Margaret's hopeful mood was not allowed to linger once she arrived at the Higgins' home. Bessy was not able to sit herself up, proof to Margaret of how much more ill she had become. Now Margaret knew why Bessy had not come to see her dressed for the dinner party, and she felt guilty she had not spared the time to come see her. "Of course," she told herself, "I've had Mama to think of." But this did little to ease the gnawing discomfort of her heart as she sat by her weakened friend.

Bessy did not speak at first; only looked. Margaret grew fidgety under her gaze, afraid as she was that Bessy may know something of Margaret's presence at the riot. She had little hope that the subject would not be mentioned, but she would not be the one to bring it up. Finally Bessy said, "I thought I should not have seen you again." Her voice was barely above a whisper.

"Oh, no," Margaret said in some distress. "Do not say that, Bessy. I'm sorry I have not come, but don't think that I had forgotten you." She took Bessy's listless hand in hers, giving a warm smile; Bessy barely returned it.

"I would not have thought that. It's been a hard few days, is all, and we've not had a quiet time of it. Father's so angry, and I can do nothing to help him."

Margaret had hoped they would talk of other things first, but it was not to be. No doubt Bessy was referring to the riot, and Margaret was both eager and afraid to find out exactly what Bessy knew. She remembered what Mr. Thornton had said about the anger of the union leaders as she asked cautiously, "Why is Nicholas angry?"

"You heard of the riot? At Marlborough Mills?" Margaret merely nodded in response. "He'd have given his right hand for that never to come to pass. He's a committee man, and he's knocked down in his mind by the fools who broke their plans. They were to hold together, through thick and thin, and no going against the law. They'd have been able to keep public opinion on their side if they hadn't . . ." she broke into a fit of coughing, unused as she was to speaking for any lengthy amount of time these days.

When the coughing subsided, Margaret spoke gently. "It cannot be so very bad as all that. I know the strike has broken, and that's a disappointment, but surely it would be better to go on."

"He'll never do such a thing as that, Margaret, he's so angry. He was in such a fit yesterday, yelling and stamping at Boucher, swearing that he'd go to the police himself and give Boucher up. For it was he that stirred up the riot in the first place, mad as he'd gone. And some folks just needed that little touch to go into a frenzy. Without it, there'd have been no riot, no breaking up of the committee's plans."

"So Boucher is being pursued, then?" Margaret asked sadly.

Bessy nodded. "He and the other ringleaders. They also say that Boucher threw a stone at Thornton's sister and nearly killed her."

Margaret became more alert at Bessy's words, though a flush insisted on visiting her cheeks. "Is that what's been said?"

"Yes, and Father was well-nigh murderous when he found out. He does not like the masters, but he certainly didn't want anybody getting hurt. And then something like that happens, and you can't fully blame him for being angry at Boucher."

"It was not Boucher that threw the stone," Margaret said somewhat thoughtlessly.

"How do you know?"

"I . . . I was there," Margaret admitted, but hastily went on. "But never mind that; have you seen Boucher since?"

Bessy gave no sign that she was affected by Margaret's admittance to being at the Thornton's. "No, only for the bit he was here last night. He was so upset and trying to give reason for his actions, but when Father threatened to give him up, he flew at him and struck him. Father was able to throw him off, but he ran out, all the while Father's shouting out the door after him."

Bessy's eyes filled with tears. "I've never seen him like this before. I'm afraid of what he might do."

Margaret squeezed Bessy's hand tighter as she broke into painful sobs, trying to quiet and calm her. But although Bessy's tears did not last, her fears concerning her father were not alleviated, despite Margaret's comforting words. Margaret's relief that her name and presence had gone unmarked by the rioters was swallowed up by her sorrow for her friend.

Mrs. Thornton was agitated. She sewed with vigor, hoping to occupy her mind, but the least noise brought her head up from her work. All too often, she only imagined she heard something, which made her sew the more furiously. And still her son had not come home. Fanny had escaped her mother's austere presence several hours earlier, for her chatter could not penetrate the brooding silence her mother imposed on nearly the entire house. But still Mrs. Thornton sewed, with or without her daughter for company. And she would go on until John appeared.

It was not like him to exclude her. She was used to being consulted by him on every part of his life, and she was proud of it. But lately he had been keeping something from her; she had her suspicions of what it was, and after seeing his attentions to Miss Hale at the dinner party, she felt her suspicions were confirmed. How he had been caught by such a haughty girl who could never possibly understand their way of life was beyond her reckoning, but she was prepared once she took note. And then the events of the day before happened, and to say Mrs. Thornton was displeased would be optimistic.

