Margaret received this letter at breakfast-time, and turned very pale asshe read it; then silently putting it into Edith\"s hands, she left the room.
Edith was terribly shocked as she read it, and cried in a sobbing,frightened, childish way, much to her husband\"s distress. Mrs. Shawwas breakfasting in her own room, and upon him devolved the task ofreconciling his wife to the near contact into which she seemed to bebrought with death, for the first time that she could remember in herlife. Here was a man who was to have dined with them to-day lyingdead or dying instead! It was some time before she could think ofMargaret. Then she started up, and followed her upstairs into her room.
Dixon was packing up a few toilette articles, and Margaret was hastilyputting on her bonnet, shedding tears all the time, and her handstrembling so that she could hardly tie the strings.
\"Oh, dear Margaret! how shocking! What are you doing? Are you goingout? Sholto would telegraph or do anything you like.\"
\"I am going to Oxford. There is a train in half-an-hour. Dixon hasoffered to go with me, but I could have gone by myself. I must see himagain. Besides, he may be better, and want some care. He has been likea father to me. Don\"t stop me, Edith.\"
\"But I must. Mamma won\"t like it at all. Come and ask her about it,Margaret. You don\"t know where you\"re going. I should not mind if hehad a house of his own; but in his Fellow\"s rooms! Come to mamma,and do ask her before you go. It will not take a minute.\"
Margaret yielded, and lost her train. In the suddenness of the event,Mrs. Shaw became bewildered and hysterical, and so the precious timeslipped by. But there was another train in a couple of hours; and aftervarious discussions on propriety and impropriety, it was decided thatCaptain Lennox should accompany Margaret, as the one thing to whichshe was constant was her resolution to go, alone or otherwise, by thenext train, whatever might be said of the propriety or impropriety of the
step. Her father\"s friend, her own friend, was lying at the point of death;and the thought of this came upon her with such vividness, that she wassurprised herself at the firmness with which she asserted something ofher right to independence of action; and five minutes before the time forstarting, she found herself sitting in a railway-carriage opposite toCaptain Lennox.
It was always a comfort to her to think that she had gone, though it wasonly to hear that he had died in the night. She saw the rooms that he hadoccupied, and associated them ever after most fondly in her memorywith the idea of her father, and his one cherished and faithful friend.
They had promised Edith before starting, that if all had ended as theyfeared, they would return to dinner; so that long, lingering look aroundthe room in which her father had died, had to be interrupted, and a quietfarewell taken of the kind old face that had so often come out withpleasant words, and merry quips and cranks.
Captain Lennox fell asleep on their journey home; and Margaret couldcry at leisure, and bethink her of this fatal year, and all the woes it hadbrought to her. No sooner was she fully aware of one loss than anothercame--not to supersede her grief for the one before, but to re-openwounds and feelings scarcely healed. But at the sound of the tendervoices of her aunt and Edith, of merry little Sholto\"s glee at her arrival,and at the sight of the well-lighted rooms, with their mistress pretty inher paleness and her eager sorrowful interest, Margaret roused herselffrom her heavy trance of almost superstitious hopelessness, and beganto feel that even around her joy and gladness might gather. She hadEdith\"s place on the sofa; Sholto was taught to carry aunt Margaret\"s cupof tea very carefully to her; and by the time she went up to dress, shecould thank God for having spared her dear old friend a long or apainful illness.
But when night came--solemn night, and all the house was quiet,Margaret still sate watching the beauty of a London sky at such an hour,on such a summer evening; the faint pink reflection of earthly lights onthe soft clouds that float tranquilly into the white moonlight, out of thewarm gloom which lies motionless around the horizon. Margaret\"s roomhad been the day nursery of her childhood, just when it merged intogirlhood, and when the feelings and conscience had been first awakenedinto full activity. On some such night as this she remembered promisingto herself to live as brave and noble a life as any heroine she ever reador heard of in romance, a life sans peur et sans reproche; it had seemedto her then that she had only to will, and such a life would beaccomplished. And now she had learnt that not only to will, but also topray, was a necessary condition in the truly heroic. Trusting to herself,she had fallen. It was a just consequence of her sin, that all excuses for
it, all temptation to it, should remain for ever unknown to the person inwhose opinion it had sunk her lowest. She stood face to face at last withher sin. She knew it for what it was; Mr. Bell\"s kindly sophistry thatnearly all men were guilty of equivocal actions, and that the motiveennobled the evil, had never had much real weight with her. Her ownfirst thought of how, if she had known all, she might have fearlesslytold the truth, seemed low and poor. Nay, even now, her anxiety to haveher character for truth partially excused in Mr. Thornton\"s eyes, as Mr.
Bell had promised to do, was a very small and petty consideration, nowthat she was afresh taught by death what life should be. If all the worldspoke, acted, or kept silence with intent to deceive,--if dearest interestswere at stake, and dearest lives in peril,--if no one should ever know ofher truth or her falsehood to measure out their honour or contempt forher by, straight alone where she stood, in the presence of God, sheprayed that she might have strength to speak and act the truth forevermore.