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.




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