"Show not that manner, and these features all, The serpent's cunning, and the sinner's fall?" CRABBE.
The chill, shivery October morning came; not the October morning of the country, with soft, silvery mists, clearing off before the sunbeams that bring out all the gorgeous beauty of colouring, but the October morning of Milton, whose silvery mists were heavy fogs, and where the sun could only show long dusky streets when he did break through and shine. Margaret went languidly about, assisting Dixon in her task of arranging the house. Her eyes were continually blinded by tears, but she had no time to give way to regular crying. The father and brother depended upon her; while they were giving way to grief, she must be working, planning, considering. Even the necessary arrangements for the funeral seemed to devolve upon her.
When the fire was bright and crackling--when everything was ready for breakfast, and the tea-kettle was singing away, Margaret gave a last look round the room before going to summon Mr. Hale and Frederick. She wanted everything to look as cheerful as possible; and yet, when it did so, the contrast between it and her own thoughts forced her into sudden weeping. She was kneeling by the sofa, hiding her face in the cushions that no one might hear her cry, when she was touched on the shoulder by Dixon.
"Come, Miss Hale--come, my dear! You must not give way, or where shall we all be? There is not another person in the house fit to give a direction of any kind, and there is so much to be done. There's who's to manage the funeral; and who's to come to it; and where it's to be; and all to be settled: and Master Frederick's like one crazed with crying, and master never was a good one for settling; and, poor gentleman, he goes about now as if he was lost. It's bad enough, my dear, I know; but death comes to us all; and you're well off never to have lost any friend till now."
Perhaps so. But this seemed a loss by itself; not to bear comparison with any other event in the world. Margaret did not take any comfort from what Dixon said, but the unusual tenderness of the prim old servant's manner touched her to the heart; and, more from a desire to show her gratitude for this than for any other reason, she roused herself up, and smiled in answer to Dixon's anxious look at her; and went to tell her father and brother that breakfast was ready.
Mr. Hale came--as if in a dream, or rather with the unconscious motion of a sleep-walker, whose eyes and mind perceive other things than what are present. Frederick came briskly in, with a forced cheerfulness, grasped her hand, looked into her eyes and burst into tears. She had to try and think of little nothings to say all breakfast-time, in order to prevent the recurrence of her companions' thoughts too strongly to the last meal they had taken together, when there had been a continual strained listening for some sound or signal from the sick-room.
After breakfast, she resolved to speak to her father about the funeral. He shook his head, and assented to all she proposed, though many of her propositions absolutely contradicted one another. Margaret gained no real decision from him; and was leaving the room languidly, to have a consultation with Dixon, when Mr. Hale motioned her back to his side.
"Ask Mr. Bell," said he in a hollow voice.
"Mr. Bell!" said she, a little surprised. "Mr. Bell of Oxford?"
"Mr. Bell," he repeated. "Yes. He was my groom's-man."
Margaret understood the association.
"I will write to-day," said she. He sank again into listlessness. All morning she toiled on, longing for rest, but in a continual whirl of melancholy business.
Towards evening Dixon said to her:
"I've done it, miss. I was really afraid for master, that he'd have a stroke with grief. He's been all this day with poor missus; and when I've listened at the door, I've heard him talking to her, and talking to her, as if she was alive. When I went in he would be quite quiet, but all in a maze like. So I thought to myself, he ought to be roused; and if it gives him a shock at first, it will, maybe, be the better for him afterwards. So I've been and told him, that I don't think it's safe for Master Frederick to be here. And I don't. It was only on Tuesday, when I was out, that I met a Southampton man--the first I've seen since I came to Milton; they don't make their way much up here, I think. Well, it was young Leonards, old Leonards the draper's son, as great a scamp as ever lived--who plagued his father almost to death, and then ran off to sea. I never could abide him. He was in the Orion at the same time as Frederick, I know; though I don't recollect if he was there at the mutiny."
"Did he know you?" said Margaret, eagerly.
"Why, that's the worst of it. I don't believe he would have known me but for my being such a fool as to call out his name. He were a Southampton man, in a strange place, or else I should never have been so ready to call cousins with him, a nasty, good-for-nothing-fellow. Says he, 'Miss Dixon! who would ha' thought of seeing you here? But perhaps I mistake, and you're Miss Dixon no longer?' So I told him he might still address me as an unmarried lady, though if I hadn't been so particular, I'd had good chances of matrimony. He was polite enough: 'He couldn't look at me and doubt me.' But I were not to be caught with such chaff from such a fellow as him, and so I told him; and, by way of being even, I asked him after his father (who I knew had turned him out of doors), as if they were the best friends as ever was. So then, to spite me--for you see we were getting savage, for all we were so civil to each other--he began to inquire after Master Frederick, and said, what a scrape he'd got into (as if Master Frederick's scrapes would ever wash George Leonards white, or make 'em look otherwise than nasty, dirty black), and how he'd be hung for mutiny if ever he were caught, and how a hundred pound reward had been offered for catching him, and what a disgrace he had been to his family--all to spite me, you see, my dear, because before now I've helped old Mr. Leonards to give George a good rating, down in Southampton. So I said, there were other families as I knew, who had far more cause to blush for their sons, and to be thankful if they could think they were earning an honest living far away from home. To which he made answer, like the impudent chap he is, that he were in a confidential situation, and if I knew of any young man who had been so unfortunate as to lead vicious courses, and wanted to turn steady, he'd have no objection to lend him his patronage. He, indeed! Why, he'd corrupt a saint. I've not felt so bad myself for years as when I were standing talking to him the other day. I could have cried to think I couldn't spite him better, for he kept smiling in my face, as if he took all my compliments for earnest; and I couldn't see that he minded what I said in the least, while I was mad with all his speeches."
"But you did not tell him anything about us--about Frederick?"
"Not I," said Dixon. "He had never the grace to ask where I was staying; and I shouldn't have told him if he had asked. Nor did I ask him what his precious situation was. He was waiting for a bus, and just then it drove up, and he hailed it. But, to plague me to the last, he turned back before he got in, and said, 'If you can help me to trap Lieutenant Hale, Miss Dixon, we'll go partners in the reward. I know you'd like to be my partner, now wouldn't you? Don't be shy, but say yes.' And he jumped on the bus, and I saw his ugly face leering at me with a wicked smile to think how he'd had the last word of plaguing."
Margaret was made very uncomfortable by this account of Dixon's.
"Have you told Frederick?" asked she.
"No," said Dixon. "I were uneasy in my mind at knowing that bad Leonards was in town; but there was so much else to think about that I did not dwell on it all. But when I saw master sitting so stiff, and with his eyes so glazed and sad, I thought it might rouse him to have to think of Master Frederick in hiding, he would have to go, poor fellow, before Mr. Bell came."
"Oh, I'm not afraid of Mr. Bell; but I am afraid of this Leonards. I must tell Frederick. What did Leonards look like?"
"A bad-looking fellow, I can assure you, miss. Whiskers such as I should be ashamed to wear--they are so red. And for all he said he'd got a confidential situation, he was dressed in fustian just like a working-man."
It was evident that Frederick must go. Go, too, when he had so completely vaulted into his place in the family, and promised to be such a stay and staff to his father and sister. Go, when his cares for the living mother, and sorrow for the dead, seemed to make him one of those peculiar people who are bound to us by a fellow-love for them that are taken away. Just as Margaret was thinking all this, sitting over the drawing-room fire--her father restless and uneasy under the pressure of this newly-aroused fear, of which he had not as yet spoken--Frederick came in, his brightness dimmed, but the extreme violence of his grief passed away. He came up to Margaret, and kissed her forehead.
"How wan you look, Margaret!" said he in a low voice. "You have been thinking of everybody, and no one has thought of you. Lie on this sofa--there is nothing for you to do."
"That is the worst," said Margaret, in a sad whisper. But she went and lay down, and her brother covered her feet with a shawl and then sate on the ground by her side; and the two began to talk together in a subdued tone.
Margaret told him all that Dixon had related of her interview with young Leonards. Frederick's lips closed with a long whew of dismay.
"I should just like to have it out with that young fellow. A worse sailor was never on board ship--nor a much worse man either. I declare, Margaret--you know the circumstances of the whole affair?"
"Yes, mamma told me."
