"My heart revolts within me, and two voices Make themselves audible within my bosom." WALLENSTEIN.
On Margaret's return home she found two letters on the table: one was a note for her mother,--the other, which had come by the post, was evidently from her aunt Shaw--covered with foreign post-marks--thin, silvery, and rustling. She took up the other, and was examining it, when her father came in suddenly:
"So your mother is tired, and gone to bed early! I'm afraid, such a thundery day was not the best in the world for the doctor to see her. What did he say? Dixon tells me he spoke to you about her."
Margaret hesitated. Her father's looks became more grave and anxious:
"He does not think her seriously ill?"
"Not at present; she needs care, he says; he was very kind, and he said he would call again, and see how his medicines worked."
"Only care?--he did not recommend change of air?--he did not say this smoky town was doing her any harm, did he, Margaret?"
"No! not a word," she replied, gravely. "He was anxious, I think."
"Doctors have that anxious manner; its professional," said he.
Margaret saw, in her father's nervous ways, that the first impression of possible danger was made upon his mind, in spite of all his making light of what she told him. He could not forget the subject,--could not pass from it to other things; he kept recurring to it through the evening, with an unwillingness to receive even the slightest unfavourable idea, which made Margaret inexpressibly sad.
"This letter is from Aunt Shaw, papa. She has got to Naples, and finds it too hot, so she has taken apartments at Sorrento. But I don't think she likes Italy."
"He did not say anything about diet, did he?"
"It was to be nourishing, and digestible. Mamma's appetite is pretty good, I think."
"Yes! and that makes it all the more strange he should have thought of speaking about diet."
"I asked him, papa." Another pause. Then Margaret went on: "Aunt Shaw says she has sent me some coral ornaments, papa: but," added Margaret, half smiling, "she's afraid the Milton dissenters won't appreciate them. She has got all her ideas of Dissenters from the Quakers, has she not?"
"If ever you hear or notice that your mother wishes for anything, be sure you let me know. I am so afraid she does not tell me always what she would like. Pray, see after that girl Mrs. Thornton named. If we had a good, efficient house-servant, Dixon could be constantly with her, and I'd answer for it we'd soon set her up amongst us, if care will do it. She's been very much tired of late, with the hot weather, and the difficulty of getting a servant. A little rest will put her quite to rights--eh, Margaret?"
"I hope so," said Margaret,--but so sadly, that her father took notice of it. He pinched her cheek.
"Come; if you look so pale as this, I must rouge you up a little. Take care of yourself, child, or you'll be wanting the doctor next."
But he could not settle to anything that evening. He was continually going backwards and forwards, on laborious tiptoe, to see if his wife was still asleep. Margaret's heart ached at his restlessness--his trying to stifle and strangle the hideous fear that was looming out of the dark places of his heart.
He came back at last, somewhat comforted.
"She's awake now, Margaret. She quite smiled as she saw me standing by her. Just her old smile. And she says she feels refreshed, and ready for tea. Where's the note for her? She want's to see it. I'll read it to her while you make tea."
The note proved to be a formal invitation from Mrs. Thornton, to Mr., Mrs., and Miss Hale to dinner, on the twenty-first instant. Margaret was surprised to find an acceptance contemplated, after all she had learnt of sad probabilities during the day. But so it was. The idea of her husband's and daughter's going to this dinner had quite captivated Mrs. Hale's fancy, even before Margaret had heard the contents of the note. It was an event to diversify the monotony of the invalid's life; and she clung to the idea of their going, with even fretful pertinacity, when Margaret objected.
"Nay, Margaret: if she wishes it, I'm sure we'll both go willingly. She never would wish it unless she felt herself really stronger--really better than we thought she was, eh, Margaret?" said Mr. Hale, anxiously, as she prepared to write the note of acceptance, the next day.
"Eh! Margaret?" questioned he, with a nervous motion of his hands. It seemed cruel to refuse him the comfort he craved for. And besides, his passionate refusal to admit the existence of fear, almost inspired Margaret herself with hope.
"I do think she is better since last night," said she. "Her eyes look brighter, and her complexion clearer."
"God bless you," said her father earnestly. "But is it true? Yesterday was so sultry every one felt ill. It was a most unlucky day for Mr. Donaldson to see her on."
So he went away to his day's duties, now increased by the preparation of some lectures he had promised to deliver to the working people at a neighbouring Lyceum. He had chosen Ecclesiastical Architecture as his subject, rather more in accordance with his own taste and knowledge than as falling in with the character of the place or the desire for particular kinds of information among those to whom he was to lecture. And the institution itself, being in debt, was only too glad to get a gratis course from an educated and accomplished man like Mr. Hale, let the subject be what it might.
"Well, mother," asked Mr. Thornton that night, "who have accepted your invitations for the twenty-first?"
"Fanny, where are the notes? The Slicksons accept, Collingbrooks accept, Stephenses accept, Browns decline. Hales--father and daughter come--mother too great an invalid--Macphersons come, and Mr. Horsfall, and Mr. Young. I was thinking of asking the Porters, as the Browns can't come."
"Very good. Do you know, I'm really afraid Mrs. Hale is very far from well, from what Dr. Donaldson says."
"It's strange of them to accept a dinner-invitation if she's very ill," said Fanny.
"I didn't say very ill," said her brother, rather sharply. "I only said far from well. They may not know it either." And then he suddenly remembered that, from what Dr. Donaldson had told him, Margaret, at any rate, must be aware of the exact state of the case.
"Very probably they are quite aware of what you said yesterday, John--of the great advantage it would be to them--to Mr. Hale, I mean, to be introduced to such people as the Stephenses and the Collingbrooks."
"I'm sure that motive would not influence them. No! I think I understand how it is."
"John!" said Fanny, laughing in her little, weak, nervous way. "How you profess to understand these Hales, and how you never will allow that we can know anything about them. Are they really so very different to most people one meets with?"
She did not mean to vex him; but if she had intended it, she could not have done it more thoroughly. He chafed in silence, however, not deigning to reply to her question.
"They do not seem to me out of the common way," said Mrs. Thornton. "He appears a worthy kind of man enough; rather too simple for trade--so it's perhaps as well he should have been a clergyman first, and now a teacher. She's a bit of a fine lady, with her invalidism; and as for the girl--she's the only one who puzzles me when I think about her,--which I don't often do. She seems to have a great notion of giving herself airs; and I can't make out why. I could almost fancy she thinks herself too good for her company at times. And yet they're not rich; from all I can hear they never have been."
"And she's not accomplished, mamma. She can't play."
"Go on, Fanny. What else; does she want to bring her up to your standard?"
"Nay! John," said his mother, "that speech of Fanny's did no harm. I myself heard Miss Hale say she could not play. If you would let us alone, we could perhaps like her, and see her merits."
