John Thornton made his rapid way through Milton back to Marlborough Mills. Mrs. Thornton looked up from her customary seat in the dining room, examining linens for necessary mending, when she heard his step upon the stairs and entering their door. The windows were open to allow any small breeze but the Venetian blinds were down, causing anyone in the room to appear grayish and unhealthy. Although to any other person his face would have given the impression of passivity, his mother detected strong emotion in his lineaments. His upright posture was almost relaxed, far more so than any recent time due to the strike and its attendant troubles. Mrs. Thornton was puzzling over this change while her son was ecstatically thinking of what he would say to Margaret when he returned to Crampton later in the day. Then Mr. Thornton came closer to his mother and she noticed with her sharp eye the bleeding cut on her beloved son's cheek. Her countenance darkened and her hands stopped their methodical motions.
'John,' asked she tersely, 'What has happened to your face?'
'Ah, mother. I was set upon by a group of angry turn outs but they got as good as they gave.'
If possible, Mrs. Thornton's visage grew even more irate and she sneered contemptuously, 'The ingrates! They will blame you for their troubles but had their mighty Union already agreed to the reasonable terms offered, there would by now be plenty of work to go around.'
'Now mother, do not upset yourself about it. We will outlast the hands and teach them not to trifle with the mill owners. If there were any in the Union who understood the state of trade, this strike would never have occurred. I have been to Crampton and spoken with the Hales. Miss Hale would like to see a compromise agreed upon in order to end the strike. She feels that the mill owners stand to lose commerce and customers and the hands need work to be able to eat so both sides would perhaps benefit from an ending to this strike.' Mr. Thornton watched his mother carefully as he spoke, wondering at her opinion of Margaret.
Mrs. Thornton waved her hand dismissively and answered with scorn. 'Miss Hale? What does a girl from the South know of business? Despite her touring the mill, I don't believe that she can yet understand the difference between the carding room and the one for spinning. How then could she possibly comprehend the importance of the places master and hands hold in Milton society? If I wished to ask her about useless embroidery, we may have a topic of conversation.'
'Mother! After having spoken with Miss Hale upon this matter, I imagine that her understanding of the situation may be clearer than you might credit. The ideas she has put forth have merit and I must speak with one or two fellows to clarify my own designs. As you well know, the mill is losing money each day that the machines stand quiet and the hands remain out. There are a great number of open orders waiting to be filled and if Marlborough Mills doesn't satisfy its customers, then they will take their business to another mill that will. Miss Hale's goal is to shorten the strike and this is my objective, as well.' With that, Mr. Thornton continued upstairs to prepare and soon descended with no more words spoken to leave for his next destination.
Once Nicholas had gone, Margaret pled a headache and slowly climbed the steps to her room. She lay down on her bed, fully clothed, and allowed the fatigue and strain to weigh her down. Margaret was greatly appreciative of finally having silence and solitude for there was much upon which to meditate. The pain from her throbbing wound only reminded Margaret of the men who had attacked Mr. Thornton. It was obvious that the Union was pushing the workers to remain strong in the face of grueling circumstances, asking the men to ignore want so that they might achieve the collective ambition of higher wages. Poor Boucher! Driven by the cares of his wife and hungry children to attack the one master who would dare to set foot in Crampton. And Mr. Thornton. . . . . Margaret blushed again just to think of his whispered words of love, spoken when he must have thought her insensate and unable to comprehend what was being breathed into her ear. Those murmured endearments took wing, flying and encircling her like silken threads, wrapping her in a cocoon until breathing was hardly possible. So what then, wondered Margaret, did she feel about Mr. Thornton? Indeed, she respected him as both a mill owner and a man. His tall frame was not an unpleasant prospect and his face was assuredly not unattractive. He listened to her opinions as if she were a man herself – their many disagreements were proof of that. In contrast, Henry Lennox had always been a friend to Margaret but she disliked his habit of never disagreeing with her views. Rather, he twisted his own attitudes to match hers. Aunt Shaw would not like him because of his profession; Edith would tolerate him for Margaret's sake. How would her parents react? Margaret suddenly realized she was assuming not only that Mr. Thornton would propose but also that she would accept. But would he? Would she? Would Mrs. Thornton be accepting of Margaret as a daughter? She was forever criticizing and finding fault. Margaret was even more fatigued as thoughts whirled through her tired mind, confusing more than clarifying. Knowing one's heart looked as if it were a colossal endeavor, wading through question after question. How did Edith know the point at which she had determined to have Captain Lennox? Margaret was sure she could never bring herself to ask.
With a resigned sigh that Margaret was not conscious of releasing, she slipped into slumber.