“Not surprising!” said the woman in commiseration, peering at her where
she lay on the floor, “pore little soul!” “Better get her home,” said
the men, and meanwhile the representative of the directors’ board took
Silas firmly away from the hall. “Where’s Gregory?” asked some one; “At
the factory,” some one else replied, and Calthorpe, pushing through the
throng, said “Here, let me carry her.” “Mr. Morgan’s got her, sir,” said
a voice, and Calthorpe saw Morgan rising from his knees with Nan
drooping limply in his arms.
Great indignation was expressed against Silas as the factoryhands came
in little groups out into the street. In the wan January sunlight Nan
was already being hurried away in Morgan’s careful clasp towards her own
cottage, followed by two women. Silas was on the opposite side of the
street, his back against a house, in an attitude of defiance, talking to
the director, who looked restrainedly indignant. Silas called out
suddenly, pointing with his finger across the street, “Oh, I can hear
you whispering! why not say it out loud: Silas Dene ought to be
suppressed? but I’ve been a good friend to you in strikes and troubles,
and it’s always been, ‘Get Silas Dene to speak for us.’...”
“Hush, hush, Dene!” said the director; “you’re not quite yourself; walk
up and down with me for a little.” He took Silas by the arm and forced
him to walk up and down, talking to him all the time in an earnest and
persuasive undertone. The men and women lingered in their groups about
the concert-room door, whispering together and watching Silas, but
Calthorpe came amongst them and ordered them away. He was peremptory and
irritable as they had rarely seen him.