"The saddest birds a season find to sing." SOUTHWELL.
"Never to fold the robe o'er secret pain, Never, weighed down by memory's clouds again, To bow thy head! Thou art gone home!" MRS. HEMANS.
Mrs. Thornton came to see Mrs. Hale the next morning. She was much worse. One of those sudden changes--those great visible strides towards death, had been taken in the night, and her own family were startled by the gray sunken look her features had assumed in that one twelve hours of suffering. Mrs. Thornton--who had not seen her for weeks--was softened all at once. She had come because her son asked it from her as a personal favour, but with all the proud bitter feelings of her nature in arms against that family of which Margaret formed one. She doubted the reality of Mrs. Hale's illness; she doubted any want beyond a momentary fancy on that lady's part, which should take her out of her previously settled course of employment for the day. She told her son that she wished they had never come near the place; that he had never got acquainted with them; that there had been no such useless languages as Latin and Greek ever invented. He bore all this pretty silently; but when she had ended her invective against the dead languages, he quietly returned to the short, curt, decided expression of his wish that she should go and see Mrs. Hale at the time appointed, as most likely to be convenient to the invalid. Mrs. Thornton submitted with as bad a grace as she could to her son's desire, all the time liking him the better for having it; and exaggerating in her own mind the same notion that he had of extraordinary goodness on his part in so perseveringly keeping up with the Hales.
His goodness verging on weakness (as all the softer virtues did in her mind), and her own contempt for Mr. and Mrs. Hale, and positive dislike to Margaret, were the ideas which occupied Mrs. Thornton, till she was struck into nothingness before the dark shadow of the wings of the angel of death. There lay Mrs. Hale--a mother like herself--a much younger woman than she was,--on the bed from which there was no sign of hope that she might ever rise again. No more variety of light and shade for her in that darkened room; no power of action, scarcely change of movement; faint alternations of whispered sound and studious silence; and yet that monotonous life seemed almost too much! When Mrs. Thornton, strong and prosperous with life, came in, Mrs. Hale lay still, although from the look on her face she was evidently conscious of who it was. But she did not even open her eyes for a minute or two. The heavy moisture of tears stood on her eyelashes before she looked up; then, with her hand groping feebly over the bed-clothes, for the touch of Mrs. Thornton's large firm fingers, she said, scarcely above her breath.--Mrs. Thornton had to stoop from her erectness to listen,--
"Margaret--you have a daughter--my sister is in Italy. My child will be without a mother;--in a strange place,--if I die---- will you"----
And her filmy wandering eyes fixed themselves with an intensity of wistfulness on Mrs. Thornton's face. For a minute there was no change in its rigidness; it was stern and unmoved;--nay, but that the eyes of the sick woman were growing dim with the slow-gathering tears, she might have seen a dark cloud cross the cold features. And it was no thought of her son, or of her living daughter Fanny, that stirred her heart at last; but a sudden remembrance, suggested by something in the arrangement of the room,--of a little daughter--dead in infancy--long years ago--that, like a sudden sunbeam, melted the icy crust, behind which there was a real tender woman.
"You wish me to be a friend to Miss Hale," said Mrs. Thornton, in her measured voice, that would not soften with her heart, but came out distinct and clear.
Mrs. Hale, her eyes still fixed on Mrs. Thornton's face, pressed the hand that lay below hers on the coverlet. She could not speak. Mrs. Thornton sighed, "I will be a true friend, if circumstances require it. Not a tender friend. That I cannot be,"--("to her," she was on the point of adding, but she relented at the sight of that poor, anxious face.)--"It is not my nature to show affection even where I feel it, nor do I volunteer advice in general. Still, at your request,--if it will be any comfort to you, I will promise you." Then came a pause. Mrs. Thornton was too conscientious to promise what she did not mean to perform; and to perform anything in the way of kindness on behalf of Margaret, more disliked at this moment than ever, was difficult; almost impossible.
"I promise," said she, with grave severity; which, after all, inspired the dying woman with faith as in something more stable than life itself,--flickering, flittering, wavering life! "I promise that in any difficulty in which Miss Hale"----
"Call her Margaret!" gasped Mrs. Hale.
"In which she comes to me for help, I will help her with every power I have, as if she were my own daughter. I also promise that if ever I see her doing what I think is wrong"----
"But Margaret never does wrong--not wilfully wrong," pleaded Mrs. Hale. Mrs. Thornton went on as before; as if she had not heard:
"If ever I see her doing what I believe to be wrong--such wrong not touching me or mine, in which case I might be supposed to have an interested motive--I will tell her of it, faithfully and plainly, as I should wish my own daughter to be told."
There was a long pause. Mrs. Hale felt that this promise did not include all; and yet it was much. It had reservations in it which she did not understand: but then she was weak, dizzy, and tired. Mrs. Thornton was reviewing all the probable cases in which she had pledged herself to act. She had a fierce pleasure in the idea of telling Margaret unwelcome truths, in the shape of performance of duty. Mrs. Hale began to speak:
"I thank you. I pray God to bless you. I shall never see you again in this world. But my last words are, I thank you for your promise of kindness to my child."
"Not kindness!" testified Mrs. Thornton, ungraciously truthful to the last. But having eased her conscience by saying these words, she was not sorry that they were not heard. She pressed Mrs. Hale's soft languid hand; and rose up and went her way out of the house without seeing a creature.
During the time that Mrs. Thornton was having this interview with Mrs. Hale, Margaret and Dixon were laying their heads together and consulting how they should keep Frederick's coming a profound secret to all out of the house. A letter from him might now be expected any day; and he would assuredly follow quickly on its heels. Martha must be sent away on her holiday; Dixon must keep stern guard on the front door, only admitting the few visitors that ever came to the house into Mr. Hale's room down stairs--Mrs. Hale's extreme illness giving her a good excuse for this. If Mary Higgins was required as a help to Dixon in the kitchen, she was to hear and see as little of Frederick as possible; and he was, if necessary, to be spoken of to her under the name of Mr. Dickinson. But her sluggish and incurious nature was the greatest safeguard of all.
They resolved that Martha should leave them that very afternoon for this visit to her mother. Margaret wished that she had been sent away on the previous day, as she fancied it might be thought strange to give a servant a holiday when her mistress's state required so much attendance.