"Well, when all the sailors who were good for anything were indignant with our captain, this fellow to curry favour--pah! And to think of his being here! Oh, if he'd a notion I was within twenty miles of him, he'd ferret me out to pay all old grudges. I'd rather anybody had the hundred pounds they think I am worth than that rascal. What a pity poor old Dixon could not be persuaded to give me up, and make a provision for her old age!"
"Oh, Frederick, hush! Don't talk so."
Mr. Hale came towards them, eager and trembling. He had overheard what they were saying. He took Frederick's hand in both of his:
"My boy, you must go. It is very bad--but I see you must. You have done all you could--you have been a comfort to her."
"Oh, papa, must he go?" said Margaret, pleading against her own conviction of necessity.
"I declare, I've a good mind to face it out, and stand my trial. If I could only pick up my evidence! I cannot endure the thought of being in the power of such a blackguard as Leonards. I could almost have enjoyed--in other circumstances--this stolen visit: it has had all the charm which the Frenchwoman attributed to forbidden pleasures."
"One of the earliest things I can remember," said Margaret, "was your being in some great disgrace, Fred, for stealing apples. We had plenty of our own--trees loaded with them; but some one had told you that stolen fruit tasted sweetest, which you took au pied de la lettre, and off you went a-robbing. You have not changed your feelings much since then."
"Yes--you must go," repeated Mr. Hale, answering Margaret's question, which she had asked some time ago. His thoughts were fixed on one subject, and it was an effort to him to follow the zigzag remarks of his children--an effort which he did not make.
Margaret and Frederick looked at each other. That quick momentary sympathy would be theirs no longer if he went away. So much was understood through eyes that could not be put into words. Both coursed the same thought till it was lost in sadness. Frederick shook it off first:
"Do you know, Margaret, I was very nearly giving both Dixon and myself a good fright this afternoon. I was in my bedroom; I had heard a ring at the front door, but I thought the ringer must have done his business and gone away long ago; so I was on the point of making my appearance in the passage, when, as I opened my room door, I saw Dixon coming downstairs; and she frowned and kicked me into hiding again. I kept the door open, and heard a message given to some man that was in my father's study, and that then went away. What could it have been? Some of the shopmen?"
"Very likely," said Margaret indifferently. "There was a little quiet man who came up for orders about two o'clock."
"But this was not a little man--a great powerful fellow; and it was past four when he was here."
"It was Mr. Thornton," said Mr. Hale. They were glad to have drawn him into the conversation.
"Mr. Thornton!" said Margaret, a little surprised. "I thought----"
"Well, little one, what did you think?" asked Frederick, as she did not finish her sentence.
"Oh, only," said she, reddening and looking straight at him, "I fancied you meant some one of a different class, not a gentleman; somebody come on an errand."
"He looked like someone of that kind," said Frederick, carelessly. "I took him for a shopman, and he turns out a manufacturer."
Margaret was silent. She remembered how at first, before she knew his character, she had spoken and thought of him just as Frederick was doing. It was but a natural impression that was made upon him, and yet she was a little annoyed by it. She was unwilling to speak; she wanted to make Frederick understand what kind of person Mr. Thornton was--but she was tongue-tied.
Mr. Hale went on. "He came to offer any assistance in his power, I believe. But I could not see him. I told Dixon to ask him if he would like to see you--I think I asked her to find you, and you would go to him. I don't know what I said."
"He has been a very agreeable acquaintance, has he not?" asked Frederick, throwing the question like a ball for any one to catch who chose.
"A very kind friend," said Margaret, when her father did not answer.
Frederick was silent for a time. At last he spoke:
"Margaret, it is painful to think I can never thank those who have shown you kindness. Your acquaintances and mine must be separate. Unless, indeed, I run the chances of a court-martial, or unless you and my father would come to Spain." He threw out this last suggestion as a kind of feeler; and then suddenly made the plunge. "You don't know how I wish you would. I have a good position--the chance of a better," continued he, reddening like a girl. "That Dolores Barbour that I was telling you of, Margaret--I only wish you knew her; I am sure you would like--no, love is the right word, like is so poor--you would love her, father, if you knew her. She is not eighteen; but if she is in the same mind another year, she is to be my wife. Mr. Barbour won't let us call it an engagement. But if you would come you would find friends everywhere, besides Dolores. Think of it, father. Margaret be on my side."
"No--no more removals for me," said Mr. Hale. "One has cost me my wife. No more removals in this life. She will be here; and here will I stay out my appointed time."
"Oh, Frederick," said Margaret, "tell us more about her. I never thought of this; but I am so glad. You will have some one to love and care for you out there. Tell us all about it."
"In the first place, she is a Roman Catholic. That's the only objection I anticipated. But my father's change of opinion--nay, Margaret, don't sigh."
Margaret had reason to sigh a little more before the conversation ended. Frederick himself was Roman Catholic in fact, though not in profession as yet. This was, then, the reason why his sympathy in her extreme distress at her father's leaving the church had been so faintly expressed in his letters. She had thought it was the carelessness of a sailor; but the truth was, that even then he was himself inclined to give up the form of religion into which had been baptized, only that his opinions were tending in exactly the opposite direction to those of his father. How much love had to do with this change not even Frederick himself could have told. Margaret gave up talking about this branch of the subject at last; and, returning to the fact of the engagement, she began to consider it in some fresh light.
"But for her sake, Fred, you surely will try and clear yourself of the exaggerated charges brought against you, even if the charge of mutiny itself be true. If there were to be a court-martial, and you could find your witnesses, you might, at any rate, show your disobedience to authority was because that authority was unworthily exercised."
Mr. Hale roused himself up to listen to his son's answer.
"In the first place, Margaret, who is to hunt up my witnesses? All of them are sailors, drafted off to other ships, except those whose evidence would go for very little, as they took part or sympathised in the affair. In the next place allow me to tell you, you don't know what a court-martial is, and consider it as an assembly where justice is administered, instead of what it really is--a court where authority weighs nine-tenths in the balance, and evidence forms only the other tenth. In such cases, evidence itself can hardly escape being influenced by the prestige of authority."
"But is it not worth trying, to see how much evidence might be discovered and arrayed on your behalf? At present, all those who knew you formerly, believe you guilty without any shadow of excuse. You have never tried to justify yourself, and we have never known where to seek for proofs of your justification. Now, for Miss Barbour's sake, make your conduct as clear as you can in the eye of the world. She may not care for it; she has, I am sure, that trust in you that we all have; but you ought not to let her ally herself to one under such a serious charge, without showing the world exactly how it is you stand. You disobeyed authority--that was bad; but to have stood by, without word or act, while the authority was brutally used, would have been infinitely worse. People know what you did; but not the motives that elevate it out of a crime into an heroic protection of the weak. For Dolores' sake, they ought to know."
"But how must I make them know? I am not sufficiently sure of the purity and justice of those who would be my judges, to give myself up to a court-martial, even if I could bring a whole array of truth-speaking witnesses. I can't send a bell-man about, to cry aloud and proclaim in the streets what you are pleased to call my heroism. No one would read a pamphlet of self-justification so long after the deed, even if I put one out."
"Will you consult a lawyer as to your chances of exculpation?" asked Margaret, looking up, and turning very red.
"I must first catch my lawyer, and have a look at him, and see how I like him, before I make him into my confidant. Many a briefless barrister might twist his conscience into thinking, that he could earn a hundred pounds very easily by doing a good action--in giving me, a criminal up to justice."
"Nonsense, Frederick!--because I know a lawyer on whose honour I can rely; of whose cleverness in his profession people speak very highly; and who would, I think, take a good deal of trouble for any of--Aunt Shaw's relations. Mr. Henry Lennox, papa."
"I think it is a good idea," said Mr. Hale. "But don't propose anything which will detain Frederick in England. Don't, for your mother's sake."
"You could go to London by a night-train," continued Margaret, warming up into her plan. "He must go to-morrow, I'm afraid, papa," said she, tenderly; "we fixed that, because of Mr. Bell, and Dixon's disagreeable acquaintance."
"Yes; I must go to-morrow," said Frederick, decidedly.
Mr. Hale groaned. "I can't bear to part with you, and yet I am miserable with anxiety as long as you stop here."
"Well then," said Margaret, "listen to my plan. He gets to London on Friday morning. I will--you might--no! it would be better to give him a note to Mr. Lennox. You will find him at his chambers in the Temple."
