“At Mrs. Boughton’s. Nearly the last house, you know, before you come to the churchyard.”
Ben Rymer went striding towards Timberdale, putting his coat-collar well up, that he might not be recognized when going through the village, and arrived at the curate’s lodgings. Mr. Sale was at home, sitting by the fire in a brown study, that seemed to have no light at all in it. Ben, as I knew later, sat down by him, and made a clean breast of everything: his temptation, his fall, and his later endeavours to do right.
“Please God, I shall get on in the world now,” he said; “and I think make a name in my profession. I don’t wish to boast—and time of course will alone prove it—but I believe I have a special aptitude for surgery. My mother will be my care now; and Margaret—as you are good enough to say you still wish for her—shall be your care in future. There are few girls so deserving as she is.”
“I know that,” said the curate. And he shook Ben’s hand upon it as heartily as though it had been a duke royal’s.
It was close upon ten when Ben left him. Mrs. Rymer about that same time was making her usual preparations before retiring—namely, putting her curls in paper by the parlour fire. Margaret sat at the table, reading the Bible in silence, and so trying to school her aching heart. Her mother had been cross and trying all the evening: which did not mend the inward pain.
“What are you crying for?” suddenly demanded Mrs. Rymer, her sharp eyes seeing a tear fall on the book.
“For nothing,” faintly replied Margaret.
“Nothing! Don’t tell me. You are frizzling your bones over that curate, Sale. I’m sure he is a beauty to look at.”
Margaret made no rejoinder; and just then the young servant put in her head.