When John had called for her aid with Miss Hale, she assumed that the rioters had turned their violence to the house and struck Miss Hale from where she watched at the window. But it was not too long before she saw that no broken glass littered her floor and the whisperings of the servants began to din in her ears. And soon Miss Hale was no longer a mere victim, but a cunning minx who used the terrible situation to her advantage. She had gone out and embraced John in public to ensnare him and bind his honor to her. He would have no further choice in the matter. What an artful girl Miss Hale turned out to be, no matter the protection she had given Mrs. Thornton's son.

She had hoped that when John came home the previous evening, he would stop to consult and speak with her, but her hopes were in vain. He had stopped, but it could hardly be called speaking in comparison to what she was used to and considering everything that had happened. He had only inquired after Miss Hale's whereabouts, and soon retired. He had not even told her anything of his business with the police or how he would deal with the situation with the Irish. How she wanted to help him, advise him. But he had not required her advice. And she did not like this turn of events. She liked it even less when he disappeared that morning without a word.

So she sat on, sewing in her ignorance and paranoid curiosity, waiting for the time John would walk through the door. She would not allow him to escape her; she would make him talk. And she lifted her face at every stray sound because she was so afraid of missing him. She was ready to burst in impatience, though to the untrained eye, she sat as cold and stern as ever.

At last she heard a sound that was not imagined. The door below had opened, and he was coming up the stairs. He came into the room with a light step, one that seemed to her inappropriate considering all that had happened here and all the burden he must carry. He stood at the window overlooking the yard, but did not say a word.

"Well, John?" She could not bear to be kept in the dark any longer.

"Well, Mother?" he repeated. His expression confused her, for it was neither happy nor unhappy, but contemplative. His response made it clear he was not disposed to be communicative, but Mrs. Thornton was not dissuaded so easily.

"Where have you been this morning?" If she was trying to sound nonchalant, she was failing.

"I visited the Hales. I wanted to ask after the health of both Mrs. and Miss Hale."

"Oh, I am sure Miss Hale is very well; she was well enough to leave so quickly yesterday," she waved the memory of Miss Hale away, as though an insignificant gesture were enough to drive Miss Hale out of her son's heart.

"I understand she left so quickly so as to not give her mother undue alarm. I'm sure she would not have been so quick to leave otherwise."

Mrs. Thornton pursed her lips. He had clearly done more than just ask after the health of the Hale ladies, so why would he not tell her? She was jealous to think that somebody else had gained her son's first confidence, taking her place. But she knew his heart was engaged, and surely if he had done his duty to the predicament Miss Hale had placed him in, his honor was engaged, as well. But why would he not tell her so? She no longer wished to dance around the issue that plagued her mind.

"And have you done your duty by her?"

He was startled. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, have you spoken to Miss Hale?"

"Yes," he answered slowly, knowing that his mother meant more than what she was saying.

"Well, you could hardly do otherwise," she said resignedly.

"Mother, I don't understand you." He walked over and sat next to her, his frustration evident.

"I mean that, after allowing her feelings to so overcome her, I consider you bound in honor –"

"Bound in honor," he scoffed. "Of course you would use that phrase."

"Well, it is true, isn't it? Did she not rush down, and cling to you to save you from danger?"

"She did," he confirmed. "But you do not understand her. You do not know what made her do it."

"I understand her quite well," she said scornfully. "I understand she was ready to do anything to secure you."

"Mother!" His anger showed in full force now. "That is unfair and unfeeling of you to attribute such mean arts to her. She had no such thought; she only wanted to protect me. You should know better than to spread such tittle-tattle."

"And you think I am responsible for it? I can assure you, it is not just me speaking of it." Never could she remember her son being cross with her, but she was no meek and mild lamb; she did not shy away. "And you are telling me she did not prove her feelings in such an action? You are saying she feels nothing for you?"

This stopped him in his tracks. He could not deny her accusations. Nor would he conceal his own feelings any longer. He and Margaret had not sworn to hide their attachment, after all, and his mother was pressing the matter. "No, Mother, I am not saying that. Mar- Miss Hale does care for me, and I for her" –she felt a sting at her heart at his confirmation- "but still what she did yesterday was done out of good intent alone, and she does not deserve your malicious judgment."

"So," Mrs. Thornton said quietly. "You know she cares for you. You have proposed to her."

"I have, but not because of any duty. I love her, Mother."

There was some silence as Mrs. Thornton wavered in the wake of his declaration. It was done, and she would have to steel herself to the idea of Miss Hale as her daughter-in-law. "Then I will do my best to accept your marriage. If she will make you happy."

"No, Mother. I have no engagement to announce," he interrupted with anxiety and a little hurt. He knew she would not approve of such a twist in the affair.

"No engagement?" Mrs. Thornton exclaimed. "You don't mean to say she refused you!" Some relief was in her words, but more shock and disbelief than anything.