Poor Margaret! All that afternoon she had to act the part of a Roman daughter, and give strength out of her own scanty stock to her father. Mr. Hale would hope, would not despair, between the attacks of his wife's malady; he buoyed himself up in every respite from her pain, and believed that it was the beginning of ultimate recovery. And so, when the paroxysms came on, each more severe than the last, they were fresh agonies, and greater disappointments to him. This afternoon, he sat in the drawing-room, unable to bear the solitude of his study, or to employ himself in any way. He buried his head in his arms, which lay folded on the table. Margaret's heart ached to see him; yet, as he did not speak, she did not like to volunteer any attempt at comfort. Martha was gone. Dixon sat with Mrs. Hale while she slept. The house was very still and quiet, and darkness came on, without any movement to procure candles. Margaret sat at the window, looking out at the lamps and the street, but seeing nothing,--only alive to her father's heavy sighs. She did not like to go down for lights, lest the tacit restraint of her presence being withdrawn, he might give way to more violent emotion, without her being at hand to comfort him. Yet she was just thinking that she ought to go and see after the well-doing of the kitchen fire, which there was nobody but herself to attend to, when she heard the muffled door-bell ring with so violent a pull, that the wires jingled all through the house, though the positive sound was not great. She started up, passed her father, who had never moved at the veiled, dull sound,--returned, and kissed him tenderly. And still he never moved, nor took any notice of her fond embrace. Then she went down softly, through the dark, to the door. Dixon would have put the chain on before she opened it, but Margaret had not a thought of fear in her pre-occupied mind. A man's tall figure stood between her and the luminous street. He was looking away; but at the sound of the latch he turned quickly round.
"Is this Mr. Hale's?" said he, in a clear, full, delicate voice.
Margaret trembled all over; at first she did not answer. In a moment she sighed out,
"Frederick!" and stretched out both her hands to catch his, and draw him in.
"Oh, Margaret!" said he, holding her off by her shoulders, after they had kissed each other, as if even in that darkness he could see her face, and read in its expression a quicker answer to his question than words could give,--
"My mother! is she alive!"
"Yes, she is alive, dear, dear brother! She--as ill as she can be she is; but alive! She is alive!"
"Thank God!" said he.
"Papa is utterly prostrate with this great grief."
"You expect me, don't you?"
"No, we have had no letter."
"Then I have come before it. But my mother knows I am coming."
"Oh! we all knew you would come. But wait a little! Step in here. Give me your hand. What is this? Oh! your carpet-bag. Dixon has shut the shutters; but this is papa's study, and I can take you to a chair to rest yourself for a few minutes; while I go and tell him."
She groped her way to the taper and the lucifer matches. She suddenly felt shy when the little feeble light made them visible. All she could see was, that her brother's face was unusually dark in complexion, and she caught the stealthy look of a pair of remarkably long-cut blue eyes, that suddenly twinkled up with a droll consciousness of their mutual purpose of inspecting each other. But though the brother and sister had an instant of sympathy in their reciprocal glances, they did not exchange a word; only, Margaret felt sure that she should like her brother as a companion as much as she already loved him as a near relation. Her heart was wonderfully lighter as she went up stairs; the sorrow was no less in reality, but it became less oppressive from having some one in precisely the same relation to it as that in which she stood. Not her father's desponding attitude had power to damp her now. He lay across the table, helpless as ever; but she had the spell by which to rouse him. She used it perhaps too violently in her own great relief.
"Papa," said she, throwing her arms fondly round his neck; pulling his weary head up in fact with her gentle violence, till it rested in her arms, and she could look into his eyes, and let them gain strength and assurance from hers.
"Papa! guess who is here!"
He looked at her; she saw the idea of the truth glimmer into their filmy sadness, and be dismissed thence as a wild imagination.
He threw himself forward, and hid his face once more in his stretched-out arms, resting upon the table as heretofore. She heard him whisper; she bent tenderly down to listen. "I don't know; don't tell me it is Frederick--not Frederick. I cannot bear it,--I am too weak. And his mother is dying!"
He began to cry and wail like a child. It was so different to all which Margaret had hoped and expected, that she turned sick with disappointment, and was silent for an instant. Then she spoke again--very differently--not so exultingly, far more tenderly and carefully.
"Papa, it is Frederick! Think of mamma, how glad she will be! And oh, for her sake, how glad we ought to be! For his sake, too,--our poor, poor boy!"
Her father did not change his attitude, but he seemed to be trying to understand the fact.
"Where is he?" asked he at last, his face still hidden in his prostrate arms.
"In your study, quite alone. I lighted the taper, and ran up to tell you. He is quite alone, and will be wondering why--"
"I will go to him," broke in her father; and he lifted himself up and leant on her arm as on that of a guide.
Margaret led him to the study door, but her spirits were so agitated that she felt she could not bear to see the meeting. She turned away, and ran up stairs, and cried most heartily. It was the first time she had dared to allow herself this relief for days. The strain had been terrible, as she now felt. But Frederick was come! He, the one precious brother, was there, safe, amongst them again! She could hardly believe it. She stopped her crying, and opened her bedroom door. She heard no sound of voices, and almost feared she might have dreamt. She went down stairs, and listened at the study door. She heard the buzz of voices; and that was enough. She went into the kitchen, and stirred up the fire, and lighted the house, and prepared for the wanderer's refreshment. How fortunate it was that her mother slept! She knew that she did, from the candle-lighter thrust through the keyhole of her bedroom door. The traveller could be refreshed and bright, and the first excitement of the meeting with his father all be over, before her mother became aware of anything unusual.
When all was ready, Margaret opened the study door, and went in like a serving-maiden, with a heavy tray held in her extended arms. She was proud of serving Frederick. But he, when he saw her, sprang up in a minute, and relieved her of her burden. It was a type, a sign, of all the coming relief which his presence would bring. The brother and sister arranged the table together, saying little, but their hands touching, and their eyes speaking the natural language of expression, so intelligible to those of the same blood. The fire had gone out; and Margaret applied herself to light it, for the evenings had begun to be chilly; and yet it was desirable to make all noises as distant as possible from Mrs. Hale's room.
"Dixon says it is a gift to light a fire; not an art to be acquired."
"Poeta nascitur, non fit," murmured Mr. Hale; and Margaret was glad to hear a quotation once more, however languidly given.
"Dear old Dixon! How we shall kiss each other!" said Frederick. "She used to kiss me, and then look in my face to be sure I was the right person, and then set to again! But, Margaret, what a bungler you are! I never saw such a little awkward, good-for-nothing pair of hands. Run away, and wash them, ready to cut bread-and-butter for me, and leave the fire. I'll manage it. Lighting fires is one of my natural accomplishments."
So Margaret went away; and returned; and passed in and out of the room, in a glad restlessness that could not be satisfied with sitting still. The more wants Frederick had, the better she was pleased; and he understood all this by instinct. It was a joy snatched in the house of mourning, and the zest of it was all the more pungent, because they knew in the depth of their hearts what irremediable sorrow awaited them.
In the middle, they heard Dixon's foot on the stairs. Mr. Hale started from his languid posture in his great arm-chair, from which he had been watching his children in a dreamy way, as if they were acting some drama of happiness, which it was pretty to look at, but which was distinct from reality, and in which he had no part. He stood up, and faced the door, showing such a strange, sudden anxiety to conceal Frederick from the sight of any person entering, even though it were the faithful Dixon, that a shiver came over Margaret's heart: it reminded her of the new fear in their lives. She caught at Frederick's arm, and clutched it tight, while a stern thought compressed her brow, and caused her to set her teeth. And yet they knew it was only Dixon's measured tread. They heard her walk the length of the passage,--into the kitchen. Margaret rose up.
