CHAPTER XXXII.

MISCHANCES.

“What! remain to be

Denounced—dragged, it may be, in chains.”

WERNER.

All the next day they sate together—they three. Mr. Hale hardly ever

spoke but when his children asked him questions, and forced him, as it

were, into the present. Frederick’s grief was no more to be seen or

heard; the first paroxysm had passed over, and now he was ashamed of

having been so battered down by emotion; and though his sorrow for the

loss of his mother was a deep real feeling, and would last out his life,

it was never to be spoken of again. Margaret, not so passionate at

first, was more suffering now. At times she cried a good deal; and her

manner, even when speaking on different things, had a mournful

tenderness about it, which was deepened whenever her looks fell upon

Frederick, and she thought of his rapidly approaching departure. She was

glad he was going, on her father’s account, however much she might

grieve over it on her own. The anxious terror in which Mr. Hale lived

lest his son should be detected and captured, far outweighed the

pleasure he derived from his presence. The nervousness had increased

since Mrs. Hale’s death, probably because he dwelt upon it more

exclusively. He started at every unusual sound, and was never

comfortable unless Frederick sate out of the immediate view of any one

entering the room. Towards evening he said:

“You will go with Frederick to the station, Margaret? I shall want to

know he is safely off. You will bring me word that he is clear of

Milton, at any rate?”

“Certainly,” said Margaret. “I shall like it, if you won’t be lonely

without me, papa.”

“No, no! I should always be fancying some one had known him, and that he

had been stopped, unless you could tell me you had seen him off. And go

to the Outwood station. It is quite as near, and not so many people

about. Take a cab there. There is less risk of his being seen. What time

is your train, Fred?”

“Ten minutes past six; very nearly dark. So what will you do, Margaret?”

“Oh, I can manage. I am getting very brave and very hard. It is a

well-lighted road all the way home, if it should be dark. But I was out

last week much later.”

Margaret was thankful when the parting was over—the parting from the

dead mother and the living father. She hurried Frederick into the cab,

in order to shorten a scene which she saw was so bitterly painful to her

father, who would accompany his son as he took his last look at his

mother. Partly in consequence of this, and partly owing to one of the

very common mistakes in the “Railway Guide” as to the times when trains

arrive at the smaller stations, they found, on reaching Outwood, that

they had nearly twenty minutes to spare. The booking-office was not

open, so they could not even take the ticket. They accordingly went down

the flight of steps that led to the level of the ground below the

railway. There was a broad cinder-path diagonally crossing a field which

lay alongside of the carriage-road, and they went there to walk

backwards and forwards for the few minutes they had to spare.

Margaret’s hand lay in Frederick’s arm. He took hold of it

affectionately.

“Margaret! I am going to consult Mr. Lennox as to the chance of

exculpating myself so that I may return to England whenever I choose,

more for your sake than for the sake of anyone else. I can’t bear to

think of your lonely position if any thing should happen to my father.

He looks sadly changed—terribly shaken. I wish you could get him to

think of the Cadiz plan, for many reasons. What could you do if he were

taken away? You have no friend near. We are curiously bare of

relations.”

Margaret could hardly keep from crying at the tender anxiety with which

Frederick was bringing before her an event which she herself felt was

not very improbable, so severely had the cares of the last few months

told upon Mr. Hale. But she tried to rally as she said:

“There have been such strange unexpected changes in my life during these

last two years, that I feel more than ever that it is not worth while to

calculate too closely what I should do if any future event took place. I

try to think only upon the present.” She paused; they were standing

still for a moment, close on the field side of the stile leading into

the road; the setting sun fell on their faces. Frederick held her hand

in his, and looked with wistful anxiety into her face, reading there

more care and trouble than she would betray by words. She went on:

“We shall write often to one another, and I will promise—for I see it

will set your mind at ease—to tell you every worry I have. Papa

is”—she started a little, a hardly visible start—but Frederick felt

the sudden motion of the hand he held, and turned his full face to the

road, along which a horseman was slowly riding, just passing the very

stile where they stood. Margaret bowed; her bow was stiffly returned.

“Who is that?” said Frederick, almost before he was out of hearing.

Margaret was a little drooping, a little flushed, as she replied: “Mr.

Thornton; you saw him before, you know.”

“Only his back. He is an unprepossessing-looking fellow. What a scowl he

has!”

“Something has happened to vex him,” said Margaret apologetically. “You

would not have thought him unprepossessing if you had seen him with

mamma.”

