Sarah moaned; the other two men said nothing; had they but uttered a word, I should have remembered it, for I still seem to hear distinctly, as if but just fallen from the lips of the speaker, not merely the words, but the very intonations of that voice to which, standing on the dark staircase, I then listened in all the stupor of grief. Scarcely had it ceased, when the parlour door opened; Cornelius, looking very sad and pale, appeared on the threshold, and, raising his voice, called out, "Margaret!"
I sprang down at once; in a second I was by my father, with my arms round his neck, my cheek to his. He bore no sign of external injury; but his brow was ashy pale; his look was dim; his lips were white. He recognized me, for he looked from me to Cornelius, with a glance that lit suddenly. The young man laid his hand on my shoulder; tears ran down his face, and his lips trembled as he said, "May God forsake me when I forsake your child!"
My father made an effort; he raised himself on one elbow.
"Tell Kate—" he began; but the words that should have followed died away in a mere incoherent murmur: he sank back; there was a sound of heavy breathing; then followed a deep stillness. I felt the hand of Cornelius leaning more heavily upon my shoulder. "Sarah!" he said, looking towards the door, and speaking in a whisper.
She came forward, took my hand, and led me away. She wept bitterly; I looked at her, and shed not one tear. I know not what I felt then; it was dread, it was agony, stupor, and grief.
Alas! I learned in that hour how bitter a chalice even a poor little child may be called upon to drink; how early all may learn to feel the weight of that hand which, heavy as it seems, chastens not in its wrath, but in its tenderness.
CHAPTER II.
My father was dead. He who had kissed me a few hours before,—whose return—God help me, unhappy child!—I had expected, but whose caresses had ceased for ever, for whose coming I might listen in vain,—my father, who loved me so very dearly, was dead.
Of what had befallen me, of the change in my destinies, this was all I clearly understood, and this, alas! I understood but too well. When Cornelius came to me, as I sat alone in the back parlour, where Sarah had taken and left me, when he said, "Margaret, you must go with Sarah!" I neither refused nor resisted. I asked not even why or where I was going. I had been a proud and obstinate child, I was now humble and submissive. I felt, in a manner I cannot define, it was so acute and deep, that my power was over. He who knew not how to deny aught to my entreaties or tears was lying in the next room, cold and inanimate: nor voice, nor embrace of his child would move him now.
Sarah took me to the imaginary step-mother with whom she had once terrified me. Miss Murray was a pale, fair-haired, invalid lady of thirty, who resided in a neat hive-looking little place, called Honeysuckle Cottage; there she dwelt like a solitary bee, sitting in her chair and working the whole day long, with slow industry, or conning over her ailments in a faint, murmuring voice, that reminded one of the hum of a distant hive. She disliked sound, motion, and light; and kept her floors soft, and her windows shrouded and dim. Pets were her horror,— they made a noise and moved about; flowers she tolerated,—they were quiet and silent. She neither went out nor received visits, but lived in a hushed, dreamy, twilight way, suited to her health, mind, and temper. We found Miss Murray already apprised of my father's death. She sat in her parlour, with a soft cambric handkerchief to her eyes; near her stood her servant Abby, suggesting consolation. A lamp with a dark green shade, burned dimly on the table.