'Show not that manner, and these features all,
The serpent's cunning, and the sinner's fall?'
CRABBE.
The chill, shivery October morning came; not the October morning
of the country, with soft, silvery mists, clearing off before the
sunbeams that bring out all the gorgeous beauty of colouring, but
the October morning of Milton, whose silver mists were heavy
fogs, and where the sun could only show long dusky streets when
he did break through and shine. Margaret went languidly about,
assisting Dixon in her task of arranging the house. Her eyes were
continually blinded by tears, but she had no time to give way to
regular crying. The father and brother depended upon her; while
they were giving way to grief, she must be working, planning,
considering. Even the necessary arrangements for the funeral
seemed to devolve upon her.
When the fire was bright and crackling--when everything was ready
for breakfast, and the tea-kettle was singing away, Margaret gave
a last look round the room before going to summon Mr. Hale and
Frederick. She wanted everything to look as cheerful as possible;
and yet, when it did so, the contrast between it and her own
thoughts forced her into sudden weeping. She was kneeling by the
sofa, hiding her face in the cushions that no one might hear her
cry, when she was touched on the shoulder by Dixon.
'Come, Miss Hale--come, my dear! You must not give way, or where
shall we all be? There is not another person in the house fit to
give a direction of any kind, and there is so much to be done.
There's who's to manage the funeral; and who's to come to it; and
where it's to be; and all to be settled: and Master Frederick's
like one crazed with crying, and master never was a good one for
settling; and, poor gentleman, he goes about now as if he was
lost. It's bad enough, my dear, I know; but death comes to us
all; and you're well off never to have lost any friend till
now. 'Perhaps so. But this seemed a loss by itself; not to bear
comparison with any other event in the world. Margaret did not
take any comfort from what Dixon said, but the unusual tenderness
of the prim old servant's manner touched her to the heart; and,
more from a desire to show her gratitude for this than for any
other reason, she roused herself up, and smiled in answer to
Dixon's anxious look at her; and went to tell her father and
brother that breakfast was ready.
Mr. Hale came--as if in a dream, or rather with the unconscious
motion of a sleep-walker, whose eyes and mind perceive other
things than what are present. Frederick came briskly in, with a
forced cheerfulness, grasped her hand, looked into her eyes, and
burst into tears. She had to try and think of little nothings to
say all breakfast-time, in order to prevent the recurrence of her
companions' thoughts too strongly to the last meal they had taken
together, when there had been a continual strained listening for
some sound or signal from the sick-room.