"She did, but . . . it is only for now," he hesitatingly revealed. He knew how weak such words would sound to her. Oh, why had she ever insisted on pursuing this subject?

"For now!" Her indignation was great.

"Yes, Mother, she cares for me, but she wants to be certain she loves me. That is all." He wanted to drop the matter, but Mrs. Thornton would not let it be dropped.

"Certain! What does she mean, 'certain'? Why, she might be a duke's daughter, to hear you speak! What, to secure you in such a manner and then refuse you? She is such a fickle, impulsive girl."

"You are unjust to her, Mother," he replied heatedly. "And the more you try to misinterpret and distort her actions, the more I will defend her. She is good and compassionate, and her actions and intentions are pure before God. I will not hear you abuse and mistreat her in such a way. She is far better than you give her credit for."

"Can you be certain of that, John?" she implored, wanting to lessen his fury but still so doubtful.

"I am certain of it."

His words were so sure and firm, Mrs. Thornton nearly gave way. But her jealousy of being usurped in her son's affections prejudiced her against Margaret, so she was not entirely swayed. She still thought it presumptuous and immodest for a girl to admit feelings for a man and yet reject his proposal. She could not approve of that. But for her son's happiness, she would try to accept Miss Hale in time.

When Margaret returned home, her mother was in the drawing room. Margaret was heartened to see she felt well enough to be there. She was confined to her bed as often as she was out of it the last few weeks, and her recent attack had started to decrease the amount of time she spent away from her room. Margaret was distressed to see how much both her mother and Bessy were weakening. It seemed as though their lives were being held in the same precarious balance, and sooner rather than later, the scales would tip and they would both be lost. She pulled herself out of these morbid thoughts as she greeted her and listened to the raptures over the water-bed.

"It was so kind of the Thorntons to spare it, and your father told me Mr. Thornton came himself this morning to inquire about it. It was very good of him to call."

Margaret allowed herself a secret smile about Mr. Thornton's real reason for visiting, content to let her mother believe the invented story. If it made Mrs. Hale continue to think well of him, so much the better. Were Margaret to accept him, she would hope both her parents were happy in such a match.

"I felt as though I slept in the beds at Sir John Beresford's on that water-bed," her mother continued. "Do you recall them?"

"No, Mama, I never was at Oxenham, so I never got to try the beds there."

Mrs. Hale's brow furrowed in recollected pain. "Oh, yes, it was Frederick I took to Oxenham, to your Aunt Shaw's wedding. And he was only a baby, but he won so many hearts there; he had that gift as he grew up, as well." Her eyes became aglow with unshed tears as she thought of her beloved son who was now lost to her.

"Oh, Margaret, I have lost my dear boy, and I think I shall never see him again." The tears began to fall at this confession, and she felt sure she could not be consoled.

Margaret immediately sat closer to her, caressing her hand in comfort, but quite at a loss of what to say. She was sure her mother's fear would be correct too soon, and there was nothing she could bring herself to say to the contrary. It was unlikely that Frederick even knew of her mother's illness. She did not know when her father last wrote, and he was unlikely to have mentioned it in a letter, anyway.

Mrs. Hale choked herself out of her sobs. "Margaret, if only . . . it is so hard to think of never seeing him again . . . if I am to die before too long, I wish . . . no, I must – I must see my child first." Her voice had taken on a sudden weak vehemence. "Margaret, please . . . bring him to me, please let me see him before I die!"

Her tears came again unrestrained, and Margaret only wished to heal her mother's sorrow, as she was powerless to cure her illness. Undoubtedly, Frederick should at least be informed of his mother's condition. She was sure that if he were aware of that, he would come even without a summons, no matter the danger. But Mrs. Hale was so pleading, so miserable, and so devoid of hope that Margaret would not even trust to her assumption that he would come without invitation. She must do what she could to fulfill her mother's dear and last wish and ask him. Frederick must come.

"Mama," she spoke steadily and calmly as her mother's cries quieted. "I will write to Frederick tonight. I will tell him of your wishes. I will do all I can to make sure you do see him."

Her mother reached out her hands to cling to Margaret's arms. "Oh, Margaret, do write quickly. Don't lose a single post. Then he will be here. I shall see my boy." Her desperate exertion and plea exhausted what little strength she possessed, and she soon sank back onto the cushions. All the while, Margaret promised that she would see Frederick soon.

The letter was written in Mrs. Hale's presence; she would take no chances of Margaret being dishonest or delinquent, and sent her to post the letter herself. Margaret was anxious and fearful to the last step as she delivered the letter, and spent her entire sojourn home unsure that she had done right to make such a promise that would endanger Frederick. She decided at last that the promise had been made and the letter sent, so she would accept whatever consequences came, for good or ill.