During the time that Mrs. Thornton was having this interview with

Mrs. Hale, Margaret and Dixon were laying their heads together,

and consulting how they should keep Frederick's coming a profound

secret to all out of the house. A letter from him might now be

expected any day; and he would assuredly follow quickly on its

heels. Martha must be sent away on her holiday; Dixon must keep

stern guard on the front door, only admitting the few visitors

that ever came to the house into Mr. Hale's room

down-stairs--Mrs. Hale's extreme illness giving her a good excuse

for this. If Mary Higgins was required as a help to Dixon in the

kitchen she was to hear and see as little of Frederick as

possible; and he was, if necessary to be spoken of to her under

the name of Mr. Dickinson. But her sluggish and incurious nature

was the greatest safeguard of all.

They resolved that Martha should leave them that very afternoon

for this visit to her mother. Margaret wished that she had been

sent away on the previous day, as she fancied it might be thought

strange to give a servant a holiday when her mistress's state

required so much attendance.

Poor Margaret! All that afternoon she had to act the part of a

Roman daughter, and give strength out of her own scanty stock to

her father. Mr. hale would hope, would not despair, between the

attacks of his wife's malady; he buoyed himself up in every

respite from her pain, and believed that it was the beginning of

ultimate recovery. And so, when the paroxysms came on, each more

severe than the last, they were fresh agonies, and greater

disappointments to him. This afternoon, he sat in the

drawing-room, unable to bear the solitude of his study, or to

employ himself in any way. He buried his head in his arms, which

lay folded on the table. Margaret's heart ached to see him; yet,

as he did not speak, she did not like to volunteer any attempt at

comfort. Martha was gone. Dixon sat with Mrs. Hale while she

slept. The house was very still and quiet, and darkness came on,

without any movement to procure candles. Margaret sat at the

window, looking out at the lamps and the street, but seeing

nothing,--only alive to her father's heavy sighs. She did not

like to go down for lights, lest the tacit restraint of her

presence being withdrawn, he might give way to more violent

emotion, without her being at hand to comfort him. Yet she was

just thinking that she ought to go and see after the well-doing

of the kitchen fire, which there was nobody but herself to attend

to when she heard the muffled door-ring with so violent a pull,

that the wires jingled all through the house, though the positive

sound was not great. She started up, passed her father, who had

never moved at the veiled, dull sound,--returned, and kissed him

tenderly. And still he never moved, nor took any notice of her

fond embrace. Then she went down softly, through the dark, to the

door. Dixon would have put the chain on before she opened it, but

Margaret had not a thought of fear in her pre-occupied mind. A

man's tall figure stood between her and the luminous street. He

was looking away; but at the sound of the latch he turned quickly

round.




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