“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.
“Good-bye, 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 place 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 amongst 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 or 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.