North and South
told a falsehood to baffle pursuit, which even then would have been
vain. How faithless she had been! Where now was her proud motto, “Fais
ce que dois, advienne que pourra?” If she had but dared to bravely tell
the truth as regarded herself, defying them to find out what she refused
to tell concerning another, how light of heart she would now have felt!
Not humbled before God, as having failed in trust towards Him; not
degraded and abased in Mr. Thornton’s sight. She caught herself up at
this with a miserable tremor; here was she classing his low opinion of
her alongside with the displeasure of God. How was it that he haunted
her imagination so persistently? What could it be? Why did she care for
what he thought, in spite of all her pride; in spite of herself? She
believed that she could have borne the sense of Almighty displeasure,
because He knew all, and could read her penitence, and hear her cries
for help in time to come. But Mr. Thornton—why did she tremble, and
hide her face in the pillow? What strong feeling had overtaken her at
last?
She sprang out of bed and prayed long and earnestly. It soothed and
comforted her so to open her heart. But as soon as she reviewed her
position she found the sting was still there; that she was not good
enough, nor pure enough to be indifferent to the lowered opinion of a
fellow creature: that the thought of how he must be looking upon her
with contempt, stood between her and her sense of wrong-doing. She took
her letter in to her father as soon as she was drest. There was so
slight an allusion to their alarm at the railroad station, that Mr. Hale
passed over it without paying any attention to it. Indeed, beyond the
mere fact of Frederick having sailed undiscovered and unsuspected, he
did not gather much from the letter at the time, he was so uneasy about
Margaret’s pallid looks. She seemed continually on the point of weeping.
“You are sadly overdone, Margaret. It is no wonder. But you must let me
nurse you now.”
He made her lie down on the sofa, and went for a shawl to cover her
with. His tenderness released her tears; and she cried bitterly.
“Poor child!—poor child!” said he, looking fondly at her, as she lay
with her face to the wall, shaking with her sobs. After a while they
ceased, and she began to wonder whether she durst give herself the
relief of telling her father of all her trouble. But there were more
reasons against it than for it. The only one for it was the relief to
herself; and against it was the thought that it would add materially to
her father’s nervousness, if it were indeed necessary for Frederick to
come to England again; that he would dwell on the circumstance of his
son’s having caused the death of a man, however unwittingly and
unwillingly; that this knowledge would perpetually recur to trouble him,
in various shapes of exaggeration and distortion from the simple truth.
And about her own great fault—he would be distressed beyond measure at
her want of courage and faith, yet perpetually troubled to make excuses
for her. Formerly Margaret would have come to him as priest as well as
father, to tell him of her temptation and her sin; but latterly they had
not spoken much on such subjects; and she knew not how, in his change of
opinions, he would reply if the depth of her soul called unto his. No;
she would keep her secret, and bear the burden alone. Alone she would go
before God, and cry for His absolution. Alone she would endure her
disgraced position in the opinion of Mr. Thornton. She was unspeakably
touched by the tender efforts of her father to think of cheerful
subjects on which to talk, and so to take her thoughts away from
dwelling on all that had happened of late. It was some months since he
had been so talkative as he was this day. He would not let her sit up,
and offended Dixon desperately by insisting on waiting upon her himself.
At last she smiled; a poor, weak little smile; but it gave him the
truest pleasure.
“It seems strange to think, that what gives us most hope for the future
should be called Dolores,” said Margaret. The remark was more in
character with her father than with her usual self; but to-day they
seemed to have changed natures.
“Her mother was a Spaniard, I believe: that accounts for her religion.
Her father was a stiff Presbyterian when I knew him. But it is a very
soft and pretty name.”
“How young she is!—younger by fourteen months than I am. Just the age
that Edith was when she was engaged to Captain Lennox. Papa, we will go
and see them in Spain.”
He shook his head. But he said, “If you wish it Margaret. Only let us
come back here. It would seem unfair—unkind to your mother, who always,
I’m afraid, disliked Milton so much, if we left it now she is lying
here, and cannot go with us. No, dear; you shall go and see them, and
bring me back a report of my Spanish daughter.”
“No, papa, I won’t go without you. Who is to take care of you when I am
gone?”
“I should like to know which of us is taking care of the other. But if
you went, I should persuade Mr. Thornton to let me give him double
lessons. We would work up the classics famously. That would be a
perpetual interest. You might go on, and see Edith at Corfu, if you
liked.”
Margaret did not speak all at once. Then she said rather gravely: “Thank
you, papa. But I don’t want to go. We will hope that Mr. Lennox will
manage so well, that Frederick may bring Dolores to see us when they are
married. And as for Edith, the regiment won’t remain much longer in
Corfu. Perhaps we shall see both of them here before another year is
out.”
Mr. Hale’s cheerful subjects had come to an end. Some painful
recollections had stolen across his mind, and driven him into silence.
By and by Margaret said:
“Papa—did you see Nicholas Higgins at the funeral? He was there, and
Mary too. Poor fellow! it was his way of showing sympathy. He has a good
warm heart under his bluff abrupt ways.”