"I will write down a list of all the names I can remember on board the Orion. I could leave it with him to ferret them out. He is Edith's husband's brother, isn't he? I remember your naming him in your letters. I have money in Barbour's hands. I can pay a pretty long bill, if there's any chance of success. Money, dear father, that I had meant for a different purpose; so I shall only consider it as borrowed from you and Margaret."
"Don't do that," said Margaret. "You won't risk it if you do. And it will be as risk; only it is worth trying. You can sail from London as well as from Liverpool?"
"To be sure, little goose. Wherever I feel water heaving under a plank, there I feel at home. I'll pick up some craft or other to take me off, never fear. I won't stay twenty-four hours in London, away from you on the one hand, and from somebody else on the other."
It was rather a comfort to Margaret that Frederick took it into his head to look over her shoulder as she wrote to Mr. Lennox. If she had not been thus compelled to write steadily and concisely on, she might have hesitated over many a word, and been puzzled to choose between many an expression, in the awkwardness of being the first to resume the intercourse of which the concluding event had been so unpleasant to both sides. However, the note was taken from her before she had even had time to look it over, and treasured up in a pocket-book, out of which fell a long lock of black hair, the sight of which caused Frederick's eyes to glow with pleasure.
"Now you would like to see that, wouldn't you?" said he. "No! you must wait till you see her herself. She is too perfect to be known by fragments. No mean brick shall be a specimen of the building of my palace."

The chill, shivery October morning came; not the October morning of the country, with soft, silvery mists clearing before the sunbeams, but the October morning of Milton, whose silver mists were heavy fogs, and where the sun could only show long dusky streets when he did break through. Margaret went languidly about, helping Dixon. Her eyes were continually blinded by tears, but she had no time to cry. Her father and brother depended upon her; she must be working, planning, arranging the funeral.
When the fire was bright and crackling, and everything was ready for breakfast, and the tea-kettle was singing away, Margaret gave a last look round the room before going to summon Mr. Hale and Frederick. She wanted everything to look as cheerful as possible; and yet the contrast between it and her own thoughts forced her into sudden weeping. She was hiding her face so that no one might hear her cry, when she was touched on the shoulder by Dixon.
'Come, Miss Hale, my dear! You must not give way, or where shall we all be? There's the funeral to manage; and Master Frederick's crazed with crying, and master, poor gentleman, goes about as if he was lost. It's bad, my dear, I know; but death comes to us all; and you're well off never to have lost any friend till now.'
Perhaps so. But this seemed a loss not to be compared to any other. Nevertheless, the unusual tenderness of the prim old servant touched Margaret to the heart. She smiled at Dixon; and went to tell her father and brother that breakfast was ready.
Mr. Hale came in like a sleep-walker. Frederick entered briskly, with a forced cheerfulness, grasped her hand, looked into her eyes, and burst into tears. She had to try and think of little nothings to say all breakfast-time, to prevent her companions from thinking too much about the last meal they had taken together.
After breakfast, she spoke to her father about the funeral. He shook his head, and agreed to all she proposed, though many of her propositions contradicted one another. Margaret was leaving the room when Mr. Hale beckoned her back.
'Ask Mr. Bell,' said he in a hollow voice.
'Mr. Bell of Oxford!' said she, a little surprised.
'Yes. He was my grooms-man at our wedding.'
Margaret understood, and said, 'I will write today.' All morning she toiled on, longing for rest, but in a continual whirl of melancholy business.
Towards evening, Dixon said to her:
'I've done it, miss. I was really afraid that master would have a stroke with grief. He's been all this day with poor missus; talking to her as if she was alive. When I went in he would be quiet, but all in a maze like. I thought to myself, he ought to be roused. So I've been and told him, that I don't think it's safe for Master Frederick to be here. And I don't. It was only on Tuesday, when I was out, that I met a Southampton man - young Leonards, old Leonards the draper's son, as great a scamp as ever lived - who plagued his father almost to death, and then ran off to sea. I never could abide him. He was on the Orion at the same time as Master Frederick, I know; though I don't recollect if he was there at the mutiny.'
'Did he recognise you?' said Margaret eagerly.
'Why, that's the worst of it. I don't believe he would have known me but for my being such a fool as to call out his name. Says he, "Miss Dixon! who would ha' thought of seeing you here? But perhaps I mistake, and you're Miss Dixon no longer?" So I told him he might still address me as an unmarried lady, though if I hadn't been so particular, I'd had good chances of matrimony. He was polite enough; but I asked after his father (who I knew had turned him out), as if they was best friends. So then, to spite me - for you see we were getting savage, for all we were so civil to each other - he began to inquire after Master Frederick, and said what a scrape he'd got into, and how he'd be hung for mutiny if ever he were caught, and how a hundred pound reward had been offered for catching him, and what a disgrace he had been to his family. So I said, there were other families who had far more cause to blush for their sons. To which he made answer, like the impudent chap he is, that if I knew of any young man who had been leading vicious courses, and wanted to turn steady, he'd lend a hand. He, indeed! Why, he'd corrupt a saint. I've not felt so bad for years. I could have cried to think I couldn't spite him better, for he kept smiling in my face, while I was mad with him.'
'But you did not tell him anything about Frederick?'
'Not I,' said Dixon. 'He had never the grace to ask where I was staying; and I shouldn't have told him if he had asked. He was waiting for a bus, and just then it drove up, and he hailed it. But he turned back before he got in, and said, "If you can help me to trap Lieutenant Hale, Miss Dixon, we'll go partners in the reward. I know you'd like to be my partner, wouldn't you? Don't be shy." And he jumped on the bus, and I saw his ugly face leering at me with a wicked smile.'
Margaret was made very uncomfortable by this account. 'Have you told Frederick?'
'No,' said Dixon. 'I were uneasy in my mind knowing that Leonards was in town; but there was so much else to think about that I did not dwell on it. But when I saw master sitting so stiff and sad, I thought it might rouse him to have to think of Master Frederick's safety. So I told him all; and it has done master good. And if we're to keep Master Frederick in hiding, he would have to go before Mr. Bell came.'
'Oh, I'm not afraid of Mr. Bell; but I am afraid of this Leonards. What did he look like?'
'A bad-looking fellow, miss. Whiskers such as I should be ashamed to wear - they are so red. And he was dressed in coarse fustian just like a working-man.'
It was evident that Frederick must go. Go, too, when he had promised to be such a support to his father and sister. Just as Margaret was thinking this, sitting by the drawing-room fire - her father restless and uneasy with this newly-aroused fear - Frederick came in. He kissed her forehead.
'How wan you look, Margaret! You have been thinking of everybody, and no one has thought of you. Lie on this sofa - there is nothing for you to do.'
'That is the worst thing,' said Margaret sadly. But she went and lay down, and her brother sat on the floor by her side.
The two began to talk in a subdued tone. Margaret told him all that Dixon had related of her interview with young Leonards. Frederick's lips closed with a long whew of dismay.
'A worse sailor was never on board ship - nor a much worse man either. You know the whole affair?'
'Yes, mamma told me.'
'Well, when all the sailors who were good for anything were indignant with our captain, this fellow, to curry favour - pah! And to think of his being here! If he knew I was within twenty miles of him, he'd ferret me out to pay off old grudges. I'd rather anybody had the hundred pounds reward than that rascal. What a pity poor old Dixon could not be persuaded to give me up, and provide for her old age!'
'Oh, Frederick, hush! Don't talk so.'
Mr. Hale came towards them, eager and trembling. He had overheard, and took Frederick's hand, saying:
'My boy, you must go. You have done all you could - you have been a comfort to her.'
'I declare, I've a good mind to face it out, and stand my trial,' said Frederick. 'If I could only pick up my evidence! I cannot endure the thought of being in the power of a blackguard like Leonards. I could almost have enjoyed - in other circumstances - this stolen visit: it has had all the charm of forbidden pleasures.'
'One of the earliest things I can remember,' said Margaret, 'was your being in great disgrace, Fred, for stealing apples. We had plenty of our own, but someone had told you that stolen fruit tasted sweetest, and off you went a-robbing. You have not changed much since then.'
'Yes - you must go,' repeated Mr. Hale, not following the zig-zag remarks of his children.
Margaret and Frederick looked at each other with quick sympathy. So much was understood that could not be put into words. Frederick said:
'Do you know, Margaret, I nearly gave both Dixon and myself a good fright this afternoon. I was in my bedroom; I had heard a ring at the front door, but I thought the ringer must have gone away; so I was just coming out into the passage, when I saw Dixon; and she frowned and kicked me into hiding again. I kept the door open, and heard a message given to some man in my father's study, who then went away. Who could it have been? Some shopman? It was a great powerful fellow.'
