At last she smiled; a poor, weak little smile; but it gave him
the truest pleasure.
'It seems strange to think, that what gives us most hope for the
future should be called Dolores,' said Margaret. The remark was
more in character with her father than with her usual self; but
to-day they seemed to have changed natures.
'Her mother was a Spaniard, I believe: that accounts for her
religion. Her father was a stiff Presbyterian when I knew him.
But it is a very soft and pretty name.' 'How young she is!--younger by fourteen months than I am. Just,
the age that Edith was when she was engaged to Captain Lennox.
Papa, we will go and see them in Spain.' He shook his head. But he said, 'If you wish it, Margaret. Only
let us come back here. It would seem unfair--unkind to your
mother, who always, I'm afraid, disliked Milton so much, if we
left it now she is lying here, and cannot go with us. No, dear;
you shall go and see them, and bring me back a report of my
Spanish daughter.' 'No, papa, I won't go without you. Who is to take care of you
when I am gone?' 'I should like to know which of us is taking care of the other.
But if you went, I should persuade Mr. Thornton to let me give
him double lessons. We would work up the classics famously. That
would be a perpetual interest. You might go on, and see Edith at
Corfu, if you liked.' Margaret did not speak all at once. Then she said rather gravely:
'Thank you, papa. But I don't want to go. We will hope that Mr.
Lennox will manage so well, that Frederick may bring Dolores to
see us when they are married. And as for Edith, the regiment
won't remain much longer in Corfu. Perhaps we shall see both of
them here before another year is out.' Mr. Hale's cheerful subjects had come to an end. Some painful
recollection had stolen across his mind, and driven him into
silence. By-and-by Margaret said: 'Papa--did you see Nicholas Higgins at the funeral? He was there,
and Mary too. Poor fellow! it was his way of showing sympathy. He
has a good warm heart under his bluff abrupt ways.' 'I am sure of it,' replied Mr. Hale. 'I saw it all along, even
while you tried to persuade me that he was all sorts of bad
things. We will go and see them to-morrow, if you are strong
enough to walk so far.' 'Oh yes. I want to see them. We did not pay Mary--or rather she
refused to take it, Dixon says. We will go so as to catch him
just after his dinner, and before he goes to his work.' Towards evening Mr. Hale said: 'I half expected Mr. Thornton would have called. He spoke of a
book yesterday which he had, and which I wanted to see. He said
he would try and bring it to-day.' Margaret sighed. She knew he would not come. He would be too
delicate to run the chance of meeting her, while her shame must
be so fresh in his memory. The very mention of his name renewed
her trouble, and produced a relapse into the feeling of
depressed, pre-occupied exhaustion. She gave way to listless
languor. Suddenly it struck her that this was a strange manner to
show her patience, or to reward her father for his watchful care
of her all through the day. She sate up and offered to read
aloud. His eyes were failing, and he gladly accepted her
proposal. She read well: she gave the due emphasis; but had any
one asked her, when she had ended, the meaning of what she had
been reading, she could not have told. She was smitten with a
feeling of ingratitude to Mr. Thornton, inasmuch as, in the
morning, she had refused to accept the kindness he had shown her
in making further inquiry from the medical men, so as to obviate
any inquest being held. Oh! she was grateful! She had been
cowardly and false, and had shown her cowardliness and falsehood
in action that could not be recalled; but she was not ungrateful.
It sent a glow to her heart, to know how she could feel towards
one who had reason to despise her. His cause for contempt was so
just, that she should have respected him less if she had thought
he did not feel contempt. It was a pleasure to feel how
thoroughly she respected him. He could not prevent her doing
that; it was the one comfort in all this misery.