North and South

coming might be a compliment, but it was not the same thing to the poor sister, who had had her little pangs of jealousy, during Bessy’s lifetime, at the intimacy between her and the young lady.

“No, Dixon!” said Margaret with decision. “I will go. Mary, you shall see me this afternoon.” And for fear of her own cowardice, she went away, in order to take from herself any chance of changing her determination.

XXVIII

Comfort in Sorrow

Through cross to crown!⁠—And though thy spirit’s life
Trials untold assail with giant strength,
Good cheer! good cheer! Soon ends the bitter strife,
And thou shalt reign in peace with Christ at length.

Kosegarten

Ay sooth, we feel too strong in weal, to need Thee on that road;
But woe being come, the soul is dumb, that crieth not on “God.”

Mrs. Browning

That afternoon she walked swiftly to the Higgins’s house. Mary was looking out for her, with a half-distrustful face. Margaret smiled into her eyes to reassure her. They passed quickly through the house-place, upstairs, and into the quiet presence of the dead. Then Margaret was glad that she had come. The face, so often weary with pain, so restless with troublous thoughts, had now the faint soft smile of eternal rest upon it. The slow tears gathered into Margaret’s eyes, but a deep calm entered into her soul. And that was death! It looked more peaceful than life. All beautiful scriptures came into her mind. “They rest from their labours.” “The weary are at rest.” “He giveth his beloved sleep.”

Slowly, slowly Margaret turned away from the bed. Mary was humbly sobbing in the background. They went downstairs without a word.

Resting his hand upon the house-table, Nicholas Higgins stood in the midst of the floor; his great eyes startled open by the news he had heard, as he came along the court, from many busy tongues. His eyes were dry and fierce; studying the reality of her death; bringing himself to understand that her place should know her no more. For she had been sickly, dying so long, that he had persuaded himself she would not die; that she would “pull through.”

Margaret felt as if she had no business to be there, familiarly acquainting herself with the surroundings of death, which he, the father, had only just learnt. There had been a pause of an instant on the steep crooked stair, when she first saw him; but now she tried to steal past his abstracted gaze, and to leave him in the solemn circle of his household misery.

Mary sat down on the first chair she came to, and throwing her apron over her head, began to cry.

The noise appeared to rouse him. He took sudden hold of Margaret’s arm, and held her till he could gather words to speak. His throat seemed dry; they came up thick, and choked, and hoarse:

“Were yo’ with her? Did yo’ see her die?”

“No!” replied Margaret, standing still with the utmost patience, now she found herself perceived. It was some time before he spoke again, but he kept his hold on her arm.

“All men must die,” said he at last, with a strange sort of gravity, which first suggested to Margaret the idea that he had been drinking⁠—not enough to intoxicate himself, but enough to make his thoughts bewildered. “But she were younger than me.” Still he pondered over the event, not looking at Margaret, though he grasped her tight. Suddenly, he looked up at her with a wild searching inquiry in his glance. “Yo’re sure and certain she’s dead⁠—not in a dwam, a faint? she’s been so before, often.”

“She is dead,” replied Margaret. She felt no fear in speaking to him, though he hurt her arm with his grip, and wild gleams came across the stupidity of his eyes.

“She is dead!” she said.

He looked at her still with that searching look, which seemed to fade out of his eyes as he gazed. Then he suddenly let go his hold of Margaret, and, throwing his body half across the table, he shook it and every piece of furniture in the room, with his violent sobs. Mary came trembling towards him.

“Get thee gone!⁠—get thee gone!” he cried, striking wildly and blindly at her. “What do I care for thee?” Margaret took her hand and held it softly in hers. He tore his hair, he beat his head against the hard wood, then he lay exhausted and stupid. Still his daughter and Margaret did not move. Mary trembled from head to foot.

At last⁠—it might have been a quarter of an hour, it might have been an hour⁠—he lifted himself up. His eyes were swollen and bloodshot, and he seemed to have forgotten that anyone was by; he scowled at the watchers when he saw them. He shook himself heavily, gave them one more sullen look, spoke never a word, but made for the door.

“Oh, father, father!” said Mary, throwing herself upon his arm⁠—“not tonight! Any night but tonight. Oh, help me! he’s going out to drink again! Father, I’ll not leave yo’. Yo’ may strike, but I’ll not leave yo’. She told me last of all to keep yo’ fro’ drink!”

But Margaret stood in the doorway, silent yet commanding. He looked up at her defyingly.

“It’s my own house. Stand out o’ the way, wench, or I’ll make yo’!” He had shaken off Mary with violence; he looked ready to strike Margaret. But she never moved a feature⁠—never took her deep, serious eyes off him. He stared back on her with gloomy fierceness. If she had stirred hand or foot, he would have thrust her aside with even more violence than he had used to his own daughter, whose face was bleeding from her fall against a chair.

“What are yo’ looking at me in that way for?” asked he at last, daunted and awed by her severe calm. “If yo’ think for to keep me from going what gait I choose, because she loved yo’⁠—and in my