Then, the love that's in my heart would out in words; but now, though I'm silent on the pain I'm feeling in quitting you, the love is in my heart all the same. But this is not the time to speak on such things. If I do not do what I feel to be right now, I may blame myself all my life long!
Jem, you promised----" And so saying she left him. She went quicker than she would otherwise have passed over those few yards of ground, for fear he should still try to accompany her. Her hand was on the latch, and in a breath the door was opened. There sat her father, still and motionless--not even turning his head to see who had entered; but perhaps he recognised the footstep--the trick of action. He sat by the fire; the grate I should say, for fire there was none. Some dull grey ashes, negligently left, long days ago, coldly choked up the bars. He had taken the accustomed seat from mere force of habit, which ruled his automaton body. For all energy, both physical and mental, seemed to have retreated inwards to some of the great citadels of life, there to do battle against the Destroyer, Conscience. His hands were crossed, his fingers interlaced; usually a position implying some degree of resolution or strength; but in him it was so faintly maintained, that it appeared more the result of chance; an attitude requiring some application of outward force to alter,--and a blow with a straw seemed as though it would be sufficient. And as for his face, it was sunk and worn,--like a skull, with yet a suffering expression that skulls have not! Your heart would have ached to have seen the man, however hardly you might have judged his crime. But crime and all was forgotten by his daughter, as she saw his abashed look, his smitten helplessness. All along she had felt it difficult (as I may have said before) to reconcile the two ideas, of her father and a blood-shedder. But now it was impossible. He was her father! her own dear father! and in his sufferings, whatever their cause, more dearly loved than ever before. His crime was a thing apart, never more to be considered by her. And tenderly did she treat him, and fondly did she serve him in every way that heart could devise, or hand execute. She had some money about her, the price of her strange services as a witness; and when the lingering dusk grew on she stole out to effect some purchases necessary for her father's comfort. For how body and soul had been kept together, even as much as they were, during the days he had dwelt alone, no one can say. The house was bare as when Mary had left it, of coal, or of candle, of food, or of blessing in any shape. She came quickly home; but as she passed Job Legh's door, she stopped.
Doubtless Jem had long since gone; and doubtless, too, he had given Margaret some good reason for not intruding upon her friend for this night at least, otherwise Mary would have seen her before now. But to-morrow,--would she not come in to-morrow? And who so quick as blind Margaret in noticing tones, and sighs, and even silence? She did not give herself time for further thought, her desire to be once more with her father was too pressing; but she opened the door, before she well knew what to say. "It's Mary Barton! I know her by her breathing! Grandfather, it's Mary Barton!" Margaret's joy at meeting her, the open demonstration of her love, affected Mary much; she could not keep from crying, and sat down weak and agitated on the first chair she could find. "Aye, aye, Mary! thou'rt looking a bit different to when I saw thee last.
Thou'lt give Jem and me good characters for sick nurses, I trust. If all trades fail, I'll turn to that. Jem's place is for life, I reckon. Nay, never redden so, lass. You and he know each other's minds by this time!" Margaret held her hand, and gently smiled into her face. Job Legh took the candle up, and began a leisurely inspection. "Thou hast getten a bit of pink in thy cheeks,--not much; but when last I saw thee, thy lips were as white as a sheet. Thy nose is sharpish at th' end; thou'rt more like thy father than ever thou wert before. Lord! child, what's the matter? Art thou going to faint?" For Mary had sickened at the mention of that name; yet she felt that now or never was the time to speak. "Father's come home!" she said, "but he's very poorly; I never saw him as he is now, before. I asked Jem not to come near him for fear it might fidget him." She spoke hastily, and (to her own idea) in an unnatural manner. But they did not seem to notice it, nor to take the hint she had thrown out of company being unacceptable; for Job Legh directly put down some insect, which he was impaling on a corking-pin, and exclaimed, "Thy father come home! Why, Jem never said a word of it! And ailing too!
I'll go in, and cheer him with a bit of talk. I never knew any good come of delegating it." "Oh, Job! father cannot stand--father is too ill. Don't come; not but that you're very kind and good; but to-night--indeed," said she, at last, in despair, seeing Job still persevere in putting away his things; "you must not come till I send or come for you. Father's in that strange way, I can't answer for it if he sees strangers. Please don't come. I'll come and tell you every day how he goes on. I must be off now to see after him. Dear Job! kind Job! don't be angry with me. If you knew all, you'd pity me." For Job was muttering away in high dudgeon, and even Margaret's tone was altered as she wished Mary good night. Just then she could ill brook coldness from any one, and least of all bear the idea of being considered ungrateful by so kind and zealous a friend as Job had been; so she turned round suddenly, even when her hand was on the latch of the door, and ran back, and threw her arms about his neck, and kissed him first, and then Margaret. And then, the tears fast falling down her cheeks, but no word spoken, she hastily left the house, and went back to her home. There was no change in her father's position, or in his spectral look.