Margaret stood in sight of her mother's window and could have cried with
joy, for there was a light in it. She lifted up her heart in
thankfulness, feeling as if Heaven had heard her. Then another fear
presented itself, one that had been haunting her all through the
journey, but that in the overwhelming dread of not finding her mother
alive she had not stayed to consider--Hannah. What would Hannah do?
Would she refuse to let her enter the house while her mother was
ill--perhaps dying? The letter which she had written was still in the
post; it would not arrive till the morning; there was not yet the chance
of that softening her. She had no right to keep Margaret out; but it was
no good considering any question of right now; she dreaded high words
and Hannah's rasping voice. Her feet flagged as she went down the green
path of the Dutch garden; she stood irresolute at the bottom of it,
looking up at the dimly lighted window, wondering what to do. The front
door was certain to be bolted at this time of night, and probably every
one was up-stairs, so that no one would hear her if she tapped, and she
was afraid to ring lest she should disturb her mother. She went softly
past the house, beside the flower-bed against the wall, and beneath her
own bedroom window, round to the back door by which she had left the
house a month ago, and cautiously tried the latch, but it was fastened
on the inside, as she knew it would be. Then suddenly a light came from
the kitchen window; evidently some one had entered with a candle;
perhaps Towsey had come down, or Hannah--she was afraid to knock lest it
should be Hannah. A thick muslin blind was drawn over the window, which
was so high that Margaret was not tall enough to look in. She remembered
the four-legged stool painted gray--it generally stood between the
wood-house and the back door; the postman used to sit on it sometimes
and talk to Towsey while he rested. If she stood on that she might see
into the kitchen. She found it, and, still not making a sound, put it
down beneath the window, mounted, and looked in. Through the muslin
curtain she could see Towsey by the fireplace; she had put a little
saucepan on the fire, and was beginning to stir something that was in
it, and there was no one else in the kitchen. Margaret tapped gently,
and Towsey started as if she divined that it was Margaret; she came to
the window and, lifting the curtain, looked out. Margaret put her head
close to the glass so that in the darkness there could be no mistake of
her identity.
Then Towsey signed to her to go to the back door, and went and softly
unbarred it. She only opened it a little way and put out her head as if
she were afraid that even a whisper might be heard inside the house.
"Miss Margaret," she said, "I knew you would be here."
"Is she better?" Margaret asked, breathlessly.
Towsey shook her head. "She's never going to be better," she whispered;
"but she's always been a healthy woman, and it may take a deal of dying
to bring her to the end."
The words smote Margaret, and she held on to the doorway to support
herself.
"Is Hannah with her?" she asked.
"Ay, she is with her; you may be sure of that."
"Has she said nothing about me? Didn't she mean to send for me?"
"Not a word. You see it has all been so sudden; she was only took worse
last night."
"Did she get a telegram yesterday?"
"Ay, late yesterday afternoon. She said I wasn't to say anything to
Hannah about it; she looked as if she were pleased. Hannah had gone over
to Petersfield for the afternoon when it came and didn't get back till
half an hour after."
"What is the matter with mother?--is it her heart, or what?"
"Yes, it's her heart, I expect; we sent Daddy for the doctor at nine
o'clock last night, and he came again this morning. He hadn't been since
last week. He said she was better; but he didn't seem to think well of
her."
"Has Hannah said nothing about me?"
"I asked her if she'd wrote after he had gone, but she told me to mind
my work and leave her to mind other things."
"And then?"
"And then I just got George Canning to write those lines and post them
in Haslemere when he went for the physic. I thought if he posted it
before twelve you'd likely get it to-night."
"I did--I did!" and Margaret put her hand on Towsey's arm in token of
gratitude. Towsey turned her head back for a moment as if she were
listening, but all was still above.
"Has mother asked for me?" Margaret whispered.
"Ay, every hour."
"I must come in, I will come in!" she said, desperately.
"You have a right to," Towsey answered; "but after she came from London
she said she would turn me from the door if I ever opened it to you."
