第91章 CHAPTER III COMFORT IN SORROW (2)
rejoicing in all her days! Nay, wench, whatever hoo said, hoo can knownought about it now, and I mun ha\" a sup o\" drink just to steady meagain sorrow.\"
\"No,\" said Margaret, softening with his softened manner. \"You shall not.
If her life has been what you say, at any rate she did not fear death assome do. Oh, you should have heard her speak of the life to come--thelife hidden with God, that she is now gone to.\"
He shook his head, glancing sideways up at Margaret as he did so. Hispale, haggard face struck her painfully.
\"You are sorely tired. Where have you been all day--not at work?\"
\"Not at work, sure enough,\" said he, with a short, grim laugh. \"Not atwhat you call work. I were at the Committee, till I were sickened out wi\"
trying to make fools hear reason. I were fetched to Boucher\"s wife aforeseven this morning. She\"s bed-fast, but she were raving and raging toknow where her dunder-headed brute of a chap was, as if I\"d to keephim--as if he were fit to be ruled by me. The d--d fool, who has put hisfoot in all our plans! And I\"ve walked my feet sore wi\" going about forto see men who wouldn\"t be seen, now the law is raised again us. And Iwere sore-hearted, too, which is worse than sore-footed; and if I did seea friend who ossed to treat me, I never knew hoo lay a-dying here. Bess,lass, thou\"d believe me, thou wouldst--wouldstn\"t thou?\" turning to thepoor dumb form with wild appeal.
\"I am sure,\" said Margaret, \"I am sure you did not know: it was quitesudden. But now, you see, it would be different; you do know; you dosee her lying there; you hear what she said with her last breath. Youwill not go?\"
No answer. In fact, where was he to look for comfort?
\"Come home with me,\" said she at last, with a bold venture, halftrembling at her own proposal as she made it. \"At least you shall havesome comfortable food, which I\"m sure you need.\"
\"Yo\"r father\"s a parson?\" asked he, with a sudden turn in his ideas.
\"He was,\" said Margaret, shortly.
\"I\"ll go and take a dish o\" tea with him, since yo\"ve asked me. I\"ve many athing I often wished to say to a parson, and I\"m not particular as towhether he\"s preaching now, or not.\"
Margaret was perplexed; his drinking tea with her father, who would betotally unprepared for his visitor--her mother so ill--seemed utterly outof the question; and yet if she drew back now, it would be worse thanever--sure to drive him to the gin-shop. She thought that if she couldonly get him to their own house, it was so great a step gained that shewould trust to the chapter ofaccidents for the next.
\"Goodbye, ou\"d wench! We\"ve parted company at last, we have! Butthou\"st been a blessin\" to thy father ever sin\" thou wert born. Bless thywhite lips, lass,--they\"ve a smile on \"em now! and I\"m glad to see it onceagain, though I\"m lone and forlorn for evermore.\"
He stooped down and fondly kissed his daughter; covered up her face,and turned to follow Margaret. She had hastily gone down stairs to tellMary of the arrangement; to say it was the only way she could think ofto keep him from the gin-palace; to urge Mary to come too, for herheart smote her at the idea of leaving the poor affectionate girl alone.
But Mary had friends among the neighbours, she said, who would comein and sit a bit with her, it was all right; but father-Hewas there by them as she would have spoken more. He had shaken
off his emotion, as if he was ashamed of having ever given way to it;and had even o\"erleaped himself so much that he assumed a sort ofbitter mirth, like the crackling of thorns under a pot.
\"I\"m going to take my tea wi\" her father, I am!\"
But he slouched his cap low down over his brow as he went out into thestreet, and looked neither to the right nor to the left, while he trampedalong by Margaret\"s side; he feared being upset by the words, still morethe looks, of sympathising neighbours. So he and Margaret walked insilence.
As he got near the street in which he knew she lived, he looked down athis clothes, his hands, and shoes.
\"I should m\"appen ha\" cleaned mysel\", first?\"
It certainly would have been desirable, but Margaret assured him heshould be allowed to go into the yard, and have soap and towelprovided; she could not let him slip out of her hands just then.
While he followed the house-servant along the passage, and through thekitchen, stepping cautiously on every dark mark in the pattern of the oilcloth,in order to conceal his dirty foot-prints, Margaret ran upstairs.
She met Dixon on the landing.
\"How is mamma?--where is papa?\"
Missus was tired, and gone into her own room. She had wanted to go tobed, but Dixon had persuaded her to lie down on the sofa, and have hertea brought to her there; it would be better than getting restless by beingtoo long in bed.
So far, so good. But where was Mr. Hale? In the drawing-room.
Margaret went in half breathless with the hurried story she had to tell.
Of course, she told it incompletely; and her father was rather \"takenaback\" by the idea of the drunken weaver awaiting him in his quietstudy, with whom he was expected to drink tea, and on whose behalfMargaret was anxiously pleading. The meek, kind-hearted Mr. Halewould have readily tried to console him in his grief, but, unluckily, thepoint Margaret dwelt upon most forcibly was the fact of his having beendrinking, and her having brought him home with her as a last expedientto keep him from the gin-shop. One little event had come out of anotherso naturally that Margaret was hardly conscious of what she had done,till she saw the slight look of repugnance on her father\"s face.
\"Oh, papa! he really is a man you will not dislike--if you won\"t beshocked to begin with.\"
\"But, Margaret, to bring a drunken man home--and your mother so ill!\"
Margaret\"s countenance fell. \"I am sorry, papa. He is very quiet--he isnot tipsy at all. He was only rather strange at first, but that might be theshock of poor Bessy\"s death.\" Margaret\"s eyes filled with tears. Mr. Haletook hold of her sweet pleading face in both his hands, and kissed her
forehead.