But then, you know, I never had the opportunity of trying Sir John Beresford's beds. I never was at Oxenham.' 'Were not you? 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! Every body 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 realisation. 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 lay deeper than the source of his latter cheering words. She took his arm and walked home pensively and wearily by his side. End of Volume One