She disliked him the more for having mastered her inner will.  How dared he say that he would love her still, even though she shook him off with contempt?  She wished she had spoken more—­stronger.  Sharp, decisive speeches came thronging into her mind, now that it was too late to utter them.  The deep impression made by the interview, was like that of a horror in a dream; that will not leave the room although we waken up, and rub our eyes, and force a stiff rigid smile upon our lips.  It is there—­there, cowering and gibbering, with fixed ghastly eyes, in some corner of the chamber, listening to hear whether we dare to breathe of its presence to any one.  And we dare not; poor cowards that we are!

And so she shuddered away from the threat of his enduring love.  What did he mean?  Had she not the power to daunt him?  She would see.  It was more daring than became a man to threaten her so.  Did he ground it upon the miserable yesterday?  If need were, she would do the same to-morrow,—­by a crippled beggar, willingly and gladly,—­but by him, she would do it, just as bravely, in spite of his deductions, and the cold slime of women’s impertinence.  She did it because it was right, and simple, and true to save where she could save; even to try to save.  ’Fais ce que dois, advienne que pourra.’

Hitherto she had not stirred from where he had left her; no outward circumstances had roused her out of the trance of thought in which she had been plunged by his last words, and by the look of his deep intent passionate eyes, as their flames had made her own fall before them.  She went to the window, and threw it open, to dispel the oppression which hung around her.  Then she went and opened the door, with a sort of impetuous wish to shake off the recollection of the past hour in the company of others, or in active exertion.  But all was profoundly hushed in the noonday stillness of a house, where an invalid catches the unrefreshing sleep that is denied to the night-hours.  Margaret would not be alone.  What should she do?  ‘Go and see Bessy Higgins, of course,’ thought she, as the recollection of the message sent the night before flashed into her mind.

And away she went.

When she got there, she found Bessy lying on the settle, moved close to the fire, though the day was sultry and oppressive.  She was laid down quite flat, as if resting languidly after some paroxysm of pain.  Margaret felt sure she ought to have the greater freedom of breathing which a more sitting posture would procure; and, without a word, she raised her up, and so arranged the pillows, that Bessy was more at ease, though very languid.

‘I thought I should na’ ha’ seen yo’ again,’ said she, at last, looking wistfully in Margaret’s face.

’I’m afraid you’re much worse.  But I could not have come yesterday, my mother was so ill—­for many reasons,’ said Margaret, colouring.

’Yo’d m’appen think I went beyond my place in sending Mary for yo’.  But the wranglin’ and the loud voices had just torn me to pieces, and I thought when father left, oh! if I could just hear her voice, reading me some words o’ peace and promise, I could die away into the silence and rest o’ God, lust as a babby is hushed up to sleep by its mother’s lullaby.’