'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 gripe, 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 any one 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 to-night! Any night but to-night. 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.