"I must see my mother!" Margaret said, and a sob came to her throat.
"She has no right to keep me from her."
"That's true enough, Miss Margaret. But she's that bitter I believe
she'd shut the door on you if your mother was lying dead."
"I would insist," said Margaret, in despair; "but it would be so
terrible to have a quarrel now, and it might kill her. She's my mother,
Towsey," Margaret added, in a heart-broken whisper.
"And Hannah may say what she pleases, you shall enter," whispered Towsey
with determination, and opened the door wide. Margaret went swiftly past
her into the kitchen, and Towsey shut the door softly and followed her.
"You'll be tired with the journey," she said, tenderly; "let me get you
something to eat and drink."
"I don't want anything to eat or drink, Towsey, dear; I want to creep up
and be near mother even if I can't see her. Oh, I wonder if Hannah would
prevent my seeing her?"
"Ay, that she would," said Towsey, with conviction. "You'd better sit a
bit," and she led Margaret to a chair very carefully, so that the sound
of their footsteps should not be heard above, and still they spoke in
whispers.
"Is there no hope?" Margaret asked, chokingly.
Towsey shook her head. "Hannah won't believe she's going, but I can see
it. I have seen plenty go, and know the signs. The pain's gone--it's
never been very bad--but it's all gone now. She's just waiting for
death, though, somehow, I don't think it will come till she's seen you."
"But doesn't Hannah know she's dying?"
Towsey shook her head. "She doesn't see it, and you can never make
Hannah believe anything she doesn't think inside her."
"Is Hannah likely to come down?"
"Likely she'll be down presently for the arrow-root. Look you, Miss
Margaret, I'll make an excuse and go up for something. You take off your
shoes and walk softly by me, keeping well to the side of the staircase.
There's only the little lamp in the room, and there's no light outside;
she'll not see, even if she looks out."
"But what shall I do when I get up?" Margaret asked, too dazed to think
for herself. She took off her hat as she spoke and put it on the table.
Towsey lifted it gently and hid it in the settle where she kept her own
things.
"As I go into the room you can slip into the cupboard outside the
door--you'll find it open--and hide among the things hanging up. I'll
try and get Hannah down and keep her to eat a bit of supper; then,
perhaps, you could steal in and look at her for a moment without any one
knowing you are there."
"But if it did her harm--if it excited her?"
"It won't," said Towsey, firmly; "it'll make her happy before she goes.
It would be terrible if she died without seeing you or her husband, when
she's waiting and longing for you both that badly she can scarce
breathe."
"Let us go at once," whispered Margaret.
They crept out of the kitchen together, Margaret's hand on Towsey's
shoulder. The tears came into the old woman's eyes as they crossed the
threshold. "I nursed you a lot of times when you were a baby," she
whispered; "and now you are such a beauty--she said it," and she nodded
upward, "only yesterday."
They went along the passage and stopped near the foot of the stairs that
were between the kitchen door and the door of the best parlor. They
could hear Hannah's voice. She was sitting by her mother's bedside
reading the Bible. Towsey went up a few steps and stopped and craned her
neck, and came back.
"The door's nearly to," she whispered. "Hannah won't see."
Margaret softly followed Towsey up-stairs, keeping close to the wall
till she reached the landing, then she slipped into the cupboard that
was next her mother's room. She remembered how she had looked into it
the day that Tom Carringford came to the farm four months ago; her
mother's long cloak and best dress had been hanging there then, and they
were there now. Margaret knew the feel of them so well--it gave her a
thrill to touch them. It was quite dark within the cupboard; even if the
door were open and Hannah passed, she would not be likely to see her.
She was afraid to move the door lest it should be noticed, but she hid a
little way behind it. Towsey, seeing she was safe, looked in at Hannah,
who, perhaps, made some sign to her, for she went softly down to the
kitchen again. Then, as Margaret stood hidden and listening, out of her
mother's bedroom door there came still the sound of Hannah reading of
love and mercy; but her voice told that neither had entered her own
heart.