"I'm sure I never could!" murmured Fanny, protected by her mother. Mr. Thornton heard, but did not care to reply. He was walking up and down the dining-room, wishing that his mother would order candles, and allow him to set to work at either reading or writing, and so put a stop to the conversation. But he never thought of interfering in any of the small domestic regulations that Mrs. Thornton observed, in habitual remembrance of her old economies.
"Mother," said he, stopping, and bravely speaking out the truth, "I wish you would like Miss Hale."
"Why," asked she, startled by his earnest, yet tender manner. "You're never thinking of marrying her?--a girl without a penny."
"She would never have me," said he, with a short laugh.
"No, I don't think she would," answered his mother. "She laughed in my face, when I praised her for speaking out something Mr. Bell had said in your favour. I liked the girl for doing so frankly, for it made me sure she had no thought of you; and the next minute she vexed me so by seeming to think---- Well, never mind! Only you're right in saying she's too good an opinion of herself to think of you! The saucy jade! I should like to know where she'd find a better!"
"Well, as I'm just as much convinced of the truth of what you have been saying as you can be; and as I have no thought or expectation of ever asking her to be my wife, you'll believe me for the future that I'm quite disinterested in speaking about her. I foresee trouble for that girl--perhaps, want of motherly care--and I only wish you to be ready to be a friend to her, in case she needs one. Now, Fanny," said he, "I trust you have delicacy enough to understand, that it is as great an injury to Miss Hale as to me--in fact, she would think it a greater--to suppose that I have any reason, more than I now give, for begging you and my mother to show her every kindly attention."
"I cannot forgive her her pride," said his mother; "I will befriend her, if there is need, for your asking, John. I would befriend Jezebel herself if you asked me. But this girl, who turns up her nose at us all--who turns up her nose at you----"
"Nay, mother; I have never yet put myself, and I mean never to put myself, within reach of her contempt."
"Contempt, indeed!"--(One of Mrs. Thornton's expressive snorts.)--"Don't go on speaking of Miss Hale, John, if I've to be kind to her. When I'm with her, I don't know if I like or dislike her most; but when I think of her, and hear you talk of her, I hate her. I can see she's given herself airs to you as well as if you'd told me out."
"And if she has," said he--and then he paused for a moment--then went on: "I'm not a lad, to be cowed by a proud look from a woman, or to care for her misunderstanding me and my position. I can laugh at it!"
"To be sure! and at her too, with her fine notions, and haughty tosses!"
"I only wonder why you talk so much about her, then," said Fanny. "I'm sure, I'm tired enough of the subject."
"Well!" said her brother, with a shade of bitterness. "Suppose we find some more agreeable subject. What do you say to a strike, by way of something pleasant to talk about?"
"Have the hands actually turned out?" asked Mrs. Thornton, with vivid interest.
"Hamper's men are actually out. Mine are working out their week, through fear of being prosecuted for breach of contract. I'd have had every one of them up and punished for it, that left his work before his time was out."
"The law expenses would have been more than the hands themselves were worth--a set of ungrateful naughts!" said his mother.
"To be sure. But I'd have shown them how to keep my word, and how I mean them to keep their's. They know me by this time. Slickson's men are off--pretty certain he won't spend money in getting them punished. We're in for a turn-out, mother."
"I hope there are not many orders in hand?"
"Of course there are. They know that well enough. But they don't quite understand all, though they think they do."
"What do you mean, John?"
Candles had been brought, and Fanny had taken up her interminable piece of worsted-work, over which she was yawning; throwing herself back in her chair, from time to time to gaze at vacancy, and think of nothing at her ease.
"Why," said he, "the Americans are getting their yarns so into the general market, that our only chance is producing them at a lower rate. If we can't, we may shut up shop at once, and hands and masters alike go on tramp. Yet these fools go back to the prices paid three years ago--nay, some of their leaders quote Dickinson's price now--though they know as well as we do that, what with fines pressed out of their wages, as no honourable man would extort them, the real rate of wage paid at Dickinson's is less than at ours. Upon my word, mother, I wish the old combination laws were in force. It is too bad to find out that fools--ignorant, wayward men like these--just by uniting their silly heads, are to rule over the fortunes of those who bring all the wisdom that knowledge and experience, and often painful thought and anxiety, can give. The next thing will be--indeed, we've all but come to it now--that we shall have to go and ask--stand hat in hand--and humbly ask the secretary of the Spinner's Union to be so kind as to furnish us with labour at their own price. That's what they want--they, who haven't the sense to see that, if we don't get a fair share of the profits to compensate us for our wear and tear here in England, we can move off to some other country; and that, what with home and foreign competition, we are none of us likely to make above a fair share, and may be thankful enough if we can get that, in an average number of years."
"Can't you get hands from Ireland? I wouldn't keep these fellows a day. I'd teach them that I was master, and could employ what servants I liked."
"Yes! to be sure, I can; and will, too, if they go on long. It will be trouble and expense, and I fear there will be some danger; but I will do it, rather than give in."
"If there is to be all this extra expense, I'm sorry we're giving a dinner just now."
"So am I,--not because of the expense, but because I shall have much to think about, and many unexpected calls on my time. But we must have had Mr. Horsfall, and he does not stay in Milton long. And as for the others, we owe them dinners, and it's all one trouble."
He kept on with his restless walk--not speaking any more, but drawing a deep breath from time to time, as if endeavouring to throw off some annoying thought. Fanny asked her mother numerous small questions, all having nothing to do with the subject, which a wiser person would have perceived was occupying her attention. Consequently, she received many short answers. She was not sorry when, at ten o'clock, the servants filed in to prayers. These her mother always read,--first reading a chapter. They were now working steadily through the Old Testament. When prayers were ended, and his mother had wished him good-night, with that long steady look of hers which conveyed no expression of the tenderness that was in her heart, but yet had the intensity of a blessing, Mr. Thornton continued his walk. All his business plans had received a check, a sudden pull-up, from this approaching turn-out. The forethought of many anxious hours was thrown away, utterly wasted by their insane folly, which would injure themselves even more than him, though no one could set any limit to the mischief they were doing. And these were the men who thought themselves fitted to direct the masters in the disposal of their capital; Hamper had said, only this very day, that if he were ruined by the strike, he would start life again, comforted by the conviction that those who had brought it on were in a worse predicament than he himself,--for he had head as well as hands, while they had only hands; and if they drove away their market, they could not follow it, nor turn to anything else. But this thought was no consolation to Mr. Thornton. It might be that revenge gave him no pleasure; it might be that he valued the position he had earned with the sweat of his brow, so much that he keenly felt its being endangered by the ignorance or folly of others,--so keenly that he had no thoughts to spare for what would be the consequences of their conduct to themselves. He paced up and down, setting his teeth now and then. At last it struck two. The candles were flickering in their sockets. He lighted his own, muttering to himself:
"Once for all they shall know whom they have got to deal with. I can give them a fortnight,--no more. If they don't see their madness before the end of that time, I must have hands from Ireland. I believe it's Slickson's doing,--confound him and his dodges! He thought he was overstocked; so he seemed to yield at first, when the deputation came to him,--and of course, he only confirmed them in their folly, as he meant to do. That's where it spread from."