"I will go to her, and tell her. And I shall hear how mamma is." Mrs. Hale was awake. She rambled at first; but after they had given her some tea she was refreshed, though not disposed to talk. It was better that the night should pass over before she was told of her son's arrival. Dr. Donaldson's appointed visit would bring nervous excitement enough for the evening; and he might tell them how to prepare her for seeing Frederick. He was there, in the house; could be summoned at any moment.
Margaret could not sit still. It was a relief to her to aid Dixon in all her preparations for "Master Frederick." It seemed as though she never could be tired again. Each glimpse into the room where he sate by his father, conversing with him, about, she knew not what, nor cared to know,--was increase of strength to her. Her own time for talking and hearing would come at last, and she was too certain of this to feel in a hurry to grasp it now. She took in his appearance and liked it. He had delicate features, redeemed from effeminacy by the swarthiness of his complexion, and his quick intensity of expression. His eyes were generally merry-looking, but at times they and his mouth so suddenly changed, and gave her such an idea of latent passion, that it almost made her afraid. But this look was only for an instant; and had in it no doggedness, no vindictiveness; it was rather the instantaneous ferocity of expression that comes over the countenances of all natives of wild or southern countries--a ferocity which enhances the charm of the childlike softness into which such a look may melt away. Margaret might fear the violence of the impulsive nature thus occasionally betrayed, but there was nothing in it to make her distrust, or recoil in the least, from the new-found brother. On the contrary, all their intercourse was peculiarly charming to her from the very first. She knew then how much responsibility she had had to bear, from the exquisite sensation of relief which she felt in Frederick's presence. He understood his father and mother--their characters and their weaknesses, and went along with a careless freedom, which was yet most delicately careful not to hurt or wound any of their feelings. He seemed to know instinctively when a little of the natural brilliancy of his manner and conversation would not jar on the deep depression of his father, or might relieve his mother's pain. Whenever it would have been out of tune, and out of time, his patient devotion and watchfulness came into play, and made him an admirable nurse. Then Margaret was almost touched into tears by the allusions which he often made to their childish days in the New Forest; he had never forgotten her--or Helstone either--all the time he had been roaming among distant countries and foreign people. She might talk to him of the old spot, and never feared tiring him. She had been afraid of him before he came, even while she had longed for his coming; seven or eight years had, she felt, produced such great changes in herself that, forgetting how much of the original Margaret was left, she had reasoned that if her tastes and feelings had so materially altered, even in her stay-at-home life, his wild career, with which she was but imperfectly acquainted, must have almost substituted another Frederick for the tall stripling in his middy's uniform, whom she remembered looking up to with such admiring awe. But in their absence they had grown nearer to each other in age, as well as in many other things. And so it was that the weight, this sorrowful time, was lightened to Margaret. Other light than that of Frederick's presence she had none. For a few hours, the mother rallied on seeing her son. She sate with his hand in hers; she would not part with it even while she slept; and Margaret had to feed him like a baby, rather than he should disturb her mother by removing a finger. Mrs. Hale wakened while they were thus engaged; she slowly moved her head round on the pillow, and smiled at her children, as she understood what they were doing, and why it was done.
"I am very selfish," said she; "but it will not be for long." Frederick bent down and kissed the feeble hand that imprisoned his.
This state of tranquility could not endure for many days, nor perhaps for many hours; so Dr. Donaldson assured Margaret. After the kind doctor had gone away, she stole down to Frederick, who, during the visit, had been adjured to remain quietly concealed in the back parlour, usually Dixon's bedroom, but now given up to him.
Margaret told him what Dr. Donaldson said.
"I don't believe it," he exclaimed. "She is very ill; she may be dangerously ill, and in immediate danger, too; but I can't imagine that she could be as she is, if she were on the point of death. Margaret! she should have some other advice--some London doctor. Have you never thought of that?"
"Yes," said Margaret, "more than once. But I don't believe it would do any good. And, you know, we have not the money to bring any great London surgeon down, and I am sure Dr. Donaldson is only second in skill to the very best,--if, indeed, he is to them."
Frederick began to walk up and down the room impatiently.
"I have credit in Cadiz," said he, "but none here, owing to this wretched change of name. Why did my father leave Helstone? That was the blunder."
"It was no blunder," said Margaret gloomily. "And above all possible chances, avoid letting papa hear anything like what you have just been saying. I can see that he is tormenting himself already with the idea that mamma would never have been ill if we had stayed at Helstone, and you don't know papa's agonising power of self-reproach!"
Frederick walked away as if he were on the quarter-deck. At last he stopped right opposite to Margaret, and looked at her drooping and desponding attitude for an instant.
"My little Margaret!" said he, caressing her. "Let us hope as long as we can. Poor little woman! what! is this face all wet with tears? I will hope. I will, in spite of a thousand doctors. Bear up, Margaret, and be brave enough to hope!"
Margaret choked in trying to speak, and when she did it was very low.
"I must try to be meek enough to trust. Oh, Frederick! mamma was getting to love me so! And I was getting to understand her. And now comes death to snap us asunder!"
"Come, come, come! Let us go upstairs, and do something, rather than waste time that may be so precious. Thinking has, many a time, made me sad, darling; but doing never did in all my life. My theory is a sort of parody on the maxim of 'Get money, my son, honestly if you can; but get money.' My precept is, 'Do something my sister, do good if you can; but, at any rate, do something.'"
"Not excluding mischief," said Margaret, smiling faintly through her tears.
"By no means. What I do exclude is the remorse afterwards. Blot your misdeeds out (if you are particularly conscientious), by a good deed, as soon as you can; just as we did a correct sum at school on the slate, where an incorrect one was only half rubbed out. It was better than wetting our sponge with our tears; both less loss of time where tears had to be waited for, and a better effect at last."
If Margaret thought Frederick's theory rather a rough one at first, she saw how he worked it out into continual production of kindness in fact. After a bad night with his mother (for he insisted on taking his turn as a sitter-up) he was busy next morning before breakfast, contriving a leg-rest for Dixon, who was beginning to feel the fatigues of watching. At breakfast-time, he interested Mr. Hale with vivid, graphic, rattling accounts of the wild life he had led in Mexico, South America, and elsewhere. Margaret would have given up the effort in despair to rouse Mr. Hale out of his dejection; it would even have affected herself and rendered her incapable of talking at all. But Fred, true to his theory, did something perpetually; and talking was the only thing to be done, besides eating, at breakfast.
Before the night of that day, Dr. Donaldson's opinion was proved to be too well founded. Convulsions came on; and when they ceased, Mrs. Hale was unconscious. Her husband might lie by her shaking the bed with his sobs; her son's strong arms might lift her tenderly up into a comfortable position; her daughter's hands might bathe her face; but she knew them not. She would never recognise them again, till they met in Heaven.
