'Let me in! Let me in! It is only me, Charlotte!' Her heart did
not still its fluttering till she was safe in the drawing-room,
with the windows fastened and bolted, and the familiar walls
hemming her round, and shutting her in. She had sate down upon a
packing case; cheerless, Chill was the dreary and dismantled
room--no fire nor other light, but Charlotte's long unsnuffed
candle. Charlotte looked at Margaret with surprise; and Margaret,
feeling it rather than seeing it, rose up.
'I was afraid you were shutting me out altogether, Charlotte,'
said she, half-smiling. 'And then you would never have heard me
in the kitchen, and the doors into the lane and churchyard are
locked long ago.'
'Oh, miss, I should have been sure to have missed you soon. The
men would have wanted you to tell them how to go on. And I have
put tea in master's study, as being the most comfortable room, so
to speak.' 'Thank you, Charlotte. You are a kind girl. I shall be sorry to
leave you. You must try and write to me, if I can ever give you
any little help or good advice. I shall always be glad to get a
letter from Helstone, you know. I shall be sure and send you my
address when I know it.' The study was all ready for tea. There was a good blazing fire,
and unlighted candles on the table. Margaret sat down on the rug,
partly to warm herself, for the dampness of the evening hung
about her dress, and overfatigue had made her chilly. She kept
herself balanced by clasping her hands together round her knees;
her head dropped a little towards her chest; the attitude was one
of despondency, whatever her frame of mind might be. But when she
heard her father's step on the gravel outside, she started up,
and hastily shaking her heavy black hair back, and wiping a few
tears away that had come on her cheeks she knew not how, she went
out to open the door for him. He showed far more depression than
she did. She could hardly get him to talk, although she tried to
speak on subjects that would interest him, at the cost of an
effort every time which she thought would be her last.
'Have you been a very long walk to-day?' asked she, on seeing his
refusal to touch food of any kind.
'As far as Fordham Beeches. I went to see Widow Maltby; she is
sadly grieved at not having wished you good-bye. She says little
Susan has kept watch down the lane for days past.--Nay, Margaret,
what is the matter, dear?' The thought of the little child
watching for her, and continually disappointed--from no
forgetfulness on her part, but from sheer inability to leave
home--was the last drop in poor Margaret's cup, and she was
sobbing away as if her heart would break. Mr. Hale was
distressingly perplexed. He rose, and walked nervously up and
down the room. Margaret tried to check herself, but would not
speak until she could do so with firmness. She heard him talking,
as if to himself.