On the surface, the Hale home was quiet and undisturbed for two or three days. But within its walls, despair and sadness invaded the residents. After Mrs. Hale's attack, there was no more concealment, and Mr. Hale trembled and wept in the knowledge that soon he would lose his wife. His brief accusations of cruelty against his daughter were over, and he refused to leave his wife's side that first night without great argument and persuasion from Margaret and the doctor. There was no use in all of them waiting up with her, after all, but it took many hours for him to allow sleep to overtake him.
Margaret did her best to relieve her father of additional suffering, but he refused to be consoled. She was not married; she would not understand what it was to him to lose his life's companion. Even after the dark night was over and Mrs. Hale awoke without any knowledge of what had occurred, Mr. Hale was bent and broken.
Mrs. Hale's recovery from her attack was significant; the doctor allowed her to leave her room the next day. But there was no lessening of her pallor and no rest for her fidgety discomfort wherever she sat. Margaret and Dixon did their utmost to attend to her and make her comfortable, but to no avail. Mr. Hale would simply keep his distance, closer proximity too much for him to bear just yet unless she was sleeping.
Margaret was compelled to take on some added duties while her father was in such a low state. He would not take in any of his pupils during his first grief, but he did not have the strength to write to them himself. Margaret wrote hurried notes for him, trusting them to Martha to post. She had hesitated a long while over Mr. Thornton's note, unsure of how much to reveal. In the end, she only included a vague allusion to the reason for cancelling the lesson, hoping that he would do her justice with his sympathy.
He validated her hope almost immediately, as a note arrived that evening from Marlborough Mills addressed to Mr. Hale. Margaret took it up with a lightening of her heart to deliver to her father. Mr. Hale hardly attended to the note, taking it from her with a listless hand. His comments did little to satisfy her curiosity. "Very kind of him, very kind. He is a discerning man to know of our troubles. Most kind of him." He set the note aside with a sigh, not noticing his daughter take and pocket it.
She escaped to her room, opening the letter, and read quickly. Mr. Thornton did not express himself in many words, but he offered his sympathy and his services so delicately and thoughtfully that she almost felt his comforting hand extended to her. She regretted that he would not come to the house, knowing what cheer he would give her father, but there was nothing to be done for it. She folded the paper, a slight balm in her soul, and Mr. Hale never saw the note again.
It became clear after a few days that Mrs. Hale was not receiving any refreshment from her efforts at sleep. She was restless and feverish, and Margaret had to consult with the doctor on how to relieve her discomfort in any way.
"Perhaps a water-bed might do her some good. She will continue to improve a little in the next couple of days, but I should like her to have one. Mrs. Thornton has one, I know, but I cannot go there myself today. Can you spare the time to go to Marlborough Street and ask her?"
"Of course." She would do much to help her mother, so to the Thorntons she would go.
The journey to Marlborough Street was unvaried as usual until the last half-mile or so. Margaret found herself surrounded by a muttering crowd, but she was too preoccupied with her task to pay heed to the fearful threats being spoken or the angry faces of those she passed. The voices grew louder after she had left the mass of people, but so many were speaking that even had she been paying attention, she would not have been able to understand their words. As she approached the mill gate, however, and knocked, the roar lessened to an ominous silence. The porter would not open the door wide enough to admit her at first and then hastily bolted it behind her once he did.
"Those folk are all coming here, I reckon," he said, a tremble to his voice.
"I don't know. Marlborough Street itself seemed quite empty."
He hurried her across the yard and to the house door without another word. And now, as the door opened to her, she could hear the roar rise up again, clamoring and frightening.
Fanny met her first in the drawing room, apologizing for her mother's delay. "My brother has imported hands from Ireland, and it has irritated the strikers excessively." Now Margaret understood what the agitated crowd meant. So her worst fears of their anger toward him were realized! "And now the poor Irish are frightened so by them and their threats that they daren't move and we daren't let them out! They're huddled in the top room of the mill to keep them safe from those brutes."
"Poor wretches," Margaret murmured, her compassion going out to these innocent workers who did not deserve such terror.
Mrs. Thornton came in, distracted and stern, and Margaret was sorry to trouble her at such a time with her request. She made it, however, and Mrs. Thornton assured her that the water-bed would be sent as soon as possible.
"I would send it with you right now if I could, Miss Hale, but –" The sound of the roar finally pierced the walls of the house, a sound that Mrs. Thornton had not forgotten to listen for while Margaret spoke. The sudden nearness of the noise, just outside the wall, halted her in her speech, and she exclaimed, "They're at the gates! Call John, Fanny! Call him in! They're at the gates!"