Before the morning came all was over.
Then Margaret rose from her trembling and despondency, and became as a strong angel of comfort to her father and brother. For Frederick had broken down now, and all his theories were of no use to him. He cried so violently when shut up in his little room at night, that Margaret and Dixon came down in affright to warn him to be quiet: for the house partitions were but thin, and the next door neighbours might easily hear his youthful passionate sobs, so different from the slower trembling agony of after-life, when we become inured to grief, and dare not be rebellious against the inexorable doom, knowing who it is that decrees.
Margaret sate with her father in the room of the dead. If he had cried, she would have been thankful. But he sate by the bed quite quietly; only, from time to time, he uncovered the face, and stroked it gently, making a kind of soft inarticulate noise, like that of some mother-animal caressing her young. He took no notice of Margaret's presence. Once or twice she came up to kiss him; and he submitted to it, giving her a little push away when she had done, as if her affection disturbed him from his absorption in the dead. He started when he heard Frederick's cries, and shook his head:--"Poor boy! poor boy!" he said, and then took no more notice. Margaret's heart ached within her. She could not think of her own loss in thinking of her father's case. The night was wearing away, and the day was at hand, when, without a word of preparation, Margaret's voice broke upon the stillness of the room, with a clearness of sound that startled even herself: "Let not your heart be troubled," it said; and she went steadily on through all that chapter of unspeakable consolation.

Mrs. Thornton came to see Mrs. Hale the next morning. She was much worse. A sudden change - a great visible stride towards death had been taken in the night, and her own family were startled by the grey sunken look of her features. Mrs. Thornton - who had not seen her for weeks - was softened at once.
She had come because her son asked her, but with proud bitter feelings against Margaret's family. She doubted the reality of Mrs. Hale's illness; she told her son that she wished they had never come near the place; that he had never got acquainted with them. He bore all this silently; but when she had ended her invective, he quietly repeated his curt, decided wish that she should go and see Mrs. Hale. Mrs. Thornton submitted with a bad grace, yet liked her son the better for it, and exaggerated in her own mind his extraordinary goodness in keeping up with the Hales.
Her contempt for Mr. and Mrs. Hale, and positive dislike of Margaret, occupied Mrs. Thornton, till she stood under the dark shadow of the wings of the angel of death. There lay Mrs. Hale - a mother like herself, though younger - without any hope that she might ever rise again. When Mrs. Thornton, strong and prosperous with life, came in, Mrs. Hale lay still, although she seemed conscious of who it was. But she did not even open her eyes for a minute. Then, with heavy tears on her eye-lashes, her hand groping feebly over the bed-clothes to find Mrs. Thornton's large firm fingers, she said faintly:
'You have a daughter - my sister is in Italy. My child will be without a mother - in a strange place - if I die - will you-'
And her filmy wandering eyes fixed themselves wistfully on Mrs. Thornton's face. That face was stern and unmoved; if the sick woman's eyes had not grown dim, she might have seen a dark cloud cross the cold features. And it was no thought of her son, or of her living daughter Fanny, that stirred Mrs. Thornton's heart at last; but a sudden remembrance of a little daughter, dead in infancy long years ago that, like a sudden sunbeam, melted the ice, behind which there was a real tender woman.
'You wish me to be a friend to Miss Hale,' said Mrs. Thornton, in her clear, measured voice.
Mrs. Hale pressed her hand. She could not speak.
Mrs. Thornton sighed. 'I will be a true friend, if circumstances require it. Not a tender friend; it is not my nature to show affection even where I feel it. Still, if it will be any comfort to you, I will promise you.' Then she paused. She was too conscientious to promise what she did not mean to perform; and to perform any kind act on behalf of Margaret, more disliked at this moment than ever, was difficult; almost impossible.
'I promise,' said she, with grave severity, 'I promise that in any difficulty in which Miss Hale-'
'Call her Margaret!' gasped Mrs. Hale.
'In which she comes to me for help, I will help her with every power I have, as if she were my own daughter. I also promise that if ever I see her doing what I think is wrong-'
'But Margaret never does wrong - not knowingly,' pleaded Mrs. Hale. Mrs. Thornton went on as if she had not heard:
'If ever I see her doing what I believe to be wrong - and it does not involve me or mine - I will tell her of it, faithfully and plainly, as I should wish my own daughter to be told.'
There was a long pause. Mrs. Hale felt that this promise did not include all; and yet it was much, and she was dizzy and tired. Mrs. Thornton was reviewing all the probable cases in which she had pledged herself to act. She had a fierce pleasure in the idea of telling Margaret unwelcome truths. Mrs. Hale began to speak:
'I thank you. I pray God to bless you. I shall never see you again in this world. But I thank you for your promise of kindness to my child.'
'Not kindness!' said Mrs. Thornton, ungraciously truthful to the last. But she was not sorry that her words were not heard. She pressed Mrs. Hale's hand; and left the house.
While Mrs. Thornton was having this interview with Mrs. Hale, Margaret and Dixon were laying their heads together, and consulting how they should keep Frederick's coming a secret to all outside the house. A letter from him might be expected any day; and he would surely follow quickly on its heels. Martha must be sent away on her holiday; Dixon must keep stern guard on the front door - Mrs. Hale's illness giving her a good excuse for this. If Mary Higgins was asked to help Dixon in the kitchen, she was to hear and see as little of Frederick as possible; and he was to be spoken of as Mr. Dickinson. But Mary's sluggish and incurious nature was the greatest safeguard.
They resolved that Martha should leave them that very afternoon for this visit to her mother. Margaret wished that she had been sent away on the previous day, as it might be thought strange to give a servant a holiday when her mistress's state was so much worse.
Poor Margaret! All that afternoon she had to give strength to her father. Mr. Hale would hope, would not despair; he buoyed himself up in every respite from her pain, and believed that it was the beginning of recovery. And so, when the paroxysms came on again, each more severe than the last, they were fresh agonies to him.
This afternoon, he sat in the drawing-room with his head buried in his arms, which lay folded on the table. Margaret's heart ached to see him; yet, as he did not speak, she did not either. Martha was gone. Dixon sat with Mrs. Hale while she slept. The house was very still and quiet, and darkness came on. Margaret sat at the window, looking out at the lamps and the street, but seeing nothing - only hearing her father's heavy sighs. She did not like to go down for lights, lest he might give way to more violent emotion, without her being there to comfort him.
Yet she was just thinking that she ought to go and check the kitchen fire, when she heard the muffled door-bell ring with so violent a pull, that the wires jingled all through the house. She started up, and kissed her father tenderly in passing, although he never moved. Then she went down softly, through the dark, to the door. When she opened it, a man's tall figure stood between her and the luminous street. He was looking away; but at the sound of the latch he turned quickly round.
'Is this Mr. Hale's?' said he, in a clear, full voice.
Margaret trembled all over; at first she did not answer. Then she sighed out, 'Frederick!' and stretched out both her hands to catch his, and draw him in.
