North and South

said she vehemently, “that he should stand there⁠—sheltered, awaiting the soldiers, who might catch those poor maddened creatures as in a trap⁠—without an effort on his part, to bring them to reason. And it was worse than unfair for them to set on him as they threatened. I would do it again, let who will say what they like of me. If I saved one blow, one cruel, angry action that might otherwise have been committed, I did a woman’s work. Let them insult my maiden pride as they will⁠—I walk pure before God!”

She looked up, and a noble peace seemed to descend and calm her face, till it was “stiller than chiselled marble.”

Dixon came in:

“If you please, Miss Margaret, here’s the water-bed from Mrs. Thornton’s. It’s too late for tonight, I’m afraid, for missus is nearly asleep: but it will do nicely for tomorrow.”

“Very,” said Margaret. “You must send our best thanks.”

Dixon left the room for a moment.

“If you please, Miss Margaret, he says he’s to ask particular how you are. I think he must mean missus; but he says his last words were, to ask how Miss Hale was.”

“Me!” said Margaret, drawing herself up. “I am quite well. Tell him I am perfectly well.” But her complexion was as deadly white as her handkerchief; and her head ached intensely.

Mr. Hale now came in. He had left his sleeping wife; and wanted, as Margaret saw, to be amused and interested by something that she was to tell him. With sweet patience did she bear her pain, without a word of complaint; and rummaged up numberless small subjects for conversation⁠—all except the riot, and that she never named once. It turned her sick to think of it.

“Good night, Margaret. I have every chance of a good night myself, and you are looking very pale with your watching. I shall call Dixon if your mother needs anything. Do you go to bed and sleep like a top; for I’m sure you need it, poor child!”

“Good night, papa!”

She let her colour go⁠—the false smile fade away⁠—the eyes grow dull with heavy pain. She released her strong will from its laborious task. Till morning she might feel ill and weary.

She lay down and never stirred. To move hand or foot, or even so much as one finger, would have been beyond the powers of either volition or motion. She was so tired, so stunned, that she thought she never slept at all; her feverish thoughts passed and repassed the boundary between sleeping and waking, and kept their own miserable identity. She could not be alone, prostrate, powerless as she was⁠—a cloud of faces looked up at her, giving her no idea of fierce vivid anger, or of personal danger, but a deep sense of shame that she should thus be the object of universal regard⁠—a sense of shame so acute that it seemed as if she would fain have burrowed into the earth to hide herself, and yet she could not escape out of that unwinking glare of many eyes.

XXIV

Mistakes Cleared Up

Your beauty was the first that won the place
And scal’d the walls of my undaunted heart,
Which, captive now, pines in a caitive case,
Unkindly met with rigour for desert:⁠—
Yet not the less your servant shall abide,
In spite of rude repulse or silent pride.

William Fowler

The next morning, Margaret dragged herself up, thankful that the night was over⁠—unrefreshed, yet rested. All had gone well through the house; her mother had only wakened once. A little breeze was stirring in the hot air, and though there were no trees to show the playful tossing movement caused by the wind among the leaves, Margaret knew how, somewhere or another, by wayside, in copses, or in thick green woods, there was a pleasant, murmuring dancing sound⁠—a rushing and falling noise, the very thought of which was an echo of distinct gladness in her heart.

She sat at her work in Mrs. Hale’s room. As soon as that forenoon slumber was over, she would help her mother to dress; after dinner, she would go and see Bessy Higgins. She would banish all recollection of the Thornton family⁠—no need to think of them till they absolutely stood before her in flesh and blood. But, of course, the effort not to think of them brought them only the more strongly before her; and from time to time, the hot flush came over her pale face sweeping it into colour, as a sunbeam from between watery clouds comes swiftly moving over the sea.

Dixon opened the door very softly, and stole on tiptoe up to Margaret, sitting by the shaded window.

“Mr. Thornton, Miss Margaret. He is in the drawing-room.”

Margaret dropped her sewing.

“Did he ask for me? Isn’t papa come in?”

“He asked for you, miss; and master is out.”

“Very well, I will come,” said Margaret, quietly. But she lingered strangely.

Mr. Thornton stood by one of the windows, with his back to the door apparently absorbed in watching something in the street. But, in truth, he was afraid of himself. His heart beat thick at the thought of her coming. He could not forget the touch of her arms around his neck, impatiently felt as it had been at the time; but now the recollection of her clinging defence of him, seemed to thrill him through and through⁠—to melt away every resolution, all power of self-control, as if it were wax before a fire. He dreaded lest he should go forwards to meet her, with his arms held out in mute entreaty that she would come and nestle there, as she had done, all unheeded, the day before, but never unheeded again. His heart throbbed loud and quick. Strong man as he was, he trembled at the anticipation of what he had to say, and how it might be received. She might droop, and flush, and flutter to his arms, as to her natural home and resting-place. One moment he glowed with impatience