"Were not you? Oh, no! to be sure. It was poor darling Fred I took withme, I remember. I only went to Oxenham once after I was married,--toyour Aunt Shaw"s wedding; and poor little Fred was the baby then. AndI know Dixon did not like changing from lady"s maid to nurse, and Iwas afraid that if I took her near her old home, and amongst her ownpeople, she might want to leave me. But poor baby was taken ill atOxenham, with his teething; and, what with my being a great deal withAnna just before her marriage, and not being very strong myself, Dixonhad more of the charge of him than she ever had before; and it made herso fond of him, and she was so proud when he would turn away fromevery one and cling to her, that I don"t believe she ever thought ofleaving me again; though it was very different from what she"d beenaccustomed to. Poor Fred! Every body loved him. He was born with thegift of winning hearts. It makes me think very badly of Captain Reidwhen I know that he disliked my own dear boy. I think it a certain proofhe had a bad heart. Ah! Your poor father, Margaret. He has left theroom. He can"t bear to hear Fred spoken of."
"I love to hear about him, mamma. Tell me all you like; you never cantell me too much. Tell me what he was like as a baby."
"Why, Margaret, you must not be hurt, but he was much prettier thanyou were. I remember, when I first saw you in Dixon"s arms, I said,"Dear, what an ugly little thing!" And she said, "It"s not every childthat"s like Master Fred, bless him!" Dear! how well I remember it. ThenI could have had Fred in my arms every minute of the day, and his cotwas close by my bed; and now,now--Margaret--I don"t know where myboy is, and sometimes I think I shall never see him again."
Margaret sat down by her mother"s sofa on a little stool, and softly tookhold of her hand, caressing it and kissing it, as if to comfort. Mrs. Halecried without restraint. At last, she sat straight, stiff up on the sofa, andturning round to her daughter, she said with tearful, almost solemnearnestness, "Margaret, if I can get better,--if God lets me have a chanceof recovery, it must be through seeing my son Frederick once more. Itwill waken up all the poor springs of health left in me.
She paused, and seemed to try and gather strength for something moreyet to be said. Her voice was choked as she went on--was quavering aswith the contemplation of some strange, yet closely-present idea.
"And, Margaret, if I am to die--if I am one of those appointed to diebefore many weeks are over--I must see my child first. I cannot thinkhow it must be managed; but I charge you, Margaret, as you yourselfhope for comfort in your last illness, bring him to me that I may blesshim. Only for five minutes, Margaret. There could be no danger in fiveminutes. Oh, Margaret, let me see him before I die!"
Margaret did not think of anything that might be utterly unreasonable inthis speech: we do not look for reason or logic in the passionateentreaties of those who are sick unto death; we are stung with therecollection of a thousand slighted opportunities of fulfilling the wishesof those who will soon pass away from among us: and do they ask usfor the future happiness of our lives, we lay it at their feet, and will itaway from us. But this wish of Mrs. Hale"s was so natural, so just, soright to both parties, that Margaret felt as if, on Frederick"s account aswell as on her mother"s, she ought to overlook all intermediate chancesof danger, and pledge herself to do everything in her power for itsrealisation. The large, pleading, dilated eyes were fixed upon herwistfully, steady in their gaze, though the poor white lips quivered likethose of a child. Margaret gently rose up and stood opposite to her frailmother; so that she might gather the secure fulfilment of her wish fromthe calm steadiness of her daughter"s face.
"Mamma, I will write to-night, and tell Frederick what you say. I am assure that he will come directly to us, as I am sure of my life. Be easy,mamma, you shall see him as far as anything earthly can be promised."
"You will write to-night? Oh, Margaret! the post goes out at five--youwill write by it, won"t you? I have so few hours left--I feel, dear, as if Ishould not recover, though sometimes your father over-persuades meinto hoping; you will write directly, won"t you? Don"t lose a single post;for just by that very post I may miss him."
"But, mamma, papa is out."