'Oh, Margaret!' said he, holding her by her shoulders, after they had kissed each other, as if even in that darkness he could see her face. 'My mother! is she alive?'
'Yes, she is alive, dear brother! She is as ill as she can be; but alive!'
'Thank God! You expect me, don't you?'
'No, we have had no letter.'
'Then I have come before it. But my mother knows I am coming?'
'Oh! we all knew you would come. Step in here,' she said. 'Give me your hand. What is this? Oh! your carpet-bag. This is papa's study. Rest here for a few minutes, while I go and tell him.'
She groped her way to the taper and the matches. When the little feeble light made them visible, she felt suddenly shy. All she could see was, that her brother's face was unusually dark, and she caught the stealthy look of a pair of remarkably long-cut blue eyes, that suddenly twinkled drolly as they inspected each other. They did not exchange a word; yet Margaret felt sure that she should like her brother as a companion as much as she already loved him as a relation.
Her father still lay across the table; but now she had the spell by which to rouse him. She used it perhaps too violently in her own great relief.
'Papa,' said she, throwing her arms fondly round his neck, and pulling up his weary head to look into his eyes. 'Papa! guess who is here!'
He looked at her; and then hid his face once more, whispering:
'Don't tell me it is Frederick. I cannot bear it - I am too weak. And his mother is dying!' He began to cry like a child. It was so different to all that Margaret had hoped and expected, that she turned sick with disappointment. After a moment she spoke again very differently - not so exultingly, far more tenderly.
'Papa, it is Frederick! Think of mamma, how glad she will be! And oh, for her sake, how glad we ought to be! For his sake, too!'
With his face still hidden, he asked, 'Where is he?'
'In your study. He is quite alone, and will be wondering-'
'I will go to him,' broke in her father; and he lifted himself up and leant on her arm as she led him to the study door.
Her spirits were so agitated that she could not bear to see the meeting. She ran upstairs, and cried most heartily: the first time she had dared to allow herself this relief for days. The strain had been terrible. But Frederick was come! He was there, safe, amongst them! She could hardly believe it.
She stopped crying, and opened her bedroom door. Hearing no sound, she went downstairs. She heard the buzz of voices through the study door; and that was enough. She went into the kitchen, and stirred up the fire, and prepared some food. How fortunate it was that her mother slept! The traveller could be refreshed and bright, and the first excitement of the meeting with his father be over, before her mother became aware of anything unusual.
When all was ready, Margaret opened the study door, and went in with a heavy tray. Frederick sprang up, and relieved her of her burden. It was a sign of all the relief which his presence would bring. The brother and sister arranged the table together, saying little, but their hands touching, and their eyes meeting. The fire had gone out, so Margaret tried to light it, for the evenings were chilly.
'Dixon says it is a gift to light a fire; not an art to be acquired.'
'Dear old Dixon!' said Frederick. 'She used to kiss me, and then look in my face to be sure I was the right person, and then set to again! But, Margaret, what a bungler you are! I never saw such an awkward little pair of hands. Run away and wash them, and leave the fire. I'll manage it. Lighting fires is one of my natural accomplishments.'
So Margaret passed in and out of the room, in glad restlessness. The more wants Frederick had, the better she was pleased; and he understood this by instinct. It was a joy snatched in the house of mourning, and all the sharper because they knew what great sorrow awaited them.
They heard Dixon's foot on the stairs. Mr. Hale started up, and faced the door. He showed such a strange, sudden anxiety to conceal Frederick from the sight of anyone, even faithful Dixon, that a shiver came over Margaret's heart: it reminded her of the new fear in their lives. She caught at Frederick's arm. And yet they knew it was only Dixon's measured tread. They heard her walk into the kitchen, and Margaret rose up.
'I will go and tell her, and hear how mamma is.'
Mrs. Hale was awake. She rambled at first. Although she was refreshed after they had given her some tea, it was better that the night should pass before she was told of her son's arrival. Dr. Donaldson's visit that evening would bring nervous excitement enough.
Margaret could not sit still. It seemed as though she could never be tired again. Each glimpse into the room where Frederick sat talking with his father gave her strength. Her own time for talking and hearing would come later. She liked his appearance: he had delicate features under his swarthy complexion, and a quick intensity of expression. His eyes were generally merry-looking, but at times they and his mouth so suddenly changed, and gave her such an idea of latent passion, that it almost made her afraid. But this look was only for an instant; and though it betrayed an impulsive nature, there was nothing in it to make Margaret recoil.
On the contrary, all their talk was peculiarly charming to her from the very first. She knew then how much responsibility she had had to bear, from the relief she felt in Frederick's presence. He understood his father and mother's characters, and spoke with freedom, yet was most delicately careful not to hurt their feelings. He seemed to know instinctively when a little of the natural brilliancy of his manner would not jar on his father's deep depression, or might relieve his mother's pain. And his patient devotion and watchfulness made him an admirable nurse.
Margaret was almost touched into tears by the allusions which he often made to their childish days in the New Forest; he had never forgotten her - or Helstone - all the time he had been roaming among distant countries. She had been afraid before he came, even while she had longed for his coming; she felt that she herself had changed so much in seven or eight years that his wild career must have almost substituted another Frederick for the tall stripling in his midshipman's uniform, whom she remembered looking up to with such admiring awe. But they had grown nearer to each other in age, as well as in many other things.
And so it was that the weight of this sorrowful time was lightened to Margaret. Other light she had none. For a few hours, the mother rallied on seeing her son. She sat with his hand in hers; she would not part with it even while she slept; and Margaret had to feed him like a baby, rather than that he should disturb her mother by removing a finger. Mrs. Hale wakened while they were doing this; she slowly moved her head round on the pillow, and smiled at her children, as she understood what they were doing.
'I am very selfish,' said she; 'but it will not be for long.' Frederick bent down and kissed the feeble hand.
This state of tranquillity could not endure for many days, nor perhaps for many hours; so Dr. Donaldson assured Margaret. After the kind doctor had gone away, she stole down to Frederick, who, during the visit, had remained concealed in the back parlour. She told him what Dr. Donaldson had said.
'I don't believe it,' he exclaimed. 'She is very ill; but I can't imagine that she is on the point of death. Margaret! she should have some other advice - some London doctor. Have you never thought of that?'
'Yes,' said Margaret, 'more than once. But I don't believe it would do any good. And, you know, we have not the money to bring any great London surgeon down, and I am sure Dr. Donaldson is only second in skill to the very best - if indeed, he is to them.'
Frederick began to walk up and down impatiently.
'I have credit in Cadiz,' said he, 'but none here. Why did my father leave Helstone? That was the blunder.'
'It was no blunder,' said Margaret. 'And do not let papa hear you say that. He is tormenting himself already with the idea that mamma would never have been ill if we had stayed at Helstone, and you don't know papa's agonising power of self-reproach!'
Frederick stopped opposite her as she stood drooping.
