“I don’t know where I should have been but for her.”
“Are you become so helpless as to have to be defended by a girl?” asked Mrs. Thornton scornfully.
He reddened. “Not many girls would have taken the blows on herself which were meant for me;—meant with right down goodwill, too.”
“A girl in love will do a good deal,” replied Mrs. Thornton, shortly.
“Mother!” He made a step forwards; stood still; heaved with passion.
She was a little startled at the evident force he used to keep himself calm. She was not sure of the nature of the emotions she had provoked. It was only their violence that was clear. Was it anger? His eyes glowed, his figure was dilated, his breath came thick and fast. It was a mixture of joy, of anger, of pride, of glad surprise, of panting doubt; but she could not read it. Still it made her uneasy,—as the presence of all strong feeling, of which the cause is not fully understood or sympathised in, always has this effect. She went to the side-board, opened a drawer, and took out a duster, which she kept there for any occasional purpose. She had seen a drop of eau de Cologne on the polished arm of the sofa, and instinctively sought to wipe it off. But she kept her back turned to her son much longer than was necessary; and when she spoke, her voice seemed unusual and constrained.
“You have taken some steps about the rioters, I suppose? You don’t apprehend anymore violence, do you? Where were the police? Never at hand when they’re wanted!”
“On the contrary, I saw three or four of them, when the gates gave way, struggling and beating about in fine fashion; and more came running up just when the yard was clearing. I might have given some of the fellows in charge then, if I had had my wits about me. But there will be no difficulty, plenty of people can identify them.”
“But won’t they come back to-night?”
“I’m going to see about a sufficient guard for the premises. I have appointed to meet Captain Hanbury in half an hour at the station.”