'It was Mr. Thornton,' said Mr. Hale.
'Mr. Thornton!' said Margaret, a little surprised. 'I thought-'
'Well, little one, what did you think?' asked Frederick.
'Oh, only,' said she, reddening, 'I thought you meant someone come on an errand, not a gentleman.'
'I took him for a shopman,' said Frederick, carelessly.
Margaret was silent. She remembered how at first she had spoken of Mr. Thornton just as Frederick was doing. It was only natural, and yet she was a little annoyed by it. She wanted to make Frederick understand what kind of person Mr. Thornton was - but she was tongue-tied.
Mr. Hale went on. 'He came to offer any assistance in his power. But I could not see him. I told Dixon to ask him if he would like to see you.'
'He has been a very agreeable acquaintance, has he not?' asked Frederick.
'A very kind friend,' said Margaret, when her father did not answer.
Frederick was silent for a time. At last he spoke:
'Margaret, it is painful to think I can never thank those who have shown you kindness. Your acquaintances and mine must be separate - unless I run the chances of a court-martial, or you both come to Spain.' He threw out this last suggestion as a kind of feeler; and then suddenly made the plunge.
'I wish you would. I have a good position,' continued he, reddening. 'That Dolores Barbour that I was telling you of, Margaret - I only wish you knew her; I am sure you would like - no, love is the right word - you would love her, father, if you knew her. She is not eighteen; but if she is in the same mind next year, she is to be my wife. Mr. Barbour won't let us call it an engagement. But if you would come, you would find friends everywhere, besides Dolores. Think of it, father.'
'No more removals for me,' said Mr. Hale. 'One removal has cost me my wife. No more removals. She will be here; and here will I stay.'
'Oh, Frederick,' said Margaret, 'tell us more about Dolores. I am so glad. You will have someone to love and care for you out there.'
'In the first place, she is a Roman Catholic. But my father's change of opinion - nay, Margaret, don't sigh.'
Margaret had reason to sigh a little more before long. Frederick himself was Roman Catholic, though not officially as yet. This, then, was the reason why he had shown so little distress at her father's leaving the Anglican Church. Margaret gave up talking about this subject. Returning to the engagement, she began to see it in a fresh light:
'But for her sake, Fred, you surely will try and clear yourself of the charges brought against you. If there were to be a court-martial, and you could find your witnesses, you might show how your disobedience to authority was because that authority was unworthily exercised.'
'Who is to hunt up my witnesses?' responded Frederick. 'All of them are sailors, drafted off to other ships, except those whose evidence would go for very little, as they took part in the affair. And you don't know what a court-martial is. You consider it as an assembly where justice is administered, but really it is a court where authority weighs nine-tenths in the balance, and evidence forms only the other tenth.'
'But is it not worth trying, to see how much evidence might be discovered and arrayed on your behalf? At present, you are believed guilty without any shadow of excuse. You have never tried to justify yourself. Now, for Miss Barbour's sake, make your conduct as clear as you can in the eye of the world. She trusts in you, I am sure; but you ought not to let her ally herself to one under such a serious charge, without showing the world exactly how you stand. You disobeyed authority - that was bad; but to have stood by passively while the authority was brutally used, would have been infinitely worse. For Dolores' sake, people ought to know your motives.'
'But I am not sure enough of the purity of my judges to give myself up to a court-martial, even if I could bring a whole array of witnesses.'
'Will you consult a lawyer as to your chances?' asked Margaret, turning red.
'I must first catch my lawyer, and have a look at him, before I confide in him. Many a briefless barrister might decide he could earn a hundred pounds very easily by giving me up to justice.'
'I know a lawyer on whose honour I can rely; people speak very highly of his cleverness; and I think he would take a good deal of trouble for any of - of Aunt Shaw's relations. Mr. Henry Lennox, papa.'
'It is a good idea,' said Mr. Hale. 'But don't propose anything which will detain Frederick in England.'
'You could go to London tomorrow evening by overnight train,' suggested Margaret.
Mr. Hale groaned. 'I can't bear to part with you, and yet I am miserable with anxiety as long as you stop here.'
'Well then,' said Margaret, 'listen to my plan. He gets to London on Friday morning. I will give him a note to Mr. Lennox; his chambers are in the Temple.'
'I will write down a list of all the names I can remember on board the Orion, and leave it with him to ferret them out. He is Edith's husband's brother, isn't he? I remember him from your letters. I have money in Barbour's hands. I can pay a pretty long bill, if there is any chance of success.'
'You can sail from London as well as from Liverpool?' asked Margaret.
'To be sure, little goose. Wherever I feel water heaving under a plank, there I feel at home. I'll pick up some craft or other to take me off, never fear. I won't stay twenty-four hours in London.'
It was rather a comfort to Margaret that Frederick looked over her shoulder as she wrote to Mr. Lennox. It made her write steadily and concisely, despite the awkwardness of being the first to resume communications after his proposal. The note was taken from her before she had even had time to look it over, and treasured up in a pocket-book, out of which fell a long lock of black hair, which caused Frederick's eyes to glow with pleasure.
'Now you would like to see that, wouldn't you?' said he. 'No! you must wait till you see her herself.'

Chapter 31: 'SHOULD AULD ACQUAINTANCE BE FORGOT?'


"I ask Thee for a thoughtful love, Through constant watching wise, To meet the glad with joyful smiles, And to wipe the weeping eyes; And a heart at leisure from itself To soothe and sympathise." ANON.
Margaret made a good listener to all her mother's little plans for adding some small comforts to the lot of the poorest parishioners. She could not help listening, though each new project was a stab to her heart. By the time the frost had set in, they should be far away from Helstone. Old Simon's rheumatism might be bad and his eyesight worse; there would be no one to go and read to him, and comfort him with little porringers of broth and good red flannel; or if there was, it would be a stranger, and the old man would watch in vain for her. Mary Domville's little crippled boy would crawl in vain to the door and look for her coming through the forest. These poor friends would never understand why she had forsaken them; and there were many others besides. "Papa has always spent the income he derived from his living in the parish. I am, perhaps, encroaching upon the next dues, but the winter is likely to be severe, and our poor people must be helped."
"Oh, mamma, let us do all we can," said Margaret eagerly, not seeing the prudential side of the question, only grasping at the idea that they were rendering such help for the last time; "we may not be here long."
"Do you feel ill, my darling?" asks Mrs. Hale, anxiously, misunderstanding Margaret's hint of the uncertainty of their stay at Helstone. "You look pale and tired. It is this soft, damp, unhealthy air."
"No--no, mamma, it is not that: it is delicious air. It smells of the freshest, purest fragrance, after the smokiness of Harley Street. But I am tired: it surely must be near bedtime."
"Not far off--it is half-past nine. You had better go to bed at once, dear. Ask Dixon for some gruel. I will come and see you as soon as you are in bed. I am afraid you have taken cold; or the bad air from some of the stagnant ponds--"
"Oh, mamma," said Margaret, faintly smiling as she kissed her mother, "I am quite well--don't alarm yourself about me; I am only tired."
Margaret went up stairs. To soothe her mother's anxiety she submitted to a basin of gruel. She was lying languidly in bed when Mrs. Hale came up to make some last inquiries and kiss her before going to her own room for the night. But the instant she heard her mother's door locked, she sprang out of bed, and throwing her dressing-gown on, she began to pace up and down the room, until the creaking of one of the boards reminded her that she must make no noise. She went and curled herself upon the window-seat in the small, deeply-recessed window. That morning when she had looked out, her heart had danced at seeing the bright clear lights on the church tower, which foretold a fine and sunny day. This evening--sixteen hours at most had past by--she sat down, too full of sorrow to cry, but with a cold dull pain, which seemed to have pressed the youth and buoyancy out of her heart, never to return. Mr. Henry Lennox's visit--his offer--was like a dream, a thing beside her actual life. The hard reality was, that her father had so admitted tempting doubts into his mind as to become a schismatic--an outcast; all the changes consequent upon this grouped themselves around that one great blighting fact.
