’I have seen it.  It was a great change to leave it and come to Milton.’

He took up his newspaper with a determined air, as if resolved to avoid further conversation; and Mr. Bell was fain to resort to his former occupation of trying to find out how he could best break the news to Margaret.

She was at an up-stairs window; she saw him alight; she guessed the truth with an instinctive flash.  She stood in the middle of the drawing-room, as if arrested in her first impulse to rush downstairs, and as if by the same restraining thought she had been turned to stone; so white and immoveable was she.

’Oh! don’t tell me!  I know it from your face!  You would have sent—­you would not have left him—­if he were alive!  Oh papa, papa!’

CHAPTER XLII

ALONE!  ALONE!

’When some beloved voice that was to you
Both sound and sweetness, faileth suddenly,
And silence, against which you dare not cry,
Aches round you like a strong disease and new—­
What hope? what help? what music will undo
That silence to your sense?’
MRS. BROWNING.

The shock had been great.  Margaret fell into a state of prostration, which did not show itself in sobs and tears, or even find the relief of words.  She lay on the sofa, with her eyes shut, never speaking but when spoken to, and then replying in whispers.  Mr. Bell was perplexed.  He dared not leave her; he dared not ask her to accompany him back to Oxford, which had been one of the plans he had formed on the journey to Milton, her physical exhaustion was evidently too complete for her to undertake any such fatigue—­putting the sight that she would have to encounter out of the question.  Mr. Bell sate over the fire, considering what he had better do.  Margaret lay motionless, and almost breathless by him.  He would not leave her, even for the dinner which Dixon had prepared for him down-stairs, and, with sobbing hospitality, would fain have tempted him to eat.  He had a plateful of something brought up to him.  In general, he was particular and dainty enough, and knew well each shade of flavour in his food, but now the devilled chicken tasted like sawdust.  He minced up some of the fowl for Margaret, and peppered and salted it well; but when Dixon, following his directions, tried to feed her, the languid shake of head proved that in such a state as Margaret was in, food would only choke, not nourish her.

Mr. Bell gave a great sigh; lifted up his stout old limbs (stiff with travelling) from their easy position, and followed Dixon out of the room.

’I can’t leave her.  I must write to them at Oxford, to see that the preparations are made:  they can he getting on with these till I arrive.  Can’t Mrs. Lennox come to her?  I’ll write and tell her she must.  The girl must have some woman-friend about her, if only to talk her into a good fit of crying.’