“I’m afraid not. You must take it like a man and prepare yourself, although you may yet have many months. Do not overburden her with your grief, sir,” the doctor advised.
They spent the day watching over the sleeping patient. Margaret insisted poor Dixon sleep while her mistress slept. Mr. Hale stayed by his wife’s side, his vigil vacillating between prayer and penitent grief.
The routines of normal life vanished, and time was meaningless as interminable waiting stole every thought. Margaret performed tasks as a shadow of herself, moribund and dulled to all other concerns. The dinner party, the terrible poverty of the Bouchers, her clashing with Mr. Thornton—all faded into a far-away distance. Fear of a motherless future consumed her. And the terrible duty of keeping her father from collapsing into uselessness fell heavy upon her soul.
She thought of writing Edith to tell her of what would eventually come to pass. Aunt Shaw should be told.
Oh, was it only a year ago that Edith had married? It was painful to consider how much had changed since then. Last summer, Margaret had returned to Helstone with no care in the world, roaming her forest and delighting in its gardens. How hard life had been since father had moved us to this town!
And yet, she could not wholly wish she had never come to this place. It had opened her eyes to other worlds and people she would have never met in Helstone.
Toward dusk, Margaret was carrying a tray of tea upstairs when her father appeared above, his eyes alight with urgency. “I believe she’s waking!”
When Mrs. Hale opened her eyes at last, the hovering faces surrounding her bed perplexed her. “What is it?” she asked of them.
Her husband smiled, unable to contain his joy at seeing her so unaffected. It was as if it had all just been a dream.
“You were ill, mamma,” Margaret answered gently, offering nothing more. “Are you feeling better?”
“Yes, I suppose I am. My head feels a bit muddled. How long have I been sleeping?”
“Most of the day, Mum,” Dixon answered, “now don’t you worry about anything. The doctor said you’ll be better now.”
“The doctor? He was here?”
“My darling,” Mr. Hale said, holding her hand to his heart, “we are happy you have recovered.”
The dark cloud had passed, and the house fell into a more peaceful mode. The tired watchers could get proper rest that evening.
In the morning, Dr. Donaldson came again to check on his patient. Mrs. Hale was to rest that day, and then the next day she could go to her sitting room if she felt better. She was still uncomfortable in certain positions.
“Is there anything more we can do to ease her discomfort?” Margaret asked him as he stood in the hallway.
“A water bed may help give her a better night’s sleep. I believe the Thorntons have one you may borrow.”
“Yes, Fanny spoke of it once to me. I will go ask about it this afternoon.”
Margaret was glad to be given a useful errand. She yearned to get out of the house. After she went to the Thorntons’, perhaps she would go see Bessy.
Chapter twenty-six
Without the incessant smoke from the mills blackening the sky, the summer sun beat down on roofs and awnings, iron gates and brick paths as Margaret made her way to the Thorntons’ home. It was a hot July day, and the air was thick with an oppressive stillness. Only people who had to be outside were on the streets.
A few young men raced past her, then a few more, but her thoughts were consumed with worry about her mother’s suffering and her father’s reactions. She stared only at the ground ahead of her, watching her footsteps. Thus it was that as she walked down Marlborough Street, she was not conscious of the distant buzzing noise of a hundred angry men.
At last, the growing sound of shouts broke her sad trance as she drew closer. She looked up to see a raucous crowd gathered far ahead. She halted, fear beginning to build in the pit of her stomach. Were they going to Marlborough Mills? She was not near enough to be certain.
The inner voice of wisdom told her to turn and flee, but fear of violence was not as strong as her need to know whatwould happen. She hurried forward, her eyes growing wide and heart hammering with foreboding as she saw teams of men and women, angry strikers, pressing and pounding against the tall wooden doors that were the gateway to Marlborough Mills.
She watched in horror as the masses heaved in unison and, at last, a tremendous splintering crack heralded their success. Streams of haggard-looking men and women streamed into the yard, stamping down the broken doors. Their whoops and hollers sent a chill over Margaret’s skin.
Drawn like a magnet to the danger, she drew even closer, standing back from the broken entryway to avoid being trampled by those still coming to the fray. She stretched her neck to see what they would do, her heart thumping in her chest. Would they break into the mill or try to enter the house?
Forgetting herself, she stood mesmerized by the perilous situation unfolding before her, but she was not invisible to John Boucher as he ran to join the others.
“That’s the Master’s girl!” he shouted, pointing to the statue-still onlooker. Only those closest to him heard.
“Bring her along!” one said, leaping toward her. Others instantly followed.
