Mr Thornton's called, miss.

- Mr Thornton? - He's in the sitting room.

Isn't Papa in?

He asked for you, miss, and the master's out.

Very well. I will go.

Mr Thornton?

My dear Miss Hale.

How are you?

- I am well, thank you. - But the wound you recelved?

You would obilge me, Mr Thornton, by not talking about it.

Yes, of course...

May I thank you for sending my mother the invalid mattress?

It gives her much ease.

We're always ready to help in any way we may.

Thank you. Mr Thornton, please tell me what has happened

as a result of yesterday's disturbances.

I've no news. I've not left the house.

I and my fellow magistrates agreed that charges should be preferred

solely against Boucher and two ringleaders who assisted him.

Miss Hale...

Do you not think it unjust, Mr Thornton,

that belng a magistrate you should exercise that authority

against those unfortunates who attacked you?

- Unfortunates, Miss Hale? - They are starving.

At the moment, maybe, but not for long. The strike's all but ended.

Ended?

Under threat of long prison sentences, almost every man is ready to swear

that he didn't take part in the riot, was against it, in fact.

Thelr one way of assuring us of thelr gulltlessness is by golng back to work,

on our terms.

And the Irish? What about the Irish?

Those who want to stay may do so.

The rest'll be pald handsomely and sent back again.

You have used those Irish to provoke the riot.

No, only to break the strike.

But is that not despicable?

Despicable?

My dear Miss Hale, I've used cunning, it's true.

But so have the workers in withdrawing thelr labour when most we needed it.

Cunning is right in commerce. Commerce depends upon it.

And what about humanity? You would have had those people starve to death.

But if they had, it would have been thelr own fault.

Miss Hale, you talk about the masters

as though they were some kind of ogres, jackals.

Don't you understand?

The master can go down to ruin as well as the men.

The master must run the race not only against the workers

but against all the other masters, his rivals.

I can be easily trampled underfoot by my fellows, see my family starve.

There is no mercy in our philosophy, nor should there be.

Add your humanity and the economic principles,

the sheer logic by which I must work, becomes meaningless.

We had better not talk about it.

No, no, you are... you are right.

For beyond the factory, beyond the worId of business...

..there is another life.

I beg your pardon?

Miss Hale, I know how to be grateful, and the action you took yesterday...

You have nothing to be grateful for.

Any woman would have done the same.

I ought rather to apologise to you

for having sald thoughtless words which sent you down into danger.

Miss Hale, do not try to escape from the expression of my gratitude, please.

- It is from my heart. - I escape from nothing.

I simply say that you owe me no gratitude.

Any expression of it is palnful to me because I do not feel I deserve it.

I owe my life to you, Miss Hale, and I'm proud of knowing it.

Whatever the future, paln or pleasure, sorrow or joy, I owe to you.

You shall hear me.

I'm happy that I live, for I owe it all...

..to a woman that I love.

I love you, Miss Hale,

as I do not think man ever loved woman before.

Mr Thornton, you offend me.

Offend you?

Indeed you do.

I belleve you imagine that my conduct of yesterday...

..was a personal act between you and me.

There was nothing personal in my act,

and I find it extremely ungentlemanly of you to think that there was.

Very well, I'm not a gentleman.

But I clalm the right to express my feelings.

And I do not want to hear them. How dare you presume so!

Why, there was not a man in all that crowd for whom I had not more sympathy,

for whom I should not have done what little I could more heartliy.

Yes, I'm already aware

of these misplaced sympathles of yours, Miss Hale.

You despise me because you don't understand me.

I do not care to understand you.

No, I see you do not.

You are unfair and unjust.

One word more.

You look as though it talnted you to be loved by me.

You cannot avold it.

I've never loved any woman before,

but now I love, and I will love.

But don't be afraid of too much expression on my part.

I'm not afraid.

No one yet has ever dared to be impertinent to me,

and no one ever shall.

But, Mr Thornton...

You have been very kind to my father and mother.

Don't let us go on making each other angry.

Pray don't.

My children. My children.

Where are you?

Dixon, where are my children?

Miss Margaret's downstalrs, ma'am.

She's talking to Mr Thornton.

- And Frederick? - Frederick?

Tell my son I want to see him.

Dear madam, Frederick lives in Spaln.

Spaln? Why has he gone there?

He's lived there for the past elght years.

elght years?

Don't you remember, ma'am?

He's a wanted man.

His mother wants him.

Now, you have a daughter, a beautiful daughter.

Think of her.

Yes, Margaret. My daughter Margaret.

Dixon, will you get her for me?

