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.

The porter opened the door cautiously, not nearly wide enough to admit her.

‘It’s you, is it, ma’am?’ said he, drawing a long breath, and widening the entrance, but still not opening it fully.  Margaret went in.  He hastily bolted it behind her.

‘Th’ folk are all coming up here I reckon?’ asked he.

’I don’t know.  Something unusual seemed going on; but this street is quite empty, I think.’

She went across the yard and up the steps to the house door.  There was no near sound,—­no steam-engine at work with beat and pant,—­no click of machinery, or mingling and clashing of many sharp voices; but far away, the ominous gathering roar, deep-clamouring.

CHAPTER XXII

A BLOW AND ITS CONSEQUENCES

’But work grew scarce, while bread grew dear,
And wages lessened, too;
For Irish hordes were bidders here,
Our half-paid work to do.’ 
Corn law Rhymes.

Margaret was shown into the drawing-room.  It had returned into its normal state of bag and covering.  The windows were half open because of the heat, and the Venetian blinds covered the glass,—­so that a gray grim light, reflected from the pavement below, threw all the shadows wrong, and combined with the green-tinged upper light to make even Margaret’s own face, as she caught it in the mirrors, look ghastly and wan.  She sat and waited; no one came.  Every now and then, the wind seemed to bear the distant multitudinous sound nearer; and yet there was no wind!  It died away into profound stillness between whiles.