Margaret rushed back up the stairs in order to reach the window as quickly as she could. The abrupt exit of Mr. Thornton brought her to herself almost immediately, and she could not remain ignorant of what was happening in the yard. From her vantage point, she could see little of him as he faced the angry mob. Sure she would not be able to have a better view of him, she became watchful of the faces shouting and raging at him.

What had she sent him into? If only he would speak, perhaps he would be safe. Perhaps he could quell their anger, if only briefly. Long enough for them to realize that their riotous actions were sinful and wrong, that to use violence would bring shame upon themselves and their cause. They could not see that now, stirred to ferocity by the discovery that others had come to take their place and steal their bread. But if he spoke to them, how much savagery might yet be prevented!

There was a momentary hush, but she did not know if it was because Mr. Thornton was, in fact, talking; she could not hear. But if he had spoken, it had been to no avail, for they erupted once more, and she was truly frightened for him. Her eyes still on the rioters, she saw a group of young men bend to the ground, arming themselves with shoes and stones. In a panic, she was at the door before she knew it, unbarring and throwing it open. Her only thought was to shield him from the danger. She would not allow him to be harmed.

"Stop! Do not use violence!" she cried. "He is one man and you are many." Her sudden appearance quieted most of them as they stared in shock at the woman who had thrown herself between them and the object of their fury. He was also shocked by her presence, temporarily stunned into paralyzed fear until she began to speak again.

"Go. Go in peace. The soldiers are coming. You shall have relief from your complaints."

By this time he had moved again, shifting to the side so as not to be hidden by her, knowing that any blow aimed for him would first reach her. As he moved into view, one asked from the crowd in a menacing threat, "Will you send the Irish packing?"

"Never!" was all his reply. He would do nothing under influence of force. It was enough to bring the storm again, their hootings and threatenings filling the air. Margaret still watched the boys, who seemed ready to aim their arsenal afresh. Without hesitation she threw her arms around him, hoping and praying by virtue of her sex they would both be protected.

He tried to heave her off, saying, "Go inside. This is no place for you." But she would cling to him, holding him close to her as he had done only moments before. But there was no remembrance of that moment as a clog whizzed past them. The reckless passion of the boys had gone too far for them to stop their maddened violence. Margaret turned her head to make another plea when a stone came hurtling toward them, nearly true to its initial aim. She was struck, and went limp in his arms by the blow.

She did not immediately fall faint. She felt Mr. Thornton set her down on the step and was sure he was shouting at the now-silent crowd. She was dimly aware of their quiet departure as he returned to her side. Her vision began to cloud as he reached a hand to her bloodied temple. She thought she heard a voice painfully crying her name. And then there was nothing but blackness.

"Did all the servants see?"

"We had a good view of it from the right-hand window. Sarah saw it first and cried out that Miss Hale was clinging to the master."

"I know she cares for my brother, and I daresay she'd give her eyes if he'd marry her, but I cannot believe she would be so bold."

Margaret awoke to the quiet voices above her, a sharp pain at her right temple, and a sense of dizziness throughout her person. Her eyelids fluttered as she came to, alerting Fanny and the servant, and they immediately ceased their gossip and spoke to her, inquiring after her health and informing her that Mrs. Thornton had gone for a doctor.

Margaret tried to rise as Mrs. Thornton entered the room with Mr. Lowe. Mrs. Thornton could not hide her relief that Margaret was awake and instructed her to rest quietly.

"I am better now," Margaret said, wanting to hide the cut, but Mr. Lowe pushed her hair back to tend to the wound before she could use it as a cover. Once it was bound, she quickly smoothed the hair over it. "I must go home. My mother will not see it, will she? It is hidden?"

"No one could tell," he assured her.

"But you are not fit to go," Mrs. Thornton protested. "You must not." She was responsible for this girl's welfare while she was in her home, and she would not allow any unnecessary risks.

"Yes, I must. My mother must not be alarmed by my absence. If they should hear –" She could not finish the thought, fearing her parents' knowledge of what had occurred here. What would that do to her mother? Again she insisted on leaving and, seeing she would not be persuaded, Mr. Lowe offered to help her home. Mrs. Thornton reluctantly submitted to Margaret's wish, her respect for Margaret's strength tempered by annoyance at her obstinacy.

Margaret soon reached home, having made sure to part with Mr. Lowe before coming to her street. She would take no chance of her parents seeing how she arrived at home. She entered the house silently and slowly made her way into the drawing room where they both sat. She was pale and drawn, and she took some time to speak.

"Mrs. Thornton will send the water-bed, Mama."

"How tired you look, Margaret," her mother said with some anxiety. "Is it very hot?"

Grasping at the excuse, she said, "Yes, very hot and very dusty." She felt her body tremble and knew she must escape before she fell to the floor. "I believe I will go up to bed now." Haltingly she dragged herself up the stairs, longing for solitude, for her mind was fit to burst. She must give way to the multitude of thoughts clamoring for attention, but she would not until she reached her room. Sinking onto the bed, her thoughts and feelings tumbled over her and she broke into sobs.

After he laid Margaret on the couch, John was not allowed to linger very long. He had many duties to attend to in the wake of the rioters' departure, and he must take care of them now that all was momentarily safe. Before calling his mother, though, he knelt at Margaret's side, listening for her shallow breath and miserable that she had come to harm. In his first paroxysm of grief as he had carried her in the house, he had cried out her name, simultaneously speaking to himself and to her. "Margaret – my Margaret! no one can tell what you are to me. You are the only woman I ever loved!"

