'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.




readonlinefreebook.com Copyright 2016 - 2024