CHAPTER XXV.

FREDERICK.

“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 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 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.