“I fancy it must be time to go and take my ticket. If I had known how

dark it would be, we wouldn’t have sent back the cab, Margaret.”

“Oh, don’t fidget about that. I can take a cab here, if I like; or go

back by the rail-road, when I should have shops and people and lamps all

the way from the Milton station-house. Don’t think of me; take care of

yourself. I am sick with the thought that Leonards may be in the same

train with you. Look well into the carriage before you get in.”

They went back to the station. Margaret insisted on going into the full

light of the flaring gas inside to take the ticket. Some idle-looking

young men were lounging about with the station-master. Margaret thought

she had seen the face of one of them before, and returned him a proud

look of offended dignity for his somewhat impertinent stare of

undisguised admiration. She went hastily to her brother, who was

standing outside, and took hold of his arm. “Have you got your bag? Let

us walk about here on the platform,” said she, a little flurried at the

idea of so soon being left alone, and her bravery oozing out rather

faster than she liked to acknowledge even to herself. She heard a step

following them along the flags; it stopped when they stopped, looking

out along the line and hearing the whizz of the coming train. They did

not speak; their hearts were too full. Another moment, and the train

would be here; a minute more, and he would be gone. Margaret almost

repented the urgency with which she had entreated him to go to London;

it was throwing more chances of detection in his way. If he had sailed

for Spain by Liverpool, he might have been off in two or three hours.

Frederick turned round, right facing the lamp, where the gas darted up

in vivid anticipation of the train. A man in the dress of a railway

porter started forward; a bad-looking man, who seemed to have drunk

himself into a state of brutality, although his senses were in perfect

order.

“By your leave, miss!” said he, pushing Margaret rudely on one side, and

seizing Frederick by the collar.

“Your name is Hale, I believe?”

In an instant, how, Margaret did not see, for everything danced before

her eyes—but by some sleight of wrestling, Frederick had tripped him

up, and he fell from the height of three or four feet, which the

platform was elevated above the space of soft ground, by the side of the

railroad. There he lay.

“Run, run!” gasped Margaret. “The train is here. It was Leonards, was

it? oh, run! I will carry your bag.” And she took him by the arm to push

him along with all her feeble force. A door was opened in a carriage—he

jumped in; and as he leant out to say, “God bless you, Margaret!” the

train rushed past her; and she was left standing alone. She was so

terribly sick and faint that she was thankful to be able to turn into

the ladies’ waiting-room, and sit down for an instant. At first she

could do nothing but gasp for breath. It was such a hurry; such a

sickening alarm; such a near chance. If the train had not been there at

the moment, the man would have jumped up again and called for assistance

to arrest him. She wondered if the man had got up: she tried to remember

if she had seen him move: she wondered if he could have been seriously

hurt. She ventured out; the platform was all alight, but still quite

deserted; she went to the end, and looked over, somewhat fearfully. No

one was there; and then she was glad she had made herself go, and

inspect, for otherwise terrible thoughts would have haunted her dreams.

And even as it was, she was so trembling and affrighted that she felt

she could not walk home along the road, which did indeed seem lonely and

dark, as she gazed down upon it from the blaze of the station. She would

wait till the down train passed and take her seat in it. But what if

Leonards recognized her as Frederick’s companion! She peered about,

before venturing into the booking-office to take her ticket. There were

only some railway officials standing about; and talking loud to one

another.

“So Leonards has been drinking again!” said one, seemingly in authority.

“He’ll need all his boasted influence to keep his place this time.”

“Where is he?” asked another, while Margaret, her back towards them, was

counting her change with trembling fingers, not daring to turn round

until she heard the answer to this question.

“I don’t know. He came in not five minutes ago, with some long story or

other about a fall he’d had, swearing awfully: and wanted to borrow some

money from me to go to London by the next up-train. He made all sorts of

tipsy promises, but I’d something else to do than listen to him; I told

him to go about his business; and he went off at the front door.”

“He’s at the nearest vaults, I’ll be bound,” said the first speaker.

“Your money would have gone there too, if you’d been such a fool as to

lend it.”

“Catch me! I knew better what his London meant. Why, he has never paid

me off that five shillings”—and so they went on.

And now all Margaret’s anxiety was for the train to come. She hid

herself once more in the ladies’ waiting-room, and fancied every noise

was Leonards’ step—every loud and boisterous voice was his. But no one

came near her until the train drew up; when she was civilly helped into

a carriage by a porter, into whose face she durst not look till they

were in motion, and then she saw that it was not Leonards’.