'Thought fights with thought;
out springs a spark of truth
From the collision of the sword and shield.'
W. S. LANDOR.
'Margaret,' said her father, the next day, 'we must return Mrs.
Thornton's call. Your mother is not very well, and thinks she
cannot walk so far; but you and I will go this afternoon.'
As they went, Mr. Hale began about his wife's health, with a kind
of veiled anxiety, which Margaret was glad to see awakened at
last.
'Did you consult the doctor, Margaret? Did you send for him?'
'No, papa, you spoke of his corning to see me. Now I was well.
But if I only knew of some good doctor, I would go this
afternoon, and ask him to come, for I am sure mamma is seriously
indisposed.' She put the truth thus plainly and strongly because her father
had so completely shut his mind against the idea, when she had
last named her fears. But now the case was changed. He answered
in a despondent tone: 'Do you think she has any hidden complaint? Do you think she is
really very ill? Has Dixon said anything? Oh, Margaret! I am
haunted by the fear that our coming to Milton has killed her. My
poor Maria!' 'Oh, papa! don't imagine such things,' said Margaret, shocked.
'She is not well, that is all. Many a one is not well for a time;
and with good advice gets better and stronger than ever.'
'But has Dixon said anything about her?'
'No! You know Dixon enjoys making a mystery out of trifles; and
she has been a little mysterious about mamma's health, which has
alarmed me rather, that is all. Without any reason, I dare say.
You know, papa, you said the other day I was getting fanciful.'
'I hope and trust you are. But don't think of what I said then. I
like you to be fanciful about your mother's health. Don't be
afraid of telling me your fancies. I like to hear them, though, I
dare say, I spoke as if I was annoyed. But we will ask Mrs.
Thornton if she can tell us of a good doctor. We won't throw away
our money on any but some one first-rate. Stay, we turn up this
street.' The street did not look as if it could contain any house
large enough for Mrs. Thornton's habitation. Her son's presence
never gave any impression as to the kind of house he lived in;
but, unconsciously, Margaret had imagined that tall, massive,
handsomely dressed Mrs. Thornton must live in a house of the same
character as herself. Now Marlborough Street consisted of long
rows of small houses, with a blank wall here and there; at least
that was all they could see from the point at which they entered
it.