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_ CHAPTER XXX - HOME AT LAST
'The saddest birds a season find to sing.'
SOUTHWELL.
'Never to fold the robe o'er secret pain,
Never, weighed down by memory's clouds again,
To bow thy head! Thou art gone home!'
MRS. HEMANS.
Mrs. Thornton came to see Mrs. Hale the next morning. She was
much worse. One of those sudden changes--those great visible
strides towards death, had been taken in the night, and her own
family were startled by the gray sunken look her features had
assumed in that one twelve hours of suffering. Mrs. Thornton--who
had not seen her for weeks--was softened all at once. She had
come because her son asked it from her as a personal favour, but
with all the proud bitter feelings of her nature in arms against
that family of which Margaret formed one. She doubted the reality
of Mrs. Hale's illness; she doubted any want beyond a momentary
fancy on that lady's part, which should take her out of her
previously settled course of employment for the day. She told her
son that she wished they had never come near the place; that he
had never got acquainted with them; that there had been no such
useless languages as Latin and Greek ever invented. He bore all
this pretty silently; but when she had ended her invective
against the dead languages, he quietly returned to the short,
curt, decided expression of his wish that she should go and see
Mrs. Hale at the time appointed, as most likely to be convenient
to the invalid. Mrs. Thornton submitted with as bad a grace as
she could to her son's desire, all the time liking him the better
for having it; and exaggerating in her own mind the same notion
that he had of extraordinary goodness on his part in so
perseveringly keeping up with the Hales.
His goodness verging on weakness (as all the softer virtues did
in her mind), and her own contempt for Mr. and Mrs. Hale, and
positive dislike to Margaret, were the ideas which occupied Mrs.
Thornton, till she was struck into nothingness before the dark
shadow of the wings of the angel of death. There lay Mrs. Hale--a
mother like herself--a much younger woman than she was,--on the
bed from which there was no sign of hope that she might ever rise
again No more variety of light and shade for her in that darkened
room; no power of action, scarcely change of movement; faint
alternations of whispered sound and studious silence; and yet
that monotonous life seemed almost too much! When Mrs. Thornton,
strong and prosperous with life, came in, Mrs. Hale lay still,
although from the look on her face she was evidently conscious of
who it was. But she did not even open her eyes for a minute or
two. The heavy moisture of tears stood on the eye-lashes before
she looked up, then with her hand groping feebly over the
bed-clothes, for the touch of Mrs. Thornton's large firm fingers,
she said, scarcely above her breath--Mrs. Thornton had to stoop
from her erectness to listen,--
'Margaret--you have a daughter--my sister is in Italy. My child
will be without a mother;--in a strange place,--if I die--will
you'----
And her filmy wandering eyes fixed themselves with an intensity
of wistfulness on Mrs. Thornton's face For a minute, there was no
change in its rigidness; it was stern and unmoved;--nay, but that
the eyes of the sick woman were growing dim with the
slow-gathering tears, she might have seen a dark cloud cross the
cold features. And it was no thought of her son, or of her living
daughter Fanny, that stirred her heart at last; but a sudden
remembrance, suggested by something in the arrangement of the
room,--of a little daughter--dead in infancy--long years
ago--that, like a sudden sunbeam, melted the icy crust, behind
which there was a real tender woman.
'You wish me to be a friend to Miss Hale,' said Mrs. Thornton, in
her measured voice, that would not soften with her heart, but
came out distinct and clear.
Mrs. Hale, her eyes still fixed on Mrs. Thornton's face, pressed
the hand that lay below hers on the coverlet. She could not
speak. Mrs. Thornton sighed, 'I will. be a true friend, if
circumstances require it Not a tender friend. That I cannot
be,'--('to her,' she was on the point of adding, but she relented
at the sight of that poor, anxious face.)--'It is not my nature
to show affection even where I feel it, nor do I volunteer advice
in general. Still, at your request,--if it will be any comfort to
you, I will promise you.' Then came a pause. Mrs. Thornton was
too conscientious to promise what she did not mean to perform;
and to perform any-thing in the way of kindness on behalf of
Margaret, more disliked at this moment than ever, was difficult;
almost impossible.