Margaret drew to the window overlooking the yard amidst the panic, only dimly aware of Fanny's scream, the servants' scattering, and Mrs. Thornton's attempts to keep them all in order. She watched as the gate quivered, beaten and battered on the opposite side by the deafening crowd she could not see. Dread and fascination fixed her there and Mrs. Thornton soon joined her. Together they saw Mr. Thornton emerge from the mill, his alert step and anxious face distracted by the din as he locked the factory door. Through the cracks in the gate, the rioters saw him and only cried aloud the more terrible. He strode quickly to the house door, only turning once to look back before he entered the house and barred the door behind him.
Margaret had not left the window, though she could hear him bound up the stairs, wondering if the gates would give way to the thunderous pounding, no longer fearful of the violence being exhibited, but painfully sensitive to what drove the workers to their madness. She did not see his shock on beholding her there, but she was soon made aware of him as he came closer to her and claimed her attention.
"I'm sorry that you have visited us at this unfortunate moment, Miss Hale. I fear you must partake in whatever risk we have to bear." He could not rejoice in her presence, as dangerous as it was for all of them, and no hint of tremor was in his voice as he spoke. His tone strengthened and became more commanding as he turned to his mother. "Hadn't you better go to the back room, Mother? Take Fanny and keep the servants there."
Mrs. Thornton was ready to stand her ground and insist on staying with him when a wrench of iron diverted their attention and they rushed to the window once more to watch the gates fall under the powerful weight of the crowd. They were pouring into the yard, screaming and tramping. It was too much for Fanny, who took a step toward her mother before falling faint into her arms. Mrs. Thornton had no choice but to carry her away.
Margaret would still not move from her perch, fearing for the safety of the Irish and sorry for the pitiful rioters who were driven so wild with hunger and privation. Mr. Thornton asked her to come away, but she did not hear him as she saw . . .
"Boucher! I recognize him. He is fighting to get to the front."
He came to the window at her exclamation, afraid she might become overwrought at the violence being perpetrated by people she knew. His appearance at the window caused the crowd to set up an animal yell which dismayed even him, inhuman as it sounded. But he was determined to remain strong and firm.
"Let them yell. Keep up your courage for a few minutes, Miss Hale."
"I'm not afraid! But can you do nothing to pacify them, to talk reasonably with them?"
"The soldiers will be here soon, and that will bring them to reason."
"Reason?" she cried. "What kind of reason?" She looked to him to only see a stern determination in his eyes. She knew what kind of reason he meant, what would be done to those crazed men if the soldiers came.
"By heaven, they've turned to the mill door!" He twisted to the window at the sight, betraying concern and fear for the Irish workers who were trapped above. It emboldened Margaret to see his reaction, and, angry at his having called the soldiers, she faced him with impassioned defiance.
"Mr. Thornton, go down this instant," she ordered, now beginning to quake. "Go down and face them like a man. Save these poor strangers. Speak to your workmen as if they were human beings. Don't let them be cut down by the soldiers. Go speak to them, man to man, and save your innocent Irishmen."
As she pleaded with him, he looked at her in stunned wonder. Surely she did not know what she was asking of him, what risk she was daring him to take. Did she not see these men and what they were capable of? But he would not be challenged as though he lacked courage. He would not deny her, no matter the harm it may do.
"Very well. If you will please follow me and lock the door behind me in order to keep yourself and the others safe," he agreed coolly. His composed response to her as he walked out of the room stilled her passion, and her mind only just began to comprehend what she had asked him to do, fear taking hold of her once more, but now for him.
He quickly made his way down the stairs, and she struggled to match his pace. He was to the door by the time she reached the bottom of the stairs, the thought becoming more clear to her that it was not safe for him outside. She was stricken at the idea that he could be harmed, and before he could open the door, she impulsively reached out a hand. "Mr. Thornton, please take care."
She had managed to take hold of his arm, arresting his movements, and he turned to face her with a question in his eyes. Foolish as her request might be, there was no denying the sudden fear in her eyes, and the plea written in her gesture. It was too much for him in such a time of dread, and he would not control the impetuous notion that came into his mind.
He lifted his eyes to the ceiling, and she heard him mutter, "I do not know what may happen," and swiftly he had drawn her close, a hand at her waist, another on her cheek. She was overcome at his unexpected nearness, and she was unable to calm the rapid rise and fall of her chest as he breathed her name against her mouth. She could hear the question in his whisper, the hesitation giving her the chance to push him away if she wished. His breath was tantalizing on her lips, and she closed her eyes, wordlessly granting him permission.
The next sensation she felt was his lips on hers, warm, tender, and adoring. A thrill ran through her, and she suddenly desired to draw him close, to soothe her own longing at his touch. But it was too brief and ended before she could fully respond; he had not forgotten what was outside the door, and he was soon gone, leaving her alone and dazed.