'My little Margaret!' said he, caressing her. 'Let us hope as long as we can. I will hope, in spite of a thousand doctors. Bear up, Margaret, and be brave enough to hope!'
Margaret choked in trying to speak, and when she did it was very low.
'I must try to be meek enough to trust. Oh, Frederick! mamma was getting to love me so! And I was getting to understand her. And now comes death to snap us asunder!'
'Come, come! Let us go upstairs, and do something, rather than waste time that may be so precious. Thinking has often made me sad, darling; but doing never did. My motto is, "Do something, do good if you can; but, at any rate, do something."'
'Not excluding mischief,' said Margaret, smiling faintly through her tears.
'By no means. What I do exclude is remorse afterwards. Blot your misdeeds out by a good deed, as soon as you can; just as at school we did a correct sum on the slate, over an incorrect one.'
If Margaret thought Frederick's theory rather a rough one at first, she saw how he carried it out. After a bad night with his mother, he was busy next morning before breakfast, allowing some rest for Dixon, who was beginning to feel the fatigues of watching. At breakfast-time, he interested Mr. Hale with vivid, rattling accounts of the wild life he had led in Mexico and South America. Margaret would have despaired of rousing Mr. Hale out of his dejection; but Fred, true to his theory, did something perpetually; and talking was the only thing to be done, besides eating, at breakfast.
Before the end of that day, Dr. Donaldson's opinion was proved to be too well founded. Convulsions came on; and when they ceased, Mrs. Hale was unconscious. Her husband might lie by her shaking the bed with his sobs; her son's strong arms might lift her tenderly into a comfortable position; her daughter might bathe her face; but she knew them not. She would never recognise them again, till they met in Heaven.
Before the morning came all was over.
Then Margaret rose from her despondency, and became as a strong angel of comfort to her father and brother. For Frederick broke down now, and all his theories were of no use to him. He cried so violently in his little room at night, that Margaret and Dixon came down to warn him to be quiet: for the walls were thin, and the next-door neighbours might easily hear his passionate sobs.
Margaret sat with her father in the room with the dead. From time to time, he uncovered the face, and stroked it gently, making a kind of soft inarticulate noise, like that of some mother-animal caressing her young. He took no notice of Margaret's presence. Once or twice she kissed him; and he submitted, giving her a little push away when she had done, as if it disturbed him from his absorption in the dead. On hearing Frederick's cries, he shook his head. 'Poor boy!' he said, and took no more notice.
Margaret's heart ached. She could not think of her own loss in attending to her father. The night was wearing away, and the day was at hand, when her voice broke upon the stillness of the room, with a clearness that startled even herself:
'Let not your heart be troubled,' it said; and she went steadily on through all that chapter of unspeakable consolation.


"Some wishes crossed my mind and dimly cheered it, And one or two poor melancholy pleasures, Each in the pale unwarming light of hope, Silvering its flimsy wing, flew silent by-- Moths in the moonbeam!" COLERIDGE.
The next morning brought Margaret a letter from Edith. It was affectionate and inconsequent like the writer. But the affection was charming to Margaret's own affectionate nature; and she had grown up with the inconsequence, so she did not perceive it. It was as follows:--
"Oh, Margaret, it is worth a journey from England to see my boy! He is a superb little fellow, especially in his caps, and most especially in the one you sent him, you good, dainty-fingered, persevering little lady! Having made all the mothers here envious, I want to show him to somebody new, and hear a fresh set of admiring expressions; perhaps, that's all the reason; perhaps it is not--nay, possibly, there is just a little cousinly love mixed with it; but I do want you so much to come here, Margaret! I'm sure it would be the very best thing for Aunt Hale's health; everybody here is young and well, and our skies are always blue, and our sun always shines, and the band plays deliciously from morning till night; and, to come back to the burden of my ditty, my baby always smiles. I am constantly wanting you to draw him from me, Margaret. It does not signify what he is doing; that very thing is prettiest, gracefullest, best. I think I love him a great deal better than my husband, who is getting stout, and grumpy--what he calls 'busy.' No! he is not. He has just come in with news of such a charming pic-nic, given by the officers of the Hazard, at anchor in the bay below. Because he has brought in such a pleasant piece of news, I retract all I said just now. Did not somebody burn his hand for having said or done something he was sorry for? Well, I can't burn mine, because it would hurt me, and the scar would be ugly; but I'll retract all I said as fast as I can. Cosmo is quite as great a darling as baby, and not a bit stout, and as ungrumpy as ever husband was; only, sometimes he is very, very busy. I may say that without love--wifely duty--- where was I?--I had something very particular to say, I know, once. Oh, it is this--Dearest Margaret!--you must come and see me; it would do Aunt Hale good, as I said before. Get the doctor to order it for her. Tell him that it's the smoke of Milton that does her harm. I have no doubt it is that, really. Three months (you must not come for less) of this delicious climate--all sunshine, and grapes as common as blackberries, would quite cure her. I don't ask my uncle"--(Here the letter became more constrained, and better written. Mr. Hale was in the corner, like a naughty child, for having given up his living.)--"because, I dare say, he disapproves of war, soldiers, and bands of music; at least, I know that many Dissenters are members of the Peace Society, and I am afraid he would not like to come; but, if he would, dear, pray say that Cosmo and I will do our best to make him happy; and I'll hide up Cosmo's red coat and sword, and make the band play all sorts of grave, solemn things; or, if they do play pomps and vanities, it shall be in double slow time. Dear Margaret, if he would like to accompany you and Aunt Hale, we will try and make it pleasant, though I'm rather afraid of any one who has done anything for conscience' sake. You never did, I hope. Tell Aunt Hale not to bring any warm clothes, though I'm afraid it will be late in the year before you can come. But you have no idea of the heat here! I tried to wear my great beauty Indian shawl at a pic-nic. I kept myself up with proverbs as long as I could; 'Pride must abide,'--and such wholesome pieces of pith; but it was no use. I was like mamma's little dog Tiny with an elephant's trappings on; smothered, hidden, killed with my finery; so I made it into a capital carpet for us all to sit down upon. Here's this boy of mine, Margaret--if you don't pack up your things as soon as you get this letter, and come straight off to see him, I shall think you're descended from King Herod!"
Margaret did long for a day of Edith's life--her freedom from care, her cheerful home, her sunny skies. If a wish could have transported her, she would have gone off; just for one day. She yearned for the strength which such a change would give--even for a few hours to be in the midst of that bright life, and to feel young again. Not yet twenty! and she had had to bear up against such hard pressure that she felt quite old. That was her first feeling after reading Edith's letter. Then she read it again, and, forgetting herself, was amused at its likeness to Edith's self, and was laughing merrily over it when Mrs. Hale came into the drawing-room, leaning on Dixon's arm. Margaret flew to adjust the pillows. Her mother seemed more than usually feeble.
"What were you laughing at, Margaret?" asked she, as soon as she had recovered from the exertion of settling herself on the sofa.
