\"I have found that holy place of restStill changeless.\"
MRS. HEMANS.
When Mr. Thornton had left the house that morning he was almostblinded by his baffled passion. He was as dizzy as if Margaret, insteadof looking, and speaking, and moving like a tender graceful woman,had been a sturdy fish-wife, and given him a sound blow with her fists.
He had positive bodily pain,--a violent headache, and a throbbingintermittent pulse. He could not bear the noise, the garish light, thecontinued rumble and movement of the street. He called himself a foolfor suffering so; and yet he could not, at the moment, recollect the causeof his suffering, and whether it was adequate to the consequences it hadproduced. It would have been a relief to him, if he could have sat downand cried on a door-step by a little child, who was raging and storming,through his passionate tears, at some injury he had received. He said tohimself, that he hated Margaret, but a wild, sharp sensation of love clefthis dull, thunderous feeling like lightning, even as he shaped the words
expressive of hatred. His greatest comfort was in hugging his torment;and in feeling, as he had indeed said to her, that though she mightdespise him, contemn him, treat him with her proud sovereignindifference, he did not change one whit. She could not make himchange. He loved her, and would love her; and defy her, and thismiserable bodily pain.
He stood still for a moment, to make this resolution firm and clear.
There was an omnibus passing--going into the country; the conductorthought he was wishing for a place, and stopped near the pavement. Itwas too much trouble to apologise and explain; so he mounted upon it,and was borne away,--past long rows of houses--then past detachedvillas with trim gardens, till they came to real country hedge-rows, and,by-and-by, to a small country town. Then every body got down; and sodid Mr. Thornton, and because they walked away he did so too. Hewent into the fields, walking briskly, because the sharp motion relievedhis mind. He could remember all about it now; the pitiful figure he musthave cut; the absurd way in which he had gone and done the very thinghe had so often agreed with himself in thinking would be the mostfoolish thing in the world; and had met with exactly the consequenceswhich, in these wise moods, he had always fore-told were certain tofollow, if he ever did make such a fool of himself. Was he bewitched bythose beautiful eyes, that soft, half-open, sighing mouth which lay soclose upon his shoulder only yesterday? He could not even shake off therecollection that she had been there; that her arms had been round him,once--if never again. He only caught glimpses of her; he did notunderstand her altogether. At one time she was so brave, and at anotherso timid; now so tender, and then so haughty and regal-proud. And thenhe thought over every time he had ever seen her once again, by way offinally forgetting her. He saw her in every dress, in every mood, and didnot know which became her best. Even this morning, how magnificentshe had looked,--her eyes flashing out upon him at the idea that,because she had shared his danger yesterday, she had cared for him theleast!
If Mr. Thornton was a fool in the morning, as he assured himself at leasttwenty times he was, he did not grow much wiser in the afternoon. Allthat he gained in return for his sixpenny omnibus ride, was a more vividconviction that there never was, never could be, any one like Margaret;that she did not love him and never would; but that she--no! nor thewhole world--should never hinder him from loving her. And so hereturned to the little market-place, and remounted the omnibus to returnto Milton.
It was late in the afternoon when he was set down, near his warehouse.
The accustomed places brought back the accustomed habits and trains
of thought. He knew how much he had to do--more than his usual work,owing to the commotion of the day before. He had to see his brothermagistrates; he had to complete the arrangements, only half made in themorning, for the comfortand safety of his newly imported Irish hands;he had to secure them from all chance of communication with thediscontented work-people of Milton. Last of all, he had to go home andencounter his mother.
Mrs. Thornton had sat in the dining-room all day, every momentexpecting the news of her son\"s acceptance by Miss Hale. She hadbraced herself up many and many a time, at some sudden noise in thehouse; had caught up the half-dropped work, and begun to ply herneedle diligently, though through dimmed spectacles, and with anunsteady hand! and many times had the door opened, and someindifferent person entered on some insignificant errand. Then her rigidface unstiffened from its gray frost-bound expression, and the featuresdropped into the relaxed look of despondency, so unusual to theirsternness. She wrenched herself away from the contemplation of all thedreary changes that would be brought about to herself by her son\"smarriage; she forced her thoughts into the accustomed householdgrooves. The newly-married couple-to-be would need fresh householdstocks of linen; and Mrs. Thornton had clothes-basket upon clothes-basket, full of table-cloths and napkins, brought in, and began to reckonup the store. There was some confusion between what was hers, andconsequently marked G. H. T. (for George and Hannah Thornton), andwhat was her son\"s--bought with his money, marked with his initials.
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