the son’s heart.”
She smiled a grim smile, for she had been pleased by Margaret’s frankness; and perhaps she felt that she had been asking questions too much as if she had a right to catechise. Margaret laughed outright at the notion presented to her; laughed so merrily that it grated on Mrs. Thornton’s ear, as if the words that called forth that laugh, must have been utterly and entirely ludicrous.
Margaret stopped her merriment as soon as she saw Mrs. Thornton’s annoyed look.
“I beg your pardon, madam. But I really am very much obliged to you for exonerating me from making any plans on Mr. Thornton’s heart.”
“Young ladies have, before now,” said Mrs. Thornton, stiffly.
“I hope Miss Thornton is well,” put in Mr. Hale, desirous of changing the current of the conversation.
“She is as well as she ever is. She is not strong,” replied Mrs. Thornton, shortly.
“And Mr. Thornton? I suppose I may hope to see him on Thursday?”
“I cannot answer for my son’s engagements. There is some uncomfortable work going on in the town; a threatening of a strike. If so, his experience and judgment will make him much consulted by his friends. But I should think he could come on Thursday. At any rate, I am sure he will let you know if he cannot.”
“A strike!” asked Margaret. “What for? What are they going to strike for?”
“For the mastership and ownership of other people’s property,” said Mrs. Thornton, with a fierce snort. “That is what they always strike for. If my son’s workpeople strike, I will only say they are a pack of ungrateful hounds. But I have no doubt they will.”
“They are wanting higher wages, I suppose?” asked Mr. Hale.
“That is the face of the thing. But the truth is, they want to be masters, and make the masters into slaves on their own ground. They are always trying at it; they always have it in their minds; and every five or six years, there comes a struggle between masters and men. They’ll find themselves mistaken this time, I fancy—a little out of their reckoning. If they turn out, they mayn’t find it so easy to go in again. I believe, the masters have a thing or two in their heads which will teach the men not to strike again in a hurry, if they try it this time.”
“Does it make the town very rough?” asked Margaret.
“Of course it does. But surely you are not a coward, are you? Milton is not the place for cowards. I have known the time when I have had to thread my way through a crowd of white, angry men, all swearing they would have Makinson’s blood as soon as he ventured to show his nose out of his factory; and he, knowing nothing of it, someone had to go and tell him, or he was a dead man; and it needed to be a woman—so I went. And when I got in, I could not get out. It was as much as my life was worth. So I went up to the roof, where there were stones piled ready to drop on the heads of the crowd, if they tried to force the factory doors. And I would have lifted those heavy stones, and dropped them with as good an aim as the best man there, but that I fainted with the heat I had gone through. If you live in Milton, you must learn to have a brave heart, Miss Hale.”
“I would do my best,” said Margaret rather pale. “I do not know whether I am brave or not till I am tried; but I am afraid I should be a coward.”
“South country people are often frightened by what our Darkshire men and women only call living and struggling. But when you’ve been ten years among a people who are always owing their betters a grudge, and only waiting for an opportunity to pay it off, you’ll know whether you are a coward or not, take my word for it.”
Mr. Thornton came that evening to Mr. Hale’s. He was shown up into the drawing-room, where Mr. Hale was reading aloud to his wife and daughter.
“I am come partly to bring you a note from my mother, and partly to apologise for not keeping to my time yesterday. The note contains the address you asked for; Dr. Donaldson.”
“Thank you!” said Margaret, hastily, holding out her hand to take the note, for she did not wish her mother to hear that they had been making any inquiry about a doctor. She was pleased that Mr. Thornton seemed immediately to understand her feeling; he gave her the note without another word of explanation.
Mr. Hale began to talk about the strike. Mr. Thornton’s face assumed a likeness to his mother’s worst expression, which immediately
