“I must go,” said he, “I cannot stay. If you will forgive this liberty—my rough ways—too abrupt, I fear—but I will be more gentle next time. You will allow me the pleasure of bringing you some fruit again, if I should see any that is tempting. Good afternoon, Mr. Hale. Goodbye, ma’am.”
He was gone. Not one word: not one look to Margaret. She believed that he had not seen her. She went for a plate in silence, and lifted the fruit out tenderly, with the points of her delicate taper fingers. It was good of him to bring it; and after yesterday too!
“Oh! it is so delicious!” said Mrs. Hale, in a feeble voice. “How kind of him to think of me! Margaret love, only taste these grapes! Was it not good of him?”
“Yes!” said Margaret, quietly.
“Margaret!” said Mrs. Hale, rather querulously, “you won’t like anything Mr. Thornton does. I never saw anybody so prejudiced.”
Mr. Hale had been peeling a peach for his wife; and, cutting off a small piece for himself, he said:
“If I had any prejudices, the gift of such delicious fruit as this would melt them away. I have not tasted such fruit—no! not even in Hampshire—since I was a boy; and, to boys, I fancy, all fruit is good. I remember eating sloes and crabs with a relish. Do you remember the matted-up currant bushes, Margaret, at the corner of the west-wall at the garden at home?”
Did she not? Did she not remember every weather-stain on the old stone wall; the gray and yellow lichens that marked it like a map; the little crane’s-bill that grew in the crevices? She had been shaken by the events of the last two days; her whole life just now was a strain upon her fortitude; and, somehow, these careless words of her father’s, touching on the remembrance of the sunny times of old, made her start up, and, dropping her sewing on the ground, she went hastily out of the room into her own little chamber. She had hardly given way to the first choking sob, when she became aware of Dixon standing at her drawers, and evidently searching for something.
“Bless me, miss! How you startled me! Missus is not worse, is she? Is anything the matter?”
“No, nothing. Only I’m silly, Dixon, and want a glass of water. What are you looking for? I keep my muslins in that drawer.”
Dixon did not speak, but went on rummaging. The scent of lavender came out and perfumed the room.
At last Dixon found what she wanted; what it was Margaret could not see. Dixon faced round, and spoke to her:
“Now I don’t like telling what I wanted, because you’ve fretting enough to go through, and I know you’ll fret about this. I meant to have kept it from you till night, may be, or such times as that.”
“What is the matter? Pray, tell me, Dixon, at once.”
“That young woman you go to see—Higgins I mean.”
“Well?”
“Well! she died this morning, and her sister is here—come to beg a strange thing. It seems, the young woman who died had a fancy for being buried in something of yours, and so the sister’s come to ask for it—and I was looking for a nightcap that wasn’t too good to give away.”
“Oh! let me find one,” said Margaret, in the midst of her tears. “Poor Bessy! I never thought I should not see her again.”
“Why, that’s another thing. This girl downstairs wanted me to ask you, if you would like to see her.”
“But she’s dead!” said Margaret, turning a little pale. “I never saw a dead person. No! I would rather not.”
“I should never have asked you, if you hadn’t come in. I told her you wouldn’t.”
“I will go down and speak to her,” said Margaret, afraid lest Dixon’s harshness of manner might wound the poor girl. So, taking the cap in her hand, she went to the kitchen. Mary’s face was all swollen with crying, and she burst out afresh when she saw Margaret.
“Oh, ma’am, she loved yo’, she loved yo’, she did indeed!” And for a long time, Margaret could not get her to say anything more than this. At last, her sympathy, and Dixon’s scolding, forced out a few facts. Nicholas Higgins had gone out in the morning, leaving Bessy as well as on the day before. But in an hour she was taken worse; some neighbour ran to the room where Mary was working; they did not know where to find her father; Mary had only come in a few minutes before she died.
“It were a day or two ago she axed to be buried in somewhat o’ yourn. She were never tired o’ talking o’ yo’. She used to say yo’ were the prettiest thing she ever clapped eyes on. She loved yo’ dearly. Her last words were ‘Give her my affectionate respects; and keep father fro’ drink.’ Yo’ll come and see her ma’am. She would ha’ thought it a great compliment, I know.”
Margaret shrank a little from answering.
“Yes, perhaps I may. Yes, I will. I’ll come before tea. But where’s your father, Mary?”
Mary shook her head, and stood up to be going.
“Miss Hale,” said Dixon, in a low voice, “where’s the use o’ your going to see the poor thing laid out? I’d never say a word against it, if it could do the girl any good; and I wouldn’t mind a bit going myself, if that would satisfy her. They’ve just a notion, these common folks, of its being a respect to the departed. Here,” said she, turning sharply round, “I’ll come and see your sister. Miss Hale is busy, and she can’t come, or else she would.”
The girl looked wistfully at Margaret. Dixon’s