She looked out upon the dark-grey lines of the church towers, square and straight in the centre of the view, cutting against the deep blue transparent depths beyond, into which she gazed, and felt that she might gaze for ever, seeing at every moment some farther distance, and yet no sign of God! It seemed to her at the moment, as if the earth was more utterly desolate than if girt in by an iron dome, behind which there might be the ineffaceable peace and glory of the Almighty: those never-ending depths of space, in their still serenity, were more mocking to her than any material bounds could be--shutting in the cries of earth's sufferers, which now might ascend into that infinite splendour of vastness and be lost--lost for ever, before they reached His throne. In this mood her father came in unheard. The moonlight was strong enough to let him see his daughter in her unusual place and attitude. He came to her and touched her shoulder before she was aware that he was there.
"Margaret, I heard you were up. I could not help coming in to ask you to pray with me--to say the Lord's Prayer; that will do good to both of us."
Mr. Hale and Margaret knelt by the window-seat--he looking up, she bowed down in humble shame. God was there, close around them, hearing her father's whispered words. Her father might be a heretic; but had not she, in her despairing doubts not five minutes before, shown herself a far more utter sceptic? She spoke not a word, but stole to bed after her father had left her, like a child ashamed of its fault. If the world was full of perplexing problems she would trust, and only ask to see the one step needful for the hour. Mr. Lennox--his visit, his proposal--the remembrance of which had been so rudely pushed aside by the subsequent events of the day--haunted her dreams that night. He was climbing up some tree of fabulous height to reach the branch whereon was slung her bonnet: he was falling and she was struggling to save him, but held back by some invisible powerful hand. He was dead. And yet, with a shifting of the scene, she was once more in the Harley Street drawing-room, talking to him as of old, and still with a consciousness all the time that she had seen him killed by that terrible fall.
Miserable, unresting night! Ill preparation for the coming day! She awoke with a start, unrefreshed, and conscious of some reality worse even than her feverish dreams. It all came back upon her; not merely the sorrow, but the terrible discord in the sorrow. Where, to what distance apart, had her father wandered, led by doubts which were to her temptations of the Evil One? She longed to ask, and yet would not have heard for all the world.
The fine crisp morning made her mother feel particularly well and happy at breakfast-time. She talked on, planning village kindness, unheeding the silence of her husband and the monosyllabic answers of Margaret. Before the things were cleared away, Mr. Hale got up; he leaned one hand on the table, as if to support himself:
"I shall not be home till evening. I am going to Bracy Common, and will ask Farmer Dobson to give me something for dinner. I shall be back to tea at seven."
He did not look at either of them, but Margaret knew what he meant. By seven the announcement must be made to her mother. Mr. Hale would have delayed making it, but Margaret was of different stuff. She could not bear the impending weight on her mind all day long: better get the worst over; the day would be too short to comfort her mother. But while she stood by the window, thinking how to begin, and waiting for the servant to have left the room, her mother had gone up stairs to put on her things to go to the school. She came down ready equipped, in a brisker mood than usual.
"Mother, come round the garden with me this morning; just one turn," said Margaret, putting her arm round Mrs. Hale's waist.
They passed through the open window. Mrs. Hale spoke--said something--Margaret could not tell what. Her eye caught on a bee entering a deep-belled flower: when that bee flew forth with his spoil she would begin--that should be the sign. Out he came.
"Mamma! Papa is going to leave Helstone!" she blurted forth. "He's going to leave the Church, and live in Milton-Northern." There were the three hard facts hardly spoken.
"What makes you say so?" asked Mrs. Hale, in a surprised, incredulous voice. "Who has been telling you such nonsense?"
"Papa himself," said Margaret, longing to say something gentle and consoling, but literally not knowing how. They were close to a garden-bench. Mrs. Hale sat down and began to cry.
"I don't understand you," she said. "Either you have made some great mistake, or I don't quite understand you."
"No, mother, I have made no mistake. Papa has written to the bishop, saying that he has such doubts that he cannot conscientiously remain a priest of the Church of England, and that he must give up Helstone. He has also consulted Mr. Bell--Frederick's godfather, you know, mamma; and it is arranged that we go to live at Milton-Northern." Mrs. Hale looked up in Margaret's face all the time she was speaking these words: the shadow on her countenance told that she, at least, believed in the truth of what she said.
"I don't think it can be true," said Mrs. Hale, at length. "He would surely have told me before it came to this."
It came strongly upon Margaret's mind that her mother ought to have been told: that whatever her faults of discontent and repining might have been, it was an error in her father to have left her to learn his change of opinion, and his approaching change of life, from her better-informed child. Margaret sat down by her mother, and took her unresisting head on her breast, bending her own soft cheeks down caressingly to touch her face.
"Dear, darling mamma! we were so afraid of giving you pain. Papa felt so acutely--you know you are not strong, and there must have been such terrible suspense to go through."
"When did he tell you, Margaret?"
"Yesterday, only yesterday," replied Margaret, detecting the jealousy which prompted the inquiry. "Poor papa!"--trying to divert her mother's thoughts into compassionate sympathy for all her father had gone through. Mrs. Hale raised her head.
"What does he mean by having doubts?" she asked. "Surely, he does not mean that he thinks differently--that he knows better than the Church."
Margaret shook her head, and the tears came into her eyes, as her mother touched the bare nerve of her own regret.
"Can't the bishop set him right?" asked Mrs. Hale half impatiently.
"I'm afraid not," said Margaret. "But I did not ask. I could not bear to hear what he might answer. It is all settled at any rate. He is going to leave Helstone in a fortnight. I am not sure if he did not say he had sent in his deed of resignation."
"In a fortnight!" exclaimed Mrs. Hale, "I do think this is very strange--not at all right. I call it very unfeeling," said she, beginning to take relief in tears. "He has doubts you say, and gives up his living, and all without consulting me. I dare say, if he had told me his doubts at the first I could have nipped them in the bud."
Mistaken as Margaret felt her father's conduct to have been, she could not bear to hear it blamed by her mother. She knew that his very reserve had originated in a tenderness for her, which might be cowardly, but was not unfeeling.
"I almost hoped you might be glad to leave Helstone, mamma," said she, after a pause. "You have never been well in this air, you know."
"You can't think the smoky air of a manufacturing town, all chimneys and dirt like Milton-Northern, would be better than this air, which is pure and sweet, if it is too soft and relaxing. Fancy living in the middle of factories, and factory people! Though, of course, if your father leaves the Church, we shall not be admitted into society anywhere. It will be such a disgrace to us! Poor dear Sir John! It is well he is not alive to see what your father has come to! Every day after dinner, when I was a girl, living with your Aunt Shaw, at Beresford Court, Sir John used to give for the first toast--'Church and King, and down with the Rump.'"
Margaret was glad that her mother's thoughts were turned away from the fact of her husband's silence to her on the point which must have been so near his heart. Next to the serious vital anxiety as to the nature of her father's doubts, this was the one circumstance of the case that gave Margaret the most pain.
"You know, we have very little society here, mamma. The Gormans, who are our nearest neighbours (to call society--and we hardly ever see them), have been in trade just as much as these Milton-Northern people."
"Yes," says Mrs. Hale, almost indignantly, "but at any rate, the Gormans made carriages for half the gentlemen of the county, and were brought into some kind of intercourse with them; but these factory people, who on earth wears cotton that can afford linen?"
"Well, mamma, I give up the cotton-spinners; I am not standing up for them, any more than for any other trades-people. Only we shall have little enough to do with them."
"Why on earth has your father fixed on Milton-Northern to live in?"
"Partly," said Margaret, sighing, "because it is so very different from Helstone--partly because Mr. Bell says there is an opening there for a private tutor."
"Private tutor in Milton! Why can't he go to Oxford, and be a tutor to gentlemen?"
"You forget, mamma! He is leaving the Church on account of his opinions--his doubts would do him no good at Oxford."
Mrs. Hale was silent for some time, quietly crying. At last she said:--
"And the furniture--How in the world are we to manage the removal? I never removed in my life, and only a fortnight to think about it!"