"A letter I have had this morning from Edith. Shall I read it to you, mamma?"
She read it aloud, and for a time it seemed to interest her mother, who kept wondering what name Edith had given to her boy, and suggesting all probable names, and all possible reasons why each and all of these names should be given. Into the very midst of these wonders Mr. Thornton came, bringing another offering of fruit for Mrs. Hale. He could not--say rather, he would not--deny himself the chance of the pleasure of seeing Margaret. He had no end in this but the present gratification. It was the sturdy wilfulness of a man usually most reasonable and self-controlled. He entered the room, taking in at a glance the fact of Margaret's presence; but after the first cold distant bow, he never seemed to let his eyes fall on her again. He only stayed to present his peaches--to speak some gentle kindly words--and then his cold offended eyes met Margaret's with a grave farewell, as he left the room. She sat down silent and pale.
"Do you know, Margaret, I really begin to like Mr. Thornton."
No answer at first. Then Margaret forced out an icy "Do you?"
"Yes! I think he is really getting quite polished in his manners."
Margaret's voice was more in order now. She replied,
"He is very kind and attentive--there is no doubt of that."
"I wonder Mrs. Thornton never calls. She must know I am ill, because of the water-bed."
"I dare say, she hears how you are from her son."
"Still, I should like to see her. You have so few friends here, Margaret."
Margaret felt what was in her mother's thoughts--a tender craving to bespeak the kindness of some woman towards the daughter that might soon be left motherless. But she could not speak.
"Do you think," said Mrs. Hale, after a pause, "that you could go and ask Mrs. Thornton to come and see me? Only once--I don't want to be troublesome."
"I will do anything, if you wish it, mamma--but if--but when Frederick comes----"
"Ah, to be sure! we must keep our doors shut--we must let no one in. I hardly know whether I dare wish him to come or not. Sometimes I think I would rather not. Sometimes I have such frightful dreams about him."
"Oh, mamma! we'll take good care. I will put my arm in the bolt sooner than he should come to the slightest harm. Trust the care of him to me, mamma. I will watch over him like a lioness over her young."
"When can we hear from him?"
"Not for a week yet, certainly--perhaps more."
"We must send Martha away in good time. It would never do to have her here when he comes, and then send her off in a hurry."
"Dixon is sure to remind us of that. I was thinking that, if we wanted any help in the house while he is here, we could perhaps get Mary Higgins. She is very slack of work, and is a good girl, and would take pains to do her best, I am sure, and would sleep at home, and need never come upstairs, so as to know who is in the house."
"As you please. As Dixon pleases. But, Margaret, don't get to use these horrid Milton words. 'Slack of work:' it is a provincialism. What will your aunt Shaw say, if she hears you use it on her return?"
"Oh, mamma! don't try and make a bugbear of aunt Shaw," said Margaret, laughing. "Edith picked up all sorts of military slang from Captain Lennox, and aunt Shaw never took any notice of it."
"But yours is factory slang."
"And if I live in a factory town, I must speak factory language when I want it. Why, mamma, I could astonish you with a great many words you never heard in your life. I don't believe you know what a knobstick is."
"Not I, child. I only know it has a very vulgar sound; and I don't want to hear you using it."
"Very well, dearest mother, I won't. Only I shall have to use a whole explanatory sentence instead."
"I don't like this Milton," said Mrs. Hale. "Edith is right enough in saying it's the smoke that has made me so ill."
Margaret started up as her mother said this. Her father had just entered the room, and she was most anxious that the faint impression she had seen on his mind that the Milton air had injured her mother's health, should not be deepened--should not receive any confirmation. She could not tell whether he had heard what Mrs. Hale had said or not; but she began speaking hurriedly of other things, unaware that Mr. Thornton was following him.
"Mamma is accusing me of having picked up a great deal of vulgarity since we came to Milton."
The "vulgarity" Margaret spoke of, referred purely to the use of local words, and the expression arose out of the conversation they had just been holding. But Mr. Thornton's brow darkened; and Margaret suddenly felt how her speech might be misunderstood by him; so, in the natural sweet desire to avoid giving unnecessary pain, she forced herself to go forwards with a little greeting, and continue what she was saying, addressing herself to him expressly.
"Now, Mr. Thornton, though 'knobstick' has not a very pretty sound, is it not expressive? Could I do without it, in speaking of the thing it represents? If using local words is vulgar, I was very vulgar in the Forest,--was I not, mamma?"
It was unusual with Margaret to obtrude her own subject of conversation on others; but, in this case, she was so anxious to prevent Mr. Thornton from feeling annoyance at the words he had accidentally overheard, that it was not until she had done speaking that she coloured all over with consciousness, more especially as Mr. Thornton seemed hardly to understand the exact gist or bearing of what she was saying, but passed her by, with a cold reserve of ceremonious movement, to speak to Mrs. Hale.
The sight of him reminded her of the wish to see his mother, and commend Margaret to her care. Margaret, sitting in burning silence, vexed and ashamed of her difficulty in keeping her right place, and her calm unconsciousness of heart, when Mr. Thornton was by, heard her mother's slow entreaty that Mrs. Thornton would come and see her; see her soon; to-morrow, if it were possible. Mr. Thornton promised that she should--conversed a little, and then took his leave; and Margaret's movements and voice seemed at once released from some invisible chains. He never looked at her; and yet, the careful avoidance of his eyes betokened that in some way he knew exactly where, if they fell by chance, they would rest on her. If she spoke, he gave no sign of attention, and yet his next speech to any one else was modified by what she had said; sometimes there was an express answer to what she had remarked, but given to another person as though unsuggested by her. It was not the bad manners of ignorance; it was the wilful bad manners arising from deep offence. It was wilful at the time; repented of afterwards. But no deep plan, no careful cunning could have stood him in such good stead. Margaret thought about him more than she had ever done before; not with any tinge of what is called love, but with regret that she had wounded him so deeply,--and with a gentle, patient striving to return to their former position of antagonistic friendship; for a friend's position was what she found that he had held in her regard, as well as in that of the rest of the family. There was a pretty humility in her behaviour to him, as if mutely apologising for the over-strong words which were the reaction from the deeds of the day of the riot.
But he resented those words bitterly. They rung in his ears; and he was proud of the sense of justice which made him go in every kindness he could offer to her parents. He exulted in the power he showed in compelling himself to face her, whenever he could think of any action which might give her father or mother pleasure. He thought that he disliked seeing one who had mortified him so keenly; but he was mistaken. It was a stinging pleasure to be in the room with her, and feel her presence. But he was no great analyser of his own motives and was mistaken, as I have said.