'I promise,' said she, with grave severity; which, after all,
inspired the dying woman with faith as in something more stable
than life itself,--flickering, flitting, wavering life! 'I
promise that in any difficulty in which Miss Hale'----
'Call her Margaret!' gasped Mrs. Hale.
'In which she comes to me for help, I will help her with every
power I have, as if she were my own daughter. I also promise that
if ever I see her doing what I think is wrong'----
'But Margaret never does wrong--not wilfully wrong,' pleaded Mrs.
Hale. Mrs. Thornton went on as before; as if she had not heard:
'If ever I see her doing what I believe to be wrong--such wrong
not touching me or mine, in which case I might be supposed to
have an interested motive--I will tell her of it, faithfully and
plainly, as I should wish my own daughter to be told.'
There was a long pause. Mrs. Hale felt that this promise did not
include all; and yet it was much. It had reservations in it which
she did not understand; but then she was weak, dizzy, and tired.
Mrs. Thornton was reviewing all the probable cases in which she
had pledged herself to act. She had a fierce pleasure in the idea
of telling Margaret unwelcome truths, in the shape of performance
of duty. Mrs. Hale began to speak:
'I thank you. I pray God to bless you. I shall never see you
again in this world. But my last words are, I thank you for your
promise of kindness to my child.'
'Not kindness!' testified Mrs. Thornton, ungraciously truthful to
the last. But having eased her conscience by saying these words,
she was not sorry that they were not heard. She pressed Mrs.
Hale's soft languid hand; and rose up and went her way out of the
house without seeing a creature.
During the time that Mrs. Thornton was having this interview with
Mrs. Hale, Margaret and Dixon were laying their heads together,
and consulting how they should keep Frederick's coming a profound
secret to all out of the house. A letter from him might now be
expected any day; and he would assuredly follow quickly on its
heels. Martha must be sent away on her holiday; Dixon must keep
stern guard on the front door, only admitting the few visitors
that ever came to the house into Mr. Hale's room
down-stairs--Mrs. Hale's extreme illness giving her a good excuse
for this. If Mary Higgins was required as a help to Dixon in the
kitchen she was to hear and see as little of Frederick as
possible; and he was, if necessary to be spoken of to her under
the name of Mr. Dickinson. But. her sluggish and incurious nature
was the greatest safeguard of all.
They resolved that Martha should leave them that very afternoon
for this visit to her mother. Margaret wished that she had been
sent away on the previous day, as she fancied it might be thought
strange to give a servant a holiday when her mistress's state
required so much attendance.
Poor Margaret! All that afternoon she had to act the part of a
Roman daughter, and give strength out of her own scanty stock to
her father. Mr. hale would hope, would not despair, between the
attacks of his wife's malady; he buoyed himself up in every
respite from her pain, and believed that it was the beginning of
ultimate recovery. And so, when the paroxysms came on, each more
severe than the last, they were fresh agonies, and greater
disappointments to him. This afternoon, he sat in the
drawing-room, unable to bear the solitude of his study, or to
employ himself in any way. He buried his head in his arms, which
lay folded on the table. Margaret's heart ached to see him; yet,
as he did not speak, she did not like to volunteer any attempt at
comfort. Martha was gone. Dixon sat with Mrs. Hale while she
slept. The house was very still and quiet, and darkness came on,
without any movement to procure candles. Margaret sat at the
window, looking out at the lamps and the street, but seeing
nothing,--only alive to her father's heavy sighs. She did not
like to go down for lights, lest the tacit restraint of her
presence being withdrawn, he might give way to more violent
emotion, without her being at hand to comfort him. Yet she was
just thinking that she ought to go and see after the well-doing
of the kitchen fire, which there was nobody but herself to attend
to when she heard the muffled door-ring with so violent a pull,
that the wires jingled all through the house, though the positive
sound was not great. She started up, passed her father, who had
never moved at the veiled, dull sound,--returned, and kissed him
tenderly. And still he never moved, nor took any notice of her
fond embrace. Then she went down softly, through the dark, to the
door. Dixon would have put the chain on before she opened it, but
Margaret had not a thought of fear in her pre-occupied mind. A
man's tall figure stood between her and the luminous street. He
was looking away; but at the sound of the latch he turned quickly
round.