Margaret was inexpressibly relieved to find that her mother's anxiety and distress was lowered to this point, so insignificant to herself, and on which she could do so much to help. She planned and promised, and led her mother on to arrange fully as much as could be fixed before they knew somewhat more definitely what Mr. Hale intended to do. Throughout the day Margaret never left her mother; bending her whole soul to sympathise in all the various turns her feelings took; towards evening especially, as she became more and more anxious that her father should find a soothing welcome home awaiting him, after his return from his day of fatigue and distress. She dwelt upon what he must have borne in secret for long; her mother only replied coldly that he ought to have told her, and that then at any rate he would have had an adviser to give him counsel; and Margaret turned faint at heart when she heard her father's step in the hall. She dared not go to meet him, and tell him what she had done all day, for fear of her mother's jealous annoyance. She heard him linger, as if awaiting her, or some sign of her; and she dared not stir; she saw by her mother's twitching lips, and changing colour, that she too was aware that her husband had returned. Presently he opened the room-door, and stood there uncertain whether to come in. His face was gray and pale; he had a timid fearful look in his eyes; something almost pitiful to see in a man's face; but that look of despondent uncertainty, of mental and bodily languor, touched his wife's heart. She went to him, and threw herself on his breast, crying out:--
"Oh! Richard, Richard, you should have told me sooner!"
And then, in tears, Margaret left her, as she rushed up stairs to throw herself on her bed, and hide her face in the pillows to stifle the hysteric sobs that would force their way out at last, after the rigid self-control of the whole day.
How long she lay thus she could not tell. She heard no noise, though the housemaid came in to arrange the room. The affrighted girl stole out again on tip-toe, and went and told Mrs. Dixon that Miss Hale was crying as if her heart would break: she was sure she would make herself deadly ill if she went on at that rate. In consequence of this, Margaret felt herself touched, and started up into a sitting posture; she saw the accustomed room, the figure of Dixon in shadow, as the latter stood holding a candle a little behind her, for fear of the effect on Miss Hale's startled eyes, swollen and blinded as they were.
"Oh, Dixon! I did not hear you come into the room!" said Margaret, resuming her trembling self-restraint. "Is it very late?" continued she, lifting herself languidly off the bed, yet letting her feet touch the ground without fairly standing down, as she shaded her wet ruffled hair off her face, and tried to look as though nothing were the matter; as if she had been asleep.
"I can hardly tell what time it is," replied Dixon in an aggrieved tone of voice. "Since your mamma told me this terrible news, when I dressed her for tea, I've lost all count of time. I'm sure I don't know what is to become of us all. When Charlotte told me just now you were sobbing, Miss Hale, I thought, no wonder, poor thing! And master thinking of turning Dissenter at his time of life, when, if it is not to be said he's done well in the Church, he's not done badly after all. I had a cousin, miss, who turned Methodist preacher after he was fifty years of age, and a tailor all his life; but then he had never been able to make a pair of trousers to fit, for as long as he had been in the trade, so it was no wonder; but for master! as I said to missus, 'What would poor Sir John have said? he never liked your marrying Mr. Hale, but if he could have known it would have come to this, he would have sworn worse oaths than ever, if that was possible!'"
Dixon had been so much accustomed to comment upon Mr. Hale's proceedings to her mistress (who listened to her, or not, as she was in the humour), that she never noticed Margaret's flashing eye and dilating nostril. To hear her father talked of in this way by a servant to her face!
"Dixon," she said, in the low tone she always used when much excited, which had a sound in it as of some distant turmoil, or threatening storm breaking far away. "Dixon! you forget to whom you are speaking." She stood upright and firm on her feet now, confronting the waiting-maid, and fixing her with her steady discerning eye. "I am Mr. Hale's daughter. Go! You have made a strange mistake, and one that I am sure your own good feeling will make you sorry for when you think about it."
Dixon hung irresolutely about the room for a minute or two. Margaret repeated, "You may leave me, Dixon. I wish you to go." Dixon did not know whether to resent these decided words or to cry; either course would have suited her mistress: but as she said to herself, "Miss Margaret has a touch of the old gentleman about her, as well as poor Master Frederick; I wonder where they get it from?" and she, who would have resented such words from any one less haughty and determined in manner, was subdued enough to say, in a half humble, half injured tone:
"Mayn't I unfasten your gown, miss, and do your hair?"
"No! not to-night, thank you." And Margaret gravely lighted her out of the room, and bolted the door. From henceforth Dixon obeyed and admired Margaret. She said it was because she was so like poor Master Frederick; but the truth was, that Dixon, as do many others, liked to feel herself ruled by a powerful and decided nature.
Margaret needed all Dixon's help in action, and silence in words; for, for some time, the latter thought it her duty to show her sense of affront by saying as little as possible to her young lady; so the energy came out in doing rather than in speaking. A fortnight was a very short time to make arrangements for so serious a removal; as Dixon said, "Anyone but a gentleman--indeed almost any other gentleman--" but catching a look at Margaret's straight, stern brow just here, she coughed the remainder of the sentence away, and meekly took the horehound drop that Margaret offered her, to stop the "little tickling at my chest, miss." But almost any one but Mr. Hale would have had practical knowledge enough to see, that in so short a time it would be difficult to fix on any house in Milton-Northern, or indeed elsewhere, to which they could remove the furniture that had of necessity been taken out of Helstone Vicarage.
Mrs. Hale, overpowered by all the troubles and necessities for immediate household decisions that seemed to come upon her at once, became really ill, and Margaret almost felt it as a relief when her mother fairly took to her bed, and left the management of affairs to her. Dixon, true to her post of body-guard, attended most faithfully to her mistress, and only emerged from Mrs. Hale's bedroom to shake her head, and murmur to herself in a manner which Margaret did not choose to hear. For, the one thing clear and straight before her, was the necessity for leaving Helstone. Mr. Hale's successor in the living was appointed; and, at any rate, after her father's decision, there must be no lingering now, for his sake, as well as from every other consideration. For he came home every evening more and more depressed, after the necessary leave-taking which he had resolved to have with every individual parishioner. Margaret, inexperienced as she was in all the necessary matter-of-fact business to be got through, did not know to whom to apply for advice. The cook and Charlotte worked away with willing arms and stout hearts at all the moving and packing; and as far as that went, Margaret's admirable sense enabled her to see what was best, and to direct how it should be done. But where were they to go to? In a week they must be gone. Straight to Milton, or where? So many arrangements depended on this precision that Margaret resolved to ask her father one evening, in spite of his evident fatigue and low spirits. He answered:
"My dear! I have really had too much to think about to settle this. What does your mother say? What does she wish? Poor Maria!"
He met with an echo even louder than his sigh. Dixon had just come into the room for another cup of tea for Mrs. Hale, and catching Mr. Hale's last words, and protected by his presence from Margaret's upbraiding eyes, made bold to say, "My poor mistress!"
"You don't think her worse to-day," said Mr. Hale, turning hastily.
"I am sure I can't say, sir. It's not for me to judge. The illness seems so much more on the mind than on the body."
Mr. Hale looked infinitely distressed.
"You had better take mamma her tea while it is hot, Dixon," said Margaret, in a tone of quiet authority.
"Oh! I beg your pardon, Miss! My thoughts was otherwise occupied in thinking of my poor---- of Mrs. Hale."
"Papa!" said Margaret, "it is this suspense that is bad for you both. Of course, mamma must feel your change of opinions: we can't help that," she continued softly; "but now the course is clear, at least to a certain point. And I think, papa, that I could get mamma to help me in planning, if you could tell me what to plan for. She has never expressed any wish in any way, and only thinks of what can't be helped. Are we to go straight to Milton? Have you taken a house there?"
"No," he replied, "I suppose we must go into lodgings, and look about for a house."
"And pack up the furniture so that it can be left at the railway station, till we have met with one?"
"I suppose so. Do what you think best. Only remember, we shall have much less money to spend."
They had never had much superfluity, as Margaret knew. She felt that it was a great weight suddenly thrown upon her shoulders. Four months ago, all the decisions she needed to make were what dress she would wear for dinner, and to help Edith to draw out the lists of who should take down whom in the dinner parties at home. Nor was the household in which she lived one that called for much decision. Except in the one grand case of Captain Lennox's offer, everything went on with the regularity of clockwork. Once a year, there was a long discussion between her aunt and Edith as to whether they should go to the Isle of Wight, abroad, or to Scotland; but at such times Margaret herself was secure of drifting, without any exertion of her own, into the quiet harbour of home. Now, since that day when Mr. Lennox came, and startled her into a decision, every day brought some question, momentous to her, and to those whom she loved, to be settled.
Her father went up after tea to sit with his wife. Margaret remained alone in the drawing-room. Suddenly she took a candle and went into her father's study for a great atlas, and lugging it back into the drawing-room, she began to pore over the map of England. She was ready to look up brightly when her father came down stairs.
