Margaret’s strength was so utterly exhausted by these visits, that she had to submit to much watching and petting, and sighing “I-told-you-so’s,” from her aunt. Dixon said she was quite as bad as she had been on the first day she heard of her father’s death; and she and Mrs. Shaw consulted as to the desirableness of delaying the morrow’s journey. But when her aunt reluctantly proposed a few days’ delay to Margaret, the latter writhed her body as if in acute suffering, and said:
“Oh! let us go. I cannot be patient here. I shall not get well here. I want to forget.”
So the arrangements went on: and Captain Lennox came, and with him news of Edith and the little boy; and Margaret found that the indifferent, careless conversation of one who, however kind, was not too warm and anxious a sympathiser, did her good. She roused up; and by the time that she knew she might expect Higgins, she was able to leave the room quietly, and await in her own chamber the expected summons.
“Eh!” said he, as she came in, “to think of th’ oud gentleman dropping off as he did! Yo’ might ha’ knocked me down wi’ a straw when they telled me. ‘Mr. Hale?’ said I; ‘him as was th’ parson?’ ‘Ay,’ said they. ‘Then,’ said I, ‘there’s as good a man gone as ever lived on this earth, let who will be t’other!’ And I came to see yo’, and tell yo’ how grieved I were, but them women in th’ kitchen wouldn’t tell yo’ I were there. They said yo’ were ill,—and butter me, but yo’ dunnot look like the same wench. And yo’re going to be a grand lady up i’ Lunnon, aren’t yo’?”
“Not a grand lady,” said Margaret, half smiling.
“Well! Thornton said—says he, a day or two ago, ‘Higgins, have yo’ seen Miss Hale?’ ‘No,’ says I; ‘there’s a pack o’ women who won’t let me at her. But I can bide my time, if she’s ill. She and I knows each other pretty well; and hoo’l not go doubting that I’m main sorry for th’ oud gentleman’s death, just because I can’t get at her and tell her so.’ And says he, ‘Yo’ll not have much time for to try and see her, my fine chap. She’s not for staying with us a day longer nor she can help. She’s got grand relations, and they’re carrying her off; and we shan’t see her no more.’ ‘Measter,’ said I, ‘if I dunnot see her afore hoo goes, I’ll strive to get up to Lunnon next Whitsuntide, that I will. I’ll not be baulked of saying her good-bye by any relations whatsomdever. But bless yo’, I knowed yo’d come. It were only for to humour the measter, I let on as if I thought yo’d m’appen leave Milton without seeing me.”
“You’re quite right,” said Margaret. “You only do me justice. And you’ll not forget me, I’m sure. If no one else in Milton remembers me, I’m certain you will; and papa too. You know how good and tender he was. Look, Higgins! here is his Bible. I have kept it for you. I can ill spare it; but I know he would have liked you to have it. I’m sure you’ll care for it, and study what is in it, for his sake.”
“Yo’ may say that. If it were the deuce’s own scribble, and yo’ axed me to read in it for yo’r sake and the oud gentleman’s, I’d do it. Whatten’s this, wench! I’m not going for to take yo’r brass, so dunnot think it. We’ve been great friends, ’bout the sound o’ money passing between us.”
“For the children—for Boucher’s children,” said Margaret, hurriedly. “They may need it. You’ve no right to refuse it for them. I would not give you one penny,” she said, smiling; “don’t think there’s any of it for you.”
“Well, wench! I can nobbut say, Bless yo’! and bless yo’!—and amen.”