His step at last! She heard him, even while she thought she was finishing a sentence; while her eye did pass over it, and her memory could mechanically have repeated it word for word, she heard him come in at the hall-door. Her quickened sense could interpret every sound of motion: now he was at the hatstand—now at the very room-door. Why did he pause? Let her know the worst.
Yet her head was down over the book; she did not look up. He came close to the table, and stood still there, waiting till she should have finished the paragraph which apparently absorbed her. By an effort she looked up. “Well, John?”
He knew what that little speech meant. But he had steeled himself. He longed to reply with a jest; the bitterness of his heart could have uttered one, but his mother deserved better of him. He came round behind her, so that she could not see his looks, and, bending back her gray, stony face, he kissed it, murmuring:
“No one loves me—no one cares for me, but you, mother.”
He turned away and stood leaning his head against the mantelpiece, tears forcing themselves into his manly eyes. She stood up—she tottered. For the first time in her life, the strong woman tottered. She put her hands on his shoulders; she was a tall woman. She looked into his face: she made him look at her.
“Mother’s love is given by God, John. It holds fast forever and ever. A girl’s love is like a puff of smoke—it changes with every wind. And she would not have you, my own lad, would not she?” She set her teeth; she showed them like a dog for the whole length of her mouth. He shook his head.
“I am not fit for her, mother; I knew I was not.”
She ground out words between her closed teeth. He could not hear what she said; but the look in her eyes interpreted it to be a curse—if not as coarsely worded, as fell in intent as ever was uttered. And yet her heart leapt up light, to know he was her own again.
“Mother!” said he, hurriedly, “I cannot hear a word against her. Spare me—spare me! I am very weak in my sore heart;—I love her yet; I love her more than ever.”
“And I hate her,” said Mrs. Thornton, in a low fierce voice. “I tried not to hate her, when she stood between you and me, because—I said to myself—she will make him happy; and I would give my heart’s blood to do that. But now, I hate her for your misery’s sake. Yes, John, it’s no use hiding up your aching heart from me. I am the mother that bore you, and your sorrow is my agony; and if you don’t hate her, I do.”
“Then, mother, you make me love her more. She is unjustly treated by you, and I must make the balance even. But why do we talk of love or hatred? She does not care for me, and that is enough, too much. Let us never name the subject again. It is the only thing you can do for me in the matter. Let us never name her.”
“With all my heart. I only wish that she, and all belonging to her, were swept back to the place they came from.”
He stood still, gazing into the fire for a minute or two longer. Her dry dim eyes filled with unwonted tears as she looked at him; but she seemed just as grim and quiet as usual when he next spoke.
“Warrants are out against three men for conspiracy, mother. The riot yesterday helped to knock up the strike.”
And Margaret’s name was no more mentioned between Mrs. Thornton and her son. They fell back into their usual mode of talk—about facts, not opinions, far less feelings. Their voices and tones were calm and cold; a stranger might have gone away and thought that he had never seen such frigid indifference of demeanour between such near relations.
XXVII
Fruit-Piece
For never anything can be amiss
Midsummer Night’s Dream
When simpleness and duty tender it.
Mr. Thornton went straight and clear into all the interests of the following day. There was a slight demand for finished goods; and as it affected his branch of the trade, he took advantage of it, and drove hard bargains. He was sharp to the hour at the meeting of his brother magistrates—giving them the best assistance of his strong sense, and his power of seeing consequences at a glance, and so coming to a rapid decision. Older men, men of long standing in the town, men of far greater wealth—realised and turned into land, while his was all floating capital, engaged in his trade—looked to him for prompt, ready wisdom. He was the one deputed to see and arrange with the police—to lead in all the requisite steps. And he cared for their unconscious deference no more than for the soft west wind, that scarcely made the smoke from the great tall chimneys swerve in its straight upward course. He was not aware of the silent respect paid to him. If it had been otherwise, he would have felt it as an obstacle in his progress to the object he had in view. As it was, he looked to the speedy accomplishment of that alone. It was his mother’s greedy ears that sucked in, from the womenkind of these magistrates and wealthy men, how highly Mr. This or Mr. That thought of Mr. Thornton: that if he had not been there, things would have gone on very differently—very badly, indeed. He swept off his business right and left that day. It seemed as though his deep mortification of yesterday, and the
