part in the question they were discussing. At any rate, they talked in

desperate earnest,—not in the used-up style that wearied her so in the

old London parties. She wondered that, with all this dwelling on the

manufacturers and trade of the place, no allusion was made to the strike

then pending. She did not yet know how coolly such things were taken by

the masters, as having only one possible end. To be sure, the men were

cutting their own throats, as they had done many a time before; but if

they would be fools, and put themselves into the hands of a rascally set

of paid delegates, they must take the consequence. One or two thought

Thornton looked out of spirits; and, of course, he must lose by this

turn-out. But it was an accident that might happen to themselves any

day; and Thornton was as good to manage a strike as any one; for he was

as iron a chap as any in Milton. The hands had mistaken their man in

trying that dodge on him. And they chuckled inwardly at the idea of the

workmen’s discomfiture and defeat, in their attempt to alter one iota of

what Thornton had decreed.

It was rather dull for Margaret after dinner. She was glad when the

gentlemen came, not merely because she caught her father’s eye to

brighten her sleepiness up; but because she could listen to something

larger and grander than the petty interests which the ladies had been

talking about. She liked the exultation in the sense of power which

these Milton men had. It might be rather rampant in its display, and

savour of boasting; but still they seemed to defy the old limits of

possibility, in a kind of fine intoxication, caused by the recollection

of what had been achieved, and what yet should be. If in her cooler

moments she might not approve of the spirit in all things, still there

was much to admire in their forgetfulness of themselves and the present,

in their anticipated triumphs over all inanimate matter at some future

time which none of them would live to see. She was rather startled when

Mr. Thornton spoke to her close at her elbow:

“I could see you were on our side in our discussion at dinner,—were you

not, Miss Hale?”

“Certainly. But then I know so little about it. I was surprised,

however, to find from what Mr. Horsfall said, that there were others who

thought in so diametrically opposite a manner, as the Mr. Morison he

spoke about. He cannot be a gentleman—is he?”

“I am not quite the person to decide on another’s gentlemanliness, Miss

Hale. I mean, I don’t quite understand your application of the word. But

I should say that this Morison is no true man. I don’t know who he is; I

merely judge him from Mr. Horsfall’s account.”

“I suspect my ‘gentleman’ includes your ‘true man.’”

“And a great deal more, you would imply. I differ from you. A man is to

me a higher and a completer being than a gentleman.”

“What do you mean?” asked Margaret. “We must understand the words

differently.”

“I take it that ‘gentleman’ is a term that only describes a person in

his relation to others; but when we speak of him as ‘a man,’ we consider

him not merely with regard to his fellow-men, but in relation to

himself,—to life—to time—to eternity. A cast-away lonely as Robinson

Crusoe—a prisoner immured in a dungeon for life—nay, even a saint in

Patmos, has his endurance, his strength, his faith, best described by

being spoken of as ‘a man.’ I am rather weary of this word

‘gentlemanly,’ which seems to me to be often inappropriately used, and

often, too, with such exaggerated distortion of meaning, while the full

simplicity of the noun ‘man,’ and the adjective ‘manly’ are

acknowledged—that I am induced to class it with the cant of the day.”

Margaret thought a moment—but before she could speak her slow

conviction, he was called away by some of the eager manufacturers, whose

speeches she could not hear, though she could guess at their import by

the short clear answers Mr. Thornton gave, which came steady and firm as

the boom of a distant minute gun. They were evidently talking of the

turn-out, and suggesting what course had best be pursued. She heard Mr.

Thornton say:

“That has been done.” Then came a hurried murmur, in which two or three

joined.

“All those arrangements have been made.”

Some doubts were implied, some difficulties named by Mr. Slickson, who

took hold of Mr. Thornton’s arm, the better to impress his words. Mr.

Thornton moved slightly away, lifted his eyebrows a very little, and

then replied:

“I take the risk. You need not join in it unless you choose.” Still some

more fears were urged.

“I’m not afraid of anything so dastardly as incendiarism. We are open

enemies; and I can protect myself from any violence that I apprehend.

And I will assuredly protect all others who come to me for work. They

know my determination by this time, as well and as fully as you do.”

Mr. Horsfall took him a little on one side, as Margaret conjectured, to

ask him some other question about the strike; but, in truth, it was to

inquire who she herself was—so quiet, so stately, and so beautiful.

“A Milton lady?” asked he, as the name was given.

“No! from the south of England—Hampshire, I believe,” was the cold,

indifferent answer.

Mrs. Slickson was catechising Fanny on the same subject.

“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.