The sight of him reminded her of the wish to see his mother, and commend Margaret to her care.  Margaret, sitting in burning silence, vexed and ashamed of her difficulty in keeping her right place, and her calm unconsciousness of heart, when Mr. Thornton was by, heard her mother’s slow entreaty that Mrs. Thornton would come and see her; see her soon; to-morrow, if it were possible.  Mr. Thornton promised that she should—­conversed a little, and then took his leave; and Margaret’s movements and voice seemed at once released from some invisible chains.  He never looked at her; and yet, the careful avoidance of his eyes betokened that in some way he knew exactly where, if they fell by chance, they would rest on her.  If she spoke, he gave no sign of attention, and yet his next speech to any one else was modified by what she had said; sometimes there was an express answer to what she had remarked, but given to another person as though unsuggested by her.  It was not the bad manners of ignorance it was the wilful bad manners arising from deep offence.  It was wilful at the time, repented of afterwards.  But no deep plan, no careful cunning could have stood him in such good stead.  Margaret thought about him more than she had ever done before; not with any tinge of what is called love, but with regret that she had wounded him so deeply,—­and with a gentle, patient striving to return to their former position of antagonistic friendship; for a friend’s position was what she found that he had held in her regard, as well as in that of the rest of the family.  There was a pretty humility in her behaviour to him, as if mutely apologising for the over-strong words which were the reaction from the deeds of the day of the riot.

But he resented those words bitterly.  They rung in his ears; and he was proud of the sense of justice which made him go on in every kindness he could offer to her parents.  He exulted in the power he showed in compelling himself to face her, whenever he could think of any action which might give her father or mother pleasure.  He thought that he disliked seeing one who had mortified him so keenly; but he was mistaken.  It was a stinging pleasure to be in the room with her, and feel her presence.  But he was no great analyser of his own motives, and was mistaken as I have said.

CHAPTER XXX

HOME AT LAST

‘The saddest birds a season find to sing.’  Southwell.

’Never to fold the robe o’er secret pain,
Never, weighed down by memory’s clouds again,
To bow thy head!  Thou art gone home!’
Mrs. Hemans.