’I, who hate scenes—­I, who have despised people for showing emotion—­who have thought them wanting in self-control—­I went down and must needs throw myself into the melee, like a romantic fool!  Did I do any good?  They would have gone away without me I dare say.’  But this was over-leaping the rational conclusion,—­as in an instant her well-poised judgment felt.  ’No, perhaps they would not.  I did some good.  But what possessed me to defend that man as if he were a helpless child!  Ah!’ said she, clenching her hands together, ’it is no wonder those people thought I was in love with him, after disgracing myself in that way.  I in love—­and with him too!’ Her pale cheeks suddenly became one flame of fire; and she covered her face with her hands.  When she took them away, her palms were wet with scalding tears.

’Oh how low I am fallen that they should say that of me!  I could not have been so brave for any one else, just because he was so utterly indifferent to me—­if, indeed, I do not positively dislike him.  It made me the more anxious that there should be fair play on each side; and I could see what fair play was.  It was not fair, 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 to-night, I’m afraid, for missus is nearly asleep:  but it will do nicely for to-morrow.’

‘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!’