"I have hit upon such a beautiful plan. Look here--in Darkshire, hardly the breadth of my finger from Milton, is Heston, which I have often heard of from people living in the north as such a pleasant little bathing-place. Now, don't you think we could get mamma there with Dixon, while you and I go and look at houses, and get one all ready for her in Milton? She would get a breath of sea air to set her up for the winter, and be spared all the fatigue, and Dixon would enjoy taking care of her."
"Is Dixon to go with us?" asked Mr. Hale, in a kind of helpless dismay.
"Oh, yes!" said Margaret. "Dixon quite intends it, and I don't know what mamma would do without her."
"But we shall have to put up with a very different way of living, I am afraid. Everything is so much dearer in a town. I doubt if Dixon can make herself comfortable. To tell you the truth, Margaret, I sometimes feel as if that woman gave herself airs."
"To be sure she does, papa," replied Margaret; "and if she has to put up with a different style of living, we shall have to put up with her airs, which will be worse. But she really loves us all, and would be miserable to leave us, I am sure--especially in this change; so, for mamma's sake, and for the sake of her faithfulness, I do think she must go."
"Very well, my dear. Go on. I am resigned. How far is Heston from Milton? The breadth of one of your fingers does not give me a very clear idea of distance."
"Well, then, I suppose it is thirty miles; that is not much!"
"Not in distance, but in--. Never mind! If you really think it will do your mother good, let it be fixed so."
This was a great step. Now Margaret could work, and act, and plan in good earnest. And now Mrs. Hale could rouse herself from her languor, and forget her real suffering in thinking of the pleasure and the delight of going to the sea-side. Her only regret was that Mr. Hale could not be with her all the fortnight she was to be there, as he had been for a whole fortnight once, when they were engaged, and she was staying with Sir John and Lady Beresford at Torquay.

Margaret made a good listener to all her mother's little plans for helping the poorer parishioners, though each new project was a stab to her heart. Old Simon's rheumatism might be bad and his eyesight worse; there would be no one to go and read to him, and take him broth. Mary Domville's little crippled boy would crawl in vain to the door and look for her coming through the forest. These poor friends, and many others, would never understand why she had forsaken them.
'The winter is likely to be severe,' said her mother, 'and the old people must be helped.'
'Oh, mamma, let us do all we can,' said Margaret eagerly; 'we may not be here long.'
'Do you feel ill, my darling?' asked Mrs. Hale. 'You look pale and tired. It is this damp, unhealthy air.'
'No. no, mamma: it is delicious air. It smells fresh and pure after the smokiness of Harley Street. But I am tired: it must be near bedtime.'
'You had better go to bed, dear. Ask Dixon for some gruel. I am afraid you have taken cold.'
'Oh, mamma,' said Margaret, faintly smiling as she kissed her mother, 'I am quite well - don't alarm yourself.'
To soothe her mother's anxiety, she submitted to a basin of gruel. She was lying in bed when Mrs. Hale came up to kiss her good-night. But the instant she heard her mother's door locked, she sprang out of bed, and throwing her dressing-gown on, began to pace up and down the room, until the creaking of the boards reminded her that she must make no noise.
She went and curled up on the window-seat. That morning when she had looked out, her heart had danced at seeing the sunlight on the church tower. This evening she sat down with a dull cold pain, which seemed to have pressed the youth and buoyancy out of her heart. Mr. Henry Lennox's visit was like a dream. The hard reality was that her father had made himself an outcast; all the resulting changes grouped themselves around that one great blighting fact.
She looked out upon the dark-grey lines of the church tower, square and straight, cutting against the deep blue transparent depths beyond, into which she gazed, and felt that she might gaze for ever, seeing at every moment some farther distance, and yet no sign of God! It seemed to her as if the earth was utterly desolate. Those never-ending depths of space, in their still serenity, were mocking to her. The cries of earth's sufferers might ascend into that infinite splendour of vastness and be lost for ever, before they reached His throne.
Her father came in unheard, and touched her shoulder.
'Margaret, I heard you were up. I could not help coming in to ask you to pray with me - to say the Lord's Prayer; that will do us both good.'
They knelt by the window-seat - he looking up, she bowed in humble shame. God was there, hearing her father's whispered words. Her father might be a heretic; but had not she, in her despair five minutes before, shown herself a far more utter sceptic?
After her father left her, she stole to bed like a child ashamed of its fault. If the world was full of perplexing problems, she would only ask to see the one step needful for the hour.
Mr. Lennox's proposal - the memory of which had been so rudely pushed aside by the day's events - haunted her dreams that night. He was climbing up some tall tree to reach the branch whereon was slung her bonnet: he was falling, and she was struggling to save him, but held back by some invisible powerful hand. He was dead. And then she was once more in the Harley Street drawing-room, talking to him as of old, and yet knowing that she had seen him killed by that terrible fall.
Miserable night! She awoke with a start, unrefreshed, and conscious of a reality worse even than her feverish dreams. It all came back upon her; the sorrow and the terrible discord. Where had her father wandered, led by doubts which were to her temptations of the Evil One? She longed to ask, and yet did not want to hear.
The fine crisp morning made her mother particularly happy at breakfast-time. She talked on, not heeding her husband's silence and Margaret's monosyllabic answers. Before the things were cleared away, Mr. Hale got up.
'I shall not be at home till evening. I am going to Bracy Common, and will be back to tea at seven.'
Margaret knew what he meant. By seven the announcement must be made to her mother. Mr. Hale would have delayed making it till half-past six, but Margaret was of different stuff. She could not bear the weight on her mind all day long: better get it over. But while she stood by the window, waiting for the servant to leave the room, her mother had gone upstairs to put on her things to go to the school. She came down briskly, ready equipped.
'Mother, come round the garden with me this morning,' said Margaret, putting her arm round Mrs. Hale's waist.
They went outside. Mrs. Hale said something - Margaret could not tell what. Her eye caught on a bee entering a deep-belled flower: when that bee flew forth she would begin. Out he came.
'Mamma! Papa is going to leave Helstone!' she blurted. 'He's going to leave the Church, and live in Milton-Northern.'
'What makes you say so?' asked Mrs. Hale, in an incredulous voice. 'Who has been telling you such nonsense?'
'Papa himself,' said Margaret, longing to say something gentle and consoling, but not knowing how. Mrs. Hale sat down on a garden bench, and began to cry.
'I don't understand you,' she said. 'You have made some great mistake.'
'No, mother, I have made no mistake. Papa has written to the bishop, saying that he has such doubts that he cannot remain a priest of the Church of England, and that he must give up Helstone. He has also consulted Mr. Bell - Frederick's godfather, you know; and it is arranged that we shall go to live in Milton-Northern.'
Mrs. Hale looked up in Margaret's face. 'I don't think it can be true,' said she, at length. 'He would surely have told me.'
It came strongly upon Margaret's mind that her mother ought to have been told: that whatever her faults of discontent, it was an error in her father to have left her to learn of this change from her child. She sat down by her mother, and took her unresisting head on her breast, bending her own soft cheeks down caressingly to touch her face.
'Darling mamma! we were so afraid of giving you pain. Papa felt so acutely - you know you are not strong, and there would have been terrible suspense to go through.'
'When did he tell you, Margaret?'
'Yesterday, only yesterday,' replied Margaret, detecting the jealousy which prompted the inquiry. 'Poor papa!' - trying to divert her mother's thoughts into compassion for all her father had gone through. Mrs. Hale raised her head.
'What does he mean by having doubts?' she asked. 'Surely, he does not mean that he knows better than the Church.'
Margaret shook her head, and the tears came into her eyes.
'Can't the bishop set him right?' asked Mrs. Hale, half impatiently.
'I'm afraid not,' said Margaret. 'But I did not ask. It is all settled at any rate. He is going to leave Helstone in a fortnight.'
'In a fortnight!' exclaimed Mrs. Hale, beginning to take relief in tears. 'This is very strange - very unfeeling. He has doubts, and gives up his living, all without consulting me. If he had told me his doubts at the start I could have nipped them in the bud.'
Mistaken as Margaret felt her father's conduct to have been, she could not bear to hear it blamed by her mother.
'I hoped you might have been glad to leave Helstone, mamma,' said she. 'You have never been well in this air, you know.'
'You can't think the smoky air of a manufacturing town, all chimneys and dirt, would be better than this air, which is pure and sweet, even if it is too soft. Fancy living in the middle of factories, and factory people! Though if your father leaves the Church, we shall not be admitted into society anywhere. It will be such a disgrace! Poor dear Sir John! It is well he is not alive to see this! Every day after dinner, when I was a girl at Beresford Court, Sir John used to give the first toast - "Church and King, and down with the Rump."'
