One of the good influences over John Barton's life had departed that
night. One of the ties which bound him down to the gentle
humanities of earth was loosened, and henceforward the neighbours
all remarked he was a changed man. His gloom and his sternness
became habitual instead of occasional. He was more obstinate. But
never to Mary. Between the father and the daughter there existed in
full force that mysterious bond which unites those who have been
loved by one who is now dead and gone. While he was harsh and
silent to others, he humoured Mary with tender love: she had more
of her own way than is common in any rank with girls of her age.
Part of this was the necessity of the case; for of course all the
money went through her hands, and the household arrangements were
guided by her will and pleasure. But part was her father's
indulgence, for he left her, with full trust in her unusual sense
and spirit, to choose her own associates, and her own times for
seeing them.
With all this, Mary had not her father's confidence in the matters
which now began to occupy him, heart and soul; she was aware that he
had joined clubs, and become an active member of the Trades' Union,
but it was hardly likely that a girl of Mary's age (even when two or
three years had elapsed since her mother's death) should care much
for the differences between the employers and the employed--an
eternal subject for agitation in the manufacturing districts, which,
however it may be lulled for a time, is sure to break forth again
with fresh violence at any depression of trade, showing that in its
apparent quiet, the ashes had still smouldered in the breasts of a
few.
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