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presence being withdrawn, he might give way to more violent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.