The next morning brought a letter from Edith. It was affectionate and inconsequent like the writer. But the affection was charming to Margaret; and she had grown up with the inconsequence, so she did not perceive it. It was as follows:
'Oh, Margaret, you should see my boy! He is a superb little fellow, especially in his caps, and most especially in the one you sent him, you good, dainty-fingered little lady! Having made all the mothers here envious, I want to show him to somebody new - I do want you so much to come here, Margaret! I'm sure it would be the very best thing for Aunt Hale's health; everybody here is young and well, and our skies are always blue, and our sun always shines, and the band plays deliciously from morning till night; and my baby always smiles. I think I love him a great deal better than my husband, who is getting stout, and grumpy - what he calls "busy." No! he is not. He has just come in with news of a charming picnic, given by the officers of the Hazard, at anchor in the bay below; so I retract all I said just now. Cosmo is quite as great a darling as baby, and not a bit stout, and as un-grumpy as ever husband was; only, sometimes he is very busy.
'Where was I? Oh, yes - Dearest Margaret! - you must come and see me. Get the doctor to order it for your mother. Tell him that it's the smoke of Milton that does her harm. This delicious climate - all sunshine, and grapes as common as blackberries, would quite cure her. I don't ask my uncle, because I dare say he disapproves of war, and soldiers, and military bands; but if he would like to come, Cosmo and I will do our best to make him happy; and I'll hide Cosmo's red coat and sword, and make the band play all sorts of grave, solemn things in double slow time. Tell Aunt Hale not to bring many warm clothes. You have no idea of the heat here! I tried to wear my great Indian shawl at a picnic, but I was like mamma's little dog Tiny with an elephant's trappings on, smothered with my finery; so I made it into a capital carpet for us all to sit upon. Pack up your things as soon as you get this letter, and come straight off to see us!'
Margaret did long for a day of Edith's life - her freedom from care, her cheerful home, her sunny skies. If a wish could have transported her, she would have gone off, just for one day. She yearned for the strength which such a change would give - even for a few hours in the midst of that bright life, to feel young again. Not yet twenty! She felt quite old. Then she read Edith's letter again, and, forgetting herself, was laughing merrily over it when Mrs. Hale came into the drawing-room, leaning feebly on Dixon's arm.
'What were you laughing at, Margaret?' asked she.
'A letter from Edith.' She read it aloud, and for a time it seemed to interest her mother, who kept wondering what name Edith had given to her boy.
Into the midst of these wonders Mr. Thornton came, bringing more fruit for Mrs. Hale. He could not - or would not - deny himself the chance of the pleasure of seeing Margaret. It was the sturdy wilfulness of a man usually reasonable and self-controlled.
He entered the room, taking in at a glance the fact of Margaret's presence; but after the first cold distant bow, he did not look at her. He only stayed to present his peaches - to speak some gentle kindly words - and then his cold offended eyes met Margaret's with a grave farewell, as he left the room. She sat down silent and pale.
'Do you know, Margaret, I really begin quite to like Mr. Thornton.'
Margaret forced out an icy 'Do you?'
'Yes! I think he is really getting quite polished in his manners.'
Margaret's voice was more in order now. She replied, 'He is very kind and attentive.'
'I wonder Mrs. Thornton never calls. She must know I am ill, because of the water-bed. I should like to see her. You have so few friends here, Margaret.'
Margaret felt what was in her mother's thoughts - a craving to ask for the kindness of some woman towards the daughter that might so soon be motherless. She could not speak.
'Do you think,' said Mrs. Hale, 'that you could go and ask Mrs. Thornton to come and see me? Only once. I don't want to be troublesome.'
'If you wish it, mamma - but when Frederick comes-'
'Ah, to be sure! we must let no one in. I hardly know whether I wish him to come or not. Sometimes I have such frightful dreams about him.'
'Oh, mamma! we'll take good care. Trust me; I will watch over him like a lioness over her young.'
'When can we hear from him?'
'Not for a week yet, perhaps more.'
'We must send Martha away in good time.'
'Dixon is sure to remind us of that. I was thinking that if we wanted any help in the house while he is here, we could perhaps get Mary Higgins. She is very slack of work, and is a good girl, and would do her best, I am sure, and would sleep at home, and need never come upstairs.'
'As you and Dixon please. But, Margaret, don't use these horrid Milton words. "Slack of work!" What will your aunt Shaw say, if she hears you on her return?'
'Oh, mamma!' said Margaret, laughing. 'Edith picked up all sorts of military slang from Captain Lennox, and aunt Shaw never took any notice.'
'But yours is factory slang.'
'I live in a factory town. Why, mamma, I could astonish you with a great many words you never heard in your life. Do you know what a knobstick is? It means a strike-breaker.'
'I don't want to hear you using such words. I don't like this Milton,' said Mrs. Hale. 'Edith is right enough in saying it's the smoke that has made me so ill.'
Margaret started up as her mother said this. Her father had just entered the room, and she was most anxious that he should not hear. She began speaking hurriedly of other things, unaware that Mr. Thornton was following him.
'Mamma is accusing me of having picked up a great deal of vulgarity since we came to Milton.'
By 'vulgarity' Margaret referred purely to the use of local words. But Mr. Thornton's brow darkened; and Margaret suddenly felt she might be misunderstood by him; so, in the natural sweet desire to avoid giving unnecessary pain, she forced herself to go forwards with a little greeting, and continue what she was saying.
'Now, Mr. Thornton, though "knobstick" has not a very pretty sound, is it not expressive? If using local words is vulgar, I was very vulgar in the Forest - was I not, mamma?'
It was unusual with Margaret to obtrude her own subject of conversation on others; but, in this case, she was so anxious to prevent Mr. Thornton from feeling annoyed at her words, that after speaking she coloured all over; especially as Mr. Thornton seemed hardly to understand what she was saying, but passed her by, with a cold ceremonious movement, to speak to Mrs. Hale.
Margaret, sitting in burning silence, was vexed and ashamed of her difficulty in keeping calm when Mr. Thornton was by. She heard her mother's slow entreaty that Mrs. Thornton would come and see her soon; tomorrow, if possible. Mr. Thornton promised that she should - conversed a little, and then left; and Margaret's movements and voice seemed at once released from invisible chains.
He never looked at her; and yet the careful avoidance of his eyes showed that he knew exactly where she was. If she spoke, he gave no sign of attention, and yet his next speech to anyone else was modified by what she had said; sometimes with an answer to what she had remarked, but given to another person. It was not the bad manners of ignorance; it was the wilful bad manners arising from deep offence. He repented of it afterwards.
But no deep plan, no careful cunning could have stood him in such good stead. Margaret thought about him more than she had ever done before; not with any love, but with regret that she had wounded him so deeply; and with a gentle, patient striving to return to their former position of antagonistic friendship. There was a pretty humility in her behaviour to him, as if mutely apologising for the over-strong words which had been the reaction from the day of the riot.
But he resented those words bitterly. They rung in his ears; and he was proud of the sense of justice which made him offer every kindness he could to her parents. He exulted in the power he showed in compelling himself to face her. He thought that he disliked seeing one who had mortified him so keenly; but he was mistaken. It was a stinging pleasure to be in the room with her, and feel her presence. But he was no great analyser of his own motives.