It was very well for Margaret that the extreme quiet of the Harley Street house, gave her the natural rest which she needed. It gave her time to comprehend the sudden change which had taken place in her circumstances within the last two months.
She had lost her father and was forced to leave the place that was just starting to feel like home to her, where she had friends and freedom and had found some meaning to her life. And also where she had found love.
The loss of her father was devastating and so soon after losing her mother too. She missed all of her friends and the newfound freedom and meaning she had in her life in Milton. But rising above all her other miseries she found she missed Mr. Thornton most. She felt a great emptiness in her heart every time she thought of him and how she had lost his good opinion. She would carry the stain of her sin with her forever and Mr. Thornton shared in the knowledge of it. Now that she was permanently removed from Milton she would never have the chance to redeem herself in his eyes. What could have been a bright hope for her future had become an empty chasm in her heart.
Margaret was often left alone. Then her thoughts went back to Milton, with a strange sense of the contrast between the life there, and here. She was getting surfeited of the eventless ease in which no struggle or endeavour was required. She was afraid lest she should even become sleepily deadened into forgetfulness of anything beyond the life which was lapping her round with luxury. There might be toilers and moilers there in London, but she never saw them; the very servants lived in an underground world of their own, of which she knew neither the hopes nor the fears; they only seemed to start into existence when some want or whim of their master and mistress needed them. There was a strange unsatisfied vacuum in Margaret's heart and mode of life; and, once when she had dimly hinted this to Edith, the latter, wearied with dancing the night before, languidly stroked Margaret's cheek as she sat on the bed in Margaret's room.
'Poor child!' said Edith.
'Here, drink some water,' and she grabbed Bessy's cup and filled it from the ewer. Margaret sipped the cool water.
'It is a little sad for you to be left, night after night, just at this time when all the world is so
gay. But we shall be having our dinner-parties soon-as soon as Henry comes back from circuit-and then there will be a little pleasant variety for you. No wonder it is moped, poor darling!'
Margaret did not feel as if the dinner-parties would be a panacea, but she submitted to Edith's ministrations. The cup in her hands reminded Margaret of Bessy and how overjoyed she would have been to attend such dinner parties so Margaret tried to move her sad thoughts out of the forefront of her mind and put on a cheerful face.