Margaret summoned up all her forces to her aid. Her father seemed tohave forgotten that they had any reason to expect a letter from Frederickthat morning. He was absorbed in one idea--that the last visible token ofthe presence of his wife was to be carried away from him, and hiddenfrom his sight. He trembled pitifully as the undertaker\"s man wasarranging his crape draperies around him. He looked wistfully atMargaret; and, when released, he tottered towards her, murmuring,
\"Pray for me, Margaret. I have no strength left in me. I cannot pray. Igive her up because I must. I try to bear it: indeed I do. I know it isGod\"s will. But I cannot see why she died. Pray for me, Margaret, that Imay have faith to pray. It is a great strait, my child.\"
Margaret sat by him in the coach, almost supporting him in her arms;and repeating all the noble verses of holy comfort, or texts expressive offaithful resignation, that she could remember. Her voice never faltered;and she herself gained strength by doing this. Her father\"s lips movedafter her, repeating the well-known texts as her words suggested them;it was terrible to see the patient struggling effort to obtain theresignation which he had not strength to take into his heart as a part ofhimself.
Margaret\"s fortitude nearly gave way as Dixon, with a slight motion ofher hand, directed her notice to Nicholas Higgins and his daughter,standing a little aloof, but deeply attentive to the ceremonial. Nicholaswore his usual fustian clothes, but had a bit of black stuff sewn roundhis hat--a mark of mourning which he had never shown to his daughterBessy\"s memory. But Mr. Hale saw nothing. He went on repeating tohimself, mechanically as it were, all the funeral service as it was read bythe officiating clergyman; he sighed twice or thrice when all was ended;and then, putting his hand on Margaret\"s arm, he mutely entreated to beled away, as if he were blind, and she his faithful guide.
Dixon sobbed aloud; she covered her face with her handkerchief, andwas so absorbed in her own grief, that she did not perceive that thecrowd, attracted on such occasions, was dispersing, till she was spokento by some one close at hand. It was Mr. Thornton. He had been presentall the time, standing, with bent head, behind a group of people, so that,in fact, no one had recognised him.
\"I beg your pardon,--but, can you tell me how Mr. Hale is? And MissHale, too? I should like to know how they both are.\"
\"Of course, sir. They are much as is to be expected. Master is terriblybroke down. Miss Hale bears up better than likely.\"
Mr. Thornton would rather have heard that she was suffering the naturalsorrow. In the first place, there was selfishness enough in him to havetaken pleasure in the idea that his great love might come in to comfortand console her; much the same kind of strange passionate pleasurewhich comes stinging through a mother\"s heart, when her droopinginfant nestles close to her, and is dependent upon her for everything.
But this delicious vision of what might have been--in which, in spite ofall Margaret\"s repulse, he would have indulged only a few days ago-wasmiserably disturbed by the recollection of what he had seen nearthe Outwood station. \"Miserably disturbed!\" that is not strong enough.
He was haunted by the remembrance of the handsome young man, with
whom she stood in an attitude of such familiar confidence; and theremembrance shot through him like an agony, till it made him clenchhis hands tight in order to subdue the pain. At that late hour, so far fromhome! It took a great moral effort to galvanise his trust--erewhile soperfect--in Margaret\"s pure and exquisite maidenliness, into life; as soonas the effort ceased, his trust dropped down dead and powerless: and allsorts of wild fancies chased each other like dreams through his mind.
Here was a little piece of miserable, gnawing confirmation. \"She bore upbetter than likely\" under this grief. She had then some hope to look to,so bright that even in her affectionate nature it could come in to lightenthe dark hours of a daughter newly made motherless. Yes! he knew howshe would love. He had not loved her without gaining that instinctiveknowledge of what capabilities were in her. Her soul would walk inglorious sunlight if any man was worthy, by his power of loving, to winback her love. Even in her mourning she would rest with a peacefulfaith upon his sympathy. His sympathy! Whose? That other man\"s. Andthat it was another was enough to make Mr. Thornton\"s pale grave facegrow doubly wan and stern at Dixon\"s answer.
\"I suppose I may call,\" said he coldly. \"On Mr. Hale, I mean. He willperhaps admit me after to-morrow or so.\"
He spoke as if the answer were a matter of indifference to him. But itwas not so. For all his pain, he longed to see the author of it. Althoughhe hated Margaret at times, when he thought of that gentle familiarattitude and all the attendant circumstances, he had a restless desire torenew her picture in his mind--a longing for the very atmosphere shebreathed. He was in the Charybdis of passion, and must perforce circleand circle ever nearer round the fatal centre.
\"I dare say, sir, master will see you. He was very sorry to have to denyyou the other day; but circumstances was not agreeable just then.\"
For some reason or other, Dixon never named this interview that shehad had with Mr. Thornton to Margaret. It might have been merechance, but so it was that Margaret never heard that he had attended herpoor mother\"s funeral.