“Higgins, thou knowed him! Thou mun go tell the wife. Do it gently, man, but do it quick, for we canna leave him here long.”
“I canna go,” said Higgins. “Dunnot ask me. I canna face her.”
“Thou knows her best,” said the man. “We’n done a deal in bringing him here—thou take thy share.”
“I canna do it,” said Higgins. “I’m welly felled wi’ seeing him. We wasn’t friends; and now he’s dead.”
“Well, if thou wunnot thou wunnot. Someone mun though. It’s a dree task; but it’s a chance, every minute, as she doesn’t hear on it in some rougher way nor a person going to make her let on by degrees, as it were.”
“Papa, do you go,” said Margaret, in a low voice.
“If I could—if I had time to think of what I had better say; but all at once—” Margaret saw that her father was indeed unable. He was trembling from head to foot.
“I will go,” said she.
“Bless yo’ miss, it will be a kind act; for she’s been but a sickly sort o’ body, I hear, and few hereabouts know much on her.”
Margaret knocked at the closed door; but there was such a noise, as of many little ill-ordered children, that she could hear no reply; indeed, she doubted if she was heard, and as every moment of delay made her recoil from her task more and more, she opened the door and went in, shutting it after her, and even, unseen by the woman, fastening the bolt.
Mrs. Boucher was sitting in a rocking-chair, on the other side of the ill-redd-up fireplace; it looked as if the house had been untouched for days by any effort at cleanliness.
Margaret said something, she hardly knew what, her throat and mouth were so dry, and the children’s noise completely prevented her from being heard. She tried again.
“How are you, Mrs. Boucher? But very poorly, I’m afraid.”
“I’ve chance o’ being well,” said she querulously. “I’m left alone to manage these childer, and nought for to give ’em for to keep ’em quiet. John should na ha’ left me, and me so poorly.”
“How long is it since he went away?”
“Four days sin’. No one would give him work here, and he’d to go on tramp toward Greenfield. But he might ha’ been back afore this, or sent me some word if he’d getten work. He might—”
“Oh, don’t blame him,” said Margaret. “He felt it deeply, I’m sure—”
“Willto’ hold thy din, and let me hear the lady speak!” addressing herself, in no very gentle voice, to a little urchin of about a year old. She apologetically continued to Margaret, “He’s always mithering me for ‘daddy’ and ‘butty’; and I ha’ no butties to give him, and daddy’s away, and forgotten us a’, I think. He’s his father’s darling, he is,” said she, with a sudden turn of mood, and, dragging the child up to her knee, she began kissing it fondly.
Margaret laid her hand on the woman’s arm to arrest her attention. Their eyes met.
“Poor little fellow!” said Margaret, slowly; “he was his father’s darling.”
“He is his father’s darling,” said the woman, rising hastily, and standing face to face with Margaret. Neither of them spoke for a moment or two. Then Mrs. Boucher began in a low growling tone, gathering in wildness as she went on: “He is his father’s darling, I say. Poor folk can love their childer as well as rich. Why dunno yo’ speak? Why dun yo’ stare at me wi’ your great pitiful eyes? Where’s John?” Weak as she was, she shook Margaret to force out an answer. “Oh, my God!” said she, understanding the meaning of that tearful look. She sank back into the chair. Margaret took up the child and put him into her arms.
“He loved him,” said she.
“Ay,” said the woman, shaking her head, “he loved us a’. We had someone to love us once. It’s a long time ago; but when he were in life and with us he did love us, he did. He loved this babby mappen the best on us; but he loved me and I loved him, though I was calling him five minutes agone. Are yo’ sure he’s dead?” said she, trying to get up. “If it’s only that he’s ill and like to die, they may bring him round yet. I’m but an ailing creature mysel’—I’ve been ailing this long time.”
“But he is dead—he is drowned!”
“Folk are brought round after they’re dead-drowned. Whatten was I thinking of, to sit still when I should be stirring mysel’? Here, whisth thee, child—whisth thee! tak’ this, tak’ aught to play wi’, but dunnot cry while my heart’s breaking! Oh, where is my strength gone to? Oh John—husband!”
Margaret saved her from falling by catching her in her arms. She sat down in the rocking chair, and held the woman upon her knees, her head lying on Margaret’s shoulder. The other children, clustered together in affright, began to understand the mystery of the scene; but the ideas came slowly, for their brains were dull and languid of perception. They set up such a cry of despair as they guessed
