Mrs. Hale herself was not aware when she awoke, how ill she had
been the night before. She was rather surprised at Dr.
Donaldson's early visit, and perplexed by the anxious faces of
husband and child. She consented to remain in bed that day,
saying she certainly was tired; but, the next, she insisted on
getting up; and Dr. Donaldson gave his consent to her returning
into the drawing-room. She was restless and uncomfortable in
every position, and before night she became very feverish. Mr.
Hale was utterly listless, and incapable of deciding on anything.
'What can we do to spare mamma such another night?' asked
Margaret on the third day.
'It is, to a certain degree, the reaction after the powerful
opiates I have been obliged to use. It is more painful for you to
see than for her to bear, I believe. But, I think, if we could
get a water-bed it might be a good thing. Not but what she will
be better to-morrow; pretty much like herself as she was before
this attack. Still, I should like her to have a water-bed. Mrs.
Thornton has one, I know. I'll try and call there this afternoon.
Stay,' said he, his eye catching on Margaret's face, blanched
with watching in a sick room, 'I'm not sure whether I can go;
I've a long round to take. It would do you no harm to have a
brisk walk to Marlborough Street, and ask Mrs. Thornton if she
can spare it.' 'Certainly,' said Margaret. 'I could go while mamma is asleep
this afternoon. I'm sure Mrs. Thornton would lend it to us.' Dr. Donaldson's experience told them rightly. Mrs. Hale seemed to
shake off the consequences of her attack, and looked brighter and
better this afternoon than Margaret had ever hoped to see her
again. Her daughter left her after dinner, sitting in her easy
chair, with her hand lying in her husband's, who looked more worn
and suffering than she by far. Still, he could smile now-rather
slowly, rather faintly, it is true; but a day or two before,
Margaret never thought to see him smile again.
It was about two miles from their house in Crampton Crescent to
Marlborough Street. It was too hot to walk very quickly. An
August sun beat straight down into the street at three o'clock in
the afternoon. Margaret went along, without noticing anything
very different from usual in the first mile and a half of her
journey; she was absorbed in her own thoughts, and had learnt by
this time to thread her way through the irregular stream of human
beings that flowed through Milton streets. But, by and by, she
was struck with an unusual heaving among the mass of people in
the crowded road on which she was entering. They did not appear
to be moving on, so much as talking, and listening, and buzzing
with excitement, without much stirring from the spot where they
might happen to be. Still, as they made way for her, and, wrapt
up in the purpose of her errand, and the necessities that
suggested it, she was less quick of observation than she might
have been, if her mind had been at ease, she had got into
Marlborough Street before the full conviction forced itself upon
her, that there was a restless, oppressive sense of irritation
abroad among the people; a thunderous atmosphere, morally as well
as physically, around her. From every narrow lane opening out on
Marlborough Street came up a low distant roar, as of myriads of
fierce indignant voices. The inhabitants of each poor squalid
dwelling were gathered round the doors and windows, if indeed
they were not actually standing in the middle of the narrow
ways--all with looks intent towards one point. Marlborough Street
itself was the focus of all those human eyes, that betrayed
intensest interest of various kinds; some fierce with anger, some
lowering with relentless threats, some dilated with fear, or
imploring entreaty; and, as Margaret reached the small
side-entrance by the folding doors, in the great dead wall of
Marlborough mill-yard and waited the porter's answer to the bell,
she looked round and heard the first long far-off roll of the
tempest;--saw the first slow-surging wave of the dark crowd come,
with its threatening crest, tumble over, and retreat, at the far
end of the street, which a moment ago, seemed so full of
repressed noise, but which now was ominously still; all these
circumstances forced themselves on Margaret's notice, but did not
sink down into her pre-occupied heart. She did not know what they
meant--what was their deep significance; while she did know, did
feel the keen sharp pressure of the knife that was soon to stab
her through and through by leaving her motherless. She was trying
to realise that, in order that, when it came, she might be ready
to comfort her father.