Margaret took up a pen and scrawled with trembling hand, “Margaret Hale is not the girl to say him nay.” In her weak state she could not think of any other words, and yet, she was vexed to use these. But she was so much fatigued even by this slight exertion, that if she could have thought of another form of acceptance, she could not have sat up to write a syllable of it. She was obliged to lie down again and try not to think.
“My dearest child! Has that letter vexed or troubled you?”
“No!” said Margaret feebly. “I shall be better when tomorrow is over.”
“I feel sure, darling, you won’t be better till I get you out of this horrid air. How you can have borne it these two years I can’t imagine.”
“Where could I go to? I could not leave papa and mamma.”
“Well, don’t distress yourself, my dear. I dare say it was all for the best, only I had no conception of how you were living. Our butler’s wife lives in a better house than this.”
“It is sometimes very pretty—in summer; you can’t judge by what it is now. I have been very happy here,” and Margaret closed her eyes by way of stopping the conversation.
The house teemed with comfort now, compared to what it had been. The evenings were chilly, and by Mrs. Shaw’s directions fires were lighted in every bedroom. She petted Margaret in every possible way, and bought every delicacy, or soft luxury in which she herself would have burrowed and sought comfort. But Margaret was indifferent to all these things; or, if they forced themselves upon her attention, it was simply as causes for gratitude to her aunt, who was putting herself so much out of the way to think of her. She was restless, though so weak. All the day long, she kept herself from thinking of the ceremony which was going on at Oxford, by wandering from room to room, and languidly setting aside such articles as she wished to retain. Dixon followed her by Mrs. Shaw’s desire, ostensibly to receive instructions, but with a private injunction to soothe her into repose as soon as might be.
“These books, Dixon, I will keep. All the rest will you send to Mr. Bell? They are of a kind that he will value for themselves, as well as for papa’s sake. This—I should like you to take this to Mr. Thornton, after I am gone. Stay; I will write a note with it.” And she sat down hastily, as if afraid of thinking, and wrote:
“Dear Sir—The accompanying book I am sure will be valued by you for the sake of my father, to whom it belonged.
She set out again upon her travels through the house, turning over articles, known to her from her childhood, with a sort of caressing reluctance to leave them—old-fashioned, worn and shabby, as they might be. But she hardly spoke again; and Dixon’s report to Mrs. Shaw was, that “she doubted whether Miss Hale heard a word of what she said, though she talked the whole time, in order to divert her intention.” The consequence of her being on her feet all day was excessive bodily weariness in the evening, and a better night’s rest than she had had since she heard of Mr. Hale’s death.
At breakfast time the next day, she expressed her wish to go and bid one or two friends goodbye. Mrs. Shaw objected:
“I am sure, my dear, you can have no friends here with whom you are sufficiently intimate to justify you in calling upon them so soon; before you have been at church.”
“But today is my only day; if Captain Lennox comes this after noon, and if we must—if I must really go tomorrow—”
“Oh, yes, we shall go tomorrow. I am more and more convinced that this air is bad for you, and makes you look so pale and ill; besides, Edith expects us; and she may be waiting for me; and you cannot be left alone, my dear, at your age. No; if you must make these calls, I will go with you. Dixon can get us a coach, I suppose?”
So