On Margaret's return home she found two letters on the table. One was a note for her mother; the other was from her Aunt Shaw, covered with foreign post-marks. She was examining it when her father came in.
'So your mother is tired, and gone to bed early! I'm afraid such a thundery day was not the best for the doctor to see her. What did he say?'
Margaret hesitated.
'He does not think her seriously ill?' asked her father.
'Not at present; she needs care, he says; he was very kind, and said he would call again.'
'He did not recommend change of air? - he did not say this smoky town was doing her any harm, did he, Margaret?'
'Not a word,' she replied, gravely. 'He was anxious, I think.'
'Doctors have that anxious manner; it's professional.'
Margaret saw that the first impression of possible danger was made upon his mind, in spite of his making light of what she told him. He kept recurring to the subject through the evening, with an unwillingness to receive even the slightest unfavourable idea, which made Margaret inexpressibly sad.
'This letter is from Aunt Shaw, papa. She has got to Naples, and finds it too hot. I don't think she likes Italy.'
'He did not say anything about diet, did he?'
'It was to be nourishing. Mamma's appetite is pretty good, I think.'
'Yes! that makes it all the more strange he should have spoken about diet.'
'I asked him, papa.' Margaret went on: 'Aunt Shaw says, she has sent me some coral ornaments, papa; but she's afraid the Milton Dissenters won't appreciate them.'
'If ever you hear that your mother wishes for anything, be sure you let me know. I am afraid she does not always tell me what she would like. Pray, see about that girl Mrs. Thornton named. If we had a good house-servant, Dixon could be constantly with your mother. We could soon set her up. She's been very tired of late, with the hot weather, but a little rest will put her to rights - eh, Margaret?'
'I hope so,' said Margaret sadly. Her father pinched her cheek.
'Come; you must take care of yourself, child, or you'll be wanting the doctor next.'
But he could not settle to anything that evening. He was continually going backwards and forwards, on laborious tiptoe, to see if his wife was still asleep. Margaret's heart ached at his restlessness. He came back at last, somewhat comforted.
'She's awake now, Margaret. She smiled as she saw me - just her old smile. And she says she feels refreshed, and ready for tea. Where's the note for her? She wants to see it.'
The note was a formal invitation from Mrs. Thornton, to dinner on the twenty-first. Margaret was surprised to find an acceptance was contemplated. But so it was. The idea of her husband's and daughter's going to this dinner quite captivated Mrs. Hale's fancy. She clung to the idea of their going, even when Margaret objected.
'She wouldn't wish it unless she really felt stronger - would she, Margaret?' said Mr. Hale anxiously, as she prepared to write the note of acceptance the next day. It seemed cruel to refuse him the comfort he craved for.
'I do think she is better since last night,' said she. 'Her eyes look brighter, and her complexion clearer.'
'God bless you,' said her father, earnestly. 'Yesterday was so sultry everyone felt ill. It was a most unlucky day for Mr. Donaldson to see her.' So he went away to his day's duties, which were now increased by some lectures he had promised to deliver on Church Architecture.
'Well, mother,' asked Mr. Thornton that night, 'who have accepted your invitations for the twenty-first?'
'Fanny, where are the notes? The Slicksons accept, Collingbrooks accept, Stephenses accept, Browns decline. Hales - father and daughter come - mother too great an invalid - Macphersons come, and Mr. Horsfall, and Mr. Young.'
'Very good. Do you know, I'm really afraid Mrs. Hale is very far from well, from what Dr. Donaldson says.'
'It's strange of them to accept a dinner-invitation if she's very ill,' said Fanny.
'I didn't say very ill,' said her brother, rather sharply. 'I only said very far from well. They may not know it either.' Then he remembered that, from what Dr. Donaldson had told him, Margaret, at any rate, must be aware of the exact state of the case.
'Very probably they know the great advantage it would be to them, to be introduced to such people as the Stephenses and the Collingbrooks.'
'I'm sure that motive would not influence them. No! I think I understand how it is.'
'John!' said Fanny, laughing in her little, weak, nervous way. 'How you profess to understand these Hales, and yet make out they are so different to most people.'
She did not mean to vex him; but she could not have done it more thoroughly. He was silent.
'They do not seem to me out of the common way,' said Mrs. Thornton. 'He appears a worthy kind of man enough. She's a bit of a fine lady, with her invalidism; and as for the girl - she's the one who puzzles me. She seems to have a great notion of giving herself airs; and I can't make out why. I could almost fancy she thinks herself too good for her company. And yet they're not rich.'
'And she's not accomplished, mamma. She can't play.'
'Go on, Fanny. What else does she want to bring her up to your standard?'
'Nay! John,' said his mother, 'I myself heard Miss Hale say she could not play. If you would let us alone, we could perhaps like her, and see her merits.'
'I'm sure I never could!' murmured Fanny. Mr. Thornton heard her, but did not reply. He walked up and down the dining-room, wishing that his mother would order candles, and allow him to read or write, and so end the conversation. But he never thought of interfering in any of the small domestic rules that Mrs. Thornton observed, in remembrance of her old economies.
'Mother,' said he, stopping, and bravely speaking out the truth, 'I wish you would like Miss Hale.'
'Why?' asked she, startled by his earnest, yet tender manner. 'You're never thinking of marrying her? - a girl without a penny.'
'She would never have me,' said he, with a short laugh.
'No, I don't think she would,' answered his mother. 'She laughed in my face, when I praised her for repeating something Mr. Bell had said in your favour. I liked the girl for doing it so frankly, for it made me sure she had no thought of you; and the next minute she vexed me so by- Well, never mind! But she's too good an opinion of herself to think of you. The saucy jade! I should like to know where she'd find a better!'
If these words hurt her son, the dusky light prevented him from showing it. He came up quite cheerfully to his mother, and putting one hand on her shoulder, said:
'Well, as I have no thought of ever asking her to be my wife, you'll believe that I'm quite disinterested in speaking about her. I foresee trouble for that girl - perhaps want of motherly care. I only wish you to be ready to be a friend to her, if she needs one. Now, Fanny, I trust you understand that I have no other reason for begging you and my mother to be kind to her.'
'I cannot forgive her pride,' said his mother. 'I will befriend her, if there is need, John. I would befriend Jezebel herself if you asked me. But this girl, who turns up her nose at us-'
'If she does,' said he, 'I'm not a lad to be cowed by a proud look from a woman, or to care for her misunderstanding me. I can laugh at it!'
