Mr. Thornton would rather have heard that she was suffering the natural sorrow.  In the first place, there was selfishness enough in him to have taken pleasure in the idea that his great love might come in to comfort and console her; much the same kind of strange passionate pleasure which comes stinging through a mother’s heart, when her drooping infant nestles close to her, and is dependent upon her for everything.  But this delicious vision of what might have been—­in which, in spite of all Margaret’s repulse, he would have indulged only a few days ago—­was miserably disturbed by the recollection of what he had seen near the Outwood station.  ‘Miserably disturbed!’ that is not strong enough.  He was haunted by the remembrance of the handsome young man, with whom she stood in an attitude of such familiar confidence; and the remembrance shot through him like an agony, till it made him clench his hands tight in order to subdue the pain.  At that late hour, so far from home!  It took a great moral effort to galvanise his trust—­erewhile so perfect—­in Margaret’s pure and exquisite maidenliness, into life; as soon as the effort ceased, his trust dropped down dead and powerless:  and all sorts of wild fancies chased each other like dreams through his mind.  Here was a little piece of miserable, gnawing confirmation.  ’She bore up better than likely’ under this grief.  She had then some hope to look to, so bright that even in her affectionate nature it could come in to lighten the dark hours of a daughter newly made motherless.  Yes! he knew how she would love.  He had not loved her without gaining that instinctive knowledge of what capabilities were in her.  Her soul would walk in glorious sunlight if any man was worthy, by his power of loving, to win back her love.  Even in her mourning she would rest with a peaceful faith upon his sympathy.  His sympathy!  Whose?  That other man’s.  And that it was another was enough to make Mr. Thornton’s pale grave face grow doubly wan and stern at Dixon’s answer.

‘I suppose I may call,’ said he coldly.  ’On Mr. Hale, I mean.  He will perhaps admit me after to-morrow or so.’

He spoke as if the answer were a matter of indifference to him.  But it was not so.  For all his pain, he longed to see the author of it.  Although he hated Margaret at times, when he thought of that gentle familiar attitude and all the attendant circumstances, he had a restless desire to renew her picture in his mind—­a longing for the very atmosphere she breathed.  He was in the Charybdis of passion, and must perforce circle and circle ever nearer round the fatal centre.

’I dare say, sir, master will see you.  He was very sorry to have to deny you the other day; but circumstances was not agreeable just then.’

For some reason or other, Dixon never named this interview that she had had with Mr. Thornton to Margaret.  It might have been mere chance, but so it was that Margaret never heard that he had attended her poor mother’s funeral.