Margaret was glad that her mother's thoughts were turned away from the fact of her husband's silence.
'You know, we have very little society here, mamma. The Gormans, who are our nearest neighbours, have been in trade just as much as these Milton-Northern people.'
'Yes,' said Mrs. Hale, almost indignantly, 'but the Gormans made carriages for half the gentry of the county; but these factory people - who on earth wears cotton that can afford linen?'
'Well, mamma, I am not standing up for the cotton-spinners, any more than for any other trades-people. We shall have little enough to do with them.'
'Why on earth has your father fixed on Milton-Northern to live in?'
'Partly,' said Margaret, sighing, 'because it is so very different from Helstone - partly because Mr. Bell says there is an opening there for a private tutor.'
'Why can't he go to Oxford, and be a tutor to gentlemen?'
'You forget, mamma! His doubts would do him no good at Oxford.'
Mrs. Hale was silent for some time, quietly crying. At last she said:
'And the furniture - how in the world are we to manage the removal? We have only a fortnight to think about it!'
Margaret was inexpressibly relieved to find that her mother's distress was lowered to this point, on which she could do so much to help. She promised to arrange as much as could be fixed before they knew more definitively what Mr. Hale intended to do.
Throughout the day Margaret never left her mother; bending her whole soul to sympathise in all the various turns her feelings took. Towards evening, she became anxious that her father should find a soothing welcome awaiting him, after his day of fatigue and distress. She dwelt upon what he must have borne in secret for long; her mother only replied coldly that he ought to have told her; and Margaret turned faint at heart when she heard her father's step in the hall. She dared not go to meet him, for fear of her mother's jealous annoyance. She heard him linger, as if awaiting her, and she dared not stir; she saw by her mother's twitching lips that she too was aware that her husband had returned.
Presently he opened the door, and stood there uncertain whether to come in. His face was pale; his eyes were timid; but that look of despondent uncertainty touched his wife's heart. She went to him, and threw herself on his breast, crying out-
'Oh! Richard, Richard, you should have told me sooner!'
And then Margaret left her, and rushed upstairs to throw herself on her bed, and hide her face in the pillows to stifle the hysteric sobs that would force their way out at last, after the rigid self-control of the day. How long she lay thus she could not tell. She heard no noise, though the housemaid came in to arrange the room. The affrighted girl stole out again on tip-toe, and told Mrs. Dixon that Miss Hale was crying as if her heart would break.
Margaret felt herself touched, and started up; she saw the figure of Dixon in shadow, holding the candle away from her eyes, swollen and blinded as they were.
'Oh, Dixon! I did not hear you come in!' said Margaret, resuming her trembling self-restraint. 'Is it very late?' She moved her wet ruffled hair off her face, and tried to look as though nothing were the matter; as if she had only been asleep.
'I hardly can tell what time it is,' replied Dixon, in an aggrieved tone. 'Since your mamma told me this terrible news, I've lost all count of time. I'm sure I don't know what is to become of us all. When Charlotte told me you were sobbing, Miss Hale, I thought, no wonder, poor thing! And master turning Dissenter at his time of life! As I said to missus, "What would poor Sir John have said? He never liked your marrying Mr. Hale, but if he could have known it would come to this, he would have sworn worse oaths than ever!"'
Dixon was so used to commenting upon Mr. Hale's proceedings to her mistress that she never noticed Margaret's flashing eye. To hear her father talked of in this way by a servant!
'Dixon,' she said, in a low tone, which had a sound in it of some threatening storm. 'Dixon! you forget to whom you are speaking.' She stood upright and firm, fixing the maid with her steady eye. 'I am Mr. Hale's daughter. Go! You have made a strange mistake, and one that I am sure you will be sorry for when you think about it.'
Dixon hung irresolutely about the room for a minute. Margaret repeated, 'You may leave me.' Dixon did not know whether to resent these words or to cry; either course would have worked with her mistress: but, as she said to herself, 'Miss Margaret has a touch of the old gentleman about her, as well as poor Master Frederick.' She was subdued enough to say, in a half humble, half injured tone:
'Mayn't I unfasten your gown, miss, and do your hair?'
'No! not tonight, thank you.' And Margaret gravely saw her out of the room. From henceforth Dixon obeyed and admired Margaret. She said it was because she was so like poor Master Frederick; but the truth was, that Dixon liked to feel herself ruled by a powerful and decided nature.
Margaret needed all Dixon's help. A fortnight was a very short time to make arrangements for their removal. Almost anyone but Mr. Hale would have been practical enough to see that in so short a time it would be difficult to fix on any house in Milton-Northern to which they could move their furniture. Mrs. Hale, overpowered by her troubles, became really ill, and Margaret felt almost relieved when her mother took to her bed, and left the management of affairs to her.
For the one thing clear was the necessity for leaving Helstone. Mr. Hale's successor was appointed; there must be no lingering. Her father came home every evening more and more depressed, after the leave-taking which he had resolved to have with every parishioner. Margaret did not know whom to ask for advice. The cook and Charlotte worked willingly at all the moving and packing; and as far as that went, Margaret's sense enabled her to direct how it should be done. But where were they to go to? Straight to Milton, or where?
Margaret resolved to ask her father one evening, in spite of his evident fatigue and low spirits. He answered:
'My dear! I have really had too much to think about to settle this. What does your mother say? What does she wish? Poor Maria!'
Dixon had just come into the room, and catching Mr. Hale's last words, made bold to say, 'My poor mistress!'
'You don't think her worse today?' said Mr. Hale.
'I'm sure I can't say, sir. The illness seems so much more on the mind than on the body.'
Mr. Hale looked distressed.
'You had better take mamma her tea while it is hot, Dixon,' said Margaret, in a tone of quiet authority.
'Oh! I beg your pardon, miss! My thoughts was otherwise occupied.'
'Papa!' said Margaret, 'it is this suspense that is bad for you both. I think that I could get mamma to help me in planning, if you could tell me what to plan for. She has never expressed any wish, and only thinks of what can't be helped. Are we to go straight to Milton? Have you taken a house there?'
'No,' he replied. 'I suppose we must go into lodgings, and look about for a house.'
'And pack up the furniture so that it can be left at the railway station, till we have one?'
'I suppose so. Do what you think best. Only remember, we shall have much less money to spend.'
They had never had much, as Margaret knew. She felt that it was a great weight suddenly thrown upon her shoulders. Four months ago, all the decisions she needed to make were what dress to wear, and to help Edith draw up the lists of who should take who in to dinner. Now every day brought some momentous question to be settled.
Her father went up after tea to sit with his wife. Margaret remained alone in the drawing-room. Suddenly she took a candle and went into her father's study for a great atlas, and lugging it back into the drawing-room, she began to pore over the map of England. She looked up brightly when her father came downstairs.
'I have hit upon such a beautiful plan. Look here - in Darkshire, not far from Milton, is Heston, which I have heard is such a pleasant little bathing-place. Now, don't you think we could get mamma there with Dixon, while you and I go and look at houses, and get one ready for her in Milton? She would get a breath of sea air to set her up for the winter, and be spared all the fatigue, and Dixon would enjoy taking care of her.'
'Is Dixon to go with us?' asked Mr. Hale, in a kind of helpless dismay.
'Oh, yes!' said Margaret. 'Dixon quite intends it, and I don't know what mamma would do without her.'
'But we shall have to put up with a very different way of living, I am afraid. Everything is so much dearer in a town. To tell you the truth, Margaret, I sometimes feel as if that woman gave herself airs.'
'To be sure she does, papa,' replied Margaret; 'and if she has to put up with a different style of living, we shall have to put up with her airs. But she really loves us all, and would be miserable to leave us; so, for mamma's sake, I do think she must go.'
'Very well, my dear. How far is Heston from Milton?'
'About thirty miles; that is not much!'
'If you really think it will do your mother good, let it be fixed so.'
This was a great step. Now Margaret could plan in good earnest. And now Mrs. Hale could rouse herself from her languor, and forget her suffering in thinking of the pleasure of going to the sea-side. Her only regret was that Mr. Hale could not be with her all the fortnight she was to be there, as he had been once, when they were engaged, and she had been staying with Sir John and Lady Beresford at Torquay.