'I am sure,' said Margaret, 'I am sure you did not know: it was
quite sudden. But now, you see, it would be different; you do
know; you do see her lying there; you hear what she said with her
last breath. You will 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, half
trembling at her own proposal as she made it. 'At least you shall
have some 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 a thing I often wished to say to a parson, and I'm not
particular as to whether he's preaching now, or not.' Margaret was perplexed; his drinking tea with her father, who
would be totally unprepared for his visitor--her mother so
ill--seemed utterly out of the question; and yet if she drew back
now, it would be worse than ever--sure to drive him to the
gin-shop. She thought that if she could only get him to their own
house, it was so great a step gained that she would trust to the
chapter of accidents for the next.
'Goodbye, ou'd wench! We've parted company at last, we have! But
thou'st been a blessin' to thy father ever sin' thou wert born.
Bless thy white lips, lass,--they've a smile on 'em now! and I'm
glad to see it once again, 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 tell Mary of the arrangement; to say it was the only
way she could think of to keep him from the gin-palace; to urge
Mary to come too, for her heart smote her at the idea of leaving
the poor affectionate girl alone. But Mary had friends among the
neighbours, she said, who would come in and sit a bit with her,
it was all right; but father-He was 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 of bitter 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 the street, and looked neither to the right nor to the left,
while he tramped along by Margaret's side; he feared being upset
by the words, still more the looks, of sympathising neighbours.
So he and Margaret walked in silence.