“I am sure of it,” replied Mr. Hale. “I saw it all along, even while you
tried to persuade me that he was all sorts of bad things. We will go and
see them to-morrow, if you are strong enough to walk so far.”
“Oh yes. I want to see them. We did not pay Mary—or rather she refused
to take it, Dixon says. We will go so as to catch him just after his
dinner, and before he goes to his work.”
Towards evening Mr. Hale said:
“I half expected Mr. Thornton would have called. He spoke of a book
yesterday which he had, and which I wanted to see. He said he would try
and bring it to-day.”
Margaret sighed. She knew he would not come. He would be too delicate to
run the chance of meeting her, while her shame must be so fresh in his
memory. The very mention of his name renewed her trouble, and produced a
relapse into the feeling of depressed, pre-occupied exhaustion. She gave
way to listless languor. Suddenly it struck her that this was a strange
manner to show her patience, or to reward her father for his watchful
care of her all through the day. She sate up, and offered to read aloud.
His eyes were failing, and he gladly accepted her proposal. She read
well: she gave the due emphasis; but had any one asked her, when she had
ended, the meaning of what she had been reading, she could not have
told. She was smitten with a feeling of ingratitude to Mr. Thornton,
inasmuch as, in the morning, she had refused to accept the kindness he
had shown her in making further inquiry from the medical men, so as to
obviate any inquest being held. Oh! she was grateful! She had been
cowardly and false, and had shown her cowardliness and falsehood in
action that could not be recalled; but she was not ungrateful. It sent a
glow to her heart, to know she could feel towards one who had reason to
despise her. His cause for contempt was so just, that she should have
respected him less if she had thought he did not feel contempt. It was a
pleasure to feel how thoroughly she respected him. He could not prevent
her doing that; it was the one comfort in all this misery.
Late in the evening, the expected book arrived, “with Mr. Thornton’s
kind regards, and wishes to know how Mr. Hale is.”
“Say that I am much better, Dixon, but that Miss Hale—”
“No, papa,” said Margaret, eagerly—“don’t say anything about me. He
does not ask.”
“My dear child, how you are shivering!” said her father, a few minutes
afterwards. “You must go to bed directly. You have turned quite pale!”
Margaret did not refuse to go, though she was loth to leave her father
alone. She needed the relief of solitude after a day of busy thinking,
and busier repenting.
But she seemed much as usual the next day; the lingering gravity and
sadness, and the occasional absence of mind, were not unnatural symptoms
in the early days of grief. And almost in proportion to her
re-establishment in health, was her father’s relapse into his abstracted
musings upon the wife he had lost, and the past era in his life that was
closed to him for ever.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
UNION NOT ALWAYS STRENGTH.
“The steps of the bearers, heavy and slow,
The sobs of the mourners, deep and low.”
SHELLEY.
At the time arranged the previous day, they set out on their walk to see
Nicholas Higgins and his daughter. They both were reminded of their
recent loss, by a strange kind of shyness in their new habiliments, and
in the fact that it was the first time, for many weeks, that they had
deliberately gone out together. They drew very close to each other in
unspoken sympathy.
Nicholas was sitting by the fire-side in his accustomed corner; but he
had not his accustomed pipe. He was leaning his head upon his hand, his
arm resting on his knee. He did not get up when he saw them, though
Margaret could read the welcome in his eye.
“Sit ye down, sit ye down. Fire’s welly out,” said he, giving it a
vigorous poke, as if to turn attention away from himself. He was rather
disorderly, to be sure, with a black unshaven beard of several days’
growth, making his pale face look yet paler, and a jacket which would
have been all the better for patching.
“We thought we should have a good chance of finding you, just after
dinner-time,” said Margaret.
“We have had our sorrows too, since we saw you,” said Mr. Hale.
“Ay, ay. Sorrows is more plentiful than dinners just now; I reckon, my
dinner hour stretches all o’er the day; yo’re pretty sure of finding
me.”
“Are you out of work?” asked Margaret.
“Ay,” he replied shortly. Then, after a moment’s silence, he added,
looking up for the first time: “I’m not wanting brass. Dunno yo’ think
it. Bess, poor lass, had a little stock under her pillow, ready to slip
into my hand, last moment, and Mary is fustian-cutting. But I’m out of
work a’ the same.”
“We owe Mary some money,” said Mr. Hale, before Margaret’s sharp
pressure on his arm could arrest the words.
“If hoo takes it, I’ll turn her out o’ doors. I’ll bide inside these
four walls, and she’ll bide out. That’s a’.”
“But we owe her many thanks for her kind service,” began Mr. Hale again.
“I ne’er thanken your daughter theer for her deeds o’ love to my poor
wench. I ne’er could find th’ words. I’se have to begin to try now, if
yo’ start making an ado about what little Mary could sarve yo’.”
“Is it because of the strike you’re out of work?” asked Margaret gently.
“Strike’s ended. It’s o’er for this time. I’m out o’ work because I
ne’er asked for it. And I ne’er asked for it, because good words is
scarce, and bad words is plentiful.”
He was in a mood to take a surly pleasure in giving answers that were
like riddles. But Margaret saw that he would like to be asked for the
explanation.
“And good words are—?”
“Asking for work. I reckon them’s almost the best words that men can