'Is this Mr. Hale's?' said he, in a clear, full, delicate voice.
Margaret trembled all over; at first she did not answer. In a
moment she sighed out,
'Frederick!' and stretched out both her hands to Catch his, and
draw him in.
'Oh, Margaret!' said he, holding her off by her shoulders, after
they had kissed each other, as if even in that darkness he could
see her face, and read in its expression a quicker answer to his
question than words could give,--
'My mother! is she alive?'
'Yes, she is alive, dear, dear brother! She--as ill as she can be
she is; but alive! She is alive!'
'Thank God!' said he.
'Papa is utterly prostrate with this great grief.'
'You expect me, don't you?'
'No, we have had no letter.'
'Then I have come before it. But my mother knows I am coming?'
'Oh! we all knew you would come. But wait a little! Step in here.
Give me your hand. What is this? Oh! your carpet-bag. Dixon has
shut the shutters; but this is papa's study, and I can take you
to a chair to rest yourself for a few minutes; while I go and
tell him.'
She groped her way to the taper and the lucifer matches. She
suddenly felt shy, when the little feeble light made them
visible. All she could see was, that her brother's face was
unusually dark in complexion, and she caught the stealthy look of
a pair of remarkably long-cut blue eyes, that suddenly twinkled
up with a droll consciousness of their mutual purpose of
inspecting each other. But though the brother and sister had an
instant of sympathy in their reciprocal glances, they did not
exchange a word; only, Margaret felt sure that she should like
her brother as a companion as much as she already loved him as a
near relation. Her heart was wonderfully lighter as she went
up-stairs; the sorrow was no less in reality, but it became less
oppressive from having some one in precisely the same relation to
it as that in which she stood. Not her father's desponding
attitude had power to damp her now. He lay across the table,
helpless as ever; but she had the spell by which to rouse him.
She used it perhaps too violently in her own great relief.
'Papa,' said she, throwing her arms fondly round his neck;
pulling his weary head up in fact with her gentle violence, till
it rested in her arms, and she could look into his eyes, and let
them gain strength and assurance from hers.
'Papa! guess who is here!'
He looked at her; she saw the idea of the truth glimmer into
their filmy sadness, and be dismissed thence as a wild
imagination.
He threw himself forward, and hid his face once more in his
stretched-out arms, resting upon the table as heretofore. She
heard him whisper; she bent tenderly down to listen. 'I don't
know. Don't tell me it is Frederick--not Frederick. I cannot bear
it,--I am too weak. And his mother is dying!'He began to cry and
wail like a child. It was so different to all which Margaret had
hoped and expected, that she turned sick with disappointment, and
was silent for an instant. Then she spoke again--very
differently--not so exultingly, far more tenderly and carefully.
'Papa, it is Frederick! Think of mamma, how glad she will be! And
oh, for her sake, how glad we ought to be! For his sake,
too,--our poor, poor boy!'
Her father did not change his attitude, but he seemed to be
trying to understand the fact.
'Where is he?' asked he at last, his face still hidden in his
prostrate arms.
'In your study, quite alone. I lighted the taper, and ran up to
tell you. He is quite alone, and will be wondering why--'
'I will go to him,' broke in her father; and he lifted himself up
and leant on her arm as on that of a guide.
