“Who is that fine distinguished-looking girl? a sister of Mr. Horsfall’s?”
“Oh dear, no! That is Mr. Hale, her father, talking now to Mr. Stephens. He gives lessons; that is to say, he reads with young men. My brother John goes to him twice a week, and so he begged mamma to ask them here, in hopes of getting him known. I believe we have some of their prospectuses, if you would like to have one.”
“Mr. Thornton! Does he really find time to read with a tutor, in the midst of all his business—and this abominable strike in hand as well?”
Fanny was not sure, from Mrs. Slickson’s manner, whether she ought to be proud or ashamed of her brother’s conduct; and, like all people who try and take other people’s “ought” for the rule of their feelings, she was inclined to blush for any singularity of action. Her shame was interrupted by the dispersion of the guests.
XXI
The Dark Night
On earth is known to none
Elliott
The smile that is not sister to a tear.
Margaret and her father walked home. The night was fine, the streets clean, and with her pretty white silk, like Leezie Lindsay’s gown o’ green satin, in the ballad, “kilted up to her knee,” she was off with her father—ready to dance along with the excitement of the cool, fresh night air.
“I rather think Thornton is not quite easy in his mind about this strike. He seemed very anxious tonight.”
“I should wonder if he were not. But he spoke with his usual coolness to the others, when they suggested different things, just before we came away.”
“So he did after dinner as well. It would take a good deal to stir him from his cool manner of speaking; but his face strikes me as anxious.”
“I should be, if I were he. He must know of the growing anger and hardly smothered hatred of his workpeople, who all looked upon him as what the Bible calls a ‘hard man,’—not so much unjust as unfeeling; clear in judgment, standing upon his ‘rights’ as no human being ought to stand, considering what we and all our petty rights are in the sight of the Almighty. I am glad you think he looks anxious. When I remember Boucher’s half mad words and ways, I cannot bear to think how coolly Mr. Thornton spoke.”
“In the first place, I am not so convinced as you are about that man Boucher’s utter distress; for the moment, he was badly off, I don’t doubt. But there is always a mysterious supply of money from these Unions; and, from what you said, it was evident the man was of a passionate, demonstrative nature, and gave strong expression to all he felt.”
“Oh, papa!”
“Well! I only want you to do justice to Mr. Thornton, who is, I suspect, of an exactly opposite nature—a man who is far too proud to show his feelings. Just the character I should have thought beforehand, you would have admired, Margaret.”
“So I do—so I should; but I don’t feel quite so sure as you do of the existence of those feelings. He is a man of great strength of character—of unusual intellect, considering the few advantages he has had.”
“Not so few. He has led a practical life from a very early age, has been called upon to exercise judgment and self-control. All that develops one part of the intellect. To be sure, he needs some of the knowledge of the past, which gives the truest basis for conjecture as to the future; but he knows this need—he perceives it, and that is something. You are quite prejudiced against Mr. Thornton, Margaret.”
“He is the first specimen of a manufacturer—of a person engaged in trade—that I had ever the opportunity of studying, papa. He is my first olive: let me make a face while I swallow it. I know he is good of his kind, and by and by I shall like the kind. I rather think I am already beginning to do so. I was very much interested by what the gentlemen were talking about, although I did not understand half of it. I was quite sorry when Miss Thornton came to take me to the other end of the room, saying she was sure I should be uncomfortable at being the only lady among so many gentlemen. I had never thought about it, I was so busy listening; and the ladies were so dull, papa—oh, so dull! Yet I think it was clever too. It reminded me of our old game of having each so many nouns to introduce into a sentence.”
“What do you mean, child?” asked Mr. Hale.
“Why, they took nouns that were signs of things which gave evidence of wealth—housekeepers, under-gardeners, extent of glass, valuable lace, diamonds, and all such things; and each one formed her speech so as to bring them all in, in the prettiest accidental manner possible.”
“You will be as proud of your one servant when you get her, if all is true about her that Mrs. Thornton says.”
“To be sure, I shall. I felt like a great hypocrite tonight, sitting there in my white silk gown, with my idle hands before me, when I remembered all the good, thorough, housework they had done today. They took me for a fine lady, I’m sure.”
“Even I was mistaken enough to think you looked like a lady, my dear,” said Mr. Hale, quietly smiling.
But smiles were changed to white and trembling looks when they saw Dixon’s face, as she opened the door.
“Oh, master!—Oh, Miss Margaret! Thank God you are come! Dr. Donaldson is here. The servant next door went for him, for the charwoman is gone home. She’s better now; but, oh sir! I thought she’d have died an hour ago.”
Mr. Hale caught Margaret’s arm to steady himself from falling. He looked at her face, and saw an expression upon it of surprise and extremest sorrow, but not the agony of terror that
