North and South
I am sure, you are too wise—too experienced to have promised to keep
the secret.”
“Well,” said he, half-smiling, though sadly enough, “there you are
right. I did not promise. In fact, I fear, the secret will be known soon
enough without my revealing it.”
He paused. Margaret then went very white, and compressed her lips a
little more. Otherwise not a feature moved. With the quick insight into
character, without which no medical man can rise to the eminence of Dr.
Donaldson, he saw that she would exact the full truth; that she would
know if one iota was withheld; and that the withholding would be torture
more acute than the knowledge of it. He spoke two short sentences in a
low voice, watching her all the time; for the pupils of her eyes dilated
into a black horror, and the whiteness of her complexion became livid.
He ceased speaking. He waited for that look to go off,—for her gasping
breath to come. Then she said:—
“I thank you most truly, sir, for your confidence. That dread has
haunted me for many weeks. It is a true, real agony. My poor, poor
mother!” Her lips now began to quiver, and he let her have the relief of
tears, sure of her power of self-control to check them.
A few tears—those were all she shed, before she recollected the many
questions she longed to ask.
“Will there be much suffering?”
He shook his head. “That we cannot tell. It depends on constitution; on
a thousand things. But the late discoveries of medical science have
given us large power of alleviation.”
“My father!” said Margaret, trembling all over.
“I do not know Mr. Hale. I mean, it is difficult to give advice. But I
should say, bear on, with the knowledge you have forced me to give you
so abruptly, till the fact which I could not withhold has become in some
degree familiar to you, so that you may without too great an effort, be
able to give what comfort you can to your father. Before then,—my
visits, which of course, I shall repeat from time to time, although I
fear I can do nothing but alleviate,—a thousand little circumstances
will have occurred to awaken his alarm, to deepen it—so that he will be
all the better prepared.—Nay, my dear young lady—nay, my dear—I saw
Mr. Thornton, and I honour your father for the sacrifice he has made,
however mistaken I may believe him to be.—Well, this once, if it will
please you, my dear. Only remember, when I come again, I come as a
friend. And you must learn to look upon me as such, because seeing each
other—getting to know each other at such times as these, is worth years
of morning calls.”
Margaret could not speak for crying; but she wrang his hand at parting.
“That’s what I call a fine girl!” thought Dr. Donaldson, when he was
seated in his carriage, and had time to examine his ringed hand, which
had slightly suffered from her pressure. “Who would have thought that
little hand could have given such a squeeze? But the bones were well put
together, and that gives immense power. What a queen she is! With her
head thrown back at first, to force me into speaking the truth; and then
bent so eagerly forward to listen. Poor thing! I must see she does not
overstrain herself. Though it’s astonishing how much these thorough-bred
creatures can do and suffer. That girl’s game to the back-bone. Another,
who had gone that deadly colour, could never have come round without
either fainting or hysterics. But she wouldn’t do either—not she! And
the very force of her will brought her round. Such a girl as that would
win my heart, if I were thirty years younger. It’s too late now. Ah;
here we are at the Archers’.” So out he jumped, with thought, wisdom,
experience, sympathy, and ready to attend to any of the calls made upon
them by this family, just as if there were none other in the world.
Meanwhile, Margaret had returned into her father’s study for a moment,
to recover strength before going upstairs into her mother’s presence.
“Oh, my God, my God! but this is terrible. How shall I bear it? Such a
deadly disease! no hope! Oh, mamma, mamma, I wish I had never gone to
aunt Shaw’s, and been all those precious years away from you! Poor
mamma! how much she must have borne! Oh, pray thee, my God, that her
sufferings may not be too acute, too dreadful. How shall I bear to see
them? How can I bear papa’s agony? He must not be told yet; not all at
once. It would kill him. But I won’t lose another moment of my own dear,
precious mother.”
She ran upstairs. Dixon was not in the room. Mrs. Hale lay back in an
easy chair, with a soft white shawl wrapped around her, and a becoming
cap put on, in expectation of the doctor’s visit. Her face had a little
faint colour in it, and the very exhaustion after the examination gave
it a peaceful look. Margaret was surprised to see her look so calm.
“Why, Margaret, how strange you look! What is the matter?” And then, as
the idea stole into her mind of what was indeed the real state of the
case, she added, as if a little displeased: “you have not been seeing
Dr. Donaldson, and asking him any questions—have you child?” Margaret
did not reply—only looked wistfully towards her. Mrs. Hale became more
displeased. “He would not surely break his word to me, and”—
“Oh yes, mamma, he did. I made him. It was I—blame me.” She knelt down
by her mother’s side, and caught her hand—she would not let it go,
though Mrs. Hale tried to pull it away. She kept kissing it, and the hot
tears she shed bathed it.
“Margaret, it was very wrong of you. You knew I did not wish you to
know.” But, as if tired with the contest, she left her hand in
Margaret’s clasp, and by-and-by she returned the pressure faintly. That
encouraged Margaret to speak.
“Oh, mamma! let me be your nurse. I will learn anything Dixon can teach
me. But you know I am your child, and I do think I have a right to do
everything for you.”
“You don’t know what you are asking,” said Mrs. Hale, with a shudder.