Margaret led him to the study door, but her spirits were so
agitated that she felt she could not bear to see the meeting. She
turned away, and ran up-stairs, and cried most heartily. It was
the first time she had dared to allow herself this relief for
days. The strain had been terrible, as she now felt. But
Frederick was come! He, the one precious brother, was there,
safe, amongst them again! She could hardly believe it. She
stopped her crying, and opened her bedroom door. She heard no
sound of voices, and almost feared she might have dreamt. She
went down-stairs, and listened at the study door. She heard the
buzz of voices; and that was enough. She went into the kitchen,
and stirred up the fire, and lighted the house, and prepared for
the wanderer's refreshment. How fortunate it was that her mother
slept! She knew that she did, from the candle-lighter thrust
through the keyhole of her bedroom door. The traveller could be
refreshed and bright, and the first excitement of the meeting
with his father all be over, before her mother became aware of
anything unusual.
When all was ready, Margaret opened the study door, and went in
like a serving-maiden, with a heavy tray. held in her extended
arms. She was proud of serving Frederick. But he, when he saw
her, sprang up in a minute, and relieved her of her burden. It
was a type, a sign, of all the coming relief which his presence
would bring. The brother and sister arranged the table together,
saying little, but their hands touching, and their eyes speaking
the natural language of expression, so intelligible to those of
the same blood. The fire had gone out; and Margaret applied
herself to light it, for the evenings had begun to be chilly; and
yet it was desirable to make all noises as distant as possible
from Mrs. Hale's room.
'Dixon says it is a gift to light a fire; not an art to be
acquired.'
'Poeta nascitur, non fit,' murmured Mr. Hale; and Margaret was
glad to hear a quotation once more, however languidly given.
'Dear old Dixon! How we shall kiss each other!' said Frederick.
'She used to kiss me, and then look in my face to be sure I was
the right person, and then set to again! But, Margaret, what a
bungler you are! I never saw such a little awkward,
good-for-nothing pair of hands. Run away, and wash them, ready to
cut bread-and-butter for me, and leave the fire. I'll manage it.
Lighting fires is one of my natural accomplishments.'
So Margaret went away; and returned; and passed in and out of the
room, in a glad restlessness that could not be satisfied with
sitting still. The more wants Frederick had, the better she was
pleased; and he understood all this by instinct. It was a joy
snatched in the house of mourning, and the zest of it was all the
more pungent, because they knew in the depths of their hearts
what irremediable sorrow awaited them.
In the middle, they heard Dixon's foot on the stairs. Mr. Hale
started from his languid posture in his great armchair, from
which he had been watching his children in a dreamy way, as if
they were acting some drama of happiness, which it was pretty to
look at, but which was distinct from reality, and in which he had
no part. He stood up, and faced the door, showing such a strange,
sudden anxiety to conceal Frederick from the sight of any person
entering, even though it were the faithful Dixon, that a shiver
came over Margaret's heart: it reminded her of the new fear in
their lives. She caught at Frederick's arm, and clutched it
tight, while a stern thought compressed her brows, and caused her
to set her teeth. And yet they knew it was only Dixon's measured
tread. They heard her walk the length of the passage, into the
kitchen. Margaret rose up.
I will go to her, and tell her. And I shall hear how mamma is.'
Mrs. Hale was awake. She rambled at first; but after they had
given her some tea she was refreshed, though not disposed to
talk. It was better that the night should pass over before she
was told of her son's arrival. Dr. Donaldson's appointed visit
would bring nervous excitement enough for the evening; and he
might tell them how to prepare her for seeing Frederick. He was
there, in the house; could be summoned at any moment.
Margaret could not sit still. It was a relief to her to aid Dixon
in all her preparations for 'Master Frederick.' It seemed as
though she never could be tired again. Each glimpse into the room
where he sate by his father, conversing with him, about, she knew
not what, nor cared to know,--was increase of strength to her.
