"What! remain to beDenounced--dragged, it may be, in chains."
WERNER.
All the next day they sate together--they three. Mr. Hale hardly everspoke but when his children asked him questions, and forced him, as itwere, into the present. Frederick"s grief was no more to be seen orheard; the first paroxysm had passed over, and now he was ashamed ofhaving been so battered down by emotion; and though his sorrow forthe loss of his mother was a deep real feeling, and would last out hislife, it was never to be spoken of again. Margaret, not so passionate atfirst, was more suffering now. At times she cried a good deal; and hermanner, even when speaking on indifferent things, had a mournfultenderness about it, which was deepened whenever her looks fell onFrederick, and she thought of his rapidly approaching departure. Shewas glad he was going, on her father"s account, however much shemight grieve over it on her own. The anxious terror in which Mr. Halelived lest his son should be detected and captured, far out-weighed thepleasure he derived from his presence. The nervousness had increasedsince Mrs. Hale"s death, probably because he dwelt upon it moreexclusively. He started at every unusual sound; and was nevercomfortable unless Frederick sate out of the immediate view of any oneentering the room. Towards evening he said:
"You will go with Frederick to the station, Margaret? I shall want toknow he is safely off. You will bring me word that he is clear of Milton,at any rate?"
"Certainly," said Margaret. "I shall like it, if you won"t be lonely withoutme, papa."
"No, no! I should always be fancying some one had known him, and thathe had been stopped, unless you could tell me you had seen him off.
And go to the Outwood station. It is quite as near, and not so manypeople about. Take a cab there. There is less risk of his being seen.
What time is your train, Fred?"
"Ten minutes past six; very nearly dark. So what will you do, Margaret?"
"Oh, I can manage. I am getting very brave and very hard. it is a well-lighted road all the way home, if it should be dark. But I was out lastweek much later."
Margaret was thankful when the parting was over--the parting from thedead mother and the living father. She hurried Frederick into the cab, inorder to shorten a scene which she saw was so bitterly painful to herfather, who would accompany his son as he took his last look at hismother. Partly in consequence of this, and partly owing to one of thevery common mistakes in the "Railway Guide" as to the times whentrains arrive at the smaller stations, they found, on reaching Outwood,that they had nearly twenty minutes to spare. The booking-office wasnot open, so they could not even take the ticket. They accordingly wentdown the flight of steps that led to the level of the ground below therailway. There was a broad cinder-path diagonally crossing a fieldwhich lay along-side of the carriage-road, and they went there to walkbackwards and forwards for the few minutes they had to spare.
Margaret"s hand lay in Frederick"s arm. He took hold of itaffectionately.
"Margaret! I am going to consult Mr. Lennox as to the chance ofexculpating myself, so that I may return to England whenever I choose,more for your sake than for the sake of any one else. I can"t bear tothink of your lonely position if anything should happen to my father. Helooks sadly changed--terribly shaken. I wish you could get him to thinkof the Cadiz plan, for manyreasons. What could you do if he were takenaway? You have nofriend near. We are curiously bare of relations."
Margaret could hardly keep from crying at the tender anxiety withwhich Frederick was bringing before her an event which she herself feltwas not very improbable, so severely had the cares of the last fewmonths told upon Mr. Hale. But she tried to rally as she said:
"There have been such strange unexpected changes in my life duringthese last two years, that I feel more than ever that it is not worth whileto calculate too closely what I should do if any future event took place.
I try to think only upon the present." She paused; they were standing stillfor a moment, close on the field side of the stile leading into the road;the setting sun fell on their faces. Frederick held her hand in his, andlooked with wistful anxiety into her face, reading there more care andtrouble than she would betray by words. She went on:
"We shall write often to one another, and I will promise--for I see it willset your mind at ease--to tell you every worry I have. Papa is"--shestarted a little, a hardly visible start--but Frederick felt the suddenmotion of the hand he held, and turned his full face to the road, alongwhich a horseman was slowly riding, just passing the very stile wherethey stood. Margaret bowed; her bow was stiffly returned.
"Who is that?" said Frederick, almost before he was out ofhearing.Margaret was a little drooping, a little flushed, as she replied:
"Mr. Thornton; you saw him before, you know."
"Only his back. He is an unprepossessing-looking fellow. What a scowlhe has!"
"Something has happened to vex him," said Margaret, apologetically.
"You would not have thought him unprepossessing if you had seen himwith mamma."