It was the first time he had ever thought or spoken of the word "love," but as it broke forth from him, he knew it was the only word that truly conveyed the depth of his emotions. He had sought to win her, but had never once admitted to that simple and profound feeling. He loved her. And yet she lay before him as a corpse. He loved her, and she had been gravely injured in the cause of his protection. He loved her, and yet he had to leave her behind and attend to the matters at hand. He wished desperately to remain at her side, to be there when she awoke, but as his mother entered the room, he had to pretend it was easy to leave Margaret to her care.

He tried not to think about her as he spoke to the police and settled affairs for the Irish. He had to keep a clear and level head as other masters arrived to congratulate him on his triumph, of having stood strong while the "ungrateful hoodlums" broke their own strike. But even as he dealt with detail after painstaking detail, the thought of her was never far from his mind.

He was delayed entering the house, it being very late. But he still had hope that she would be there, the blow that she received being so severe. But only his mother and sister were there to greet him.

"Where is Miss Hale?" he asked with trepidation.

"She has gone home," was the simple reply.

"That is impossible."

"She was a great deal better," his mother fiercely declared. "She said she was, and Mr. Lowe said she was. He saw her home in a cab, so I'm sure she reached home safely."

"Thank you, Mother. It could not have been easy for you to go to such trouble during such a trying day."

She would not accept his thanks, but scornfully went on. By now she had heard the talk of the servants and was not inclined to think well of Miss Hale and the arts she employed to entrap her son. "She's such a reckless young woman."

"Reckless? Not many girls would have taken the blows on themselves that were meant for me."

"A girl in love will do a good deal," she said quietly.

He visibly staggered at her words, but would not reply. After his own reckless behavior today, he could not confess to his mother all he felt and desired. He needed to seek out Margaret first. He longed to see her, but it was too late now to go to Crampton. He would have to wait until morning. How long this night would be.

And yet a part of him was grateful for the time he was given, to examine his and her behavior and decide what course of action to take. Once alone, he was finally able to transport himself back to that blessed moment when he held her tenderly in his arms, when she gave her willing lips to him. He had never felt a sensation more powerful, made more glorious in contrast to the turmoil outside. It had been a great liberty, and his reason told him that he should never have done it. Propriety condemned him and demanded only one solution to restore honor, a solution that he would be most glad to adopt. But he cared nothing for what propriety required; he only cared for what his heart urged him to do. What did it matter that honor and his heart's wish coincided?

He was heartened in the knowledge that not only had she allowed him to kiss her, although clearly shocked by his impulsive deed, but she had welcomed it. And heaven knew she had been extremely encouraging recently. Perhaps his suit would not be completely rejected. As convinced as he was that her actions in the yard were motivated more by a sense of justice than any particular feeling for him, he found hope in the stray comment of his mother's. Perhaps she loved him, too. Perhaps she would accept him with a heart as much belonging to him as his belonged to her.

Yes, he would apologize for the liberty he had taken, but he would hope she regretted it as little as he. He would hope for her acceptance. He would hope for her love.

Margaret's feelings would not settle within her. One moment she would feel leaping happiness; the next, burning shame. One moment, ecstasy; another, anger. She hated the conflict she was experiencing with herself and only sought an escape. Her tears of exhaustion and toil were over, and now she must sort herself out.

She cast her mind to the events of the day, namely once the rioters appeared at the Marlborough gate. She was angry at Mr. Thornton as he so coolly awaited the soldiers, not seeming to care for the harm that would befall the pitiful workers. And there she beheld it again – the cold master who would not care or change to make life any better for them. How could he be so unfeeling? And how could she allow him into her heart when he had clearly deceived her? He did not care for her to fix anything in the way he ran his business; he had misled her with fine words about faith and confidence, and then proved himself to be stern and unyielding when the occasion had called for his compassion. He had no heart.

Tears returned to her eyes as her own heart contradicted her thoughts. Of course John Thornton had a heart. A tender, passionate heart that he offered her in every look and touch. Had she not felt the influence of his heart this afternoon? She felt once more his lips and his hands, and thrilled at the recollection. He had been impetuous and passionate, but he had not forced himself upon her. She was sure that if she had denied him, he would have accepted it. But she had not denied him; even now she craved the experience, knowing a taste of what desire was and to have it realized. And he had been so gentle, so overwhelming. She wanted him over and over again, to look at her, to hold her, to kiss her. Could she love this man? She almost thought she could. And that man would be able to justify his other actions this day.

But again her frustration surfaced. He was two men again! How could she feel anything for him? But how could she feel nothing for him? She yearned for his presence, but she was afraid to see him. What would he think of her after today?

Her cheeks burned as she recalled the words that Fanny and her servant exchanged over her prostrate body. While their kiss was a secret all their own, how many countless people had seen her throw her arms around him in the factory yard? The suggestion of her wantonness and insolence was clear in their words. Others would be sure to follow. They would speculate on her, cast aspersions on her character, and be assured within themselves that she had manipulated events to ensure a proposal. Did he believe that of her? Did he believe that she would stoop to such tricks? Did he follow society's propensity to misinterpret and slander a woman's motivation and actions? She supposed that if he made her an offer, she would have her answer. But she would not accept a man simply to save her reputation, no matter the feelings she had for him.

And those feelings, at times so cherished and heavenly, were now distorted and twisted. She half-began to believe in her own depravity, too quickly allowing Fanny's intimations. She wanted to believe he would trust in her honor, that any offer he made her would be from his own heart. She had not long before trusted that one day he would do so. But no longer. Even without the pollution of her feelings by Fanny's thoughtless words, could she accept him when there was a part of him she still could not fathom? She had already made steps in understanding him as a master, and a good one at that. Did she need further clarification in order to forget her anger at his conduct toward the rioters? What explanation could he give now in order to reconcile the two men she saw in him? She desperately wanted his justification; she wanted to trust in his character in every part of his life. And she wanted to forget those poisoned words of Fanny's that tainted her honorable and sincere feelings.

It would be another night without rest.