\"You are sadly overdone, Margaret. It is no wonder. But you must letme nurse you now.\"
He made her lie down on the sofa, and went for a shawl to cover herwith. His tenderness released her tears; and she cried bitterly.
\"Poor child!--poor child!\" said he, looking fondly at her, as she lay withher face to the wall, shaking with her sobs. After a while they ceased,and she began to wonder whether she durst give herself the relief oftelling her father of all her trouble. But there were more reasons againstit than for it. The only one for it was the relief to herself; and against itwas the thought that it would add materially to her father\"s nervousness,if it were indeed necessary for Frederick to come to England again; thathe would dwell on the circumstance of his son\"s having caused the deathof a man, however unwittingly and unwillingly; that this knowledgewould perpetually recur to trouble him, in various shapes ofexaggeration and distortion from the simple truth. And about her owngreat fault--he would be distressed beyond measure at her want ofcourage and faith, yet perpetually troubled to make excuses for her.
Formerly Margaret would have come to him as priest as well as father,
to tell him of her temptation and her sin; but latterly they had notspoken much on such subjects; and she knew not how, in his change ofopinions, he would reply if the depth of her soul called unto his. No; shewould keep her secret, and bear the burden alone. Alone she would gobefore God, and cry for His absolution. Alone she would endure herdisgraced position in the opinion of Mr. Thornton. She was unspeakablytouched by the tender efforts of her father to think of cheerful subjectson which to talk, and so to take her thoughts away from dwelling on allthat had happened of late. It was some months since he had been sotalkative as he was this day. He would not let her sit up, and offendedDixon desperately by insisting on waiting upon her himself.
At last she smiled; a poor, weak little smile; but it gave him the truestpleasure.
\"It seems strange to think, that what gives us most hope for the futureshould be called Dolores,\" said Margaret. The remark was more incharacter with her father than with her usual self; but to-day theyseemed to have changed natures.
\"Her mother was a Spaniard, I believe: that accounts for her religion.
Her father was a stiff Presbyterian when I knew him. But it is a verysoft and pretty name.\"
\"How young she is!--younger by fourteen months than I am. Just, theage that Edith was when she was engaged to Captain Lennox. Papa, wewill go and see them in Spain.\"
He shook his head. But he said, \"If you wish it, Margaret. Only let uscome back here. It would seem unfair--unkind to your mother, whoalways, I\"m afraid, disliked Milton so much, if we left it now she islying here, and cannot go with us. No, dear; you shall go and see them,and bring me back a report of my Spanish daughter.\"
\"No, papa, I won\"t go without you. Who is to take care of you when I amgone?\"