\"Show not that manner, and these features all,The serpent\"s cunning, and the sinner\"s fall?\"
CRABBE.
The chill, shivery October morning came; not the October morning ofthe country, with soft, silvery mists, clearing off before the sunbeamsthat bring out all the gorgeous beauty of colouring, but the Octobermorning of Milton, whose silver mists were heavy fogs, and where thesun could only show long dusky streets when he did break through andshine. Margaret went languidly about, assisting Dixon in her task ofarranging the house. Her eyes were continually blinded by tears, but shehad no time to give way to regular crying. The father and brotherdepended upon her; while they were giving way to grief, she must beworking, planning, considering. Even the necessary arrangements forthe funeral seemed to devolve upon her.
When the fire was bright and crackling--when everything was ready forbreakfast, and the tea-kettle was singing away, Margaret gave a lastlook round the room before going to summon Mr. Hale and Frederick.
She wanted everything to look as cheerful as possible; and yet, when itdid so, the contrast between it and her own thoughts forced her intosudden weeping. She was kneeling by the sofa, hiding her face in thecushions that no one might hear her cry, when she was touched on theshoulder by Dixon.
\"Come, Miss Hale--come, my dear! You must not give way, or whereshall we all be? There is not another person in the house fit to give adirection of any kind, and there is so much to be done. There\"s who\"s tomanage the funeral; and who\"s to come to it; and where it\"s to be; and allto be settled: and Master Frederick\"s like one crazed with crying, andmaster never was a good one for settling; and, poor gentleman, he goesabout now as if he was lost. It\"s bad enough, my dear, I know; but deathcomes to us all; and you\"re well off never to have lost any friend tillnow.\"Perhaps so. But this seemed a loss by itself; not to bearcomparison with any other event in the world. Margaret did not takeany comfort from what Dixon said, but the unusual tenderness of theprim old servant\"s manner touched her to the heart; and, more from adesire to show her gratitude for this than for any other reason, sheroused herself up, and smiled in answer to Dixon\"s anxious look at her;
and went to tell her father and brother that breakfast was ready.
Mr. Hale came--as if in a dream, or rather with the unconscious motionof a sleep-walker, whose eyes and mind perceive other things than whatare present. Frederick came briskly in, with a forced cheerfulness,grasped her hand, looked into her eyes, and burst into tears. She had totry and think of little nothings to say all breakfast-time, in order toprevent the recurrence of her companions\" thoughts too strongly to thelast meal they bad taken together, when there had been a continualstrained listening for some sound or signal from the sick-room.
After breakfast, she resolved to speak to her father, about the funeral.
He shook his head, and assented to all she proposed, though many ofher propositions absolutely contradicted one another. Margaret gainedno real decision from him; and was leaving the room languidly, to havea consultation with Dixon, when Mr. Hale motioned her back to hisside.
\"Ask Mr. Bell,\" said he in a hollow voice.
\"Mr. Bell!\" said she, a little surprised. \"Mr. Bell of Oxford?\"
\"Mr. Bell,\" he repeated. \"Yes. He was my groom\"s-man.\"
Margaret understood the association.
\"I will write to-day,\" said she. He sank again into listlessness. Allmorning she toiled on, longing for rest, but in a continual whirl ofmelancholy business.
Towards evening, Dixon said to her:
\"I\"ve done it, miss. I was really afraid for master, that he\"d have a strokewith grief. He\"s been all this day with poor missus; and when I\"velistened at the door, I\"ve heard him talking to her, and talking to her, asif she was alive. When I went in he would be quite quiet, but all in amaze like. So I thought to myself, he ought to be roused; and if it giveshim a shock at first, it will, maybe, be the better afterwards. So I\"vebeen and told him, that I don\"t think it\"s safe for Master Frederick to behere. And I don\"t. It was only on Tuesday, when I was out, that I met-aSouthampton man--the first I\"ve seen since I came to Milton; they don\"tmake their way much up here, I think. Well, it was young Leonards, oldLeonards the draper\"s son, as great a scamp as ever lived--who plaguedhis father almost to death, and then ran off to sea. I never could abidehim. He was in the Orion at the same time as Master Frederick, I know;though I don\"t recollect if he was there at the mutiny.\"
\"Did he know you?\" said Margaret, eagerly.
\"Why, that\"s the worst of it. I don\"t believe he would have known me butfor my being such a fool as to call out his name. He were aSouthampton man, in a strange place, or else I should never have beenso ready to call cousins with him, a nasty, good-for-nothing fellow.
Says he, \"Miss Dixon! who would ha\" thought of seeing you here? But
perhaps I mistake, and you\"re Miss Dixon no longer?\" So I told him hemight still address me as an unmarried lady, though if I hadn\"t been soparticular, I\"d had good chances of matrimony. He was polite enough:
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