But she did not even open her eyes for a minute or
two. The heavy moisture of tears stood on the eye-lashes before
she looked up, then with her hand groping feebly over the
bed-clothes, for the touch of Mrs. Thornton's large firm fingers,
she said, scarcely above her breath--Mrs. Thornton had to stoop
from her erectness to listen,-
'Margaret--you have a daughter--my sister is in Italy. My child
will be without a mother;--in a strange place,--if I die--will
you'---And her filmy wandering eyes fixed themselves with an intensity
of wistfulness on Mrs. Thornton's face For a minute, there was no
change in its rigidness; it was stern and unmoved;--nay, but that
the eyes of the sick woman were growing dim with the
slow-gathering tears, she might have seen a dark cloud cross the
cold features. And it was no thought of her son, or of her living
daughter Fanny, that stirred her heart at last; but a sudden
remembrance, suggested by something in the arrangement of the
room,--of a little daughter--dead in infancy--long years
ago--that, like a sudden sunbeam, melted the icy crust, behind
which there was a real tender woman.
'You wish me to be a friend to Miss Hale,' said Mrs. Thornton, in
her measured voice, that would not soften with her heart, but
came out distinct and clear.
Mrs. Hale, her eyes still fixed on Mrs. Thornton's face, pressed
the hand that lay below hers on the coverlet. She could not
speak. Mrs. Thornton sighed, 'I will be a true friend, if
circumstances require it Not a tender friend. That I cannot
be,'--('to her,' she was on the point of adding, but she relented
at the sight of that poor, anxious face.)--'It is not my nature
to show affection even where I feel it, nor do I volunteer advice
in general. Still, at your request,--if it will be any comfort to
you, I will promise you.' Then came a pause. Mrs. Thornton was
too conscientious to promise what she did not mean to perform;
and to perform any-thing in the way of kindness on behalf of
Margaret, more disliked at this moment than ever, was difficult;
almost impossible.
'I promise,' said she, with grave severity; which, after all,
inspired the dying woman with faith as in something more stable
than life itself,--flickering, flitting, wavering life! 'I
promise that in any difficulty in which Miss Hale'---'Call her Margaret!' gasped Mrs. Hale.
'In which she comes to me for help, I will help her with every
power I have, as if she were my own daughter. I also promise that
if ever I see her doing what I think is wrong'---'But Margaret never does wrong--not wilfully wrong,' pleaded Mrs.
Hale. Mrs. Thornton went on as before; as if she had not heard: 'If ever I see her doing what I believe to be wrong--such wrong
not touching me or mine, in which case I might be supposed to
have an interested motive--I will tell her of it, faithfully and
plainly, as I should wish my own daughter to be told.' There was a long pause. Mrs. Hale felt that this promise did not
include all; and yet it was much. It had reservations in it which
she did not understand; but then she was weak, dizzy, and tired.
Mrs. Thornton was reviewing all the probable cases in which she
had pledged herself to act. She had a fierce pleasure in the idea
of telling Margaret unwelcome truths, in the shape of performance
of duty. Mrs. Hale began to speak: 'I thank you. I pray God to bless you. I shall never see you
again in this world. But my last words are, I thank you for your
promise of kindness to my child.' 'Not kindness!' testified Mrs. Thornton, ungraciously truthful to
the last. But having eased her conscience by saying these words,
she was not sorry that they were not heard. She pressed Mrs.
Hale's soft languid hand; and rose up and went her way out of the
house without seeing a creature.