'I only wonder why you talk so much about her, then,' said Fanny. 'I'm sure, I'm tired of the subject.'
'Well!' said her brother, with a shade of bitterness. 'Suppose we find some more agreeable subject - like a strike?'
'Have the hands actually turned out?' asked Mrs. Thornton.
'Hamper's men are out. Mine are working out their week, through fear of being prosecuted for breach of contract. I'd have had every one of them up for that, if they left their work before time.'
'The law fees would have been more than the hands themselves were worth - the ungrateful naughts!' said his mother.
'To be sure. But I'd have shown them how I keep my word, and how I mean them to keep theirs. They know me. Slickson's men are off - we're in for a turn-out, mother.'
'I hope there are not many orders in hand?'
'Of course there are. They know that well enough. But they don't quite understand all, though they think they do.'
'What do you mean, John?'
Candles had been brought, and Fanny was sewing and yawning in turn; throwing herself back in her chair, from time to time, to gaze at vacancy, and think of nothing.
'Why,' said he, 'the Americans are selling so many yarns, that our only chance is producing them at a lower rate. If we can't, we may shut up shop at once. Yet these fools go back to the prices paid three years ago - nay, some of their leaders quote Dickinson's prices now, though they know as well as we do that, what with fines taken out of their wages, and other fees, the real rate of wage paid at Dickinson's is less than at ours. Upon my word, mother, it is too bad to find that ignorant fools like these are to rule over the fortunes of those with knowledge and experience. The next thing, we shall have to go hat in hand and humbly ask the Spinners' Union to kindly give us labour at their own price. That's what they want. They haven't the sense to see that, if we don't get enough profit here in England, we can move off to some other country.'
'Can't you get hands from Ireland? I wouldn't keep these fellows a day. I'd teach them that I could employ what servants I liked.'
'Yes! to be sure, I can; and I will, too, if they go on long. It will be trouble and expense; but I will do it, rather than give in.'
'If there is to be all this extra expense, I'm sorry we're giving a dinner just now.'
'So am I - not because of the expense, but because I shall have much to think about, and many calls on my time. But we owe the dinners.'
He kept on with his restless walk, drawing a deep breath from time to time, as if trying to throw off some annoying thought. Fanny was not sorry when, at ten o'clock, the servants filed in to prayers, which her mother read.
When prayers were ended, his mother wished him goodnight, with a long steady look which conveyed none of the tenderness in her heart, but yet had the intensity of a blessing. Mr. Thornton continued his walk. All his business plans had received a check from this approaching turn-out. The forethought of many anxious hours was thrown away, utterly wasted by their insane folly, which would injure themselves even more than him.
And these were the men who thought themselves fitted to direct the masters in the use of their money! Hamper had said that if he were ruined by the strike, he would start again, comforted by the conviction that the strikers were in a worse predicament - for he had head as well as hands, while they had only hands, and could turn to nothing else.
But this thought was no consolation to Mr. Thornton. It might be that revenge gave him no pleasure; it might be that he felt keenly that all his efforts were endangered by the folly of others - so keenly that he had no thoughts to spare for what would happen to them. He paced up and down until the clock struck two. The candles were flickering in their sockets. He muttered to himself:
'Once for all, they shall know whom they have got to deal with. I can give them a fortnight. If they don't see their madness before the end of that time, I must have hands from Ireland.'


"Revenge may have her own; Roused discipline aloud proclaims their cause, And injured navies urge their broken laws." BYRON.
Margaret began to wonder whether all offers were as unexpected beforehand,--as distressing at the time of their occurrence, as the two she had had. An involuntary comparison between Mr. Lennox and Mr. Thornton arose in her mind. She had been sorry, that an expression of any other feeling than friendship had been lured out by circumstances from Henry Lennox. That regret was the predominant feeling, on the first occasion of her receiving a proposal. She had not felt so stunned--so impressed as she did now, when echoes of Mr. Thornton's voice yet lingered about the room. In Lennox's case, he seemed for a moment to have slid over the boundary between friendship and love; and the instant afterwards, to regret it nearly as much as she did, although for different reasons. In Mr. Thornton's case, as far as Margaret knew, there was no intervening stage of friendship. Their intercourse had been one continued series of opposition. Their opinions clashed; and indeed, she had never perceived that he had cared for her opinions, as belonging to her, the individual. As far as they defied his rock-like power of character, his passion-strength, he seemed to throw them off from him with contempt, until she felt the weariness of the exertion of making useless protests; and now, he had come, in this strange wild passionate way, to make known his love! For, although at first it had struck her, that his offer was forced and goaded out of him by sharp compassion for the exposure she had made of herself,--which he, like others, might misunderstand--yet, even before he left the room,--and certainly not five minutes after, the clear conviction dawned upon her, shined bright upon her, that he did love her; that he had loved her; that he would love her. And she shrank and shuddered as under the fascination of some great power, repugnant to her whole previous life. She crept away, and hid from his idea. But it was of no use. To parody a line out of Fairfax's Tasso--
"His strong idea wandered through her thought."
She disliked him the more for having mastered her inner will. How dared he say that he would love her still, even though she shook him off with contempt? She wished she had spoken more--stronger. Sharp, decisive speeches came thronging into her mind, now that it was too late to utter them. The deep impression made by the interview, was like that of a horror in a dream; that will not leave the room although we waken up, and rub our eyes, and force a stiff rigid smile upon our lips. It is there--there, cowering and gibbering, with fixed ghastly eyes, in some corner of the chamber, listening to hear whether we dare to breathe of its presence to any one. And we dare not; poor cowards that we are!
And so she shuddered away from the threat of his enduring love. What did he mean? Had she not the power to daunt him? She would see. It was more daring than became a man to threaten her so. Did he ground it upon the miserable yesterday? If need were, she would do the same to-morrow,--by a crippled beggar, willingly and gladly,--but by him, she would do it, just as bravely, in spite of his deductions, and the cold slime of woman's impertinence. She did it because it was right, and simple, and true to save where she could save; even to try to save. "Fais ce que dois, advienne que pourra."
Hitherto she had not stirred from where he had left her; no outward circumstances had roused her out of the trance of thought in which she had been plunged by his last words, and by the look of his deep intent passionate eyes, as their flames had made her own fall before them. She went to the window, and threw it open, to dispel the oppression which hung around her. Then she went and opened the door, with a sort of impetuous wish to shake off the recollection of the past hour, in the company of others, or in active exertion. But all was profoundly hushed in the noonday stillness of a house, where an invalid catches the unrefreshing sleep that is denied to the night-hours. Margaret would not be alone. What should she do? "Go and see Bessy Higgins, of course," thought she, as the recollection of the message sent the night before flashed into her mind. And away she went.