- I want to talk to her. - Very well, ma'am.

- Dixon, will you get her, please? - Only calm, now. Calm.

Yes.

Oh, there you are, miss. Mr Thornton's gone, has he?

- Yes. - Why, you're trembilng, miss.

It's nothing. How is she?

Oh, Margaret. Margaret, dear.

Mama.

Dixon, will you leave us? I want to talk to my daughter alone.

Very well, ma'am.

Margaret, will you find him for me?

- Who? - Frederick.

- My brother? - Yes.

He'll make me well again. I must see him.

- Yes. - Will you get him for me?

Write to him. Write to him. Tell him that I want him by my side.

- He's my son. He should be here. - Mama, Mama, quletly, now.

Please, will you write to him? Write to him.

Mama, listen to me first.

Is there something you've not told me about Frederick?

Some secret concerning him?

Why do you say that?

I feel that there may be.

No.

He's a good boy, a wonderful boy. Write to him.

I will wait until Papa returns.

Oh, no, Margaret, now, by the next post, or I'll never see him again.

I'll get my pen and paper.

- I'll write to him myself. - No. No, Mama.

Lie still.

I shall sit here beside you and write to him.

You will?

Yes. You shall see me do it.

He's a good boy.

He's my son.

He should be here.

His place is here.

They're after me, the pollce. They're after me.

What do you expect?

There's nowhere to hide. Everybody's frightened of talking to me.

Not a man will hide me, no one.

- You're not stopping here, that's flat. - I'm not asking.

Only...would you... would you look in on me wife and kids sometime?

Aye, I can do that for you.

What's gonna happen to me, Nick?

How the hell do I know? You've got your true desserts now, you have.

For two pins I'd give you up to the pollce meself.

You'd what?

Committee sald no disorder, no injury to property or life.

You've ruined the strike, you have!

Instead of decent workers, you made us all into cowing revolutionarles!

We're all lumped together cos of you!

For two pins, I'd give you up meself. I would!

You an' all.

(Yells)

You an' all.

You'd not give him up?

Two pins I would.

There aln't much you can do for him, Bess.

Do what you can for his wife and kids... Here, Bess. Here...

Oh, God!

My little Bess.

My little Bess.

- Just arrived home, Papa? - Yes, my dear.

What have you been teaching today?

Use of the gerundive constructions in the accusative and dative.

Not one of my ablest pupils. Nothing sinks in.

Into one ear and out of the other.

Poor Papa.

To think how much I burn for my pupils to know the glories of Homer,

the sublimity of Virgil.

They can't understand the simplest of grammar.

Oh, well, it's my fate, I suppose.

Where have you been to, my pretty mald?

I've been to the post office, Papa, with a letter.

A letter to Frederick.

I've asked him to return home.

- You've... - Well, Mama wants him by her side.

And I know it's a long way for him to travel...

- Margaret... - What is it, Papa?

You don't know what you've done. How could you?

Papa... P=10 a=8 p=12 a=8 .=15 .=15 .=15

Your mother, was it she who suggested he should come home?

- Yes. - Oh, my poor wife.

- Her mind must be wandering. - Can't you explaln, Papa?

Yes, I must.

I must.

Sit down, Margaret.

Tell me, please.

We've protected you from knowing about your brother not because of his offence

but because of the legal consequences.

If he returns to England, he could be returning to his death.

What has he done?

- He led a mutiny while he was at sea. - A mutiny?

No, Margaret, let me try and explaln it to you calmly.

Frederick was a lieutenant under a certaln Captaln Reid,

a tyrant of a man who used his crew for his own amusement,

up and down the rigging like so many rats and monkeys.

One day some of the men were aloft on the spars of the maln topsail,

and this man, this devil,

ordered them to race down,

threatening the last of them with the cat-o'-nine-tails.

The man who was farthest from the mast

saw that it was impossible for him to pass his companions.

What could he do to escape that horrible, cruel flogging?

There was a rope hanging some ten feet beneath him.

He threw himself down in a desperate attempt to catch at it.

But he falled.

Oh, no.

And my brother led the mutiny?

Yes. There was a court martial.

Some of the sallors were hanged at the yardarm.

But for Frederick, the worst is that the court,

in condemning them to death,

sald they had suffered themselves to be led astray

by one of thelr superior officers.

I'm bringing him back into this danger.

But you did not know.

Besides, I'm glad.

Yes, now it has been done, I'm glad the letter has been posted.

Glad?

I would not have done it myself, but I'm thankful that it is as it is.

Frederick would never have forgiven me for keeping him from his mother

in her final hours.