“Yes, I do. I know a great deal more than you are aware of. Let me be
your nurse. Let me try, at any rate. No one has ever, shall ever try so
hard as I will do. It will be such a comfort, mamma.”
“My poor child! Well, you shall try. Do you know, Margaret, Dixon and I
thought you would quite shrink from me if you knew—”
“Dixon thought!” said Margaret, her lip curling. “Dixon could not give
me credit for enough true love—for as much as herself! She thought, I
suppose, that I was one of those poor sickly women who like to lie on
rose leaves, and be fanned all day. Don’t let Dixon’s fancies come any
more between you and me, mamma. Don’t please!” implored she.
“Don’t be angry with Dixon,” said Mrs. Hale, anxiously. Margaret
recovered herself.
“No! I won’t. I will try and be humble, and learn her ways, if you will
only let me do all I can for you. Let me be in the first place,
mother—I am greedy of that. I used to fancy you would forget me while I
was away at aunt Shaw’s, and cry myself to sleep at nights with that
notion in my head.”
“And I used to think, how will Margaret bear our make-shift poverty
after the thorough comfort and luxury in Harley Street, till I have many
a time been more ashamed of your seeing our contrivances at Helstone
than of any stranger finding them out.”
“Oh, mamma! and I did so enjoy them. They were so much more amusing than
all the jog-trot Harley Street ways. The wardrobe shelf with handles
that served as a supper-tray on grand occasions! And the old tea-chests
stuffed and covered for ottomans! I think what you call the make-shift
contrivances at dear Helstone were a charming part of the life there.”
“I shall never see Helstone again, Margaret,” said Mrs. Hale, the tears
welling up into her eyes. Margaret could not reply. Mrs. Hale went on.
“While I was there, I was for ever wanting to leave it. Every place
seemed pleasanter. And now I shall die far away from it. I am rightly
punished.”
“You must not talk so,” said Margaret impatiently. “He said you might
live for years. Oh, mother! we will have you back at Helstone yet.”
“No, never! That I must take as a just penance. But,
Margaret—Frederick!”
At the mention of that one word, she suddenly cried out loud, as in some
sharp agony. It seemed as if the thought of him upset all her composure,
destroyed the calm, overcame the exhaustion. Wild passionate cry
succeeded to cry—“Frederick! Frederick! Come to me. I am dying. Little
first-born child, come to me once again!”
She was in violent hysterics. Margaret went and called Dixon in terror.
Dixon came in a huff, and accused Margaret of having over-excited her
mother. Margaret bore all meekly, only trusting that her father might
not return. In spite of her alarm, which was even greater than the
occasion warranted, she obeyed all Dixon’s directions promptly and well
without a word of self-justification. By so doing she mollified her
accuser. They put her mother to bed, and Margaret sate by her till she
fell asleep, and afterwards till Dixon beckoned her out of the room,
and, with a sour face, as if doing something against the grain, she bade
her drink a cup of coffee which she had prepared for her in the
drawing-room, and stood over her in a commanding attitude as she did so.
“You shouldn’t have been so curious, Miss, and then you wouldn’t have
needed to fret before your time. It would have come soon enough. And
now, I suppose, you’ll tell master, and a pretty household I shall have
of you!”
“No, Dixon,” said Margaret, sorrowfully, “I will not tell papa. He could
not bear it as I can.” And by way of proving how well she bore it, she
burst into tears.
“Ay! I knew how it would be. Now you’ll waken your mamma, just after
she’s gone to sleep so quietly. Miss Margaret my dear, I’ve had to keep
it down this many a week: and though I don’t pretend I can love her as
you do, yet I loved her better than any other man, woman, or child—no
one but Master Frederick ever came near her in my mind. Ever since Lady
Beresford’s maid first took me in to see her dressed out in white crape,
and corn-ears, and scarlet poppies, and I ran a needle down into my
finger, and broke it in, and she tore up her worked pocket-handkerchief,
after they’d cut it out, and came in to wet the bandages again with
lotion when she returned from the ball—where she’d been the prettiest
young lady of all—I’ve never loved any one like her. I little thought
then that I should live to see her brought so low. I don’t mean no
reproach to nobody. Many a one calls you pretty and handsome, and what
not. Even in this smoky place, enough to blind one’s eyes, the owls can
see that. But you’ll never be like your mother for beauty—never; not if
you live to be a hundred.”
“Mamma is very pretty still. Poor mamma!”
“Now don’t ye set off again, or I shall give way at last” (whimpering).
“You’ll never stand master’s coming home, and questioning, at this rate.
Go out and take a walk, and come in something like. Many’s the time I’ve
longed to walk it off—the thought of what was the matter with her, and
how it must all end.”
“Oh, Dixon!” said Margaret, “how often I’ve been cross with you, not
knowing what a terrible secret you had to bear!”
“Bless you, child! I like to see you showing a bit of a spirit. It’s the
good old Beresford blood. Why, the last Sir John but two shot his
steward down, there where he stood, for just telling him that he racked
the tenants, and he’d racked the tenants till he could get no more money
off them than he could get skin off a flint.”
“Well, Dixon, I won’t shoot you, and I’ll try not to be cross again.”
“You never have. If I’ve said it at times, it has always been to myself,
just in private, by way of making a little agreeable conversation, for
there’s no one here fit to talk to. And when you fire up you’re the very