Her own time for talking and hearing would come at last, and she
was too certain of this to feel in a hurry to grasp it now. She
took in his appearance and liked it. He had delicate features,
redeemed from effeminacy by the swarthiness of his complexion,
and his quick intensity of expression. His eyes were generally
merry-looking, but at times they and his mouth so suddenly
changed, and gave her such an idea of latent passion, that it
almost made her afraid. But this look was only for an instant;
and had in it no doggedness, no vindictiveness; it was rather the
instantaneous ferocity of expression that comes over the
countenances of all natives of wild or southern countries--a
ferocity which enhances the charm of the childlike softness into
which such a look may melt away. Margaret might fear the violence
of the impulsive nature thus occasionally betrayed, but there was
nothing in it to make her distrust, or recoil in the least, from
the new-found brother. On the contrary, all their intercourse was
peculiarly charming to her from the very first. She knew then how
much responsibility she had had to bear, from the exquisite
sensation of relief which she felt in Frederick's presence. He
understood his father and mother--their characters and their
weaknesses, and went along with a careless freedom, which was yet
most delicately careful not to hurt or wound any of their
feelings. He seemed to know instinctively when a little of the
natural brilliancy of his manner and conversation would not jar
on the deep depression of his father, or might relieve his
mother's pain. Whenever it would have been out of tune, and out
of time, his patient devotion and watchfulness came into play,
and made him an admirable nurse. Then Margaret was almost touched
into tears by the allusions which he often made to their childish
days in the New Forest; he had never forgotten her--or Helstone
either--all the time he had been roaming among distant countries
and foreign people. She might talk to him of the old spot, and
never fear tiring him. She had been afraid of him before he came,
even while she had longed for his coming; seven or eight years
had, she felt, produced such great changes in herself that,
forgetting how much of the original Margaret was left, she had
reasoned that if her tastes and feelings had so materially
altered, even in her stay-at-home life, his wild career, with
which she was but imperfectly acquainted, must have almost
substituted another Frederick for the tall stripling in his
middy's uniform, whom she remembered looking up to with such
admiring awe. But in their absence they had grown nearer to each
other in age, as well as in many other things. And so it was that
the weight, this sorrowful time, was lightened to Margaret. Other
light than that of Frederick's presence she had none. For a few
hours, the mother rallied on seeing her son. She sate with his
hand in hers; she would not part with it even while she slept;
and Margaret had to feed him like a baby, rather than that he
should disturb her mother by removing a finger. Mrs. Hale wakened
while they were thus engaged; she slowly moved her head round on
the pillow, and smiled at her children, as she understood what
they were doing, and why it was done.
'I am very selfish,' said she; 'but it will not be for long.'
Frederick bent down and kissed the feeble hand that imprisoned
his.
This state of tranquillity could not endure for many days, nor
perhaps for many hours; so Dr. Donaldson assured Margaret. After
the kind doctor had gone away, she stole down to Frederick, who,
during the visit, had been adjured to remain quietly concealed in
the back parlour, usually Dixon's bedroom, but now given up to
him.
Margaret told him what Dr. Donaldson said.
'I don't believe it,' he exclaimed. 'She is very ill; she may be
dangerously ill, and in immediate danger, too; but I can't
imagine that she could be as she is, if she were on the point of
death. Margaret! she should have some other advice--some London
doctor. Have you never thought of that?'
'Yes,' said Margaret, 'more than once. But I don't believe it
would do any good. And, you know, we have not the money to bring
any great London surgeon down, and I am sure Dr. Donaldson is
only second in skill to the very best,--if, indeed, he is to
them.'
Frederick began to walk up and down the room impatiently.
'I have credit in Cadiz,' said he, 'but none here, owing to this
wretched change of name. Why did my father leave Helstone? That
was the blunder.'
'It was no blunder,' said Margaret gloomily. 'And above all
possible chances, avoid letting papa hear anything like what you
have just been saying. I can see that he is tormenting himself
already with the idea that mamma would never have been ill if we
had stayed at Helstone, and you don't know papa's agonising power
of self-reproach!'
Frederick walked away as if he were on the quarter-deck. At last
he stopped right opposite to Margaret, and looked at her drooping
and desponding attitude for an instant.
