Before Mr. Henderson had completed that hesitating process which with him was the prelude to an answer, the door opened, and Mary Martin entered. She was in a riding-dress, and bore the traces of the road on her splashed costume; but her features were paler than usual, and her lip quivered as she spoke.
“My dear aunt,” cried she, not seeming to notice that others were present, “I have come back at speed from Kyle's Wood to learn if it be true—but it cannot be true—however the poor creatures there believe it—that they are to be discharged from work, and no more employment given at the quarries. You have n't seen them, dear aunt—you haven't beheld them, as I did this morning—standing panic-stricken around the scene of their once labor, not speaking, scarcely looking at each other, more like a shipwrecked crew upon an unknown shore than fathers and mothers beside their own homesteads!”
“It was I gave the order, Miss Martin,” said Lady Dorothea, proudly. “If these people prefer political agitation to an honest subsistence, let them pay the price of it.”
“But who says that they have done so?” replied Mary. “These poor creatures have not a single privilege to exercise; they have n't a vote amongst them. The laws have forgotten them just as completely as human charity has.”
“If they have no votes to record, they have voices to outrage and insult their natural protectors. Henderson knows that the worst mobs in the borough were from this very district.”
“Let him give the names of those he alludes to. Let him tell me ten—five—ay, three, if he can, of Kyle's Wood men who took any share in the disturbances. I am well aware that it is a locality where he enjoys little popularity himself; but at least he need not calumniate its people. Come, sir, who are these you speak of?”
Kate Henderson, who sat with bent-down head during this speech, contrived to steal a glance at the speaker so meaningful and so supplicating that Mary faltered, and as a deep blush covered her cheek, she hastily added: “But this is really not the question. This miserable contest has done us all harm; but let us not perpetuate its bitterness! We have been beaten in an election, but I don't think we ought to be worsted in a struggle of generosity and good feeling. Come over, dear aunt, and see these poor creatures.”
“I shall certainly do no such thing, Miss Martin. In the first place, the fever never leaves that village.”
“Very true, aunt; and it will be worse company if our kindness should desert them. But if you will not come, take my word for the state of their destitution. We have nothing so poor on the whole estate.”