When she got there, she found Bessy lying on the settle, moved close to the fire, though the day was sultry and oppressive. She was laid down quite flat, as if resting languidly after some paroxysm of pain. Margaret felt sure she ought to have the greater freedom of breathing which a more sitting posture would procure; and, without a word, she raised her up, and so arranged the pillows, that Bessy was more at ease, though very languid.
"I thought I should na' ha' seen yo' again," said she, at last, looking wistfully in Margaret's face.
"I'm afraid you're much worse. But I could not have come yesterday, my mother was so ill--for many reasons," said Margaret, colouring.
"Yo'd m'appen think I went beyond my place in sending Mary for yo'. But the wraglin' and the loud voices had just torn me to pieces, and I thought when father left, oh! if I could just hear her voice, reading me some words o' peace and promise, I could die away into the silence and rest o' God, just as a baby is hushed up to sleep by its mother's lullaby."
"Shall I read you a chapter, now?"
"Ay, do! M'appen I shan't listen to th' sense, at first; it will seem far away--but when yo' come to words I like--to th' comforting texts--it'll seem close in my ear, and going through me as it were."
Margaret began. Bessy tossed to and fro. If, by an effort, she attended for one moment, it seemed as though she were convulsed into double restlessness the next. At last, she burst out: "Don't go on reading. It's no use. I'm blaspheming all the time in my mind, wi' thinking angrily on what canna be helped.--Yo'd hear of th' riot, m'appen, yesterday at Marlborough Mills? Thornton's factory, yo' know."
"Your father was not there, was he?" said Margaret colouring deeply.
"Not he. He'd ya' given his right hand if it had never come to pass. It's that that's fretting me. He's fairly knocked down in his mind by it. It's no use telling him, fools will always break out o' bounds. Yo' never saw a man so downhearted as he is."
"But why?" asked Margaret. "I don't understand."
"Why, yo' see, he's a committee-man on this special strike. Th' Union appointed him because, though I say it as shouldn't say it, he's reckoned a deep chap, and true to th' back-bone. And he and t'other committee-men laid their plans. They were to hou'd together through thick and thin; what the major part thought, t'others were to think, whether they would or no. And above all there was to be no going again the law of the land. Folk would go with them if they saw them striving and starving wi' dumb patience; but if there was once any noise o' fighting and struggling--even wi' knobsticks--all was up, as they know by th' experience of many, and many a time before. They would try and get speech o' th' knobsticks, and coax 'em, and reason wi' 'em, and m'appen warn 'em off; but whatever came, the Committee charged all members o' th' Union to lie down and die, if need were, without striking a blow; and then they reckoned they were sure o' carrying th' public with them. And besides all that, Committee knew they were right in their demand, and they didn't want to have right all mixed up wi' wrong, till folk can't separate it, no more nor I can the physic-powder from th' jelly yo' gave me to mix it in; jelly is much the biggest, but powder tastes it all through. Well, I've told yo' at length about this'n, but I am tired out. Yo' just think for yor'sel, what it mun be for father to have a' his work undone, and by such a fool as Boucher, who must needs go right again the orders of Committee, and ruin th' strike, just as bad as if he meant to be a Judas. Eh! but father giv'd it him last night! He went so far as to say, he'd go and tell police where they might find th' ringleader o' th' riot; he'd give him up to th' mill-owners to do what they would wi' him. He'd show the world that th' real leaders o' the strike were not such as Boucher, but steady thoughtful men; good hands, and good citizens, who were friendly to law and judgment, and would uphold order; who only wanted their right wage, and wouldn't work, even though they starved, till they got 'em; but who would ne'er injure property or life. For," dropping her voice, "they do say, that Boucher threw a stone at Thornton's sister, that welly killed her."
"That's not true," said Margaret. "It was not Boucher that threw the stone"--she went first red, then white.
"Yo'd be there then, were yo'?" asked Bessie languidly: for indeed, she had spoken with many pauses, as if speech was unusually difficult to her.
"Yes. Never mind. Go on. Only it was not Boucher that threw the stone. But what did he answer to your father?"
"He did na' speak words. He were all in such a tremble wi' spent passion, I could na' bear to look at him. I heard his breath coming quick, and at one time I thought he were sobbing. But when father said he'd give him up to police, he gave a great cry, and struck father on th' face wi' his closed fist, and he off like lightning. Father were stunned wi' the blow at first, for all Boucher were weak wi' passion and wi' clemming. He sat down a bit, and put his hand afore his eyes; and then made for th' door. I dunno' where I got strength, but I threw mysel' oh th' settle and clung to him. 'Father, father!' said I. 'Thou'll never go peach on that poor clemmed man. I'll never leave go on thee, till thou sayst thou wunnot.' 'Dunnot be a fool,' says he, 'words come readier than deeds to most men. I never thought o' telling th' police on him; though by G--, he deserves it, and I should na' ha' minded if some one else had done the dirty work, and got him clapped up. But now he has strucken me, I could do it less nor ever, for it would be getting other men to take up my quarrel. But if ever he gets well o'er this clemming, and is in good condition, he and I'll have an up and down fight, purring an' a', and I'll see what I can do for him.' And so father shook me off,--for indeed I was low and faint enough, and his face was all clay white, where it weren't bloody, and turned me sick to look at. And I know not if I slept or waked, or were in a dead swoon, till Mary come in; and I telled her to fetch yo' to me. And now dunnot talk to me, but just read out th' chapter. I'm easier in my mind for having spit it out; but I want some thoughts of the world that's far away to take the weary taste of it out of my mouth. Read me not a sermon chapter, but a story chapter; they've pictures in them, which I see when my eyes are shut. Read about the New Heavens, and the New Earth; and m'appen I'll forget this."
Margaret read in her soft low voice. Though Bessy's eyes were shut, she was listening for some time, for the moisture of tears gathered heavy on her eyelashes. At last she slept; with many starts, and muttered pleadings. Margaret covered her up, and left her, for she had an uneasy consciousness that she might be wanted at home, and yet, until now, it seemed cruel to leave the dying girl.
Mrs. Hale was in the drawing-room on her daughter's return. It was one of her better days, and she was full of praises of the water-bed. It had been more like the beds at Sir John Beresford's than anything she had slept on since. She did not know how it was, but people seemed to have lost the art of making the same kind of beds as they used to do in her youth. One would think it was easy enough; there was the same kind of feathers to be had, and yet somehow, till this last night she did not know when she had had a good sound resting sleep.
Mr. Hale suggested, that something of the merits of the feather-beds of former days might be attributed to the activity of youth, which gave a relish to rest; but this idea was not kindly received by his wife.
