'Indeed, Margaret, you are growing fanciful! God knows I should
be the first to take the alarm if your mother were really ill; we
always saw when she had her headaches at Helstone, even without
her telling us. She looks quite pale and white when she is ill;
and now she has a bright healthy colour in her cheeks, just as
she used to have when I first knew her.' 'But, papa,' said Margaret, with hesitation, 'do you know, I
think that is the flush of pain.' 'Nonsense, Margaret. I tell you, you are too fanciful. You are
the person not well, I think. Send for the doctor to-morrow for
yourself; and then, if it will make your mind easier, he can see
your mother.' 'Thank you, dear papa. It will make me happier, indeed.' And she
went up to him to kiss him. But he pushed her away--gently
enough, but still as if she had suggested unpleasant ideas, which
he should be glad to get rid of as readily as he could of her
presence. He walked uneasily up and down the room.
'Poor Maria!' said he, half soliloquising, 'I wish one could do
right without sacrificing others. I shall hate this town, and
myself too, if she----Pray, Margaret, does your mother often talk
to you of the old places of Helstone, I mean?' 'No, papa,' said Margaret, sadly.
'Then, you see, she can't be fretting after them, eh? It has
always been a comfort to me to think that your mother was so
simple and open that I knew every little grievance she had. She
never would conceal anything seriously affecting her health from
me: would she, eh, Margaret? I am quite sure she would not. So
don't let me hear of these foolish morbid ideas. Come, give me a
kiss, and run off to bed.' But she heard him pacing about (racooning, as she and Edith used
to call it) long after her slow and languid undressing was
finished--long after she began to listen as she lay in bed.