"Papa is out! and what then? Do you mean that he would deny me thislast wish, Margaret? Why, I should not be ill--be dying--if he had nottaken me away from Helstone, to this unhealthy, smoky, sunless place."
"Oh, mamma!" said Margaret.
"Yes; it is so, indeed. He knows it himself; he has said so many a time.
He would do anything for me; you don"t mean he would refuse me thislast wish-- prayer, if you will. And, indeed, Margaret, the longing to seeFrederick stands between me and God. I cannot pray till I have this onething; indeed, I cannot. Don"t lose time, dear, dear Margaret. Write bythis very next post. Then he may be here--here in twenty-two days! Forhe is sure to come. No cords or chains can keep him. In twenty-twodays I shall see my boy." She fell back, and for a short time she took nonotice of the fact that Margaret sat motionless, her hand shading hereyes.
"You are not writing!" said her mother at last "Bring me some pens andpaper; I will try and write myself." She sat up, trembling all over withfeverish eagerness. Margaret took her hand down and looked at hermother sadly.
"Only wait till papa comes in. Let us ask him how best to do it."
"You promised, Margaret, not a quarter of an hour ago;--you said heshould come."
"And so he shall, mamma; don"t cry, my own dear mother. I"ll writehere, now,--you shall see me write,--and it shall go by this very post;and if papa thinks fit, he can write again when he comes in,--it is only aday"s delay. Oh, mamma, don"t cry so pitifully,--it cuts me to the heart."
Mrs. Hale could not stop her tears; they came hysterically; and, in truth,she made no effort to control them, but rather called up all the picturesof the happy past, and the probable future--painting the scene when sheshould lie a corpse, with the son she had longed to see in life weepingover her, and she unconscious of his presence--till she was melted byself-pity into a state of sobbing and exhaustion that made Margaret"sheart ache. But at last she was calm, and greedily watched her daughter,as she began her letter; wrote it with swift urgent entreaty; sealed it uphurriedly, for fear her mother should ask to see it: and then, to makesecurity most sure, at Mrs. Hale"s own bidding, took it herself to thepost-office. She was coming home when her father overtook her.
"And where have you been, my pretty maid?" asked he.
"To the post-office,--with a letter; a letter to Frederick. Oh, papa,perhaps I have done wrong: but mamma was seized with such apassionate yearning to see him--she said it would make her well again,-andthen she said that she must see him before she died,--I cannot tellyou how urgent she was! Did I do wrong?"
Mr. Hale did not reply at first. Then he said:
"You should have waited till I came in, Margaret."
"I tried to persuade her--" and then she was silent.
"I don"t know," said Mr. Hale, after a pause. "She ought to see him if shewishes it so much, for I believe it would do her much more good thanall the doctor"s medicine,--and, perhaps, set her up altogether; but thedanger to him, I"m afraid, is very great."
"All these years since the mutiny, papa?"
"Yes; it is necessary, of course, for government to take very stringentmeasures for the repression of offences against authority, moreparticularly in the navy, where a commanding officer needs to besurrounded in his men"s eyes with a vivid consciousness of all thepower there is at home to back him, and take up his cause, and avengeany injuries offered to him, if need be. Ah! it"s no matter to them howfar their authorities have tyrannised,--galled hasty tempers to madness,-or,if that can be any excuse afterwards, it is never allowed for in thefirst instance; they spare no expense, they send out ships,--they scourthe seas to lay hold of the offenders,--the lapse of years does not washout the memory of the offence,--it is a fresh and vivid crime on theAdmiralty books till it is blotted out by blood."
"Oh, papa, what have I done! And yet it seemed so right at the time. I"msure Frederick himself, would run the risk."
"So he would; so he should! Nay, Margaret, I"m glad it is done, though Idurst not have done it myself. I"m thankful it is as it is; I should havehesitated till, perhaps, it might have been too late to do any good. DearMargaret, you have done what is right about it; and the end is beyondour control."
It was all very well; but her father"s account of the relentless manner inwhich mutinies were punished made Margaret shiver and creep. If shehad decoyed her brother home to blot out the memory of his error by hisblood! She saw her father"s anxiety lay deeper than the source of hislatter cheering words. She took his arm and walked home pensively andwearily by his side.