He paused, as if asking a question; but he received no answer from his companion, the echo of whose thoughts kept repeating—
“Where she had suffered so much.” Alas! and that was the way in which this eighteen months in Milton—to him so unspeakably precious, down to its very bitterness, which was worth all the rest of life’s sweetness—would be remembered. Neither loss of father, nor loss of mother, dear as she was to Mr. Thornton, could have poisoned the remembrance of the weeks, the days, the hours, when a walk of two miles, every step of which was pleasant, as it brought him nearer and nearer to her, took him to her sweet presence—every step of which was rich, as each recurring moment that bore him away from her made him recall some fresh grace in her demeanour, or pleasant pungency in her character. Yes! whatever had happened to him, external to his relation to her, he could never have spoken of that time, when he could have seen her every day—when he had her within his grasp, as it were—as a time of suffering. It had been a royal time of luxury to him, with all its stings and contumelies, compared to the poverty that crept round and clipped the anticipation of the future down to sordid fact, and life without an atmosphere of either hope or fear.
Mrs. Thornton and Fanny were in the dining-room; the latter in a flutter of small exultation, as the maid held up one glossy material after another, to try the effect of the wedding-dresses by candlelight. Her mother really tried to sympathise with her, but could not. Neither taste nor dress were in her line of subjects, and she heartily wished that Fanny had accepted her brother’s offer of having the wedding clothes provided by some first-rate London dressmaker, without the endless troublesome discussions, and unsettled waverings, that arose out of Fanny’s desire to choose and superintend everything herself. Mr. Thornton was only too glad to mark his grateful approbation of any sensible man, who could be captivated by Fanny’s second-rate airs and graces, by giving her ample means for providing herself with the finery, which certainly rivalled, if it did not exceed, the lover in her estimation. When her brother and Mr. Bell came in, Fanny blushed and simpered, and fluttered over the signs of her employment, in a way which could not have failed to draw attention from anyone else but Mr. Bell. If he thought about her and her silks and satins at all, it was to compare her and them with the pale sorrow he had left behind him, sitting motionless, with bent head and folded hands, in a room where the stillness was so great that you might almost fancy the rush in your straining ears was occasioned by the spirits of the dead, yet hovering round their beloved. For when Mr. Bell had first gone upstairs, Mrs. Shaw lay asleep on the sofa; and no sound broke the silence.
Mrs. Thornton gave Mr. Bell her formal, hospitable welcome. She was never so gracious as when receiving her son’s friends in her son’s house; and the more unexpected they were, the more honour to her admirable housekeeping preparations for comfort.
“How is Miss Hale?” she asked.
“About as broken down by this last stroke as she can be.”
“I am sure it is very well for her that she has such a friend as you.”
“I wish I were her only friend, madam. I daresay it sounds very brutal; but here have I been displaced, and turned out of my post of comforter and adviser by a fine lady aunt; and there are cousins and whatnot claiming her in London, as if she were a lapdog belonging to them. And she is too weak and miserable to have a will of her own.”
“She must indeed be weak,” said Mrs. Thornton, with an implied meaning which her son understood well. “But where,” continued Mrs. Thornton, “have these relations been all this time that Miss Hale has appeared almost friendless, and has certainly had a good deal of anxiety to bear?” But she did not feel interest enough in the answer to her question to wait for it. She left the room to make her household arrangements.
“They have been living abroad. They have some kind of claim upon her. I will do them that justice. The aunt brought her up, and she and the cousin have been like sisters. The thing vexing me, you see, is that I wanted to take her for a child of my own; and I am jealous of these people, who don’t seem to value the privilege of their right. Now it would be different if Frederick claimed her.”
“Frederick!” exclaimed Mr. Thornton. “Who is he? What right—?” He stopped short in his vehement question.
“Frederick,” said Mr. Bell in surprise. “Why, don’t you know? He’s her brother. Have you not heard—”
“I never heard his name before. Where is he? Who is he?”
“Surely I told you about him, when the family first came to Milton—the son who was concerned in that mutiny.”
“I never heard of him till this moment. Where does he live?”
“In Spain. He’s liable to be arrested the moment he sets foot on English ground. Poor fellow! he will grieve at not being able to attend his father’s funeral. We must be content with Captain Lennox;