"No, indeed, Mr. Hale, it was those beds at Sir John's. Now, Margaret, you're young enough, and go about in the day; are the beds comfortable? I appeal to you. Do they give you a feeling of perfect repose when you lie down upon them; or rather, don't you toss about, and try in vain to find an easy position, and wake in the morning as tired as when you went to bed?"
Margaret laughed. "To tell the truth, mamma, I've never thought about my bed at all, what kind it is. I'm so sleepy at night, that if I only lie down anywhere, I nap off directly. So I don't think I'm a competent witness. But then, you know, I never had the opportunity of trying Sir John Beresford's beds. I never was at Oxenham."
"Were you not? Oh, no! to be sure. It was poor darling Fred I took with me, I remember. I only went to Oxenham once after I was married,--to your Aunt Shaw's wedding; and poor little Fred was the baby then. And I know Dixon did not like changing from lady's maid to nurse, and I was afraid that if I took her near her old home, and amongst her own people, she might want to leave me. But poor baby was taken ill at Oxenham, with his teething; and, what with my being a great deal with Anna just before her marriage, and not being very strong myself, Dixon had more of the charge of him than she ever had before; and it made her so fond of him, and she was so proud when he would turn away from every one and cling to her, that I don't believe she ever thought of leaving me again; though it was very different from what she'd been accustomed to. Poor Fred! Everybody loved him. He was born with the gift of winning hearts. It makes me think very badly of Captain Reid when I know that he disliked my own dear boy. I think it a certain proof he had a bad heart. Ah! Your poor father, Margaret. He has left the room. He can't bear to hear Fred spoken of."
"I love to hear about him, mamma. Tell me all you like; you never can tell me too much. Tell me what he was like as a baby."
"Why, Margaret, you must not be hurt, but he was much prettier than you were. I remember, when I first saw you in Dixon's arms, I said, 'Dear, what an ugly little thing!' And she said, 'It's not every child that's like Master Fred, bless him!' Dear! how well I remember it. Then I could have had Fred in my arms every minute of the day, and his cot was close by my bed; and now, now--Margaret--I don't know where my boy is, and sometimes I think I shall never see him again."
Margaret sat down by her mother's sofa on a little stool, and softly took hold of her hand, caressing it and kissing it, as if to comfort. Mrs. Hale cried without restraint. At last, she sat straight, stiff up on the sofa, and turning round to her daughter, she said with tearful, almost solemn earnestness, "Margaret, if I can get better,--if God lets me have a chance of recovery, it must be through seeing my son Frederick once more. It will waken up all the poor springs of health left in me."
She paused, and seemed to try and gather strength for something more yet to be said. Her voice was choked as she went on--was quavering as with the contemplation of some strange, yet closely-present idea.
"And, Margaret, if I am to die--if I am one of those appointed to die before many weeks are over--I must see my child first. I cannot think how it must be managed; but I charge you, Margaret, as you yourself hope for comfort in your last illness, bring him to me that I may bless him. Only for five minutes, Margaret. There could be no danger in five minutes. Oh, Margaret, let me see him before I die!"
Margaret did not think of anything that might be utterly unreasonable in this speech: we do not look for reason or logic in the passionate entreaties of those who are sick unto death; we are stung with the recollection of a thousand slighted opportunities of fulfilling the wishes of those who will soon pass away from among us: and do they ask us for the future happiness of our lives, we lay it at their feet, and will it away from us. But this wish of Mrs. Hale's was so natural, so just, so right to both parties, that Margaret felt as if, on Frederick's account as well as on her mother's, she ought to overlook all intermediate chances of danger, and pledge herself to do everything in her power for its realization. The large, pleading, dilated eyes were fixed upon her wistfully, steady in their gaze, though the poor white lips quivered like those of a child. Margaret gently rose up and stood opposite to her frail mother; so that she might gather the secure fulfilment of her wish from the calm steadiness of her daughter's face.
"Mamma, I will write to-night, and tell Frederick what you say. I am as sure that he will come directly to us, as I am sure of my life. Be easy, mamma, you shall see him as far as anything earthly can be promised."
"You will write to-night? Oh, Margaret! the post goes out at five--you will write by it, won't you? I have so few hours left--I feel dear, as if I should not recover, though sometimes your father over-persuades me into hoping; you will write directly, won't you? Don't lose a single post; for just by that very post I may miss him."
"But, mamma, papa is out."
"Papa is out! and what then? Do you mean that he would deny me this last wish, Margaret? Why, I should not be ill, be dying--if he had not taken me away from Helstone, to this unhealthy, smoky, sunless place."
"Oh, mamma!" said Margaret.
"Yes; it is so, indeed. He knows it himself; he has said so many a time. He would do anything for me; you don't mean he would refuse me this last wish--prayer, if you will. And, indeed, Margaret, the longing to see Frederick stands between me and God. I cannot pray till I have this one thing; indeed, I cannot. Don't lose time, dear, dear Margaret. Write by this very next post. Then he may be here--here in twenty-two days! For he is sure to come. No cords or chains can keep him. In twenty-two days I shall see my boy." She fell back, and for a short time she took no notice of the fact that Margaret sat motionless, her hand shading her eyes.
"You are not writing!" said her mother at last. "Bring me some pens and paper; I will try and write myself." She sat up, trembling all over with feverish eagerness. Margaret took her hand down, and looked at her mother sadly.
"Only wait till papa comes in. Let us ask him how best to do it?"
"You promised, Margaret, not a quarter of an hour ago,--you said he should come."
"And so he shall, mamma; don't cry, my own dear mother. I'll write here, now--you shall see me write--and it shall go by this very post; and if papa thinks fit he can write again when he comes in--it is only a day's delay. Oh, mamma, don't cry so pitifully, it cuts me to the heart."
Mrs. Hale could not stop her tears; they came hysterically; and, in truth, she made no effort to control them, but rather called up all the pictures of the happy past, and the probable future--painting the scene when she should lie a corpse, with the son she had longed to see in life weeping over her, and she unconscious of his presence--till she was melted by self-pity into a state of sobbing and exhaustion that made Margaret's heart ache. But at last she was calm, and greedily watched her daughter, as she began her letter; wrote it with swift urgent entreaty; sealed it up hurriedly, for fear her mother should ask to see it: and then to make security most sure, at Mrs. Hale's own bidding, took it herself to the post-office. She was coming home when her father overtook her.
"And where have you been, my pretty maid?" asked he.
"To the post-office--with a letter; a letter to Frederick. Oh, papa, perhaps I have done wrong: but mamma was seized with such a passionate yearning to see him--she said it would make her well again--and then she said that she must see him before she died--I cannot tell you how urgent she was! Did I do wrong?"
Mr. Hale did not reply at first. Then he said:
"You should have waited till I came in, Margaret."
"I tried to persuade her--" and then she was silent.
