North and South
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.
CHAPTER XXVI.
MOTHER AND SON
“I have found that holy place of rest
Still changeless.”
MRS. HEMANS.
When Mr. Thornton had left the house that morning he was almost blinded
by his baffled passion. He was as dizzy as if Margaret, instead of
looking, and speaking, and moving like a tender graceful woman, had been
a sturdy fish-wife, and given him a sound blow with her fists. He had
positive bodily pain—a violent headache, and a throbbing intermittent
pulse. He could not bear the noise, the garish light, the continued
rumble and movement of the street. He called himself a fool for
suffering so; and yet he could not, at the moment, recollect the cause
of his suffering, and whether it was adequate to the consequences it had
produced. It would have been a relief to him, if he could have sat down
and cried on a door-step by a little child, who was raging and storming,
through his passionate tears, at some injury he had received. He said to
himself, that he hated Margaret, but a wild, sharp sensation of love
cleft his dull, thunderous feeling like lightning, even as he shaped the
words expressive of hatred. His greatest comfort was in hugging his
torment and in feeling, as he had indeed said to her, that though she
might despise him, contemn him, treat him with her proud sovereign
indifference, he did not change one whit. She could not make him change.
He loved her, and would love her; and defy her, and this miserable
bodily pain.
He stood still for a moment, to make this resolution firm and clear.
There was an omnibus passing—going into the country; the conductor
thought he was wishing for a place, and stopped near the pavement. It
was too much trouble to apologise and explain; so he mounted upon it,
and was borne away—past long rows of houses—then past detached villas
with trim gardens, till they came to real country hedge-rows, and,
by-and-by, to a small country town. Then everybody got down; and so did
Mr. Thornton, and because they walked away he did so too. He went into
the fields, walking briskly, because the sharp motion relieved his mind.
He could remember all about it now; the pitiful figure he must have cut;
the absurd way in which he had gone and done the very thing he had so
often agreed with himself in thinking would be the most foolish thing in
the world; and had met with exactly the consequences which, in these
wise moods, he had always foretold were certain to follow, if he ever
did make such a fool of himself. Was he bewitched by those beautiful
eyes, that soft, half-open, sighing mouth which lay so close upon his
shoulder only yesterday? He could not even shake off the recollection
that she had been there; that her arms had been round him, once—if
never again. He only caught glimpses of her; he did not understand her
altogether. At one time she was so brave, and at another so timid; now
so tender, and then so haughty and regal proud. And then he thought
over every time he had ever seen her once again, by way of finally
forgetting her. He saw her in every dress, in every mood, and did not
know which became her best. Even this morning how magnificent she had
looked—her eyes flashing out upon him at the idea that, because she had
shared his danger yesterday, she had cared for him the least!
If Mr. Thornton was a fool in the morning, as he assured himself at
least twenty times he was, he did not grow much wiser in the afternoon.
All that he gained for his sixpenny omnibus ride, was a more vivid
conviction that there never was, never could be, any one like Margaret;
that she did not love him and never would; but that she—no! nor the
whole world—should never hinder him from loving her. And so he returned
to the little market-place, and remounted the omnibus to return to
Milton.
It was late in the afternoon when he was set down, near his warehouse.
The accustomed places brought back the accustomed habits and trains of
thought. He knew how much he had to do—more than his usual work, owing
to the commotion of the day before. He had to see his brother
magistrates; he had to complete the arrangements, only half made in the