Margaret could not at first believe that the kind heart which had loved her, and the lips which had blessed her, were still for ever.
“Dr. Stapleton, surely you can revive him,” she said, “and bring him back again to life, if only for a few weeks.”
“I would if I could, perhaps,” he said; “but no mortal power could do it, and you should be thankful that he is spared the suffering which we feared.”
“For his sake, my darling, you must not mourn,” said John Dallington tenderly, as he took her in his arms, and tears were in his eyes for her sorrow.
“Not mourn!” Had any one else uttered the words Margaret must have felt that she was being mocked. She would mourn for him through the rest of her life, for was he not the only father whom she had ever known, the friend and protector of her infancy and girlhood? Oh, that she had loved him more, that she had expressed her gratitude more earnestly! And yet she was sure that he had understood, and was satisfied.
The inhabitants of Darentdale were greatly shocked by the news of his death. The familiar figure, the genial voice, the friendly hand had seemed to belong to the place for ever.
“Mr. Harris dead! Who will care for us now?” said the children. “There is no one to take his place,” said the men. “He had a good word for us all—he understood us,” said the women. There was no home which was not darkened by the shadow that had fallen, and very few individuals who did not sympathise with Margaret.
But there was one person who laughed cruelly at that which brought sadness to so many. John Dallington took the news to his mother. “He died suddenly,” he told her, “but the doctors had only that day pronounced him incurably diseased; so the sudden death was a blessing to him.”
“Did the doctors frighten him to death, then?” asked Mrs. Hunter.
“I do not think he was afraid to die; he was too brave a man for that; but his heart must have been very weak.”