"I don't know," said Mr. Hale, after a pause. "She ought to see him if she wishes it so much; for I believe it would do her much more good than all the doctor's medicine--and, perhaps, set her up altogether; but the danger to him, I'm afraid, is very great."
"All these years since the mutiny, papa?"
"Yes; it is necessary, of course, for government to take very stringent measures for the repression of offences against authority, more particularly in the navy, where a commanding officer needs to be surrounded in his men's eyes with a vivid consciousness of all the power there is at home to back him, and take up his cause, and avenge any injuries offered to him, if need be. Ah! it's no matter to them how far their authorities have tyrannised--galled hasty tempers to madness--or, if that can be any excuse afterwards, it is never allowed for in the first instance; they spare no expense, they send out ships--they scour the seas to lay hold of the offenders--the lapse of years does not wash out the memory of the offence--it is a fresh and vivid crime on the Admiralty books till it is blotted out by blood."
"Oh, papa, what have I done! And yet it seemed so right at the time. I'm sure Frederick himself, would run the risk."
"So he would; so he should! Nay, Margaret, I'm glad it is done, though I durst not have done it myself. I'm thankful it is as it is; I should have hesitated till, perhaps, it might have been too late to do any good. Dear Margaret, you have done what is right about it; and the end is beyond our control."
It was all very well; but her father's account of the relentless manner in which mutinies were punished made Margaret shiver and creep. If she had decoyed her brother home to blot out the memory of his error by his blood! She saw her father's anxiety lap deeper than the source of his latter cheering words. She took his arm and walked home pensively and wearily by his side.

Margaret began to wonder whether all offers were as unexpected and distressing as the two she had had. She compared Mr. Lennox and Mr. Thornton in her mind. When Mr. Lennox proposed, her main feeling had been regret that he had expressed a feeling other than friendship. She had not felt so stunned - so impressed as she did now, when echoes of Mr. Thornton's voice yet lingered about the room.
In Lennox's case, he seemed for a moment to have slid over the boundary between friendship and love; and the instant afterwards, to regret it nearly as much as she did. In Mr. Thornton's case there was no stage of friendship, only opposition. Their opinions clashed; and indeed, she had never perceived that he had cared for her opinions. He seemed to throw them off with contempt, until she felt weary of the exertion of making useless protests; and now he had come, in this strange wild passionate way, to make known his love.
For, although at first it had struck her that his offer was forced out of him by sharp compassion for the exposure she had made of herself - which he, like others, might misunderstand - yet five minutes after, the clear conviction dawned upon her that he did love her. And she shrank and shuddered as under the fascination of some great power, repugnant to her whole previous life. She crept away and hid from the idea, but in vain.
She disliked him the more for having mastered her inner will. How dared he say that he would love her still, even though she shook him off? She wished she had spoken more strongly. Sharp, decisive speeches came into her mind, now that it was too late to say them. The deep impression made by the interview was like that of a horror in a dream, that will not leave when we waken. It is there, cowering with fixed ghastly eyes, in some corner of the room, listening to hear whether we dare to breathe of its presence to anyone. And we dare not!
And so she shuddered away from the threat of his enduring love. What did he mean? Had she not the power to daunt him? She would see. Did he base his vow upon yesterday? If need were, she would do the same tomorrow, for a crippled beggar, or for him, in spite of his deductions; because it was right to try to save where she could save.
Hitherto she had not stirred. Nothing had roused her out of the trance of thought in which she had been plunged by his words, and the look of his deep intent passionate eyes. Now she went to the window, and threw it open, and opened the door, with an impetuous wish to shake off the recollection of the past hour. But all was profoundly hushed in the noonday stillness of the invalid's house. Margaret did not wish to be alone. What should she do?
'Go and see Bessy Higgins, of course,' thought she; and away she went.
When she got there, she found Bessy lying on the settle close to the fire, though the day was warm and oppressive. She was laid down flat, as if resting after some paroxysm of pain. Margaret felt sure she would breathe more easily in a sitting posture; and she raised her up, and arranged the pillows, until Bessy was more at ease, though very languid.
'I thought I should na' ha' seen yo' again,' said she, wistfully.
'I'm afraid you're much worse. But I could not come yesterday, my mother was so ill - and other reasons,' said Margaret, colouring.
'Yo' may think I went beyond my place in sending Mary for yo'. But the wranglin' and the loud voices had just torn me to pieces, and when father left, I thought oh! if I could just hear her voice, reading me some words o' peace, I could die away into the silence o' God, like a babby is hushed to sleep by its mother's lullaby.'
'Shall I read you a chapter, now?'
'Ay, do! Happen I shan't listen to th' sense, at first; but when yo' come to th' comforting texts, it'll seem close in my ear, and going through me as it were.'
Margaret began. Bessy tossed to and fro. If she attended for one moment, she was convulsed into restlessness the next. At last, she burst out:
'Don't go on reading. It's no use. I'm blaspheming all the time in my mind, thinking angrily on what canna be helped. Yo' heard of th' riot yesterday at Marlborough Mills?'
'Your father was not there, was he?' said Margaret, colouring deeply.
'Not he. He'd ha' given his right hand if it had never come to pass. It's that that's fretting me. He's fairly knocked down in his mind by it. It's no use telling him, fools will always break out o' bounds. Yo' never saw a man so down-hearted.'
'But why?' asked Margaret.
'Yo' see, he's a committee-man on this strike. Th' Union appointed him because he's reckoned true to th' back-bone. And he and t'other committee-men laid their plans, to hold together through thick and thin; what the major part thought, t'others were to think, whether they would or no. And above all there was to be no going again the law of the land. Folk would go with them if they saw them striving patiently; but if there was any fighting, all was up, as they knew from many a time before. The Committee charged all members o' th' Union not to strike a blow; they didn't want to have right mixed up wi' wrong.
'Well, yo' just think what it must be for father to have his work undone, and by such a fool as Boucher, who must needs go right again the orders of Committee, and ruin th' strike as if he meant to be a Judas. Eh! but father giv'd it him last night! He even said he'd go and tell police where they might find th' ringleader; he'd give him up to th' mill-owners to do what they would wi' him. He'd show the world that th' real leaders o' the strike were not such as Boucher, but steady thoughtful men; good hands, and good citizens, who would uphold order; who only wanted their right wages, and would ne'er injure property or life. For they do say, that Boucher threw a stone at Thornton's sister, that nearly killed her.'
'That's not true,' said Margaret, flushing. 'It was not Boucher that threw the stone.'
'Yo'd be there then, were yo'?' asked Bessy languidly.
'Yes. Never mind. Go on. What did Boucher answer to your father?'