'My little Margaret!' said he, caressing her. 'Let us hope as
long as we can. Poor little woman! what! is this face all wet
with tears? I will hope. I will, in spite of a thousand doctors.
Bear up, Margaret, and be brave enough to hope!'
Margaret choked in trying to speak, and when she did it was very
low.
'I must try to be meek enough to trust. Oh, Frederick! mamma was
getting to love me so! And I was getting to understand her. And
now comes death to snap us asunder!'
'Come, come, come! Let us go up-stairs, and do something, rather
than waste time that may be so precious. Thinking has, many a
time, made me sad, darling; but doing never did in all my life.
My theory is a sort of parody on the maxim of "Get money, my son,
honestly if you can; but get money." My precept is, "Do something,
my sister, do good if you can; but, at any rate, do something."'
'Not excluding mischief,' said Margaret, smiling faintly through
her tears.
'By no means. What I do exclude is the remorse afterwards. Blot
your misdeeds out (if you are particularly conscientious), by a
good deed, as soon as you can; just as we did a correct sum at
school on the slate, where an incorrect one was only half rubbed
out. It was better than wetting our sponge with our tears; both
less loss of time where tears had to be waited for, and a better
effect at last.'
If Margaret thought Frederick's theory rather a rough one at
first, she saw how he worked it out into continual production of
kindness in fact. After a bad night with his mother (for he
insisted on taking his turn as a sitter-up) he was busy next
morning before breakfast, contriving a leg-rest for Dixon, who
was beginning to feel the fatigues of watching. At
breakfast-time, he interested Mr. Hale with vivid, graphic,
rattling accounts of the wild life he had led in Mexico, South
America, and elsewhere. Margaret would have given up the effort
in despair to rouse Mr. Hale out of his dejection; it would even
have affected herself and rendered her incapable of talking at
all. But Fred, true to his theory, did something perpetually; and
talking was the only thing to be done, besides eating, at
breakfast.
Before the night of that day, Dr. Donaldson's opinion was proved
to be too well founded. Convulsions came on; and when they
ceased, Mrs. Hale was unconscious. Her husband might lie by her
shaking the bed with his sobs; her son's strong arms might lift
her tenderly up into a comfortable position; her daughter's hands
might bathe her face; but she knew them not. She would never
recognise them again, till they met in Heaven.
Before the morning came all was over.
Then Margaret rose from her trembling and despondency, and became
as a strong angel of comfort to her father and brother. For
Frederick had broken down now, and all his theories were of no
use to him. He cried so violently when shut up alone in his
little room at night, that Margaret and Dixon came down in
affright to warn him to be quiet: for the house partitions were
but thin, and the next-door neighbours might easily hear his
youthful passionate sobs, so different from the slower trembling
agony of after-life, when we become inured to grief, and dare not
be rebellious against the inexorable doom, knowing who it is that
decrees.
Margaret sate with her father in the room with the dead. If he
had cried, she would have been thankful. But he sate by the bed
quite quietly; only, from time to time, he uncovered the face,
and stroked it gently, making a kind of soft inarticulate noise,
like that of some mother-animal caressing her young. He took no
notice of Margaret's presence. Once or twice she came up to kiss
him; and he submitted to it, giving her a little push away when
she had done, as if her affection disturbed him from his
absorption in the dead. He started when he heard Frederick's
cries, and shook his head:--'Poor boy! poor boy!' he said, and
took no more notice. Margaret's heart ached within her. She could
not think of her own loss in thinking of her father's case. The
night was wearing away, and the day was at hand, when, without a
word of preparation, Margaret's voice broke upon the stillness of
the room, with a clearness of sound that startled even herself:
'Let not your heart be troubled,' it said; and she went steadily
on through all that chapter of unspeakable consolation. _
Read next: CHAPTER XXXI - 'SHOULD AULD ACQUAINTANCE BE FORGOT?'
Read previous: CHAPTER XXIX - A RAY OF SUNSHINE
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