'He did na' speak. He were all in such a tremble, I could na' bear to look at him. I heard his breath coming quick, and at one time I thought he were sobbing. But when father said he'd give him up to the police, he gave a great cry, and struck father on th' face wi' his fist, and be off like lightning. Father were stunned wi' the blow at first. He sat down, and put his hand afore his eyes; and then made for th' door. I dunno' where I got strength, but I threw mysel' off th' settle and clung to him. "Father, father!" said I. "Thou'll never go tell on that poor clemmed man. I'll never leave go, till thou sayst thou wunnot." "Dunnot be a fool," says he. "I never thought o' telling th' police on him; though by G-, he deserves it. But if ever he gets well o'er this clemming, he and I'll have a fight." And father shook me off, and his face was all clay white, where it weren't bloody, and turned me sick to look at.
'And I know not if I slept or waked, or were in a dead swoon, till Mary come in; and I telled her to fetch yo'. And now dunnot talk to me, but just read. I'm easier in my mind for having spit it out; but I want some thoughts of the world that's far away to take the weary taste of it out o' my mouth. Read me a story chapter; read about the New Heavens, and the New Earth; and 'appen I'll forget this.'
Margaret read in her soft low voice. Though Bessy's eyes were shut, she was listening, for tears gathered heavy on her eyelashes. At last she slept, with many starts, and muttered pleadings. Margaret covered her up, and left her, uneasily aware that she might be wanted at home; and yet it seemed cruel to leave the dying girl.
Mrs. Hale was in the drawing-room on her daughter's return. It was one of her better days, and she was full of praises of the water-bed. It was like the feather-beds of her youth at Sir John Beresford's.
'Margaret,' she said, 'are the beds today comfortable? Don't you toss about, and try in vain to find an easy position, and waken in the morning as tired as when you went to bed?'
Margaret laughed. 'To tell the truth, mamma, I've never thought about my bed at all. If I lie down anywhere, I go to sleep directly. But then, you know, I never tried Sir John Beresford's beds. I never was at Oxenham.'
'Were not you? Oh, no! to be sure. It was poor darling Fred I took with me to your Aunt Shaw's wedding. But poor baby Fred was taken ill at Oxenham, with his teething, and Dixon had charge of him; and it made her so fond of him that she was proud when he would turn away from everyone and cling to her. Poor Fred! Everybody loved him. He was born with the gift of winning hearts. It makes me think very badly of Captain Reid when I know that he disliked my own dear boy. It proves he had a bad heart. Ah! Your poor father has left the room, Margaret. He can't bear to hear Fred spoken of.'
'I love to hear about him, mamma. Tell me what he was like as a baby.'
'Why, Margaret, you must not be hurt, but he was much prettier than you were. I remember, when I first saw you in Dixon's arms, I said, "Dear, what an ugly little thing!" And she said, "It's not every child that's like Master Fred, bless him!" How well I remember it. I could have had Fred in my arms every minute of the day, and his cot was by my bed; and now - I don't know where my boy is, and sometimes I think I shall never see him again.'
Margaret sat down by her mother, and softly took her hand, caressing and kissing it. Mrs. Hale cried without restraint. At last she sat up, and said with tearful earnestness, 'Margaret, if I can get better, it must be through seeing Frederick once more.'
She paused to gather strength; as she went on, her voice was choked and quavering.
'And, Margaret, if I am to die - I must see my child first. I cannot think how it may be managed; but, Margaret, bring him to me so that I may bless him. Only for five minutes. There could be no danger in five minutes. Oh, Margaret, let me see him before I die!'
We do not look for reason or logic in the passionate entreaties of the dying; if they ask us for the future happiness of our lives, we lay it at their feet. But this wish of Mrs. Hale's was so natural, so just, that Margaret felt as if she ought to overlook any danger, and pledge to do everything in her power to fulfil it. The large, pleading eyes were fixed upon her wistfully, and the poor white lips quivered like a child's. Margaret gently rose up and faced her frail mother with calm steadiness.
'Mamma, I will write tonight, and tell Frederick what you say. I am sure that he will come directly to us.'
'You will write tonight? Oh, Margaret! the post goes at five - I have so few hours left. Don't lose a single post.'
'But, mamma, papa is gone out.'
'What of it? Do you mean that he would deny me this last wish, Margaret? Why, I should not be ill if he had not taken me away from Helstone, to this unhealthy, smoky place.'
'Oh, mamma!'
'Yes; it is so, indeed. He knows it; he has said so many a time. He would do anything for me; he would not refuse me this last wish. Indeed, Margaret, I cannot pray till I have this one thing. Don't lose time, dear Margaret. Write by this very next post. Then he may be here in twenty-two days! For he is sure to come. In twenty-two days I shall see my boy.' She fell back, and for a short time took no notice of Margaret.
'You are not writing!' she said at last. 'Bring me pens and paper; I will try and write myself.' She sat up, trembling with feverish eagerness. Margaret looked at her sadly.
'Only wait till papa comes in. Let us ask him how best to do it.'
'You promised, Margaret - you said he should come.'
'And so he shall; don't cry, my own dear mother. I'll write here, now - you shall see me write - and it shall go by this very post. If papa thinks fit, he can write again when he comes in; it is only a day's delay. Oh, mamma, don't cry so - it cuts me to the heart.'
In truth, Mrs. Hale made no effort to control her tears, but rather called up all the pictures of the happy past, and the sad future - when she might lie a corpse, with her son weeping over her - till she was melted by self-pity into a state of sobbing exhaustion. But at last she was calm, and greedily watched her daughter as she wrote the letter, and sealed it up hurriedly.
Margaret took it herself to the post-office. She was coming home when her father overtook her.
'And where have you been, my pretty maid?' asked he.
'To the post-office with a letter; a letter to Frederick. Oh, papa, perhaps I have done wrong: but mamma so longed to see him - she said it would make her well again - and she said that she must see him before she died. Did I do wrong?'
Mr. Hale did not reply at first. Then he said: 'I don't know. She ought to see him if she wishes it so much, for I believe it would do her more good than all the doctor's medicine; but the danger to him, I'm afraid, is very great.'
'All these years since the mutiny, papa?'
'Yes; the government must uphold authority in the navy, and avenge any injuries to its officers. Ah! it's no matter to them how far their authorities have tyrannised; they spare no expense, they scour the seas to lay hold of the offenders. The lapse of years does not wash out the memory of the offence. It is a fresh and vivid crime on the Admiralty books till it is blotted out by blood.'
'Oh, papa, what have I done! And yet it seemed so right at the time. I'm sure Frederick himself would run the risk.'
'So he would! Nay, Margaret, I'm glad it is done. I would have hesitated myself, till, perhaps, it might have been too late. Dear Margaret, you have done what is right; and the end is beyond our control.'
It was all very well; but her father's words made Margaret shiver. If she had decoyed her brother home to pay for his error by his blood! She saw her father was anxious. She took his arm and walked home pensively and wearily by his side.